Iris

"What's the verdict?"

"Your city isn't too shabby, Princess," Bart tells me, hands in his pockets.

"Well, you better think so. Because I'll order your death if you say otherwise." My threat ends in a chuckle, low and joking.

He grins, and I return the gesture, though I have nothing to be pleased for. My announcement was made throughout the continent, anywhere reachable and applicable receiving it. Maven, good old Maven, had a prerecorded speech to release to the people. It had an impact, but that damned boy placated it.

Mostly.

But the morning's disappointing news is hardly remembered here, only a couple of hours later. I've been too preoccupied with walking Bart through points of interest in the city, learning about him, and in turn telling the Swift about myself.

Laude, the temple, looms ahead in all its glory. The gleaming brown pyramid is two blocks away, and usually, I'd get an urge deep in my chest to run until I reach the courtyard gates. But today is not usual. My Gods won't be pleased with me, not after what I've done, for the manslaughter of a hundred Whitefire guards, for neglecting my duty to my kingdom. My duty, to sit still and grow crazy in Archeon, to maintain peace between our countries.

I don't deserve to seek the Gods' help, shouldn't even go and sniff my favorite flowers outside of the doors.

On cue, Bart asks, "Do you want to go and pray?"

My eyes splay wide, caught off guard by his question. Nortans aren't religious, it's been explained time and time again. Churches and spirituality aren't forbidden there, but not advocated either. The Calore royal family doesn't practice, otherwise I imagine numerous noblemen would follow suit, if only for appearances.

Yet there's more that surprises me. Praying. When did I last pray? I haven't just avoided visiting Laude, but contacting my Gods, my protectors altogether. The temple is one thing, where I feel closest to my creaters, but I haven't thanked them for the most basic of my blessings for days.

And I... I can't. It's too raw and painful, everything I've done is. Seeing no other way, acting on survivor's instincts, I up and killed those Sentinels, without a thought. Sure, some of them recovered, and I had to get Mare and her sister out of there, but that doesn't justify the sins. The Gods shouldn't, won't condone my behaviors, princess or not. Rather, I'll simmer in my guilt for awhile... before I deserve to pray, to be listened to.

"What?" I say absentmindedly, hoping he'll ask something else, or at least change his phrasing.

"Do you wish to go there, Princess?"

I scoff, shake my head, and roll a pair of eyes. My ex-Sentinel cannot conduct a five-minute conversation that isn't full of satire. I suppose it isn't a bad quality, but it gets on my nerves nonetheless. Constantly throwing in harmless jabs at somebody or other, for the purpose of no reason. Bart calls me "Princess" at least once per minute, and if it were Maven, or that tragic Volo Samos, I'd slap their smirks right off their faces. With Bart, it's something different. At first, it was condescending, as if to replace Princess with "You're the reason my life's gone to shit." Now, he says it like a nickname, something said absentmindedly from years of knowing me.

I lie my response. "I already went early this morning. It isn't very busy-"

Bart sticks up a hand of gloveless fingers, stopping me in my tracks. Another odd something to see here. He wears slacks, the shade of Laude, and a generic, cotton black shirt. Like other Sentinels, for the longest period, I didn't know what his face looked like. Maybe there's more reason to that besides for the obvious protection; faceless men are easier to sacrifice for the greater good.

"Why do you lie about frivolous things?" He asks, bluntly, not raising his tone. As if it's a statement of facts, not a question. But it is.

"Seemingly frivolous," I quip in a sigh. "How do you know I lie?"

"I've met many in my life that perceive lying as an art. That strive to master it. And you, Iris Cygnet, are not of that category." He stops for a moment, sloping his shoulders with an exhale. Then a smile and a low, breathy chuckle. There's something about that laugh that I adore. The pure realness, perhaps. That the happiness and pleasure of it aren't forced. "But honestly, I was out here for most of the morning. I would've seen you."

I used to do that a lot, too. It's true that the temples in Detraon are most reticent in the morning, and I'd come here often by my lonesome, but it was perfect. Slow moments to reflect upon my days, the constant worry that Father was going to sell me off to some man, and the dull ache at the back of my skull, reminding me that while the city is a picture of peace and grace, a couple hundred miles east, a war was raging. "What were you doing out here so early? Not to mention, how did you find your way?"

