"Maybe two or three more handfuls and then I'm going to take it down," Beetle said, wiping sweat from her upper brow. I nodded briskly, trying to suppress my fears that her wound would be infected. Instead, I grabbed as many carrots as I could by the leafy bits. Most were a bright orange with small brown roots frizzing out like my hair in the dry winter, but some were yellow and almost white. I grabbed a second handful, and Beetle began pushing the loaded wheelbarrow down the row, bumping over the uneven ground. I snatched the pitchfork and began loosening the soil around the carrots down our row.

I paused and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of wet clay and the sweetness of impending rain. My enjoyment only lasted a few moments as I glanced down the row to see how far the other groups had progressed. We were coming to the end of our row and others were halfway through their second.

A few groups lagged, mostly the younger boys who hadn't yet hit their major growth. The men that were far ahead were dewloi sold to farms for this very reason—they were strong and fast. Most girls were held on farms as temporary waystations. Farmers could purchase women at a young age before they could become doxies or breeders. Once they became women, they could be sold at a profit. Whatever they spent on food and clothing would be made up by their labor in the meantime.

As I scanned the fields, I saw nothing but men. When I arrived at the age of twelve, there were three other women. By the time Beetle arrived three years ago, I was the only one. For some reason, Beetle and I hadn't been sold yet.

It was strange—for as long as I've known, women have been the minority. The population began to dip dangerously low several hundred years ago as fewer and fewer women were born. As famine hit, many families started selling their most valuable assets—their daughters. The country just south of Emory made it law that every first daughter born to humans be given up to serve as a breeder to an overlord male. Emory hadn't written it into law, but economic necessity often brought the same result.

The overlords, of course, avoided all of that. Their status and innate capacity for magic meant that they had freedoms beyond humans. Overlords couldn't be sold as dewloi—they would never become manual laborers, soldiers, breeders, or doxies.

It was a luxury that humans didn't have.

I used my sleeve to wipe sweat off my forehead and briefly touched the ring on my nose.

I wasn't born a dewloi. In fact, until the age of ten, I never thought it would be a possibility. I had planned my whole life out. I would marry Johan, a boy in our village who was determined to become a blacksmith. My little brother, Anthony, would marry Johan's twin sister and my best friend, Johanna. We would live forever in our little village in the south of Emory.

When I was eight, Dad went from farming to working in the mines as a hired worker. Ever since huge deposits of magestones were discovered, the Trapedz family poured millions of dines into the development of the area. Every million poured into the mines returned a hundredfold. Working in the mines wasn't the best job—the mines were caricatured as a cesspool of dust addiction, illegal doxies, and exploitation of dewloi. Dad always said that the caricatured didn't do the business any justice; the reality was far worse. Our little village turned into a mining town, prowling with ravenous, unmarried men who possessed far too much disposable income. Dad's mantra echoes in my ears to this day" "Don't trust a soul," he would say to Anthony. "And never trust his body," he'd finish, looking at me fiercely.

Johan and Johanna moved north a few weeks before my family's life dissolved like salt dropped into water. At the tender age of ten, I discovered a dust grinder in Dad's work bag. Mom confronted him and he admitted that he had been using and selling dust for the past few years.

A few days before our whole family was to move north on the next train to the capital, a dewlos showed up at our front door and told us that Dad had died in an accident. He didn't know what happened. No one ever told us how.

A collapse? An overdoes? A suicide? None of that mattered to the Trapedz and their cronies. All that mattered is that they lost a worker.

We sold our train tickets and were able to stay buoyant by Mom's income alone as a seamstress.

However, soon after Dad's death, she started to hear voices. Paranoia that people were coming to steal her children filled her every waking thought, and debtors were soon knocking at and down our door.

At ten, I realized that being sold as a dewlos was a very real possibility.

"Cricket, help me!" Beetle croaked.

I snapped out of my trance and grabbed another handful of carrots, tugging them out of their dirt coffins. "Sorry," I muttered. She knelt next to me and tugged the next batch. I examined the dark brown wound that ran from her temple down to the crease at the end of her eye. The reddish-brown of the wound matched her eyes and made the orange freckles that dotted her face hide in contrast. The skin around the wound looked agitated, probably because Beetle kept fidgeting with it. "How are you feeling?"

"You keep asking me that," Beetle muttered in annoyance. "I'm fine. My face hurts and I'm sore, but I'm fine."

"Good," I said, knowing she was lying. I couldn't force the truth out of her. I tried to lose myself in the simple repetition of pulling carrots and tossing them onto the wheelbarrow.

"The foreman told me there is a trade tonight," Beetle muttered seriously.

I froze as fear paralyzed me, my hands freezing mid-yank. A trade? I glanced down the line at the foreman who was surveying our work. He was new—he had thin, blonde hair that started too far back to look natural. He stared at me intently and smiled broadly as my skin began to crawl. Don't trust a soul and never trust his body. I forced myself to return to my task, examining a particularly lopsided carrot. Beetle wiped her brow again. "Beetle, you need to make sure you keep your wound clean," I said softly.

"I tell you there's a trade, and you're worried about my eyebrow?" she asked incredulously. "Gosh, I hate you sometimes. I will kill the foremen before I let myself be sold off as some dirty slut or sex slave." My back tensed in fear. I glanced around, grateful that everyone was out of earshot. Even the foreman of our row had turned away to watch other dewloi. Beetle noted my apprehension. "You wouldn't?" she asked me incredulously.

"No," I admitted. "Being a breeder is better than being dead."

She scoffed. "I'd rather be dead and free than alive and afraid."

I wasn't brave enough to tell her I disagreed.