War Storm

Tiberias looks paler than usual, cheeks drained of color. But in shame or fear, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or pain. In spite of it, he is every inch a king. His armor cleaned, his crown donned. The angled lines of his jaw and cheekbones look sharper somehow, honed by the sudden weight on his shoulders. It’s a mask, all of it. A brave face he must wear. His other hand is empty, fingers bare without flame. No fire but the one burning in his eyes.

“The city is yours,” Rhambos says, his head bowed and hands raised.

Queen Anabel steps close to her grandson’s shoulder, fingers curled like talons. She might be the only person on earth who can seem royal without her finery. “You will address him properly, Lord Rhambos.”

He is quick to acquiesce, dipping further, almost kissing his lips to the carpeted floor. “Your Majesty, King Tiberias,” he offers without hesitation. He spreads his hands wide in open faith. “The city of Harbor Bay, and the entirety of the Beacon region, is rightfully yours. Returned to the true king of Norta.”

Tiberias looks down his straight nose, turning the blade. The edge catches the light. The lord flinches, squinting against the sudden glare. “And what of House Rhambos?” he asks.

Next to me, Evangeline snorts into her hand. “What a performance.”

“We are yours as well, to do with as you wish,” the lord murmurs, his voice broken. For all he knows, Tiberias could execute his entire family. Pull them out at the root. Wipe their name and their blood from the face of the earth. Silver kings have done worse for less. “Our soldiers, our money, our resources are at your disposal,” he adds, listing off all his house can give. All his living house can give.

A beat of silence stretches, taut as a pulled wire. Threatening to snap apart. Tiberias surveys Lord Rhambos without blinking, without feeling, his face blank and unreadable. Then he bears a smile. It bleeds warmth and understanding. I can’t tell if it’s real.

“I thank you for it,” he says, inclining his head a fraction. Beneath him, Lord Rhambos all but shudders in relief. “Just as I will thank every member of your house when they follow your example and pledge an oath of loyalty to me. Forsaking the false king who sits on my father’s throne.”

At his side, Anabel beams. If she coached him, she did it well.

“Yes—yes, of course,” Rhambos stammers. He all but falls over himself to agree. I notice Tiberias edging his toes away, lest the fallen lord try to kiss them. “That will be arranged as soon as possible. Our strength is yours.”

Tiberias’s face tightens. “By tomorrow, my lord.” Leaving no room for argument.

“By tomorrow, Your Majesty,” Rhambos replies, bobbing his head. Still kneeling, he clenches both meaty fists. “All hail Tiberias the Seventh, King of Norta and true Flame of the North!” he shouts, his voice stronger by the second.

The crowd of advisers and soldiers, both Silver and Red, responds in kind, repeating the obnoxious titles. A bit of color returns to Tiberias’s cheeks as he flushes. His eyes dart back and forth, trying to note who cries his name and who doesn’t. His eyes land on me and my unmoving lips. I hold his gaze, feeling a thrill as I keep my mouth resolutely shut.

Farley does too, examining her nails instead of the unfolding pageantry.

Anabel basks in it, one hand on her grandson’s shoulder. Her left hand, laid just so to display an old wedding ring set with a black gemstone. The only jewelry on her, and the only one she ever needs.

“All hail,” she murmurs, her eyes shining as she looks up at Tiberias. At some flicker in his face, she springs into action, moving in front of him. She clasps her lethal hands together, ring still exposed. “The king thanks you for your loyalty, as do I. We have much to discuss in the coming hours.”

It’s as good as a dismissal. Tiberias turns, putting his back to the room, and I realize what an admission it is. He’s tired. He’s wounded. Maybe not in body, but somewhere deep, where no one can see. The rigid set of his shoulders, his familiar posture, slumps beneath the ruby-red pauldrons of his armor. Releasing some weight. Or giving in to it.

Somehow, all thoughts of his corpse come rushing back. Dread pools in me, threatening to fill me up and drag me down.

I step forward, meaning to stay, but the crowd works against me. As does Evangeline. She takes me under my arm, her decorative claws still donned and digging into soft flesh. I grit my teeth, letting her lead me out of his chambers, not wanting to cause a fuss or a scene. Julian passes by us with a single raised eyebrow, surprised to see us in such close confidence. I try to communicate with my eyes. Try to ask for some help or guidance. But he turns away before he knows what I want. Or he simply doesn’t want to give it.

We pass the guards again, the Lerolans looking like Sentinels in their colors of red and orange. Perhaps that’s where the robes first came from. I look back, over the heads of Silver lords and Red officers. Farley’s blond hair glints somewhere, with Ptolemus Samos keeping a safe distance from her. I see Anabel, watching like a hawk. She plants herself in front of the door to Tiberias’s bedchamber. He slips behind it, out of sight without so much as a backward glance.

“Don’t argue,” Evangeline hisses in my ear.

On instinct, I open my mouth to do just that. But I cut myself off as she drags me sideways, out of the crowd and into the corridor.

Even though we’re as safe as possible for the circumstances, my heart beats a ragged rhythm in my chest. “You said yourself, locking us in a closet together wouldn’t work.”

“I’m not locking anyone anywhere,” she whispers back. “I’m just showing you the door.”

We turn and turn, taking the side stairs and servants’ passages far too slowly and too quickly for my liking. My inner compass spins, and I think we’re almost where we started when she halts within a dimly lit passage, almost too narrow for us to squeeze through.

With a ripple of unease, I think of my earring. The one I’m not wearing. A bloodred stone, tucked away in a box in Montfort, hidden from the world.

On my right, Evangeline lays her palm against an old door, rusted over from disuse. The hinges and lock have gone dark red, crusting like dried blood. With a flick of her fingers, the metal spins, shedding the rust like droplets of water.

“This will take you—”

“I know where it’s going to take me,” I reply, almost too fast. I suddenly feel like I’ve run a mile.

Her grin sets me on edge, and almost makes me turn around. Almost.

“Very well,” she says, taking a step back. Her hand brushes through the air, gesturing to the door like it’s a priceless gift. Instead of the naked manipulation it is. “Do what you want, lightning girl. Go where you please. No one will stop you.”

I have no clever response for her. All I can do is watch her slink away, eager to be rid of me. Elane must be on her way to the city to help celebrate this victory. I find myself envying them. They’re on the same side, at least, allied despite the impossibilities stacked against them. Both Silver, both raised noble. They know each other in a way Tiberias and I could never. They are the same, equals. He and I are not.

I should turn around.

But I’m already through the door, pushing through the semidarkness of a forgotten passage, my fingertips brushing along cool stone. A light bleeds ahead, closer than I thought it would be. Outlining another door.