"There's a giant needle sticking into the sky. I've finished harder tasks." He fails to tell me why he came out here in the first place. His rooms in the palace are ten times better than a Nortan Sentinel's, he has no reason to be uncomfortable... "Hey. Stop trying to divert my focus, Princess. Why lie?"

I decide to sound very scientific in my response. "As a Nortan, you probably can't relate. No religion, no belief that there are a higher power and something waiting for us. I feel guilty, really guilty, when I push my values to the back burner. I haven't prayed in days," are my final words, and they nearly come up with vomit.

"Ah," is what comes out.

I figure out that's it for what he's planned and I speak again. "I understand. You don't know much about Lakelander culture, what the Gods mean to us, and so forth."

"It's true, that I don't have a background in religion. In fact, in Norta it's illegal to practice the Lakelands religion. But please explain to me, because I am beyond confused. You're ashamed for not praying? Do the Gods cast you out of their Heaven if you miss a few days?"

I have to resist the urge to throttle him, to violently make him understand what's going on in my heart. Bart's half-joking, but that doesn't make me feel any better.

Why I'm spilling my heart out to this man, I don't know why. "After we split up in the tunnels, I had to help a lot of people." I prolong each word, as if saying them slowly will make it untrue. Mare and her team were getting swamped, and I looked outside and found a pond. So I flooded the guards feet, and let her do her work. Greco was in there. I don't deserve the Gods' favor."

Nornus's hand intwines with my own, and I look down to see what he's doing. It's numb, incapable of returning the gentle squeeze if I wanted to. We share Silver blood, but my hand is brown against his, lightly tanned with blue veins.

"I doubt the Gods would want you to turn away from them in the time you need them most. As divine entities, aren't they supposed to be better at forgiveness than humans are? War causes us to do terrible deeds for those we love, the sides we support. Sometimes there isn't time to think or options to consider. You care, Iris. That's what's important."

My eyes prickle with tear particles on the verge of being seen, and I tighten my eyelids. "You sound like my mother, in the way of your sentences."

"Is that good?"

"Very," I tell him, adorning a small smile in reminiscence. "She was a good woman."

Mother always had a response, whether for Father's military questions or mine about little girl friendships. She spoke so fluently, beautifully, that commanded people's attention, even if the discussion was on Red rations. But above everything, she was kind, understanding, and good.

"Iris, you could've told me you didn't want to go in," Bart says, but his grasp on my hand holds steadfast.

"I'll keep it in mind for next time."

"Maven's press conference shouldn't be long," Rosalyn reiterates for the tenth go around. Both royal clans have gathered in our throne room, and meats, cheeses, and an array of produce have been deposited on a table crosswise to my sister's throne. The Samos's requested it, as some sort of miniature celebration feast.

"You don't know him like I do, Rosalyn. Tiberias may very well end up being further from his goals after Maven's through."

Nobody here should be celebrating. Although Evangeline radioed in a while ago to share that both House Welle and Arven have agreed to our terms-Welle asked to have a new and complimentary manor built in Archeon, and to become a higher ranked House in Norta.- nobody here should be celebrating.

My sister stretches on her throne, catlike. "Time divulges." It isn't our concern whether Cal wanders closer to his birthright, she also means to say. Events of late have my mind boggled and scrambled, and I'm hardly able to keep track of who's on whose side. The Scarlet Guard and Montfort are our allies by their relation to the Rift and Cal, but we haven't drafted any sort of contract, not like we have with our Silver counterparts.

Cal and Bart stand near each other, apparently chatting as though they're not critical pieces to this war. It's nearly high noon, and the suns gleams through the skylights, lighting the boys up golden, causing Bart's hair to glow. The architecture of our throne room is to die for, every seam of it intentionally placed for a reason. The sun peaks at this hour and shines through the center skylight, eight smaller circles wrapped around their sun. The five walls of the room are made of glass, a gorgeous pedestal of dark rock brought here and carved to sit the throne. Rock that came from the edges of our lake.

The floor is strange, and that's the best method of description. Dyed blue granite, mixed with droplets of water, are contained underneath a thin but sturdy panel of glass, the water running through cracks like streams, actively moving.

