Chapter 3

My eyes lit up with an idea. "What if... I pretend to be sick?"

"Pretend to be sick?" Dad frowned. "What kind of sickness?"

"Smallpox," I whispered, leaning in closer.

"Isn't that the one ancient people are most terrified of? If I act like I've got smallpox, nobody will dare come near me. Then there's no way they'll make me go with the army, right?" I asked.

Mom's eyes sparkled. "That actually makes sense. You're finally using your head for once, Brielle."

"I've always been smart, alright?" I pouted. "I'm just too lazy to prove it."

Next morning, I put my plan into action.

I had Jordan call for a doctor, then sprawled out in bed with a hot towel on my forehead, making my face look red and feverish. I kept moaning and groaning, acting like I was knocking on death's door.

The doctor arrived, a white-haired old man with a beard, lugging a medicine box. He looked like he'd been around the block more than a few times.

He took my pulse, squinting as his fingers pressed against my wrist, staying silent for what felt like forever.

I was feeling pretty smug inside. Smallpox, super contagious, bet they were freaking out now. Come on, run for your lives.

"Miss, your illness..." the doctor finally spoke, dragging out his words.

I started moaning even louder, rolled over, really hamming it up like I was on my last breath.

The doctor glanced at me, honestly, it was like he couldn't believe how dumb I was.

Then he said, slow as ever, "No need to worry. It's just a regular cold. I'll give you some medicine. Take it for a few days, and you'll be fine."

Wait, where was my dramatic smallpox moment?

I wasn't ready to give up yet. I kept up the act, moaning, "Doctor, I've got a rash, can you check it out?"

I rolled up my sleeve, revealing a patch of red marks I'd pinched into my skin last night. I really went for realism; those spots still hurt a bit.

The doctor leaned in, pressed on the spots, then looked up at me with an expression of pity.

"Miss..." he lowered his voice so only I could hear. "I understand you don't want to be sent with the army. But smallpox isn't something you can fake like this. These red marks? It's obvious you pinched them yourself."

I was lost for words.

Absolute social death.

The doctor stood up, packed up his medicine box at his own pace, then called out to the door, "This young lady is perfectly healthy. Just let her rest for two days, then she can head out with the troops."

The soldier at the door nodded and walked off.

Before leaving, the doctor glanced back at me. That look said it all, 'Girl, just accept it.'

He even thoughtfully closed the door behind him.

I lay in bed, staring up at the wooden beams, lost in thought. Even the doctor wanted me to just accept my fate. Was I really stuck being a military prostitute?

That night, I told my family what had happened.

My dad kept sighing and pacing back and forth, like a spinning top.

My mom sat at the edge of the bed, full of guilt, her eyes red-rimmed as she constantly wiped her tears.

My brother was deep in thought, absentmindedly doodling circles on the floor. Suddenly, he looked up at me. "Brielle, maybe, we should just accept it?"

"Accept what?" I shot him a glare. "I am a decent girl, and you want me to go be a military prostitute? Doesn't that mess with your conscience at all?"

"That's not what I meant," he said, scratching his head. "I mean, since we can't dodge it, maybe we should figure out how to survive once we're with the army."

"Survive?" I snorted. "Three thousand misfits, old, sick, and weak, going up against thirty thousand enemy soldiers. How many do you think will actually make it out alive?"

"Three thousand against thirty thousand?" Dad's voice cracked, and he froze in place, his face going ghost-white. "That's not a battle; that's a death sentence."

"That's exactly why the emperor sent us." I realized. "He's basically sending us to our deaths."

Mom shot up, her voice full of panic. "So what do we do? We can't just sit around and wait to get killed."

I paused, gritting my teeth. "If we can't dodge it, then we'll go. But we need to figure out how to survive and make it back."

"How?"

"No clue yet," I said.

Silence fell over the whole family.

Dad just collapsed into a chair, totally deflated. Mom was back to wiping her tears, and my brother kept his head down, drawing circles on the floor like he was in a trance.

I lay back down on the bed, staring blankly at the canopy overhead.

Next morning, the army moved out.

Three thousand old, sick, and useless folks were supposedly marching in grand formation toward the border, but in reality, it was just a scattered, pitiful procession.

Leading the way were a handful of ancient generals on bony horses, their beards all white, wobbling in their saddles like they could topple over any minute.

Trailing behind were a bunch of soldiers who could barely walk without wheezing, some were coughing nonstop, and others had to stop and catch their breath every few steps.

At the very back were a bunch of busted-up wagons, their wheels squeaking and rattling so much it felt like they'd fall apart any minute.