Book of Fire: a debut fantasy perfect for fans of The Hunger Games, Divergent and The Maze Runner. Michelle Kenney

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       My precious Mum and Dad,

       for encouraging me to dream

      &

       Gramp

       George Frankum, 1910-1999

       who always believed I’d do it.

Prologue

      In the old world, people foraged for food in bright cities the size of the forest, Grandpa said, and rode toxic boxes on wheels, instead of running with the sun.

      Embellished truth or plain fiction, Grandpa’s fireside myths were my favourite part of the day. And as my twin brother and I grew, the myths turned into stories from his own childhood, like the time he found a tattered advert for the Lifedome on a creeper-choked wall. When he pulled the foliage aside, it still bore the ripped, black lettering of its utopian dream.

      It was only when Eli and I turned sixteen that, in keeping with village tradition, we learned the real story of Arafel’s forefathers from the Council. We plagued Grandpa for the rest, and when he finally relented, there was something in his stark portrayal of our beginning that shadowed me, even on the brightest day.

      The Lifedome was supposed to be a landmark scientific experiment, he told us, a microcosm to investigate how Genetic Modification could serve the technological world. The goal was the Nobel Prize, but global funding meant the Government had to make extravagant promises. Prime Minister Johnstone went one step further, claiming the Lifedome would provide emergency shelter should the tension between the East and West ever erupt into another Great Holy War.

      That day arrived sooner than everyone expected, on 3rd November 2025.

      They claimed it was a rogue test missile, that it wasn’t intended to reach London, but the dust clouds enveloped most of the country, and their effect was cataclysmic. With cities in ruins and thousands of refugees left with nowhere to shelter, the Government’s Scientific Team had to throw open the Lifedome doors, and provide what shelter they could.

      Those who were still able took their families and fled towards the only safe haven in the West, clinging to its costly propaganda that it could withstand every bomb known to mankind. Others accepted a grateful ride from the Sweeper vehicles.

      But there were whispers right from the start, whispers that grew with the silence, that things were very different, once you got inside.

Chapter One

      Feral. That’s what they called us. Those who knew of us. It was ignorance bred from fear – fear of life on the outside, and fear of us. The Council said without it we would be far more vulnerable, that their fear was our greatest strength. I preferred a strength I could touch.

      Sometimes I would climb to the top of the Great Oak – the one that had somehow survived the devastating effects of the biochemical warfare – and stare out at the impenetrable, domed expanse of bright white that climbed and dipped as far as the eye could see. They said there was a roof like the sky at the top. They said humans beneath it had developed differently; but no one could corroborate the myths because no one had been inside … and returned.

      The stark contrast of lush forest before miles of deceptive brown dirt, culminating in a security fence four oak trees high, never failed to fascinate me. It represented the difference between us, in what our lives had become.

      I leapt back down the tree, trusting the foot and fingerholds I knew with my eyes closed, and crouched in the soft grass beside my favourite water hole. It was one of the first the Outsiders had trusted in the early days, as its trickling source began high in the hills of the craggy moorland mountains surrounding the only home I’d ever known.

      At the time of the Great War, before nature was allowed to reclaim what was once a bustling city, the moorland forest had covered only a few square miles. Now it stretched as far as the eye could see, swallowing up eerie ruins as it grew. It was dwarfed only by the monolithic Lifedome rearing up to the skyline, and swallowing one bite of the moon every night.

      Our ancestors had called this area Exeter, but now it was only wilderness, filled with every species of animal from every corner of the earth. In the old days, people kept them in treeless forests called zoos for other people to stare at, but that all changed when the cities were burned to the ground.

      I stared into the crystal-clear pond and watched small darts of life ripple through my reflection, my impassive features oscillating on the water’s surface. Large forest-green eyes stared back at me, at my sandy hair, clay-streaked skin, and lean limbs sculpted by a childhood spent moving and melting into trees. The elders said we’d developed a long way from the physical limitations of our ancestors, who had lived in endless rows of claustrophobic redbrick boxes. They said the charred bones of our ancestors still lay among the ruins, if you knew where to look. But that, like leaving the forest, was strictly forbidden.

      I dipped my stained hand into the fresh, clear water, and watched a smear of dried clay dissolve, creating a momentary swirling dance. The rusty pigment darkened the water, and my naked, bronzed skin emerged slowly. Removal of camouflage was also forbidden outside the village. It made you vulnerable to their Sweepers and our numbers were precious few already.

      As the water calmed, the reflection of a purple and black butterfly flickered across the delicate ripples. Each wing had been freshly decorated with perfect, concentric circles that disappeared into infinity. And yet something wasn’t quite balanced. I looked up to watch my shy companion, who was investigating the wild orchids clustered around the pond.

      Now I could see there was no water distortion at all, and that one wing was nearly twice the size of the other. The pretty insect corrected its defect by spreading half its weight on a lower leaf as it sought out the succulent nectar. I smiled. Its imperfection was a common by-product of life’s recovery.

      Come what may, nature finds a way. Grandpa’s favourite motto rang in my ears as I rolled onto my back, bathing in the sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. There was something in this sweet spring afternoon that made me want to linger. I let my eyelids droop, and relaxed into the gentle light warming my skin. The forest’s palette never failed to interest me, and I’d spent hours trying to locate exact shades for my drawings using berries, tree roots, soil, and leaves. They all offered something different, but there were certain shades that eluded me too, such as the first glimmer of dawn, and the warmth in my dad’s eyes when he smiled.

      My eyes flickered open. It was time for a snack. I reached into my small leather rations bag and withdrew a misshapen apricot. What it lacked in appearance it more than delivered in flavour, and I devoured the juicy flesh with relish until all that remained was a pitted stone. It was an intriguing stone: old and wizened, like it had lived a thousand lives already.

      Care for the seed, and it will care for you. Grandpa’s wisdom had guided and protected us all for as long as I could remember. I reached out for a large dock leaf, and rolled the hard stone up before stowing it safely in my rations bag. In the same moment, there was a rustle, about twenty metres away, among the willow and bamboo. My ears pricked. Something snapped, and then I was alert. The branch had been forced, which meant an animal. A big one.

      I leapt to my feet, sprung into the branches of the nearest willow, and pressed myself into the nutty bark. The thick foliage concealed СКАЧАТЬ