My gaze snags back to the two boys, still talking, both wearing hidden looks of distrust. They must've known one another in Archeon, as children and warriors in training. They have history, something Bart and I don't have. We're on the same side, but when our fates part courses, he'll go with Cal and Volo. In Norta I promised safety, money to last a lifetime. But we're here, finally, with plenty of other schemers that have resources. He has no reason to stay.

Rosalyn stretches once more, restless. She hasn't gotten much sleep lately, I can tell that without question. She's been pouring over the contracts that are due to be signed, scouring for hidden clauses that her advisors could've missed. Later, I'll tell her that if the Nortans tricked us, we should break our word, and reintiate the war.

"Well. Do you like him?"

Confusion seeps onto my platter of emotions before my heart starts galloping. I've been gawking at Cal and Bart for the past minute, analyzing the Prince's expression, his posture,-slightly drooped, but otherwise perfect- and his outfit. He doesn't wear one of those outlandish capes like Maven does, but the uniforms of Nortan royals manage to be disturbing without. Black boots, sleek black slacks, and a fitted gray Commander's jacket, a scarlet sash drawn over the shirt. Countless medals of honor are pinned across, barely a space in the middle to separate the two sides. How many were truly earned?

"No," I say, without a tinge of uncertainty. Physically, Tiberias Calore is beautiful, and it's obvious why any other would faint at his boots. Chiseled muscles, not a plain on his body lacking, a mesmerizing face, and an impossible set of eyes. But I'm not a fool and I listen. Cal loves Mare, just as Maven loves Mare. But he threw that passion away for a chance to ascend to his rightful place. A man that does not put his love first is no man to begin with. "Besides, I wouldn't dare to try to take Mare Barrow's place in his heart."

"A Red and Silver, dirt and diamond, find love together. It continues to be more believable that she seduced Tiberias. Everybody's telling me otherwise. I wasn't talking about him, little sister. You're smarter than to fall for royalty. The Nornus guard? Bartholomew, correct?"

"What?"

She smiles, a knowledge that I don't possess hidden under there somewhere. But Rosalyn isn't cruel. She'll explain. "You spend a lot of time with him. And if he isn't glued to your side, you watch him."

Do I? We spent most of the morning together, strolling the city and its pathways. Before that, I hadn't seen him since... "He's Nortan, Rosalyn. His family is still under Maven, and will be under Cal during his ascension. It would be a waste."

"Tsk, tsk. But I caught a confession in there. The flowers of love begin with the roots of friendship. And some physical attraction helps, too. You admire him, at least?"

Nodding, I suppress something between a smile and a grimace. "Bart was key to my escape. Without him, I might still be in that Hell of a palace. Maven probably would've intercepted a copy of a letter or two, and I'd be in hot water with the Burner. He might've killed me."

At this Rosalyn raises her brows, either impressed by Maven's audacity, or his lunacy. "And how would he execute his Queen, My Princess?"

"Adultery with my Sentinel, I believe he mentioned."

Her painted brows stretch further skyward, very un-queen-like. "Oh? So your relationship with your little friend over there began prior to your plots to leave?"

Yes, in a way. I spoke to him the morning Maven's forces invaded the Piedmont base, where Mare was supposed to be. We spoke briefly then, and then he saved me from that wretched newblood Silencer minutes later. But that was Bart doing his job, not flirting with me, or whatever she wishes to call it. I don't need her knowing I almost died and was saved by one of Maven's men, of all things.

"No. Maven had no evidence, no reasoning to believe that. But kings have their whims."

"Even Father," Rosalyn returns, in agreement.

"Even Father." He wasn't a good man. Mother was, but her husband wasn't. He married her for her skin-deep beauty, but it extended much further than that. Then he resumed commanding masses of Red men and women, enslaved them in the name of the throne. Like all men of power, he tired of Mother in time. Heeps of lovers, he took, enough to make a legion if he wished. And with those ugly relationships, I surprised he didn't.

"Princess Iris," a rooted voice says behind me, commanding my attention.

Turning, I find Cal standing at the foot of the throne pedestal. His eyes are curiously wide and his head is tilted, awaiting a response. And while I should immediately reply a polite "yes", I watch him for a moment again, inwardly sighing at his outfit of choice. It's fit for the King of Norta, certainly, but their outfits have always been so outlandish.

