The implication hangs over us, thick as a fog, and just as difficult to ignore. Even Father seems unsettled by the possibility of another split within the Nortan kingdom, cleaving apart a land he one day hopes to control.
Anabel shifts, uneasy down to her toes. She runs a hand across the tight pull of her gray hair, smoothing down an already severe style. The old woman mutters under her breath.
“I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I miss those grubby Reds.”
“A bit late for that,” Cal snarls, his voice like furious thunder.
My father’s lip twitches, the closest he’s ever come to flinching.
Of course, there are plans in place. Tactics and strategies for defending the capital against an invasion. After a century of war with the Lakelanders, it would be foolish to think otherwise. But whatever the Calore kings cooked up to fight the Cygnet nymphs relied on things that no longer exist. A Nortan army at full strength. A country united. Tech towns operating at full capacity, churning out electricity and ammunition. Cal can’t count on any of it.
The barracks and military facilities adjoining the Square are the safest place outside the spiraling vaults of the Treasury, but I don’t fancy burying myself belowground with only a rickety train to rely on. My parents take up refuge in the nerve center of War Command, overseeing the many reports flooding in from the circling Air Fleet. I suspect King Volo enjoys standing in a place of such power, especially while Cal is readying himself to lead a battalion into the fray.
I’m less inclined to stare at printouts and grainy footage, watching battle from afar. I’d rather trust my own eyes. And I can’t be close to my parents right now. Somehow the approaching army, the ships hidden on a cloudy horizon, make my choices very clear.
Ptolemus sits with me, perched on the steps of War Command. His armor ripples slightly, still taking shape across the planes of his muscles. Trying to find the perfect fit. He inclines his head skyward, eyes roving over the gathering gray clouds overhead. They thicken with every passing minute. Wren is close by too, hovering at his shoulder, her hands bare and ready to heal.
“It’s going to rain,” he says with a sniff. “Any second now.”
Wren looks past us, toward the Bridge of Archeon on the far side of the Square gates. Its many arches and supports seem faded, as the oncoming mist bleeds into the city. “I wonder how high the river is now,” she murmurs.
I reach out with my ability, trying to distinguish the armada rapidly closing the miles. But the ships are still too far out. Or I’m too distracted.
Father is going to run again. House Samos will run. Leave Norta to crumble, with only the Rift remaining, an island against the lapping Cygnet sea.
Eventually we’ll be overrun too.
Queen Cenra has no sons. No one to sell me to. Volo Samos has no more bargains left to make. He’ll have to surrender.
And die at her hands, probably. The way Salin did.
If he even survives today.
So where does that leave me?
If my father faces defeat as much as my betrothed does?
I think . . . it leaves me free.
“Tolly, do you love me?”
Both Wren and my brother snap to attention, their faces whirling to mine. Ptolemus almost sputters, his lips flapping with surprise. “Of course,” he says, almost too quickly to be understood. His silver brows furrow, and something like anger crosses his features. “How can you even ask that?”
Just the simple question offends him, wounds him. It would do the same to me.
I take his hand, squeezing tight. Feeling the bones in the newly grown appendage he lost some months ago. “I sent Elane away from the Ridge. When you get home, she won’t be there.”
Red hair, a mountain breeze. It seems like a dream. Could it be real? Is this my chance?
“Eve, what are you talking about? Where—”
“I’m not going to tell you, so you won’t have to lie.”
Slowly, I force myself to stand on oddly shaking limbs. A baby learning to walk, taking steps for the first time. I quiver all over, toes to fingertips.
Ptolemus jumps up with me, bending so we’re eye to eye, inches away from each other. His hands are tight on my shoulders, but not enough to keep me in place if I choose to move.
“I’m going inside. I need to ask him a question,” I murmur. “But I think I already know the answer.”
“Eve—”
I look into his eyes, the same eyes as mine. As our father’s. I would ask for his help, but splitting him apart like that, asking him to choose a side? I love my brother, and he loves me, but he loves our parents too. He is a better heir than I ever was.
“Don’t follow me.”
Still trembling, I pull him into a crushing hug. He returns the gesture reflexively, but he stumbles over his words, unable to understand what I’m saying.
I don’t look back for what could be my last glimpse of my brother’s face. It’s too difficult. He could die today, or tomorrow, or a month from now, when the Cygnet queens storm my home to lay my family bare. I want to remember his smile, not a confused frown.
War Command is a mess, a study in chaos. Silver officers buzz through passages and chambers, calling out developments and army movements. The Lakelander boats, the Piedmont airjets. It all passes in a blur.
My parents are easy to find. My mother’s wolves guard the door to one of the communications chambers, flanking each side with bright, keen eyes. The beasts turn to me in unison, neither hostile nor friendly as I pass.
Static-filled screens fill the command room with a crackling glow of shifting light. Only a few are still operational. Not a good sign. The Air Fleet must be well into the storm. If it even still exists.
Volo and Larentia stand firm, mirror images of each other. Postures violently straight, unblinking as they take in such dire circumstances. On one of the screens, the first armada ship takes shape, a hulking shadow obscured by mist. Others slowly come into focus. At least a dozen, and still more.
I’ve seen this room before, but never so empty. A skeleton crew of Silver officers mans the screens and radios, trying to keep up with the flood of information. Runners bustle in and out, taking the newest items with them. Probably to Cal, wherever he is now.
“Father?” I sound like a child.
And he dismisses me like one. “Evangeline, not now.”
“What happens when we go home?”
With a sneer, he looks over his shoulder. Father cut his hair shorter than usual, cropping the silver close to his scalp. It gives him a skullish look. “When this war is won.”
I let him parrot the lie, feeling myself tighten as he spouts nonsense. You’ll be queen. Peace will reign. Life will return to what it was. Lies, all of it.
“What happens to me? What plans do you have in store?” I ask, remaining in the doorway. I’ll have to be quick. “Who will you make me become next?”
Both of them know what I’m asking, but neither can answer. Not with Nortan officers close by, few as they may be. They must maintain the illusion of this alliance until the last second.
“If you’re going to run, so will I,” I murmur.
The king of the Rift clenches a fist, and the metal throughout the room responds in kind. A few screens crack, their casings twisted by his rage. “We’re not going anywhere, Evangeline,” he lies.
Mother tries another tactic, closing the distance between us. Her dark, angled eyes go wide and pleading. Imitating a puppy or a cub. She puts a hand to my face, ever the image of the doting mother. “We need you,” she whispers. “Our family needs you, your brother—”
I step out of her grasp, toward the hallway again. Luring them both with me. Two rights, out the front, into the Square—
“Let me go.”
Father shoulders past my mother, almost knocking her out of the way so he can stand over me. The chromium armor gleams harshly in the fluorescent light.
He knows what I’m saying, what I’m really asking for.
“I will not,” he hisses. “You are mine, Evangeline. My own daughter. You belong with us. You have a duty to us.”
Another step backward. At the door, the wolves rise to their feet.
“I don’t.”