"Kneel or bleed."

Iris

I roam the gardens of Whitefire, absentmindedly running my polished fingers through water that I've suspended in mid-air. Maven's court-adjourned for the hour- mills about, each lord awarding me a deep bow and the ladies giving curtsies.

Lately, the bows have been deeper and the curtsies lower. Not a month has passed since my father's fatality. They managed to retrieve Father's body, and the corpse was shipped back home, to the Lakelands. Maven was inclined to ask me if I'd like to return with country's warriors and attend the burial, but I denied him.

Few tears were shed when the news was delivered, and even those only pertained to proving to the Nortan court I'm not a heartless queen. I simply never adored the man growing up as a princess. He would always respond the same when I challenged him to a swimming race or even a game of dolls. "Sorry, sweetheart. Daddy's busy with king business." was what I heard so many times in my youth, the very phrase has been etched into the backside of my skull. So instead I'd play with my maids or my older sister, Rosalyn. Rose, reasonably and surely wept for hours when Father died. As the eldest sister, she was trained to rule. The two spent hours every day together, Father preparing her for her reign.

Mother was in charge of me. Preparing me to become a proper lady, someday graceful and strong enough to marry a lovely boy from an acceptable family. Though for that reason, I came to resent her for demanding so much of me; forcing on qualities I never wished to take on. Rose was born to rule; it's been evident for a long while that she has royal blood flowing through her veins. At no time did I listen to complaints of lessons with Father. Meanwhile, my sister would hear of my woes often enough, she went through a phase of plugging her ears at any time I parted my lips.

And then Mother's time in training me finally paid off. For one of us, anyway. Father sold me off to a mad king, to settle a dispute that has long since been forgotten. The Lakeland War, as Nortans call it, persevered for a century. And with a single betrothal, complete and utter peace was put into place. It spites me that such a union, between a powerless princess and a king on a volatile throne, could forge such perfect truce.

Though I am selfish for thinking such a thought, I can't help my mind from wandering. Let them die. The red soldiers, the silver commanders. As long as I don't have to be a part of this ruined court.

The gossips of the court whisper about the king and his state of mind. For months, leaders of high houses have been leaving Archeon; alleviated of their positions. Only the young ones remain, a method of insurance. Glorified prisoners, is all the teenagers are. The Court of Children, Whitefire's structure is murmured about in the most secluded of corners. But the foolish ones don't comprehend that reds have ears, just like the rest of us. Anyone can talk if given the details.

Though I've never met him, I've heard the stories of Tiberias, Maven's elder brother. Declared a traitor, after killing his own father. Seduced by the little lighting girl, a crazed mutated red-blooded sinner. Mare Barrow drove the prince off the rails until he was so lustful for power he murdered his own kin.

But like all stories, I've heard multiple versions. The forbidden ones, whispered in darkened night, intrigue me the most. Tiberias was framed by the mad king and the bitch queen, Elara Merandus. It's been debated for years, but it's clear to me that whispers are the most powerful and power-hungry of people. Already, High Houses have deserted Maven and fled to the supposed rightful heir of the country.

No noise resounds off the palace floors when I stroll on them, as no shoes accompany my feet. I find the raised platforms stupid; they would only slow me down if a battle were to initiate. My day dress grazes the floor, covering where my unladylike feet rest.

Dreary diamondglass blocks out the overwhelming light of the afternoon sun, and without the light-manipulators, the changing of the panels has become impossible. I suggested to the king to remove them, but he curtly replied how ignorant that would be, as they shield us from bullets.

The two months I spent engaged to Maven, I rarely saw the boy. Frequently, it appeared he was avoiding me. Attention constantly affixed to only his star captive, the little lighting girl. At first, I was bewildered at why the king didn't execute her when she first arrived in the capital. Her screams could be heard from far away, and she went through more dishware than an entire festival would use. The second she was unclad of those manacles,-which was bound to happen sooner or later- she would unleash chaos like never seen before. Even I, for someone who hadn't met Mare Barrow in the past, could see the defying storm in her.

Mareena Titanos-the girl's pseudonym-had formerly been committed to marry Maven.

And the boy loved her. And he still does, which is why he refuses to kill her.

Once upon a time, the chained girl might've loved him too. But any fondness Mare ever had for Maven has clearly turned to hatred.

Since she's been liberated by the rebels, I've had an easier time getting through to Maven. Though our talks are shallow and superficial, at least they've happened at all. On occasion, we'll sit at brunch and discuss strategy, or take to a theatre performance together. But by no means do I like him.