"Perhaps my sister isn't responding due to her not knowing whether the title "Prince" or "King" is suiting."

"Cal will satisfy. I get sick of hearing that phrase anyway." Then you shouldn't have chosen this life for yourself, boy.

"What can we do for you?"

"If Her Majesty wouldn't mind, I'd delight in speaking to you alone, please, Iris. We didn't finish our conversation from earlier."

I have to suppress my want to appear shocked, as our little conversation involving Mare and Maven took place several days ago. I've only sighted Cal around the palace a couple times since then and listened to him speak to Rosalyn and Volo regarding alliances.

"Gladly." Instinctively, I offer my hand to him, and he takes it without a blink. While Cal may be a war-hardened brute, he was also raised in a palace, as I was. He's not unflinchingly articulate like Maven is, but still a prince.

Halfway to the opposite corner of the room, Cal's fingers go limp, and I take that as a suggestion to let go. Even touching him, the unnatural warmth of his skin, I feel no attraction towards him.

"I'm sorry that I cut our conversation short last week," he begins, looking forward, not at me.

"It's not my act to mourn. But I'm guessing it's yours. What? You regret not staying longer to pry more palace intrigue and secrets out of me? Trust me, I know nothing that I haven't already revealed."

"I believe you, Iris. I just wanted to apologize. Your garden here reminds me of the one outside of Ocean Hill, in Harbor Bay-"

"Your mother, Coriane Jacos, liked it there," I interject, and instantly feel stupid for bringing it up. A bit of a stalker, too. Norta has never interested me in the slightest, their rejection of the Gods my main turn-off, but Ocean Hill would've been an interesting place to visit, on the eastern seaboard of the country. Our own Lake Eris is beautiful, but even it cannot compare to an ocean, so vast we don't know if there's anything past it, or if it ever ends. "The Lakelands do their research," is added to soften the blow.

"Your country should really straighten its exploration priorities." Cal chuckles, but underneath, it's to hide a grimace.

We were thorough, combing through the smallest details of the royal Nortan family, their subjects, preferred weaponry, et cetera. Waiting in the fog for the tiniest error in their ruling, their security. One was never discovered. But they never discovered flaws of ours either.

My heels stop on the floor, and Cal stops as well. We're already too close to his vile, manipulative Grandmother for my taste, alongside King Volo, sipping at a goblet of merlot.

"We're in the same boat on that one, Nortan." He quirks an eyebrow, unsure of what I mean. I'm hardly sure of what I'm talking about, even as the words spout off my lips. "Your brother set fire to an entire city, searching for your girlfriend. He threw an entire ball, risking the Houses lives, just for the pageantry in finding her." He got his round of questions, and now I'm asking mine. "His mother corrupted him, with her mental powers. But now that she's dead, shouldn't that part of her be gone?"

He flicks at his flamemaker bracelets, provoking them to spiral around on his wrists. It's a habit of mine to keep a bottle of water with me regularily, but Cal can press a button and spread fire wherever he wishes. It takes time, a lot of time to draw water directly out of the air, and I can't carry pools with me.

"Nobody knows how it works. Mare has probably come the closest to figuring it out, but I have trouble thinking that Maven himself knows when she's in control and he's not. Unless she is gone, and he's just evil."

That sentence... it's horrendous, the words of a brother given up hope in his last kin.

"However, I don't partake in that line of thought." He stares directly into my eyes, and there's a confidence, ill-placed as it may be. "I watch him in his broadcasts and I still see the small boy that I played with, taught to control his fire. He was so worried that he'd burn the other children."

"Murderers still have brothers. They can kill and deceit, but they can't change their blood. And Maven wants to, desperately, doesn't he? The things he says against you on screen extend into off-camera. He hates you for everything you are and all that you have."

"Mare."

"Yes. You should've seen how his wheels started turning as our espionage told him that you were gathering support for your reign. Mare knows Maven, but knowledge isn't gained without dropping some of your own. He knew that she would never support you."

I'm about to tell him that it isn't only a girl, and he already knows it. But the monitor on the far side of the room, cemented to the glass, brightens to life.

