Free Morning Star: Book III of the Red Rising Trilogy by Pierce Brown

daughtersreturnfromwaronlytorealizethewarhaskeptthem,theworldhaspoisonedthem,and
    they’llneverbethesame?
    For nine months, Mother has grieved for me. Now she’s drowning in guilt for giving up and desperationinhearingthewarswallowmeagain,knowingshe’shelplesstostopit.Inthepastyears, I’vetrampledoversomanytogetwhatIthinkIwant.Ifthisismylastchanceatlife,Iwanttodoit right.Ineedto.
    “…Butnowtherealproblemisn’tmateriel,it’smanpowerweneed….”
    “Dancer…stop,”Isay.
    “Stop?”Hefrownsinconfusion,glancingatNarol.“What’swrong?”
    “Nothing’swrong.ButI’lltalkwithyouinthemorningaboutthis.”
    “The morning? Darrow, the world is shifting under your feet. We’ve lost control over the other Redfactions.TheSonswillnotlasttheyear.Ihavetogiveyouadebriefing.Weneedyouback….”
    “Dancer,Iamalive,”Isay,thinkingofallthequestionsIwanttoask,aboutthewar,myfriends, howIwasundone,aboutMustang.Butthatcanwait.“DoyouevenknowhowluckyIam?Tobeable
    toseeyouallagaininthisworld?Ihaven’tseenmybrotherormysisterinyears.SotomorrowI’ll listentoyourdebriefing.Tomorrowthewarcanhavemeagain.ButtonightIbelongtomyfamily.”
    —
    I hear the children before we reach the door. I feel a guest in someone else’s dream. Unfit for the world of children. But I’ve little say in the matter as Mother pushes my wheelchair forward into a crampeddormitoryclutteredwithmetalbunks,children,thesmellofshampoo,andnoise.Fiveofthe childrenofmyblood,freshfromtheshowersbythelooksoftheirhairandthelittlesandalsonthe floor,arescrummingononeofthebunks,twotallernine-year-oldsholdinganallianceagainsttwo six-year-oldsandatinylittlecherubofagirlwhokeepshead-buttingthebiggestboyintheleg.He
    hasn’tyetnoticedher.ThesixthchildintheroomIrememberfromwhenIvisitedMotherinLykos.
    The little girl who couldn’t sleep. One of Kieran’s. She watches the other children over her glossy bookoffablesfromanotherbunkandisthefirsttonoticeme.
    “Pa,”shecallsback,eyeswide.“Pa…”
    KieranburstsupfromhisgameofdicewithLeannawhenheseesme.Leanna’sslowerbehindhim.
    “Darrow,”hesays,rushingtomeandstoppingjustbeforemywheelchair.He’sbeardednowtoo.In
    hismid-twenties.Noslumptohisshoulderslikethereusedtobe.HiseyesradiateagoodnessthatI used to think made him a little foolish, now it just seems wildly brave. Remembering himself, he waves his children forward. “Reagan, Iro, children. Come meet my little brother. Come meet your uncle.”
    Thechildrenlineupawkwardlyaroundhim.Ababylaughsfromthebackoftheroomandayoung
    motherrisesfromherbunkwhereshewasbreastfeedingthechild.“Eo?”Iwhisper.Thewoman’sa
    visionofthepast.Small,facetheshapeofaheart.Herhairathick,tangledmess.Thesortthatfrizzes onhumiddays,likeEo’sdid.ButthisisnotEo.Hereyesaresmaller,hernoseelfin.Moredelicacy herethanfire.Andthisisawoman,notagirllikemywifewas.Twentyyearsoldnow,bymycount.
    Theyallstareatmestrangely.
    WonderingifIammad.
    ExceptDio,Eo’ssister,whosefacesplitswithasmile.
    “I’msorry,Dio,”Isayquickly.“Youlook…justlikeher.”
    She doesn’t allow it to be awkward, hushing my apologies. Saying it’s the kindest thing I could havesaid.“Andwho’sthat,then?”Iaskofthebabysheholds.Thelittlegirl’shairisabsurd.Rustred and bound together by a hair tie so it sticks straight up on top of her head in a little antenna. She watchesmeexcitedlywithherdarkredeyes.
    “Thislittlething?”Dioasks,comingclosertomychair.“Oh,thisissomeoneI’vebeenwantingto introducetoyousinceDeannatoldusyouwerealive.”Shelookslovinglytomybrother.Ifeelapang ofjealousy.“Thisisourfirst.Wouldyouliketoholdher?”
    “Holdher?”Isay.“No…I’m…”
    Thegirl’spudgylittlehandsreachforme,andDiopushesthegirlintomylapbeforeIcanrecoil.
    Thegirlclingstomysweater,gruntingassheturnsandwrigglesaroundtillshe’sseatedaccordingto herlikingonmyleg.Sheclapsherhandstogetherandlaughs.CompletelyunawareofwhatIam.Of whymyhandsaresoscarred.DelightedbythesizeofthemandtheGoldSigils,shegrabsmythumb