Rumors have started, and from there they spread as quick as fire. That the king and queen haven't yet consummated, leaving the kingdom without a successor. I roll my eyes at the rumors, even while they're true. This kingdom is in such a rocky state, it would be a horrible time to produce a baby. These are dangerous ages, and I wouldn't dare bring a child into a warring world. The poor thing could get abducted, or worse. Poisoned. Stabbed with a sword.

I arrive at the king's door to his study and raise my arm to knock. It's been months since I've had the blessing to enter a temple; the people of Norta are unholy. Materials have been running thin, as that wretched group of bandits stole a vast amount of gold from Archeon's supplies. That's what we used to call them; bandits. After that stunt they pulled at my wedding reception, it's clear that they are far more than petty thieves from an unorganized rebellion. The Scarlet Guard is a threat, no matter how many times we deny it.

Nevertheless, I'm in dire need of a temple, no matter how few supplies we have. Just as my fist is an inch from the door, I hear a shrill scream. My arm drops limply to my side and I intake a deep breath. That awful sound that I had noted hundreds of times previous.

His obsession with the girl must end, I discern. So prior to reconsidering my choice, my elbow thrusts the entryway open. At first, I ignore the boy staring back at me from the far side of the room, and rather glance at the various types of adornments. The lineage of the Calore bloodline is palpable in the space, their house colors weaved into intricate tapestries. Caesar, the first monarch of Norta is portrayed on one end; the late Tiberias the sixth's enlarged photograph lying on the other. In the past when I've met with Maven in his study, silky, black fabric covered parts of his face. The grieving period must be over.

I make him nervous, just traipsing about in this room. Ultimately, I speak. "Why do you torture yourself so?"

I give Maven credit for being clever, but not quick-witted enough to outsmart a princess. He crinkles his forehead as if confused. But I see through it. "I'm reviewing security footage, Iris. What do you need?"

Hitherto, I would've wondered aloud when my temple would be constructed. Asked if I could begin preaching my religion to the citizens, to lift their uneasy spirits. But when those details cross my mind, I push them to be gone, more important issues in mind. "I'm not daft, Your Majesty. I'll be brusque and arrive at the point I mean to make. Why do you pine after a woman who you will not ever have?"

His lip twitches in anger. An impossible aspect to grasp, if I was not paying such close attention to him. "You believe I love the little lighting girl? What do you think I am?"

His own bitter laugh accompanies my own. "You would think a queen would know her king, wouldn't you? Your mother surely did. But to be fair, she was a whisper. But I don't know anything about you. I only have the stories they tell to judge you by."

"We are married, of course I don't love-" his efforts become desperate and futile. I cut him off before he can further embarrass himself.

"When has marriage ever meant anything? You don't like me, and unquestionably there is not a morsel of love between us." I drop down into the armchair that lays across the desk and watch him drown in my accusations. Words are similar to that of water's characteristics. Both can be stunning for their uses; however, they're both killers. "Betrothal certainly didn't stop Mare Barrow from going after your brother." My theories are confirmed when I see that heartbreakingly-devastating demeanor crawl onto Maven's face.

"Leave." His articulation is carefully slow and he keeps his eyes fixed upon papers on his desk. There is no sign of the projector screen that had been used just a minute ago to watch her cries. He must've sensed a presence, and tucked it up before I entered.

I challenge his authority by slinking further into the chair, going so far as to cross my legs. Even still, I question my decision on intruding into this room altogether. Never anger a king, a lesson I taught myself growing up in the Lakelands. Father would've never allowed such behavior from his advisors or Mother, for that matter. A shiver grazes through me, remembering the fates of such men. In spite of those thoughts, I quickly uncross my legs and raise my back to sit straight.

In truth, I have no power here; not that I possessed more when I was home. Neither a princess nor a queen truly has any. The only edge I have in this game is my name. Cygnet, the ruling family of Norta's once rivals. If His Majesty was to mysteriously force me to disappear, my sister would infallibly recommence the war. And that is not something either side could support.

"So long as Mare Barrow walks this Earth, your life shall constantly be in peril. All I suggest is that you forget her." My tone sounds terribly unsentimental, riddled with cruelness. "Please tell me what fuels this obsession!"

He snaps, bygone the point of veiling his emotions. "You don't think she tried that? My mother, the whisper? She erased it all." For the first time, I place pity on the boy. He perchance doesn't understand the difference between his feelings and Elara's.

In our capital, Detraon, whispers aren't allowed inside of our walls without escorts. And by no means may one be within twenty feet of the king. But it's no longer the king, I have to correct myself. Rosalyn ascends now. Yet we haven't had an individual that holds the ability make themselves known for years. There is no doubt I wouldn't if I had such a curse. Decades ago, their entire clan was hung for treason on opposing my grandfather.

