War Storm

“Elara killed her,” Cal says from the doorway to his bedchamber. He adjusts the cape draped over one shoulder, clasped in silver and glinting chips of black gemstones. In his other hand, he holds a black crown, half hidden like an afterthought. A sword hangs from the belt at his waist, tucked into a sheath jeweled in ruby and jet. It’s for fashion at best. No one would choose a sword to fight. “She drove my mother deeper into her sorrows, whispered in her head until she had no other escape. I know that now.”

His lips curve downward, frowning, while his eyes go far away. In his sadness, I see a bit of his mother. The only resemblance I can draw between the two of them.

“I wish I could have known her.” I say.

“So do I.”

We leave Cal’s rooms together, walking the halls of Ocean Hill down to the grander, more public receiving chambers in equal step. Last night, I brushed off any worry of gossip, feeling brazen and bold. The discomfort catches up to me now. I wonder if we’ll enter to a rash of murmurs—smirks from the Silvers, judgment from the Reds and newbloods. Will Farley sneer at me for wavering? Will she turn her back entirely?

I can’t stand the thought.

Cal senses my unease. His fingers brush the inside of my arm, careful to stay away from the sensitive points of my wrists.

“We don’t have to enter together,” he murmurs as we descend a flight of stairs, growing closer and closer to the point of no return.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I answer.

Up ahead, his guards await. Members of House Lerolan, cousins of his grandmother’s blood. They stand unmasked, unlike Sentinels, but just as dangerous and silent.

Anabel stands with them, hands clasped at her waist, belted with flaming jewels: rubies and yellow citrine. She proudly wears her rose-gold crown, the simple band fitted across her brow and smooth, gray hair. Her eyes land on me first.

“Good morning,” she says, drawing Cal into a quick embrace. He accepts it quickly and dwarfs her.

“Morning,” he replies. “Is everyone ready?”

“They should be,” she says, waving a wrinkled hand. “But I assume we’ll have to wait for the Rift princess to don every piece of metal she can get her hands on. Remind me to make sure she hasn’t stolen the doorknobs.”

All nerves, Cal doesn’t smile, but a corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m sure we can spare them,” he says.

“You look well, Miss Barrow,” Anabel adds, her eyes flicking to mine.

I don’t feel it, I think to myself. “As well as can be expected, for the circumstance.” I’m careful not to use any kind of title, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Judging by the way her face changes, softening, I must have said the right thing. To my surprise, Anabel has no enmity for me this morning. She draws a slow breath. “Ready or not,” she mutters, spinning around, “here we come, Maven.”

The receiving hall at the bottom of the grand stairs is vast, feeding into various ballrooms and the throne room of Ocean Hill, as well as the banquet hall and a smaller, less official version of the council chambers in Whitefire. Built to suit a working court of Silvers, and house the moving government of Norta. Now Reds scatter among the rooms, busy as servants, but noticeably not servants. The green of Montfort uniforms contrasts harshly with the white marble, ocean-blue trimmings, and many gold banners still hung from the walls and ceilings. I note red among them, the crimson of Cal’s uniform. Marking his position as the rightful king, and conqueror of nearly half of Norta.

As in Ascendant, before we addressed the Gallery, Davidson wears his fine suit of dark green. Farley has her dress uniform as well, and is still just as uncomfortable in it. I’m glad I don’t have to wear one. The gown is soft against my skin as I walk, my feet tight inside fine blue boots.

Anabel leaves us to stand next to Julian, while Farley watches us approach. She looks between me and Cal as we move closer to the center of the room. Her brow furrows and I brace myself for a scowl, if not a snarl. Instead she blinks, her expression thoughtful. Almost accepting.

“Calore,” she says, dipping her head to the king.

He grins at her deliberate use of such an informal greeting. “General Farley,” he replies, all propriety. “I’m glad you agreed to join us.”

She adjusts her stiff collar, forcing it to lie flat. “The Scarlet Guard is a valuable part of this coalition, and Command should be represented when we negotiate for Maven’s surrender.”

While Cal nods his head in gentle agreement, I sigh to myself. “I wouldn’t be so sure of any deal,” I warn her, voice low. I’m getting sick of repeating myself.

Farley only scoffs. “Of course, nothing in this life is that easy. But a woman can dream, can’t she?”

I glance over her shoulder, at her various officers hanging back. None of their faces are familiar. “How’s Kilorn?” I ask, frowning as shame claws up my spine. I wring my hands together, trying to hide their twitching. At my side, Cal flinches, one hand hanging free. I wish I could take it, but we both refrain from such a naked display of affection.

She looks on me with pity. “Fully healed yesterday, but he’s taking some time,” she says. I try to picture him whole and healthy, not dancing at the brink of death as he was before I left. It doesn’t work. “We’ve commandeered the barracks at the Security Center, and he’s there with the rest of the wounded.”

“Good,” I push out, unable to say anything more. Farley doesn’t prod. Still, I feel the embarrassment of my choices as sharply as a knife wound. Kilorn almost died. Cal almost died. And you ran to Cal.

Next to me, the true king looks away, his own face flushed with implication. Even though we both decided not to make choices, we know that choices were made all the same.

“And Cameron?” I add, if only to stem the bleeding of such thoughts.

Farley scratches her chin. “Organizing in New Town. She’s a valuable asset there, as is her father. The tech towns have their own underground networks, and word is going out to the rest. Maven’s Silvers might be preparing for more attacks, but so are they.”

That swells me with pride, as well as trepidation. Certainly Maven will retaliate for what we did in New Town and try to prevent the same from happening again. But if the Red slums rise up, if the tech towns go dark, his war effort will all but grind to a halt. No more resources. No more fuel. We can effectively starve him into surrender.

“I notice we’re waiting for Princess Evangeline again,” Davidson says as he joins us. His own contingent of advisers hangs back, giving us space.

I tip my head back and sigh. “The only constant in this world.”

The premier crosses his arms. If he’s nervous, he certainly doesn’t show it. “A peacock needs time to groom its feathers, even steel ones.”

“We lost a lot of magnetrons yesterday,” Cal says, his voice low and stern. Almost reprimanding. “House Samos paid a high price for Harbor Bay.”

Farley stiffens, setting her jaw. “I doubt they’ll let us forget it. Or fail to make us repay their sacrifice.”

“That’s a bridge to be crossed,” Cal replies.

Despite our history, I feel the strange need to . . . defend Evangeline. “If it has to be crossed,” I say. “But we can discuss that later,” I add, nodding to the far archway, where Evangeline has just appeared with Ptolemus at her side.