My fist clenches, and I wish for a spark. For flame. For something to burn. She knows what I want, and grins to herself. On the other side of the bars, her fingers tap against the air, alight with purple and white. The electric energy is a tease at best. Beyond my reach, beyond the sphere of Silent Stone. I ache for my ability the way I ache for Mare, for Thomas, for who I was supposed to be.
“At least I can admit when I’m wrong,” she continues. “When I make a mistake. When the horrible things I’ve done and will do are my own fault.” The sparks reflect in her eyes. They shudder from brown to purple, giving her an unearthly look, like her gaze might run me through. Part of me wishes she would. “I suppose you taught me that.”
Instead I grin again. “Then you should thank me properly.”
She responds in kind, spitting at my feet. At least some things in this world are still predictable.
“You never disappoint,” I hiss, scraping my shoe against the cement floor.
She doesn’t waver. “The tunnels.”
Heaving a breath, I pretend to be so desperately put-upon. I make her wait, letting the silence stretch for several long, blistering moments. I take the time to look at her. To see Mare Barrow for who she is right now. Not who I remember. And not who I wish she could be.
Mine.
But she doesn’t belong to anyone, not even my brother. I take comfort in such a small consolation. We’re alone together, she and I. Our paths may be horrible, but they’re the paths we made for ourselves.
The golden glow of her skin is warm, even down here, illuminated by the harsh light of fluorescence. She is so stubbornly alive, still burning like a candle fighting against rain.
“Fine.”
I give her what she wants.
I think it’s what I want too.
Their plan was always to kill me. After I ceased to be useful. I’m not surprised. It’s what I’d do. Still, when the cloth is pulled off my head, revealing the mountains bowled around us, I can’t help but feel afraid. If I’m allowed to see this place, see Montfort and its capital, then I am well and truly dead. It’s only a matter of time.
The air is cold, biting at my exposed face. My shivers of fear are more than warranted. I blink up at the purple sky, hazed before dawn, streaked with the light of a distant sunrise creeping over the mountain peaks. Snow clings to the heights, even in summer. Quickly, I try to get my bearings.
The city of Ascendant reaches into the valley below, sweeping over the slopes to an alpine lake. It doesn’t remind me of any city I’ve seen, not in Norta or even the Lakelands. This place is too new, but somehow old at the same time. Grown among the trees and the rocks, a part of this strange land as much as a human-built place. But the city doesn’t matter. I’ll never come back here. Not if I escape, nor if they execute me. There is simply no reality where I return to Montfort.
We’re standing near a runway, cut evenly between two mountains. The smell of jet fuel is sharp on the otherwise fresh air. Several airjets line up on the paved straightaway, ready to take flight. I squint over the heads of the guards around me, glimpsing a white palace in the distance, looking down at the capital. That must be where I was taken before, when I was dragged before that strange council of Reds, Silvers, and newbloods.
The faces hemming me in are unfamiliar, their uniforms equally split between Montfort green and the hellish red of the Scarlet Guard. They keep me locked in place, unable to do much more than stand on my toes for a craning look at the crowd.
For this is certainly a crowd. Dozens of soldiers and their commanders, organized into neat lines, wait patiently for the jets. But far fewer than I expected. Do they really think this is enough to assault Archeon? Even if they have newbloods of strange and terrible abilities, this is foolish. Suicide. How did I lose to such rampant idiots?
Someone chuckles nearby, and I’m seized by the familiar sense that they’re laughing at me. I turn sharply, only to see the premier of Montfort himself staring between the shoulders of my guards.
With a gesture of his hand, the two soldiers move, allowing him to approach. To my surprise, he’s dressed like a soldier, unremarkable in a dark green uniform. No medals or honors on his breast, nothing to mark him as the leader of an entire country. No wonder he and Cal got along so well. They’re both stupid enough to fight on the front lines.
“Something funny?” I sneer, looking up at him.
The premier merely shakes his head. As in the council, the man keeps his face still and almost empty, showing only enough emotion to allow an audience to project their own assumptions.
I would congratulate him on the talent if I felt so inclined.
Like me, Davidson is a skilled actor. But his performance is wasted. I see through him.
“What happens when this is over, and the time comes to divide the spoils?” I smile, the air freezing against my teeth. “Who picks up my brother’s crown, Davidson?”
The man doesn’t flinch, seemingly unaffected. But I catch the minuscule twitch as his eyes narrow. “Look around, Calore. No one wears crowns in my country.”
“So clever,” I muse. “Not all crowns are worn where people can see.”
He smirks, refusing to rise to the bait. Either his temper is extraordinary, or somehow this man is truly without a lust for power. It’s the former, of course. No person on earth can ignore the lure of a throne.
“Uphold your end of the bargain, and it will be quick,” the older man says, backing away. “Board him,” he adds, his voice harder in command.
The guards move as one, well trained, and if I shut my eyes, I could pretend they were Sentinels. My own Silver protectors, oathed to keep me safe, instead of these rats and blood traitors bent on keeping me chained.
At least they don’t bother with manacles. My wrists remain unbound, albeit bare.
No bracelets, no flame.
No sparks that I can make.
Lucky, then, that we’re traveling with a lightning girl.
I manage to catch a glimpse of her as I’m marched forward, over the runway to the airjet idling ahead. She clusters with her friend, the Farley woman who was so easily misled a year ago, as well as her fellow electricon, the white-haired man. Odd hair must be a style in Montfort, because there’s a woman with blue locks and a man with closely cut green hair as well.
Mare smiles at them, a true grin. When she moves, I realize her hair is different too. The gray ends are gone, replaced by a beautiful, familiar purple. I love it.
I feel a tug deep in my chest. She’s on my jet. Probably to keep an eye on me. To let her torturer friend stand over me for the entire flight. That’s fine. I’ll suffer it.
A few hours of fear are worth the dwindling time we have left.
Our jet has dark green wings, a symbol of the Montfort fleet. I’m led up and into a military craft lined with seats, plus a lower compartment running the length of the fuselage. For more passengers or arms. Maybe both. My mouth turns sour as I realize this jet is Montfort-made, and certainly not the only one. The strange mountain country is better equipped than we realized, even after Corvium, after Harbor Bay. And they are mobilizing.
As I’m strapped into my seat, the buckles fastened just a hair too tight, I realize why Davidson was laughing.
The jets on the runway, the soldiers assembled outside—they’re just the beginning.
“How many thousands are you leading into Archeon?” I ask aloud, letting my voice carry over the bustle of the filling compartment.