"You should've killed her when you had the chance. Now you've become restless with an aimless ambition." I say it anyway, though it's unfair to the girl. I haven't met her.

Momentarily, his eyes desert the room and travel back to far-off memories. I wait patiently and draw water vapor from the air. It's a habit adapted from childhood that refused to die. Granting the liquid permission, it levitates down to my bare feet. In the heat of the summer, the coolness is greeted as an old friend.

"That's what she said," Maven mutters, barely loud enough to comprehend. "Don't you think I would've done it by now?"

I take a deep inhale of air, unsure of how to respond. If I had been kept as a king's pet for that length of months, I would've wanted to end my own life. "I suppose so," I end up folding into his argument. "but that doesn't change this." I rise from the seat and turn to go, at last following his command.

"Iris. Wait."

I turn halfway about and rotate my head over my shoulder to gaze at Maven once more. Not speaking, I raise my brows to ask silently what he needs.

"You should prepare for a short journey ahead. It shouldn't take greater than a day to accomplish, but pack a few days worth of traveling clothes to be safe. It would be a shame if you had to wear the same outfit twice." He smirks at his own joke.

"Where are we going?" None of my maids or servants had instructed me such directions. "And anyway, I'm not Evangeline Samos. I could survive without my dresses for weeks." The sentence that barely a second ago spouted out of my mouth is an understatement. I despise the garb of royalty; I'd rather wear pants and shirts while training for battle.

"You'll find out soon enough," Maven skillfully succeeds in avoiding my question. "It's a surprise."

Maven's response deeply unsettles me and I spin on the ball of my foot to leave. There's no chance a romantic honeymoon for the stressed royal couple is in the lineup.

He has a plan in mind, and I don't like it one bit.

A sleek-gray vehicle waits for us on the bridge. Presumably bullet-proof for its purpose, Maven explained to me it would be carrying us to a plane. The answers stopped there, however; all further inquiries I've had since then have been overlooked, it's as though I'm repeatedly slamming into a brick wall.

Without real reports, my imagination has been free to run wild with no strings attached. I attempted to swerve to other interpretations, however, my mind lingers on a particular one evermore. He discovered Mare's location and now he's going after her. Jon, an infamous red-blooded seer I've heard mentioned has been gone from the court for months. It's been disclosed that the king seized much information from this Jon fellow, who told Maven where to find the little lightning girl in the first place. Still, he fled during an assassination attempt; it makes me wonder whose side he's genuinely on.

Provided that my theory is correct, I ponder what source His Majesty got the information from. An incredibly dynamic clairvoyant from House Eagrie? Footage from a nearby city showcasing violet electricity? I immediately cross out the latter; I met Mare Barrow once, and she didn't seem especially dim-witted. Delivering a storm in the center of a populated area is past idiotic.

As I approach the armored automobile, Maven pulls the side door open and makes a motion for me to climb aboard. The perfect gentleman he appears to be today, scaring me more. Contrasting the typical designs that would be branded into the vehicle, this model is utmost odd. The emblem of the Burning Crown cannot be seen from an outsider's vantage point and no lavish flags or silks hang from the edges.

Dawn hasn't yet broken, causing the horizon to color itself a murky grayish-blue. Scarce clouds embellish the sky, yearning for the sun to rise. Without it, the clouds stay darkened. Soon thereafter the assault on the capital, a mandatory curfew ensued. Because of this, not a single soul parades these streets during the night and into the early morning. Formerly before this gloomy era, there were extravagant parties that battered into the morning light. Now lone mourning doves chirp on the roofs of those once raucous manors.

The intention is clear: To leave before anyone can catch sight of us.

"Queen Iris?" A nearby guardsman queries. "It's time to depart." I'm pulled from my reverie by his statement and clamber up into it, taking my seat. Maven follows suit directly afterward. I lean my head on the glass and strain to see the number of Arvens and Sentinels waiting to board different transports ahead and behind us. Exceeding one hundred men, I estimate. And those merely compose of those who aren't already buckled in. Enough soldiers to quell an army, I determine. Enough to quell a lightning bolt in human skin.

A half-an-hour later, the wheels at last begin to revolve and the gentle rattle on the road nearly lull me to sleep. If it were not for the anxiety, I would've committed to rest for hours. Often, I'll glance towards Maven and each and every time I get the same expression; solemn and bored as if this is merely a political meeting.

My old friends and my dearest sister from court aren't within reach for hundreds of miles, and I'm trapped in matrimony with a psychopath. Courtiers quickly proved that they weren't interested in deep friendships, only polite enough to make small talk about silly topics such as dresses and the architecture of buildings. I've learned to entertain myself.

