“My children will do no such thing.”
Volo’s voice is low but resounding, almost vibrating on the air. I feel it in my chest, and suddenly I’m a little girl again, cowering before a commanding father. Willing to do whatever I must to keep him happy, to win a rare smile or show of affection, however small.
Don’t, Evangeline. Don’t let him do that.
My fist clenches at my side, nails digging into the flesh of my palm. It grounds me somehow. The sharp pain brings me back to who I am, and the cliff we all stand upon.
Cal glares openly at my father, the two of them locked in a silent battle of wills. Mother remains quiet, one hand resting on the head of a wolf. Its yellow eyes stare up at the young king, never wavering from his face.
My parents don’t intend to fight at all, or let us do it either. In Harbor Bay, they were willing to send us into the fighting. Risk us both. For victory.
They think this battle is already lost.
They’re going to run.
Father speaks again, breaking the tense silence. “My own soldiers and guards, my surviving cousins of House Samos, are yours, Tiberias. But my heirs are not yours to gamble with.”
Cal grits his teeth. He plants his hands on his hips, thumbs drumming. “And what about you, King Volo? Will you sit back as well?”
I blink, stunned. He all but called the king of the Rift a coward. A shudder runs through my mother’s wolf, mirroring her anger.
My father has his own schemes already working. He must. Or else he wouldn’t let the slight pass so easily. With a wave of his hand, he brushes off the accusation. “I don’t have to buy loyalty with my own blood,” he says simply, jabbing back. “We’ll be here, defending the Square. If the Lakelanders strike the palace, they’ll find quite the opposition.”
Cal grinds his teeth, gnashing them together. A habit he’ll have to break if he ever hopes to hold a throne. Kings shouldn’t be so easily read.
His uncle looms close at his shoulder, his own watery eyes alight as he stares.
At Father.
Almost smiling, Julian opens his mouth, lips parting to draw in a long, threatening breath. I expect my father to drop his gaze. Break eye contact. Take away the singer’s weapon. But then that would be an admission of fear. He would never do that, even to protect his own mind.
It’s a standoff.
“Is that wise, Jacos?” my mother purrs, and the wolves at her knees growl in response.
Julian merely smiles. The sharp thread of tension snaps. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice blissfully normal. No haunting melody, no aura of power. “But Cal, if I can get to the Lakelander queen, I could be of some use,” he adds softly. Not for some part of the pageantry. It isn’t an act to send a message. It’s an actual proposition.
True pain cross Cal’s face. He turns, forgetting my parents.
“That’s little more than suicide, Julian,” he hisses. “You won’t even get close to her.”
The old singer just raises an eyebrow. “And if do? I could end this.”
“Nothing will end.” Cal slices a hand in dismissal, and I swear I can almost hear the air singe. His eyes are wide, desperate, all masks of propriety sliding away. “You can’t sing both Cenra and Iris out of this war. Even if you manage to make them both drown themselves, or turn their entire army around, they’ll just come back. Another Cygnet waits in the Lakelands.”
“It could buy us valuable time.”
The uncle isn’t wrong, but Cal won’t hear of it. “And it will lose us a valuable person.”
Julian lowers his eyes, stepping back. “Very well.”
“This is all very touching,” I can’t help but mutter.
My dear brother mirrors my sentiment. I’m surprised his eyes don’t roll out of his head. “That aside, do we know what we’re going to be facing out there?”
Our mother scoffs in reply. Like Father, she thinks this battle is already hopeless. The city already lost. “Besides the full might of the Lakelands? Red legions with all the Silvers they can muster, not to mention powerful nymphs with a river to wield?”
“And perhaps some might of Norta too.” I tap a finger against my lip. I’m not the only one who thinks this. I can’t be. It’s too obvious. Judging by the flushes on the faces around me, the others realize what I’m saying, and they’ve had the same suspicions. “The High Houses missing from your coronation. None have come to pledge loyalty. None have responded to your commands.”
Cal’s throat bobs. A silver blush blooms high on his cheeks. “Not while Maven lives. They still kneel to another king.”
“They knelt to another queen,” I muse.
His face falls, dark brows pulling together. “You think Iris has Nortans on her side?”
“I think she’d be stupid not to try.” I shrug my shoulders. “And Iris Cygnet is anything but stupid.”
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.