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  Praise for Beyond The Red

  “Ava Jae’s Beyond the Red is a sand-swept fantasy of court politics, rebel attacks, and forbidden romance. While reading, I had flashes of Star Wars—a new planet, a fascinating culture, a fresh look on a ruler struggling to keep her power—and I had to know what happened next. Dangerous, exciting, and fast-paced, Beyond the Red is a story not to be missed.”

  —Francesca Zappia, author of Made You Up

  “Packed with political intrigue and smoldering romance, Beyond the Red left me craving more of Kora’s and Eros’s story and the unique, fascinating universe that Ava Jae has created.”

  —Sarah Harian, author of The Wicked We Have Done

  “Beyond the Red is a sweeping, compelling romance in a complicated and gritty world. Intrigue and heart on every page—I couldn’t put it down. I’ll be following Ava Jae to see what comes next!”

  —Kate Brauning, author of How We Fall

  “I loved this book! I couldn’t put it down! What a fantastic debut, perfect for fans of Firefly and Star Wars. Ava Jae’s Beyond the Red packs a punch, a total thrill ride that will keep readers turning the pages. I stayed up all night reading it. From page one, I was sucked in. Jae’s writing style is a perfect mix of stop and go, and her world comes to life within the first few pages. The action was power-packed, and the star-crossed romance had me begging for more by the end.”

  —Lindsay Cummings, author of The Murder Complex series

  “Ava Jae has built such an interesting world in Beyond the Red. With forbidden romance, gritty action, and thrilling danger, this debut is one to watch. And here’s hoping for a sequel!”

  —S. E. Green, award-winning author of the Killer Instinct series

  “I loved Beyond the Red! Ava Jae’s science fiction world-building is a perfect blend of a fantastic, foreign alien civilization and achingly human desires all packed into an explosive mix. I couldn’t help but root for crafty Kora as she navigated court politics, revolutions, and dangerous secrets. And Eros! His determination balanced with a sense of humor about his fate made him such a swoon-worthy love interest. The action started swiftly and didn’t let up. I can’t wait to read more from Jae!”

  —Lindsay Smith, author of Sekret and Dreamstrider

  “A thrilling blend of science fiction and fantasy, Beyond the Red sketches out an exciting new world full of romance and intrigue. I can’t wait for future installments!”

  —Kat Zhang, author of the Hybrid Chronicles series

  Copyright © 2018 by Ava Jae

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Kate Gartner

  Map design by Kerri Frail

  Interior design by Joshua Barnaby

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2238-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2239-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the outcasts.

  PART I

  1

  Eros

  Deimos bet me his bike I would toss up. It’s not just any bike, either—it’s a top-of-the-line model, barely a couple terms old, sleek black and red with aerodynamic angles and a low purr that Day would’ve completely flipped sand over.

  His betting something he knows I want—bad—I think was his way of giving me extra motivation not to toss up. As if tasting my food twice with an acid aftertaste the second time wasn’t enough of motivation to try to keep my morning meal down.

  It’d almost be a sweet gesture if I wasn’t on my knees on the cool tile, sweating over the waste basin, breathing through my nose and praying to every star and spirit out there that I can pull it together before I have to go out there and become ruler of the world.

  “Fuck,” I whisper. Then, louder, “I can’t do this. Fuck. Deimos, I—”

  “You can,” Deimos says, rubbing my back. He sounds sure. How can he be so sure? “You have to.”

  Well. That part’s true at least.

  “If you’re going to toss up, just get it over with already,” Mal says somewhere behind me. “At least you’ll feel better after and won’t have to worry about tossing up on the priest or something.”

  Stars and sands alive.

  What if I lose my meal on the priest in front of the whole fucking world?

  “See, but if he does that, then he doesn’t get my bike. And Kala knows he wants my bike.” I’m staring into the black hole at the bottom of the stone basin, but I can hear Deimos’s grin in his words. Smug bastard.

  “Not like your bike is going anywhere anyway,” Mal says. “Seeing how you two are boyfriends or whatever now.”

  Despite my churning stomach and the hot bile threatening to climb up my throat, a wisp of a smile tugs at my lips and I glance up at Deimos just to see—yup, he’s blushing. The purple flush creeps up his neck and colors his face, but he smiles back at me.

  I’m not sure that we are. Boyfriends, I mean. Mostly because we haven’t actually done anything besides, like, that hug or whatever after the match, but Mal’s around us enough to hear Deimos’s endless flirting so I’m not surprised he thinks that.

  He’s not completely wrong, anyway.

  Someone knocks on the door. Probably the designer trying to make me look good for the—

  Oh.

  My stomach swoops.

  The coronation.

  “Shae, we’ll be right out,” Deimos says. He loops his arm beneath mine and hauls me to my feet. “You’re fine. Wash your face with cold water. You’ll be fine.”

  My stomach sinks lower at the thought. Splashing my face with cold water is pretty much guaranteed to tilt me over from almost panic to on-the-floor-can’t-breathe-full-fledged panic. Not that Deimos knows that. Or anyone knows that.

