## Chapter 1: Protest Dakota found himself, once again, crouched lightly on the edge of the thickest branch on the tallest Protest tree in the zone. A warm breeze from the east touched his face. From the age of 10 and in all the 15 years since, he had been fond of freehand climbing and had become exceptionally skilled at scaling the massive structures. And now, even with his busy schedule and duties, at least once a week he would find his way up to the highest reachable point to peer over the edge; to the brooding blue Aryana, the deserted zone. The genetically altered brethren of an Oak, the Protest trees were created with one purpose in mind; stopping the tide. Dakota knew these wall-like trees produced no seed, leaf or flower, grew in nearly any soil, survived almost any climate but needed immense amounts of water to live. To accommodate their needs, the roots were made to grow doubly deep and fast; also, the entire tree drank, soaking up any liquid that it touched until it was satisfied. Most important, the trees were planted along what was now considered the coast of the land, a barrier to the sea. Though he had never seen it with his own eyes, it was said that in the Southern Segment, the Protest even grew through stone. The trees bulky, rippled and steely skin spread wide and quick as each would grow, as intended, one meter per month until reaching a full 60, at least, and stretched six meters wide exactly. This knowledge allowed the original keepers of the wall to space them perfectly to form an impenetrable wall. However, no new Protest tree had been grown in ages, since the wall was completed. The oldest of the trees were thought to have been planted over 300 years ago. Of course, Dakota knew this was information impossible to trust as none had ever been cut nor fallen and even if they had, the Teachers said they had no rings. “No man alive knows the age of the Protest," he would say to his younger sister, Sharra, when she would ask him about the wall. A violent, gray wave crashed against the trees about ten meters below his perch. Only a few years ago, Dakota remembered, the distance between himself and the waves seemed shorter; but time, size and distance can all play tricks on the mind when mixed in odd proportions. Still yet, a moth of worry and another of excitement fluttered eagerly in his belly and stirred a familiar ache and urge. His mind trailed off to a memory of the meadows and the sweet smell of the blue and purple Ingoya flowers; they always steadied his mind and stomach. Overhead, a blazing amber sun radiated the steely bark below Dakota's feet and charged the ink on his skin. Drops of sweat slipped from his brow, landing and almost as quickly soaking into the dense branch, forming a small blue circle that swiftly faded returning to the normal light Protest beige. He had always found comfort in seeing the blue shine retreating along the outer Protest tree line, the edge of the sea of Aryana, as the waves would crest and fall. He scanned left, then right; seeing the wall extend as far as his nearly-neon green eyes could see. Even with his large frame and chiseled exterior, at this site, he felt infinitely small and weak against the relentless tide. "My reality check," he called it, when his friends would ask about the wall. Another loud crescendo clapped below. It sometimes sounded as slow applause and he the star on stage; but they were taught this was foolishness as his people were of one heart and mind. Standing out, such as the performers of ages past that he had read about, was seen as a disgraceful and boastful act and one which could have you banished, or worse. Caught up in his thoughts, Dakota was snapped back to reality by an instant blue glow dawning and then fading on his inked skin. He waited for the message to arrive. He considered, as he had many times, the burning urge to leap from his post and dive headlong into the murk to explore, even if for only a few moments. He wanted to know the rough waters and the life below them; at least until he was undoubtedly swallowed, either by Aryana herself or one of the ugly beasts who surely lived within her. But resisting urges was said to be a simple task for the people of the Garnish bloodline, he reminded himself. It was, in fact, precisely how the Garnish were the only known survivors of the Great Plague, the builders of the Protest wall and the keepers of the land; at least, that's what his mother and Korren had always told him. Those were childish things, he steeled himself. He was a man now, with responsibilities. Dakota had, for the last ten years, been assigned the task of keeping the livestock and any other liability away from the Eastern Segment of the wall. This, he was told, was to avoid any decay or mishaps like the The Soiled Years that he recalled from his childhood stories. He always enjoyed the thought that a small, furry flock of sheep or jackskins could begin to make even the smallest of dents in these mighty Protest, but the Garnish were also a very cautious bunch. Besides, all the Shuttletusks, one of the few beasts with bones dense as steel and sharp enough to cut the Protest, had all been killed or made captive many years before he was born. Korren had actually killed one of the last of its kind in the wild and given Dakota, as his step-son, a shortblade made from its bone. It was a gift for his 15th birth year. That was the year he was assigned the Eastern Segment of the Protest and made to learn the ways of the Wall Walkers from Jaxen. The ornate ink that sprawled over Dakota's chest, back, arms