War Storm

He grits his teeth, furious. And a bit confused. “Why?”

“Because every change in you was not your own.” The razor-edged words tumble, cutting as they go. He flinches, blinking quickly.

“Thank you for the reminder,” he replies. “I so needed it.”

I draw my last blade, ready to drive it deep into his heart. And perhaps make him feel one piece of what he lost, if only a fleeting sensation. “You know Cal hunted for someone who could fix you?” I tell him.

Maven’s mouth flaps open and closed, searching for something cunning or at least clever to say. He only manages a stammering “Wh-what?”

“In Montfort,” I explain. “He had the premier search for a newblood, an Ardent, some kind of whisper powerful enough to undo whatever your mother did.” It almost hurts to see the flickers in him, tiny flashes of emotion beyond rage or hunger. They fight to the surface, but whatever Elara did holds fast. His face goes still, slack as he listens. “But no one like that exists. And even if they did, there’s no changing what you are. I realized that a long time ago, when I was your prisoner. But your brother—he didn’t believe you were truly gone until today. When he looked into your eyes.”

Slowly, the fallen king sits down in the chair opposite mine. His legs stretch out before him and he slumps, letting go of his steel spine. Numb, he runs a hand through his hair, fingering the curling black locks. So like Cal’s hair, like his father’s hair. He stares at the ceiling, wordless, unable to speak. I imagine Maven in quicksand, fighting to climb out. Fighting the impossible nature his mother gave him. It’s no use. His face turns to stone again, his eyes narrowed and icy, doing all they can to ignore what his heart wants to feel.

“There’s no way to complete a puzzle with missing pieces, or put together shattered glass,” I mumble, only to myself, repeating what Julian told me weeks ago.

Maven sits up, drawing his back straight. One hand circles his wrist, touching the skin where his bracelet used to be. Without it, he’s powerless, useless. He doesn’t even need Arven guards.

“Cenra and Iris are going to drown you all,” he hisses. “At least I’ll be dead before they get their hands on me.”

“What a consolation.”

“I would not have liked to watch you die.” The admission is small and matter-of-fact. There is no agenda to it, only the ugly, naked truth. “Will you enjoy watching me?”

At least I can respond with some truth of my own. “Part of me will.”

“And the rest?”

“No,” I whisper. “I won’t enjoy it.”

He smiles. “That’s enough for me. A better good-bye than I deserve.”

“And what do I deserve, Maven?”

“Better than we ever gave you.”

The door bangs open before I can ask what he means. I start to rise, expecting guards to usher me out now that I’m no longer part of the coalition. Instead I find Farley and Davidson standing over us. She glares at Maven with more fire than even Cal could muster, and I expect her to skin him alive in front of us.

“General Farley,” Maven drawls. He might be trying to goad her into doing the deed before his brother can. She only snarls in reply, like a beast.

Davidson is more polite, ushering someone else into the room. I notice that the hall behind him is empty, the door guards gone. “So sorry to interrupt,” the premier says. He gestures, and his companion, the Montfort newblood Arezzo, steps into the chamber. I blink at her, confused, but only for a second.

She’s a teleporter. Like Shade. And her hands are reaching.

“It’s time we all go,” Davidson sighs, looking between us.

I jolt as Arezzo grabs my wrist, but I’m not the only one she’s taking.

Before the room disappears, squeezing to nothing, I see Maven. His white face, paler by the second. His blue eyes, wide with rare shock. And Arezzo’s hand on his own.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Evangeline

The throne room feels empty without the Reds, colder somehow.

Anabel is stupid if she thinks we can coronate Cal tomorrow. Foolish, eager woman. No king of Norta can be crowned anywhere but the capital, and it will take a few days at least to stabilize Harbor Bay before anyone can leave for Archeon. There’s also the High Houses who were loyal to Maven. They’ll need to kneel, pledge themselves to Cal, and be present at any coronation, if the country is to pull itself back together. I say none of this, of course. Let them figure it out for themselves. An unstable King Tiberias will hardly have time for marriage.

Unfortunately, he has Julian Jacos, and the singer lord is more adept at politics than he has ever let on. He overrides Anabel and suggests they wait a week before the coronation. Cal is happy to take his advice in this and other matters too.

Even now, Cal slumps on his throne, looking drained by the battle and the aftermath. Mostly the aftermath. He keeps stealing glances at the door too, willing Mare to return. But it’s been almost an hour. She and her companions are probably long gone by now, fleeing to the distant mountains of Montfort. Her family is there, waiting. She’ll be happy to go back to them. I wish I could do the same, and escape back to the Rift.

Or to Montfort, a voice whispers. Figures flash in my head, the premier and his husband presiding over our dinner. Hands clasped, relaxed and self-assured. Allowed to be who they are. I touch a finger to my temple, trying to massage away the low, dull ache in my skull. Everything seems impossible right now.

Elane isn’t in the throne room, but she is close by. She suffered the journey with my parents, arriving this afternoon. I’m itching to be free of this council, if only to steal a few hours with her. I don’t know how many I have left.

“I’ll send out the word,” Julian says, hands folded as he stands at Cal’s side. Without the Reds, the raised dais of the throne room is hilariously lopsided. “The lords and ladies of the High Houses will be summoned to the capital in a week’s time, and you’ll be waiting, happy to receive them. Afterward, we can crown you as king.” He sounds less than thrilled.

Cal barely nods. He wants to be done with all this. He doesn’t notice Anabel and her bronze eyes, now fixed on Julian. Both hope to win the ear of a king, seeking to be highest in his favor, like children vying for a parent’s attention. I’d bet on Anabel. She has the stomach for court. And the spine to eliminate anyone who might threaten her grasp on her grandson.

I sigh to myself, already exhausted by the thought of a life chained to him. It excited me once, the lure of a queen’s power. I like to think Elane changed me, but I loved her long before, even when I told myself she was just a pawn like Sonya Iral, a Silver lady to do my bidding and back my machinations. I think the war has done something to me. Put a fear in me I never had before. Not for myself, but for Ptolemus and Elane. The ones I love most, and would kill to protect. Sacrifice everything to keep safe and close. I’ve tasted a crown now, and I know it doesn’t compare.

Father does not share the sentiment, nor will he let me abandon my duties.

I haven’t mentioned my suspicions about the last piece of Anabel and Julian’s deal, not to him. I could be wrong. Maybe Queen Cenra and Iris were satisfied with Salin Iral, eager to hand over a king for a single drop of vengeance.

You know that isn’t true.

Neither of them is a fool. They wouldn’t pay such a high price for such a small prize.