  “Pretty sure Mija out there will kill me if I do that after she spent so much time making my face look good.”

  It’s a good excuse. Deimos laughs. “That’s probably true. Just breathe through your nose, shae? I promise, everything will be fine. Coronations are easy—just walk to the front, do what Arodin says, and accept the mark of Sirae.”

  “Also the dinner formal,” Mal says. “With all the food. Don’t forget that part.”

  “How could we forget with you reminding us every couple breaths?” Deimos snickers. “And the formal, shae, but that’s not until tonight. Eros will get a break before then.”

  My head feels thick. Full of sand. The room feels strange around me, like I drank too much, except I’m sober. Sweat drips down my temples. Mija will probably tut over that, too.

  Deimos steps in front of me and grips my shoulders hard. The pressure feels good—grounding. “Focus on me,” he says, as if it’s ever possible to focus on anything else when he’s in the room. “I know you’re nervous, and that’s normal. This whole reaction is normal, I promise you. My fa
ther told us every year the story of how he tossed up on the priestess when he was coronated.”

  My eyes widen. “Are you kidding me right now? Deimos, you seriously think that’s going to make me feel any—”

  “My point is what you’re feeling is normal and even if the worst happens, you’ll be fine. My father was still coronated. The priestess shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. You’re only Sepharon, Eros—you’re young and have emotions and people understand that.” I arch an eyebrow at him. He pauses, then smiles apologetically. “Well, not only Sepharon. Human, too, but it’s a saying. I just mean you’re not Kala and people don’t expect perfection. Shae?”

  I’m not really feeling okay, but I guess that doesn’t really matter anymore. I just have to get this over with. “Shae,” I answer.

  Deimos smiles and releases my shoulders. My skin buzzes in the absence of his hands. “Good. Let’s get you cleaned up and get out there before you miss your own coronation.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” I murmur.

  Mal snickers.

  Mija groans the mo I step out of the washroom. “What have you done to your face?” She crosses the distance between us in two long strides and frowns down at me, lifting my chin with her finger. “You look pale and sickly.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Boys,” she murmurs, turning back to her tray full of paints and powders and liners and whatever else. “I thank Kala every day I was born in an age where I could realize my life as a girl from a young age without dispute. Our ancestors in the Southern regions weren’t so lucky.”

  Mija is lijara—specifically, her assigned gender at birth didn’t match her real gender. I’m not sure exactly how that works when Sepharon men are supposed to be able to control the sex of the kid at conception or whatever, but Deimos says it happens.

  Mija hums as she looks over the tray, then picks up a jar and a brush, turns back to me, and stares. “Why are you still standing?” She points to the hovering pillow-seat-thing she brought with her. “Sit so I can finish my work.”

  I do. I close my eyes as she brushes some powder on my face, then traces over the faint marks on my face with a wet brush, then lines my eyes with stars-knows-what.

  “Okay,” she says at last. “Open your eyes.”

  When I’ve done that, she taps her chin and looks at Deimos. “What do you think? At least he doesn’t look ill.”

  The warmth of Deimos’s smile radiates into my chest like heat from the suns. The way he looks at me—his eyes slightly lidded as his gaze swoops over me from head to toe and back again—sends a thrill through me. “Naï. He looks perfect.”

  The warmth tingles over my heart and prickles my cheeks. Mija hands me a mirror. My skin looks smooth and even, and my eyes are lined in black, which makes my gold eyes look—brighter, I guess. Impossible to ignore. I guess that’s the idea.

  Anyway, Mija’s right. You can’t tell I was breaths from tossing up just a few mos ago.

  “Are we finally ready?” Mal asks from my bed. “I’m bored.”

  Deimos looks at me. “What do you think, Eros?”

  I take a deep, shivering breath and pull my shoulders back. My heart thrums in my chest and my stomach still tingles with heat and my palms are getting cold and sweaty already but this—this is as good as it’s going to get.

  I’ll never be ready, not really.

  But it’s time.

  It’s finally time.

  As soon as I walk into the throne room, the people start reciting.

  The throne room is enormous—at least twice the size of Kora’s throne room back in Elja—and large enough to fit several small buildings in the space. It’s easily the largest room I’ve ever been in, and I never really understood why it needed to be so blazing big until now.

  The room is packed with people. Wall to wall, standing room only, all the way down to the space in front of the throne itself, where the High Priest, Arodin, stands with a long line of guards dressed in their formal black and gold uniforms. Only an aisle for people to walk through—for me to walk through—has been left open.

  There must be more than a thousand people in here—and that’s not counting the orb guides whipping through the air, streaming everything to glasses worldwide. And yet, the people are reciting so perfectly it sounds like one low, booming voice.

