War Storm

“It’s over,” I hear myself say, tasting the lie. He breathes hard against his hands, as if he’s just returned from a Training session.

“It isn’t over,” he says. “Not by a long shot.”

My rooms in Ocean Hill are on the other side of the residence floors from Cal’s rooms, separate from his at my own request. They’re finely appointed, bright and airy, but the bathroom is far too small, and currently much too crowded. I shudder against the warm water, letting the soapy bubbles drift around my body. The temperature is soothing, working out the aches and tension in my muscles. Farley leans up against the tub, her back to me, while Davidson does the same at the door, looking shockingly informal for a national leader. His fine suit from the meeting is unbuttoned, open to show a white undershirt and a bobbing throat. He rubs his eyes and yawns, already exhausted though the morning is barely over.

I scrub a hand over my face again, wishing I could wipe away my frustration as easily as sweat and grime. Impossible to get even one second to myself.

“And when he refuses?” I grumble to them both. Our plan, one last chance to keep things together, has too many holes to count.

Davidson knits his fingers on a bent knee. “If he refuses—”

“He will,” Farley and I say in bleak unison.

“Then we do as we say,” the premier says plainly, his shoulders rising and falling in an easy shrug. His angled eyes watch me with weary attention. “We’re finished if we don’t hold to our word. And I have promises to keep to my own country.”

Farley nods in agreement. She turns to me over her shoulder, her face inches away from mine. Up close, I can count the freckles across her nose, spreading as the summer wears on. They contrast with her scarred mouth. “So do I,” she says. “The other Command generals have made themselves clear.”

“I’d like to meet them,” Davidson mutters idly.

She offers a bitter smirk. “If this goes as we think it will, they’ll be waiting for us when we return.”

“Good,” he replies.

I spread my fingers across the surface, dragging lines through the milky, perfumed water. “How long will we have?” I say, asking what we’re all dancing around. “Before the Lakelands come back?”

Next to me, Farley turns back around to rest her chin on her bent knee. She clacks her teeth together, nervous. An odd emotion for her. “Intelligence in Piedmont and the Lakelands reports movement at their forts and citadels. Armies being assembled.” Her voice changes, growing heavy. “It won’t be long.”

“They’ll target the capital,” I say flatly. It isn’t a question.

“Probably,” Davidson says. He taps his lip, thoughtful. “A symbolic victory at the very least. And at best, if the other cities and regions kneel, a quick conquest of the entire country.”

Farley tightens at the suggestion. “If Cal dies in the attack . . .” She trails off, stopping herself. In spite of the warm bath, my body runs cold with the thought. I look away from her silhouette, to the window instead. Puffy white clouds move lazily across a friendly blue sky. Too bright and cheerful for such talk.

Whether he knows it or not, Davidson twists the knife that’s constantly stuck in my gut, picking up Farley’s train of thought. “With no Calore heirs. No king. Chaos will reign across the country.”

He says it like that’s some kind of option. I shift quickly in the water and glare at him. I put one hand on the porcelain rim of the tub, running a threatening spark down one finger. He draws back, just a little. “It will result in more Red bloodshed, Mare,” he explains. It sounds like an apology. “I have no interest in such things. We must win Archeon before they can.”

Nodding, Farley clenches a fist. Resolute. “And force Cal to step down. Make him see there is no other choice.”

I don’t move, still staring at the premier. “What about the Rift?”

His eyes narrow to slits. “Volo Samos will never tolerate a world he cannot rule, but Evangeline . . .” He turns her name over in his mouth. “She might be persuaded. Or, at the very least, bribed.”

“With what?” I scoff. I know Evangeline would do anything to stop her marriage to Cal, but betray her family, throw away her crown? I can’t imagine it. She’d rather suffer. “She’s richer than all of us. And too proud.”

Davidson raises his chin, looking superior. Like he knows something we don’t. “With her own future,” he says. “With freedom.”

I wrinkle my nose, unconvinced. “I’m not sure what you could ask from her. She’s not going to get rid of her own father.”

The premier dips his head in agreement. “No, but she can destroy an alliance. Refuse to marry. Cut the Rift from Norta. Give Cal nowhere else to turn. Help force his hand. He can’t survive without allies.”

He isn’t wrong, but the secondary plan is too precarious. Letting it depend on Evangeline’s shared motive is one thing, but her loyalty to her blood? Her family? It seems impossible. She said herself, she can’t refuse the betrothal, and she can’t go against her father’s wishes when all is done.

Steam rises in the silence, spiraling through the air.

On the other side of the door, an exasperated voice sounds. “What are the odds any of this actually goes to plan?” Kilorn calls from my bedroom.

I have to laugh. “Has it ever?”

He responds with a long, frustrated groan. The door shudders as his head clunks against it.

Kilorn and Davidson are good enough to leave me to dress in peace, but Farley stays put, sprawled across the sea-green covers of my bed. At first I want to chase her out so I can have a bit of time alone, but as the minutes wear on, I’m glad for her presence. If I’m alone, I might lose it entirely and never open the door again. With Farley here, I have no excuse but to get ready as quickly as I can. Hopefully the momentum carries me through the rest of what promises to be an interesting day.

She snickers slightly as I force myself into a formal Scarlet Guard uniform. Freshly cleaned and tailored, just for me. I’ve been oathed to the Guard for almost a year, but it’s never felt official. The uniform is supposed to be symbolic, to properly divide me from Cal and his Silver allies, but I really think Farley just wanted someone else to suffer with her. The bright, bloodred outfit is tight and stiff, buttoned too high up my throat. I fuss with it, trying to loosen the stranglehold a little.

“Not fun, is it?” Farley chuckles. Her own collar is open, folded over for now.

I glance at myself in the mirror, noting the way the special-made garment outlines my form. It’s boxy on top, with straight-legged pants tucked into boots, giving me a rather rectangular silhouette. This is no ball gown, that’s for sure.

While the buttons are polished and gleaming, I have no other decoration on my uniform. No badges, no insignia. I run a hand over my chest, the fabric bare.

“Do I finally get a rank?” I ask, glancing over to Farley. As in the People’s Gallery, she has her three general’s squares on her collar, but most of the false medals and ribbons have been abandoned. No use standing on ceremony in front of Cal, who will know better.

She lies back, looking at the ceiling. One leg crosses over the other, her foot dangling free. “Private has a nice ring to it.”

I put a hand to my heart, pretending to be insulted. “I’ve been with you a year.”