and legs suddenly changed from a Protest matching beige to a distinct yellow and back again. This glow was his Caution Glow, an alarm of sorts, informing him that sensors in his segment had detected movement near enough to the wall to require inspection. He waited, unsurprised and unafraid, for the directional orders to follow. It was his experience that almost any call was a wind blown branch, another Wall Walker switching shifts or, more often, a long-tailed swallow flying too close to the sensors. Occasionally, there would be a Peck Bird nibbling on a knot in the trees, but seeing as how Wall Walkers were to kill any Peck they saw, those had become rare in recent years. In truth, he had never known nor seen any true threats to his segment of the wall. He doubted he would actually every see the colors of a Danger Glow. Dakota watched the ink on his arms as he faced the wind from Aryana, thunderous claps continuing below. His right arm glowed blue and a twisted blue 15 appeared and then faded back to his beige Protest camouflage setting. "Heading prompt south; 15 kilometers from current position," he spoke clearly and loudly to be sure he was heard by the com system. He took one last look out over Aryana, her dead waves unending. Beyond the expanse of her sea, the waves lay low for just a moment allowing a faint glimpse of white and green caps that seemed to be just before the curve of the horizon. He then glanced back toward his homeland with a heavy sigh. The land he could see was a canvas of browns and tans surrounding a group of silver towers, all standing nearly as tall as his favorite of the Protest. He breathed deeply and in a quick motion began to swiftly descend the tree with ease, stopping only momentarily to gather up his supply pack he stored in an old Peck hole. He was to the base of it in under five minutes. A fast and skilled climber, no doubt; but even more so at gracefully falling, his friends would joke. Before heading south, Dakota pulled the aged, sharpened Shuttletusk bone blade from his belt and carved his traditional tiny notch in the tree, directly at the end of a group of 637 other similar marks. He didn't know why he was counting his trips up the tree. He only knew his life's duty was to protect everything, from nothing. The Garnish were instructed to avoid marking time as it would breed boredom or restlessness, which would undoubtedly lead to other evils. Jaxen had warned him of this too but one day, with a coy smile, shared with Dakota a small wall of stacked stones, hidden near his post, that had been collected over 35 years. He sheathed his blade and with a deep breath turned southward and began to walk. A moment later, the ink changed again, beginning near his heart and spreading over his skin becoming an angry, blood red. Before the color had even reached the tips of fingers he was sprinting toward the alarm. A fearful excitement Dakota had never known began to boil in his gut, and he ran harder. ## Chapter 2: untitled A warm wind brushed past Kara's bare arms as she pulled the tall stalks of corn from the ground. The harvest had come in thick during these recent warm months and it seemed to her that every day was either reaping or threshing. Her father, Gerun, was bed ridden and could only look out over the field and watch as she toiled and pulled. She had grown much stronger since he went ill, she had to; it was either that or they both would die. The community in the zone wasn't fond of those who couldn't help or produce. Kara had to pull the weight for both herself and her father. Pausing a moment to catch her breath and wipe the rolling sweat from her forehead; a deep sigh of resignation escaped her as she looked out toward the sun setting behind the Protest trees. Another day almost gone and what did she have to show for it? She turned to inspect her pile stalks and the barrow load of corn. Another sigh, this time accompanied by a shake of the head and a glance back toward home. She didn't want to feel the resentment that she felt. She would never say it audibly. That didn't stop it from burning inside her. It was the amber ale that had taken his health, she thought to herself; scoffing at his addiction. Had he resisted the urge to drink it every day, like everyone of Garnish blood could do, maybe he would still today be out in the field and she would be assigned another duty. Maybe he wouldn't have spent all their family coin and drank himself into a coma out in the cold those few years ago. Kara swore on all of Aryana as she blamed her father for her miserable life. But it didn't matter. This was her duty now. After pulling one last stalk, Kara gathered the bundle, wrapped it neatly and cinched it to her back with two long pieces of cloth. Lifting the handle of the barrow full of corn wasn't easy with a mountain of stalks attached to your spine, but she managed, slowly. She then began the slow trip back to her home. To Gerun. Again. Her mind drifted to memories of her childhood with her friend Sharra, chasing jackskins and climbing the Protest. She missed her friend. Once Sharra's brother Dakota was assigned to be a Wall Walker, the entire family had been moved to the inner towers. That was the custom. They were important now. But Kara could still remember the sting in her chest as her best friend walked away with her family down the path toward the towers. The path was forbidden for those on the outskirts, in the harvest area. On market days, when Kara would take her produce to sell at the zone square, she always hoped that she would see Sharra or Dakota.