War Storm

My grip on myself begins to loosen, and I try to hold back, ignoring the telltale tightening in my throat as I speak. Saying all of this out loud, to people who have made this world cruel, or kept it that way, has a strange effect. I feel as if I could cry or explode, and I don’t know which way I might tip. I want to take Anabel by the shoulders or grab Volo by the neck, force them to listen and see what they’ve done and what they want to continue doing. But if they keep their eyes shut? Or if they look and see nothing wrong? What more can I do?

The Samos king scoffs at me, disgusted. “This world is neither right nor fair, girl. I would think anyone born Red would know that,” he sniffs. Next to him, Evangeline keeps still, her eyes on the floor, her mouth pursed shut. “You’re not our equals, no matter how much you try to be. That is nature.”

Cal finally breaks his silence, his eyes flaring. “Volo, quiet,” he says sharply. No title, no niceties. But no denial either. Whatever line he walks is growing thinner by the minute. “What exactly are you asking, Premier?” he adds. He’s going to make us spell it out.

“It’s not just my request,” Davidson replies, looking to me.

Cal looks at me, too, his bronze stare fully trained on my face. In spite of myself, my gaze runs over him, from his hands to the crown on his forehead. Everything he is.

I don’t hesitate. I’ve survived too much and too long. After all we’ve been through, Cal shouldn’t be surprised.

“Step down,” I tell him. “Or we step back.”

His voice flattens, hollow of emotion. No shock.

He saw this coming.

“You’ll end the alliance.”

Davidson nods once. “The Free Republic of Montfort has no interest in creating a kingdom like the one we escaped.”

Proud, Farley speaks up too. “The Scarlet Guard won’t stand for it either.”

I feel a low tremor of heat, a small ripple from Cal’s direction. A bad sign. With a sigh, I let go of any hope that he might finally see reason. It draws his attention, if only for a second. I see hurt in him, enough to evoke the same in me. Just a tiny pinprick, dull compared to all the wounds I have from the Calore brothers.

Cal looks back to Davidson, directing his rising anger to someone else. “So you’ll leave us to the Lakelanders and Piedmont. Kingdoms and princes worse than I will ever be?” he says, exasperated, almost stumbling over the words. It’s clear he’s trying to salvage this, and doing all he can to keep us here. “Like you said, we’re weak right now. Easy prey. Without your armies—”

“Red armies,” the premier reminds him coolly. “Newblood armies.”

“It can’t be done,” Cal replies, his voice blunt. He puts his hands out, palms up, empty. With nothing to offer. “It just can’t be done. Not now. In time, maybe, but the High Houses won’t kneel if there isn’t a king. We’ll splinter. Norta won’t exist anymore. We don’t have time to change our entire form of government while preparing for an inevitable invasion—”

Farley cuts him off. “Make the time.”

Despite his height, his broad form, the crown, the uniform, all the trappings of a warrior and a king, Cal has never seemed more like a child. He looks between us, glancing from me to his grandmother to Volo. The latter offer no respite, their faces carved into matching scowls. If he bends to us, they will refuse. And the other side of his alliance will be broken.

Behind Cal, unseen, Julian lowers his head. He says nothing to anyone, and keeps his mouth shut.

Volo runs one deadly hand through his silver beard. His eyes flash. “The Silver lords of Norta will not give up their birthrights.”

Fast as lightning, Farley jumps out of her seat. She spits impressively at Volo’s feet. “That’s what I think of your birthright.”

The Samos king is, to my infinite surprise, stunned into silence. He gawks at her, mouth agape. I’ve never known a Samos to be at a loss for words.

“Rats don’t change,” Anabel snarls. She taps one hand against the arm of her chair, the threat clear as day. Not that it affects Farley much.

Cal only repeats himself, his voice barely more than a mumble. The hunters have pushed him into a corner. “It can’t be done,” he says.

Slowly, with finality, Davidson stands from his seat, and I follow suit. “Then we’re sorry to leave you like this,” he says. “Truly. I consider you a friend.”

Cal glances between us, eyes running back and forth. I see sadness in him, the same I feel in myself. We share an acceptance too. This was always the path we chose to walk.

“I know that,” Cal replies. His voice shifts, deepening. “And you should know I don’t respond well to ultimatums, friendly or otherwise.”

A warning.

And not just to us.

We step down together, Reds aligned in our beliefs and our goals. Red uniforms and green, our skin kissed by the same undertones of rose and scarlet. We leave behind the Silvers, as cold and unmoving as if they were carved from stones, statues with living eyes and dead hearts.

“Good luck,” I manage to say over my shoulder, stealing one last glance.

Cal responds in kind, watching me go. “Good luck.”

In Corvium, when he chose the crown, I thought the world had been snatched away, leaving me to fall through an abyss. This isn’t the same. My heart has already been broken, and one night did not sew it back together. This wound isn’t new; this ache isn’t unfamiliar. Cal is the person he told me he was. Nothing and no one will ever change him. I can love him, and perhaps always will, but I can’t make him move when he decides to stay still. The same could be said of me.

Farley nudges my hand, a sharp reminder as we walk. Our last request is yet to be made.

I turn again, angling my face to him. I try to look as I must. Determined, deadly, an inevitable downfall for the Silver king. But still Mare, still the girl he loves. The Red who tried to turn his heart. “Will you let Reds leave the slums, at the very least?”

Next to me, Farley barks out the rest. “And end conscription?”

We expect nothing in return. Perhaps a pantomime of sadness, or another tragic explanation of how impossible such things would be. Maybe even Anabel chasing us from the room.

Instead Cal speaks without looking at the Silvers on his right. Deciding without their input. I didn’t know he had it in him. “I can promise fair wages.”

I almost scoff out loud, but he keeps speaking.

“Fair wages,” he continues. Volo blanches, looking disgusted. “No restrictions on movement. They’re free to live and work where they please. Same for the armies. Fair wages, fair enlistment terms. No conscription.”

It’s my turn to be caught off guard. I have to blink and bow my head. He returns the gesture. “Thank you for that,” I force out.

His grandmother slaps the arm of his throne, indignant. “We’re about to fight another war,” she sneers, as if anyone needs reminding of the Lakelander danger.

I turn back around to hide my smile. Next to me, Farley does the same. We exchange glances, pleasantly surprised by the acquiescence. It means little in the grand scheme; it could be an empty promise, and it probably won’t last. But it serves one purpose, at least.

Driving a wedge between the Silvers, putting cracks in an already precarious alliance. The only one Cal has left.

Behind me, Cal’s voice takes on a dangerous edge as he talks his grandmother down. “I am king. Those are my orders,” he says to her.