  I walk slowly down the aisle like Deimos showed me. He and Mal walk behind me—they’ll follow me down the aisle and stand in the front with the Avrae of the other nations, and the Emergency Council. I think Deimos said the people are reciting a poem written about the coronation of the very first Sira, Jol d’Asheron. Something about how he was chosen by Kala, and how Kala’s chosen will always be marked with gold eyes or whatever. I can’t really focus on the words. There are too many gazes on me—they buzz on my skin and dance down my spine. I try to keep my stare forward. At Arodin, who is smiling at me almost encouragingly, which … I didn’t expect. But I guess that’s good.

  At least the High Priest doesn’t hate me.

  A quarter of the way down the aisle and the people’s voices hum in my ears with my heartbeat. Their words blend together and weave into my blood. The tile is warm under my feet and the air is hot—thick—glistening on my skin.

  Halfway down the aisle and somehow—somehow—this is really happening. I’m in the throne room in the highest palace on the planet. From the statues of the stacked letters of Kala’s name to the gold of the mosaicked walls and the impossibly tall, arched ceilings. Black banners with gold lettering and an intricate maze-like gold design along the borders line the walls—and with a start I recognize the crescent and circle with the carefully placed lines that Deimos taught me is my name in Sephari.

  Somehow, this is real.

  I’m nearly down the aisle. The reciting words carry me like a wave, drowning out the pounding in my ears, the rattle of my breaths, the panicked hum in the back of my skull. The weight of a thousand gazes clings to every inch of me; I want nothing more than to disappear, but this, this is my new life. This is my new reality. And it’s the only one that didn’t end with Mal and me dead.

  I reach the end of the aisle. Step up to Arodin, nod, and face the people, like Deimos said I should. Mal and Deimos have taken their places beside the other Avrae, but I’m pretty sure some are missing. There are eight Avra total, but only six are here. I’m not sure what that means. Probably something insulting. I’m not really surprised.

  Kora’s here, though.

  She’s standing next to Deimos, smiling at me as the room finishes reciting the poem. I’m not sure if it’s okay for me to smile back—I think I’m supposed to be stoic, or whatever—but I do meet her eye and nod at her.

  Then the room is deathly silent. Not a whisper or a cough. The silence is almost a living thing, spreading into every crevice of the room, until all I hear is my own thrumming pulse and terrified breaths.

  My hands are shaking at my sides. I pull my sweaty fingers into my fists and resist the urge to wipe my palms on my pants.

  “Ora’jeve,” Arodin says, “to the honored citizens here today, both inside these walls and out; to the blessed citizens watching from the city squares and their homes all around the world. To all of you joining us on this fated set to usher in the next Sira, the eldest and only son of Sira Asha, Eros. May Kala guide you in all that you do, Eros, and grant you the wisdom and strength of your father and his father before him.”

  The wisdom and strength of your father and his father before him seems a calculated way to avoid talking about Roma. A way to say they don’t want a repeat of the Sira who ordered genocide.

  It’s as much of an acknowledgment that what Roma did was fucked up as I’m going to get from them, I guess.

  I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say anything. Arodin is looking at me, so I just nod.

  “You’ve come a long way, Eros,” Arodin says. “I’m certain your father would be very proud of you.”

  It’s an innocent enough thing to say, bu
t my dad’s words from the recording that landed me here still play in my head: Eros, you are the true Sira, and you are the only one I want to inherit my throne. The way he looked at the camera, the way I could almost imagine he was looking at me, he was here—

  It shouldn’t hurt. I didn’t even know him. But somehow hearing the high priest say he thinks Asha would be proud of me makes the back of my throat hurt and my eyes sting. Just a little. Not enough for it to be obvious, but it’s there.

  I’d never wished that I’d grown up anywhere but camp, anywhere but the Kits’ cluster of tents. But standing in front of Arodin, with Asha’s words fresh in my mind, I can almost picture myself here. Younger, since it wouldn’t have taken so long if Asha hadn’t died, and with my dad, the Sira, standing by my side and smiling at me.

  I can’t wait to meet you, son. I love you already.

  Would I still have been just as terrified?

  Would I still have wondered if this was a mistake?

  I close my eyes and force the thoughts away. It doesn’t matter what may or may not have been. That other world will never be my reality.

  This is.

  “Thank you,” I say. The words come out tight—a little more strangled than I wanted to let on.

  But Arodin just smiles and gestures to the ground. “Please kneel.”

  I do, taking deep breaths as I lower myself. In and out, the air shivers on my lips. My hands are still shaking and the tile is cooler than the sweltering room but still warm on my knees and toes. I rest my hands on my knees and my insides are vibrating so quickly it’ll be a miracle if I don’t shake apart.

  This is—this is really happening.

  Two other priests—a man and a woman—walk over to Arodin’s side. They’re both holding stone bowls, one black, one white. Arodin dips two fingers on his left hand in the white bowl first, then the black. His fingers come away clear, but glistening, as he turns to me.

  “Close your eyes.” Arodin’s cold, slimy fingers start above my right brow and drag down over my eyelid and onto my cheek. I have no idea what that stuff is, but it smells kinduv like flowery herbs and it tingles on my skin.