A/N: It just found chapter 2 on my computer and thought I'd share it. I don't think I ever did rewrites/edits, and it's been nearly a year since I've written this, but I thought I'd share all the same.

TWO

Mare

I don't wait to see the details of the arena fight. Who lives, who dies. Though I'm sure I'll find out soon enough, I can't allow more blood to seep onto my hands. I wish I could save everyone, make a pact to never add another face to my mental wall of the dead. But, whether in that arena or on the killing fields of the war we've officially waged against Maven, people are going to die. Newbloods, Reds, and Silvers alike. No matter what I've done, that much is inevitable. And when the fighting starts, I want to be ready. I don't have any other option.

The words grate at my patience even as I traverse the complicated maze of streets of Corvium towards the infirmary. It's a bit of a walk from the control tower—hiding in the tunnels below the city—so I have far too much time to think before I get there. I hate situations where there's only one option. When there's no choice to be made at all. It makes me feel cornered, like my hand is being forced. Like I don't actually have control over my actions.

Then again, that's been my life for the past year hasn't it? Falling into unwinnable situations, being told my one option, and then running with it? In the Stilts, I knew my options, knew I only really had one. At eighteen, I was supposed to go to the war. There was no escape. And when I tried, I somehow ended up on the path that led me to Maven and his mother. More ultimatums. More choices made for me. Escaping that meant allying with the Scarlet Guard and doing whatever they needed me too. Between being their mouthpiece, a voice for the Newbloods, and Maven's puppet, I barely even know what choice is anymore.

I shake my head, pulling my arms tight against my chest as I step down into the subterranean levels of Corvium. The sudden chill in comparison with the muggy heat of the coming summer above only adds to my headache. No. I am in control of myself. A flicker of my electricity ghosts over my skin as if reassuring myself of the words I think. If Cal gets to make his own choices, choose what's best for him and his people, so be it. They're his people. Maybe it's time for me to go back to my roots. The girl who protects her own first and others if she has time—and if she particularly cares to. I am the lightning girl, damn it. And anyone with Red blood is my family, ability or no.

"Mare," Wren Skonos says to me by way of greeting as I duck my head into the infirmary. Plenty of the white-clothed beds along the wall are free of the rust color of dried blood, but I don't move for any of them. Instead, I stand in the doorway, cradling my stinging hand gingerly.

Wren waves a hand, dismissing me for a moment as she finishes checking on a Red boy whose arm ends at his elbow. Wren must have been busy. From what I understand, the boy in the bed lost most of that side of his body in the attack. Even though they're dry and clean, I can almost feel the tack of drying blood making the fingers on my good hand stick together.

"The bleeding hell happened to you?" says a voice to my right. I turn my attention from the healer—whose ability now lends itself to causing the boy's arm to reform and regrow toward where his hand would eventually return—to the least concerning pain in my ass at the moment, Cameron. She wears an apron smeared with grease, and rubber gloves that reach nearly to her shoulders, along with goggles on a face covered in more grime than her apron. If it weren't for the gloves, reminding me so much of the ones the Arvens wore as my guards in my hellhole of a prison at Whitefire, I might laugh at the incredulity of the outfit. Instead, I have to repress a shudder as I follow her eyes to my broken hand.

I pull as much of my usual gravitas and grace into my expression as I can and smirk at her. "Strongarm. In the battle." I shrug, the movement sending a jolt of pain through the arm. "Probably wasn't the best idea. It was like punching a brick wall."

"Is that right?" The snarky retort isn't courtesy of our little group's master of snarky retorts, but rather Wren, who has finally taken a break from her magical bone growth to grace us with her presence. I still don't have a read on the woman. She and Evangeline are apparently close friends, but, while she did journey all the way to Corvium to help with the warfront, I still can't forget the days she watched me wasting away in Maven's cage from effects even her ability could not touch. Still, she's the only healer on duty right now, and I can't wait for this hand to fix itself.

Thankfully, instead of following up her less-than-convinced response with more questions, Wren merely takes my hand in hers and begins. Cameron rolls her eyes at this.

"What happened to the Premier's rule about twenty-four hours for non-emergency wounds?" she snaps.

"I," Wren mutters, eyes closed in concentration, "do not answer to Premier Davidson."

I silently thank her for the answer. While it only seems to incense Cameron further, causing her to tap her foot and scowl menacingly at the healer, it saves me from explaining my sudden move to action. From having to explain to Cameron that I am yet again at fault for people like us dying at the hands of a mad king.

Endorphins rush as the bones in my hand reassemble and fuse back in the correct setting. The effect is almost dizzying, and succeeds in taking my mind off the shitstorm at hand for at least a few moments. Though Wren pokes and prods at the bones, and occasionally picks at the skin to remove bits of brick lodged in my knuckles, I feel nothing. Marvelous, blissful nothing.

