My oatmeal is cold now, but I force a mouthful so I don’t have to talk. Now the sugary taste is overpowering, and the glop sticks to my teeth.
“Your braids are a mess,” Morrey mutters to himself. He turns to another routine, an old one familiar to us both. Our parents worked earlier than we did, and we had to help each other get ready at dawn. He’s long since known how to fix my hair, and it takes no time at all for him to untangle it. It feels good to have him back, and I’m overcome with emotion as he plaits my curly black hair into two braids.
He doesn’t push me to make a decision, but the conversation is enough to let questions I already had rise to the surface. Who do I want to be? What choice am I going to make?
In the distance, around the edge of the training fields, I spot two familiar figures. One tall, one short, both of them jogging the boundary. They do this every day, their exercises familiar to most of us. Despite Cal’s much longer legs, Mare doesn’t have a problem keeping up. As they get closer, I can see her smiling. I don’t understand a lot of things about the lightning girl, and smiling during a run is one of them.
“Thanks, Morrey,” I say, getting to my feet when he finishes.
My brother doesn’t stand with me. He follows my gaze, laying eyes on Mare as she gets closer. She doesn’t make him tense up, but Cal does. Morrey quickly busies himself with the bowls, ducking his head to hide his scowl. No love lost between the Coles and the prince of Norta.
Mare raises her chin as she jogs, acknowledging us both.
The prince tries to hide his annoyance when she slows her pace, easing into a walk to approach me and Morrey. Cal doesn’t do it well, but he nods at both of us in an attempt at a polite greeting.
“Morning,” Mare says, shifting from foot to foot as she catches her breath. Her complexion has improved more than anything; a golden warmth is returning to her brown skin. “Cameron, Morrey,” she says, her eyes ticking between us with catlike speed. Her brain is always spinning, looking for cracks. After what she’s been through, how could she be any other way?
She must sense the hesitation in me, because she stays put, waiting for me to say something. I almost lose my nerve, but Morrey brushes against my leg. Just bite the bullet, I tell myself. She might even understand.
“Would you mind taking a walk with me?”
Before her capture, she would have scoffed, told me to train, brushed me away like an annoying fly. She barely tolerated me. Now she bobs her head. With a single gesture, Mare waves off Cal like only she can.
Prison changed her, like it changed us all.
“Sure, Cameron.”
It feels like I talk for hours, spilling everything I’ve been keeping inside. The fear, the anger, the sick sensation I get every time I think about what I can do and what I’ve done. How it used to thrill me. How such power made me feel invincible, indestructible—and now it makes me feel ashamed. It feels like stabbing myself in the stomach and letting my guts fall out. I avoid her eyes as I speak, keeping my gaze firmly on my feet as we pace the training grounds. As we press on, more and more soldiers flood the field. Newbloods and Reds, all going through their morning exercises. In their uniforms, green coveralls provided by Montfort, it’s hard to tell which is which. We all look the same, united. “I want to protect my brother. He tells me we should go, leave . . .” My voice weakens, trailing off until there are no more words.
Mare is forceful in her reply. “My sister says the same thing. Every day. She wants to take up Davidson’s offer. Relocate. Let other people fight.” Her eyes darken with intensity. They wobble over the landscape full of green uniforms. She is mechanical in her observations, whether she knows it or not, reading risks and threats. “She said we’ve given enough.”
“So what will you do?”
“I can’t turn my back.” She bites her lip, thoughtful. “There’s too much anger in me. If I don’t find a way to get rid of it, it might poison me for the rest of my life. But that probably isn’t what you want to hear.” It would be an accusation from anyone else. From Cal, or Farley. From who Mare was six months ago. Instead her words are softer.
“Holding on will eat me alive,” I admit. “Continuing on this way, using my ability to kill . . . it will make me a monster.”
Monster. She shivers when I say it, withdrawing inside herself. Mare Barrow has had her fair share of monsters. She looks away, idly tugging on a braid of hair curling with sweat and humidity.
“Monsters are so easily made, especially in people like us,” she mumbles. But she recovers quickly. “You didn’t fight in Archeon. Or if you did, I didn’t see you.”
“No, I was just there to . . .” Keep you in check. In the moment, a good plan. But now that I know what she went through, I feel terrible.
She doesn’t push.
“Kilorn’s idea back in Trial,” I say. “He works well branching the newbloods and Reds, and he knew I wanted to take a step back. So I went along—but not to fight, not to kill, unless absolutely necessary.”
“And you want to continue on that path.” Not a question.
Slowly, I nod. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed. “I think it’s better this way. Defend, not destroy.” At my side, my fingers flex. Silence pools beneath my flesh. I don’t hate my ability, but I can hate what it does.
Mare fixes me with a grin. “I’m not your commander. I can’t tell you what to do, or how to fight. But I think it’s a good idea. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, point them my way.”