So I do the same now. I generate all the possible versions of how this journey is going to go to hell in some fashion. And there are many.

For countless blurred years, we travel via plane across the sky to a location I continue to be oblivious to. Though it has the qualities of an eternity, my rational side guesses the flight has begun only an hour or two ago. We're heading south, I know that much. Perhaps to Piedmont?

I stalk the water droplets that cling to the oval-shaped window pain. Hence the high altitude, most of the water has frozen, sculpting crystals that appear as snowflakes. Nothing interesting takes place on the exterior, just the occasional fluffy white cloud. I sense the condensation process inside of them, the liquid urging to be released. If I willed them to, they'd do just so. I could bring this plane to the ground if it was my whim; by the time Arvens discovered what the cause of the extreme turbulence was, it would be too late. Unfortunately, I am not in the mood to murder myself.

To my side rests Maven, his character composed as ever. Deciding I have not a fragment of a chance to persuade the boy to let me in on his secrets, I concoct an excuse to take a sabbatical. "I wish to stretch my legs. Move for me, will you?"

Without responding, Maven tucks his feet in. I only observe now that he has a scarlet red cape draped over his shoulders. Bending my face away, I sneer. Why a silver king wears such a statement, I haven't got the faintest inkling. With my own ears, I listened to Maven promise my father he would crush the red rebels and return the world to the ways of old. Yet he parades around in the atrocity of a garment, proud of it. Father never wore such a style, often times wearing simple dress clothes to meetings. Fire and water are polar antonyms to each other, after all.

In sparing ways, they are similar. Father kept multiple women as pets, servants to him. On the other hand, I have trouble comparing those relationships any further. Father cast off one lady as soon as another came. In spans of time, it seemed he would find a new plaything every other day. Feasibly, Mother and Father once shared a devotion. But those days are long past; no memories of the two holding hands exist, besides for that of those in public.

But I chastise myself for thinking that way of my parents. I'm a hypocrite. I kissed Maven-no matter how brief- for the sake of the wedding. His lips were cold and exhausted of passion, I recall. A fire can only burn for so long before dying, he proved. Even the strongest of us have breaking points.

I make my way deeper into the cabin, my steps slow and deliberate. In truth, my legs tingle and ache from the period of idleness. For such a brief ride, I'm surprised we were given a private section of the plane.

Unlatching the thick curtain that divides branches of the aircraft, I step into the crew's seating. Briskly, I reconnect the metal pieces of the fabric, separating us from Maven anew. At first, I'm silent, causing no ruckus. Except when the group doesn't grasp my presence, I'm forced to clear my throat deeply.

The captain of this specific legion raises his eyes from the golden band on his ring finger and transfers his focus to me. "Your Majesty, what are you doing back here?" Hastily understanding his disrespectful tone, he rephrases his question. "I mean," he stutters, "can I assist you in any matter? Although I must say, the servants might be of better use."

By now, nearly the entire audience's attention has been turned to me. "No, I believe you'll do a fine job of assisting me. I only wonder where this journey is taking us." The man's Adam's apple bobs in his throat, leading me to contemplate whether he will allow out the truth. This time in a lower sound, "And do not avoid answering me, Captain. You'll regret it." I say. A threat, but not so vivid it could be used in opposition to me. I could've said I would drown his wife in her sleep, but I fear that wouldn't go over well.

A queen who is loved is a good queen and a queen who is dangerous is a better queen, my mother explained to me.

The leader swallows again before answering. "Andros Eagrie had a vision just days ago. It's incredible, really that such a young boy produced such a prophecy. Andros was able to locate a base location of the rebels in Piedmont, which is where we're heading. They're just rumors, but I've heard that the lad saw the little lightning girl there." He stops abruptly, meaning to say more. The scared look in his eyes is enough to prove he's afraid of the consequences if he says more. Or of what he has already uttered. Never have I witnessed a general so vulnerable. "We intend to slaughter them, to send a message to all the reds everywhere."

"But not Mare Barrow, correct? My husband believes her wrongs have earned her a lifetime of imprisonment." I mangle the truth for the benefit of the answers I've been preying for.

"My soldiers and I have been commanded to leave her and her family unharmed." The man surely has opinions on this subject but keeps them to himself. But the way he holds himself reveals his glowers on the girl and her existence.

My eyebrow quirks. "How in the world could you perform such an act while having to check each face before ending them?"

The man frowns at my suggestions. "I'm not quite sure, Your Majesty. But do not fret, we'll crush this coup before it can grow anymore."

"I have no doubt that you shall succeed."