Unfortunately, the distraction is over almost as soon as it began. Wren drops my healed hand unceremoniously and turns to face Cameron, her calculating eyes sliding over the girl's clothing with a look of distaste. "You can't be in here dressed like that."

Cameron scoffs at this. "I can be wherever I bleeding want, dressed however I bleeding like, thank you very much." She sputters on furiously, though she seems to have forgotten me entirely. Wren holds up a smooth hand to stop the girl's tirade.

"I only meant that it's covered in potential infection-causing agents. We can't have it in a sickroom."

"Thought you could heal anything."

"I can. But a broken arm is simple. A missing arm is simple. An infected wound takes more time than any of us have. And," she adds with a twist of her lips, "your presence does tend to cause duress to our patients."

"Look, Lady. I'm just here looking for Ptolemus. He's supposed to help me with this thing I'm working on, but he pulled a no-show."

"If you're looking for Prince Samos, then why have you come here?" The name still feels strange. Definitely unearned. What has Ptolemus Samos ever done to deserve the title Prince?

This time, it's Cameron's turn to smile wickedly. "Because the two of you seem to be attached at the hip. Where one of you is, the other tends to be lurking in the shadows somewhere nearby."

A patch of gray brushes the tops of Wren's ears in a blush of Silverblood. "I haven't seen Lem all day." Cameron opens her mouth to protest, but Wren is already continuing. "But I suppose I can check his quarters. Let him know that you were looking."

Ever the image of a Silver lady, Wren's being flustered does not impugn her dignity, and she leaves us with her shoulders held back and head held high. Only I can see the worry in her eyes. I can imagine why. She's a Lady of Norta. He's a Prince of a whole new kingdom. A married one, at that. Is his love even his to give? Begrudgingly, Cal pops into my mind. Betrothed to a woman he does not love and, supposedly, in love with a girl he can't ever be with. In that moment, I see more of myself in Wren than I have in probably any Silver ever. Perhaps that's why my brain jumps ahead of my conscious thought and leans in to Wren as she leaves the room to tell her, "He's not in his quarters. Check control. That's where we were a moment ago."

Wren nods her thanks and then leaves. Cameron's eyes watch me carefully. "What's got you and Ptolemus Samos dragged up to control?"

I can't tell her. I shouldn't tell her. I'm one of the leaders of the Scarlet Guard. Prioritization of information is key. Telling Cameron could cause word to spread, could cause a panic. I can not tell her.

After a moment, seeing the undercurrent of worry in her eyes for news devastating enough to call the major power players to Control, my resolve turns to dust and I tell her. Everything.

The arena fight. The Newbloods. Maven's promise of destroying the Scarlet Guard. It all comes flowing out of my mouth from the safety of a secluded alcove down the hall from the fort's infirmary. Because I have no self-control? Probably. But Cameron needs to hear it. And she takes it all in stride. In fact, I see some of the tension in her shoulders lift as the story unfolds, even after some of the grittier details I share with her. She doesn't care about them, I realize. Not as much as she cares about those we left behind in Piedmont, like her twin brother, Morrey. The news she dreaded was averted. As far as we know, her brother lives another day, and that's enough to keep Cameron calm and collected as I wrap up the sorry tale of the twisted boy king and open up the floor for questions.

She kind of sits there for a while, not speaking. She's processing, of course, but more. Plotting, strategizing. She's trying to figure out our next move. Though Cameron might claim violence and war are things to be hated and avoided at all costs, she's sure good at them. In that moment, she reminds me of Cal. The warrior who wants only peace, seeking the easiest way to get there. The path of least resistance—and bloodshed. Stars, is there anything that doesn't remind me of Cal today? I am not some fucking lovesick puppy, not like Maven. I will not let this destroy me. I set my jaw and mentally prepare myself as Cameron finally reaches the point of speaking.

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

I shake my head in confusion. "What?"

"This seems like the kind of thing you normally talk about with Cal."

I roll my eyes. "If you don't want to talk about it—"

"No, I do," she insists. "I'm just wondering why you're suddenly not trusting Maven's brother." She drops her voice to a whisper. "Is he working with—"

"No!" I snap, probably too forcefully. "No, of course not."

"Then what? You should be in Control right now, figuring out next steps. Instead you're, what? Fixing a hand I know you didn't break in the battle? Telling me everything because of the pure goodness in your heart? Come on. Why me and not Cal?"

This is not where I need this conversation to go. I shrug. "Cal and I aren't exactly…" I search for the word. "Amiable right now."

"Mom and dad are fighting." Cameron sighs, leaning against the wall. "Great."

"We're not fighting."

"Sounds like you're fighting. A big, ugly couples' fight that makes me want to vomit nails."

"We're not—" I cut myself off this time. What are Cal and I doing? "It doesn't matter. I'm here getting my hand fixed because I lost control for a minute. Because I am thinking next steps, and, if I'm right, I need to be at the top of my game for what comes next."

"Yeah, but you're not thinking about it with Cal?"

"Enough about Cal, Cameron. Please. I can make my own decisions without the Princeling around." I suck down a lungful of the thick, chilled air. "I thought you hated Cal, anyway."

"Oh, I bleeding despise His Royal Pain In My Ass. My grandest dreams are of the different ways I can split him in two without killing him just to watch him bleed to death. I wish he'd never been born." She pauses, thinks, shrugs. "But he's better to talk to than a brick wall." She nods at my hands. "Better to punch, too."

I fist my hands together in front of me, knuckles white and face a straight line.

"Alright. I get it. No Cal talk. Fine. What do you want to talk about?"

I shrug. Honestly, who the hell even knows anymore? "Are you worried about Morrey back in Piedmont?"

The sudden change in topic has Cameron shifting on her feet, twirling a loose string from her apron between her fingers. "A little. But not for long. I'm fixing up the radio tower that was damaged in the battle. When it's done, Cal—" she pauses, tasting the name in her mouth, and then seeming to think better of it: "The prince whose name we do not speak and I are going to fix the wiring and try to boost the signal on this old spy network he's been using. It's off the grid in Norta, but they should be able to receive it at the base in Piedmont. We set up the other end of the network before we left. Hopefully, soon enough we should have open communication to the base."

I nod, sincerely impressed. "So that's what you need Ptolemus for."

She sneers at his name. "He offered to help Princeling after Princeling offered to help me. Honestly, the pretty boy spends more time chasing skirts and transforming metal into mirrors to check himself out than he does actually assisting in anything but," she shrugs again, "he gets the job done. Albeit it slowly. Very slowly."

"Sounds about right." I don't miss the off tone in my voice and neither does Cameron.

To my surprise, her next words lack her signature edge, taking on a more sympathetic tone than anything else I've ever heard from her. So soft I wonder if the war has changed her already. Tempered her. "None of us have forgotten what he did to Shade, Mare. And we're never going to. He's a tool." She narrows her eyes. "In all senses of the word."

That brings a smile to my lips. But even that small gesture feels fake. "Thanks."

"Anytime." She slaps me on the shoulder rather painfully and suddenly. "Now, do the whole resistance a favor and snap out of it."

"I'm fine, Cameron."

"No. You're all sad and emotional and it's making you stupid. How about using your bleeding head for once?" So much for being changed. I should have known. Cameron's from New Town, one of the Red techie slums. If the tattoo on her neck and her roughness are any indication, she's not the type to be broken so easily. Compared to her life before, I'm sure this is a walk in the park. "Look, Cal's a Prince, so he gets his say in what comes next. I get that. But him having a voice doesn't mean you lose yours. Buck up."

"Gee," I mutter under my breath. "Thanks. Only one problem. He's not the Prince anymore. He's got the backing of House Samos. His grandmother. He's going after his crown. He's going to be King."

"Of the Silvers," Cameron says. "He's the Silver King, Mare. He will always put them first. House Samos, his family. They're fighting for the Silvers, and the Silvers alone. Farley and the Guard are fighting for the Reds. Who's fighting for us in Control?" She barks out a harsh laugh. "Davidson? Montfort? People we don't even really know. I mean, can we trust them?"

"You don't know me," I point out. "You certainly don't trust me."

She doesn't hesitate. "I trust you more than anyone else here." I raise an eyebrow at her, waiting for the gotcha!, or just for her to recant her statement. She shrugs. "I know. We're all bleeding doomed and Hell must be freezing over. Get over it, Lightning Girl."

I shrug. That's about as much as I imagine you get from someone like Cameron Cole. I move to hug her, but she holds up a hand to ward me off, her eyes shooting to the size of the lenses in her goggles.

"No, no," she says simply. "That's okay. No hugging necessary."

I heave a laugh—a real and genuine one, to my surprise—and turn to stalk down the hall. It's like a weight off my shoulders. Farley and Cameron are right. Cal's a leader, a King by birth. This is his playing field. Just like Farley, and Wren, and Cameron, he's found where he best contributes to help his people. It's time for me to find mine. To figure out where a jaded thief from the Stilts fits in with a global revolution.

Cameron's voice stops me halfway down the forgotten corridor. "Barrow," she calls. I glance at her over my shoulder. A blush has rushed to her cheeks and, if I thought a young woman with features like hers could look sheepish, she would look it now. "Don't you dare tell Calore I called him Dad. He'll never let me live that one down."

I don't respond. I only turn, hiding the ridiculous smile that spreads across my face. The worst thing is that she's not far off. Both Cal and I have people depending on us. The problem is that we're both starting to notice our children are not the same as the other's. Still, if I remember one thing growing up, it's that a family stays together. So, as much as I want to murder him for all he's done, as much as I want to mummify him alive and set his living corpse on fire and throw it into the deepest point of the ocean I can find, Cal and I have to talk. We have to work together. Otherwise this war may end before it even really begins.