The wind has picked up, blowing Maven's curling hair askew on his forehead. His crown helps a little, smashing a couple of the tendrils to the side. No paler than usual, complete black clothing, a sad, even bored expression. Most of the screen is focused on his face, and shoulders, and a podium in which he stands behind, but I can make out some of the background.

The upper half of Whitefire is chopped off in the shot, and he must be just past the gates of Caesar's Square, standing behind a podium, the polished wood branded with the Calore seal. His stage that somebody dragged out into the Square is guarded by a Sentinel at each corner, and I squint, the screen glistening, as though the stage has a glass panel over it. And it must if anybody believed my propaganda.

"My citizens of Norta, today I address you with an utmost dismay and pity. I've come outside the safety of my palace to address you and your questions, concerns that are present. So rather than a long introduction that bores, we may skip ahead to those thoughts. Perhaps this war will end when everybody realizes that my brother's speeches bore them to death." A couple Silvers chuckle in the crowd, those being full-throttle Maven-supports.

Cal stands to my side, and Bart has pulled up to my other, crossed arms with a tired look. I catch a near-scoff from Cal, and he shakes his head in disappointment. But sadly, many Silvers, especially the young people, don't care about the truth and are swayed by who promises the prettier wedding cakes and grander estates.

"Your Majesty, do you still love your brother? Do you really intend to execute him?" a man from House Nornus asks, bedecked in red and orange. I don't have the heart to look at Bart. It may very well be his father.

"My brother Cal fights for a throne that he has long lost. He is my elder, yet it seems Tiberias doesn't understand the impact of decisions and consequences." It seems that Maven is going off on his own tangent, hardly related to the reporter's query. "Typically, when one becomes impatient and elects to kill their father, my father, in lieu of waiting, the one is cast off from the family. Let the truth be cried throughout the country: there isn't a morsel of compassion in my heart for the King's murderer. He will die a traitor's death."

A series of vague and generic questions fill up a good fifteen minutes, each of which seem to convince a few more people of Maven's innocence. Why now, does Tiberias try to take back what he claims is his? How do you plan to counteract the massive force that he has gathered for himself? Why did the Lakelands alter sides for no apparent reason, other than to shake things up, if they intend to destroy us as a whole? And he has answers to everything.

"How do we know that you and the Queen, your mother, aren't lying?" The camera pans through the crowd and lands on a generic spot of the crowd where a lot of House Welle have gathered. The fact that the Welles are there unnerves, though it's perfectly logical. An entire House missing an event of this importance would look odd, unsettling, and suspicious.

Whoever asked that dreaded question should be proud. The entirety of the meeting is focused on it, yet nobody asked it until now.

Maven doesn't respond, looking for the source of those dreaded words. It was somebody for certain, but nobody can tell who, obviously.

"I suppose," Maven starts out slow, but he knows exactly what he's saying. "That there is no true evidence that I'm not lying, and that the rumors Iris has brought to life aren't true. Yet there's nothing supporting Tiberias's argument more than mine, than a couple of our enemies. A Lakelander Princess, a couple power-hungry High Houses, and Reds? You choose to believe that volatile combination of people more than your own King and security footage?"

A tide of shaken heads rolls through the crowd.

"Those of you who support a king that believes in Red equality is in love with a Red, may leave. More questions?" The way of his speech is so sure of himself, though the boy king must be brimming with worry inwardly, if he is still capable of that emotion. Maybe he isn't, and that's how he's calm.

Nobody steps forward, out of shame for uncertainty, or else Maven truly quelled the masses.

"Then let the party begin." Of course, it wouldn't be a public "I assure you that I'm a good, non murderous king," forum without some kind of outlandish celebration afterward.

And then, as if Maven's speech was nothing but another, the screen's color flicks out of existence.

"It should've been longer." My spine shivers at the new memory made seconds ago, Maven's melodic voice something that even I wants to trust. "He shouldn't have silenced them so quickly."

"The people don't care who's on the throne. Now, they don't even care if they're on the winning side. Because Cal has voiced that his new Norta will be a place where Reds are treated fairly," Bart says, rubbing a palm against his stubble.

"Here we are, and I have the support of the Lakelands, Montfort, Piedmont, the Scarlet Guard, Rift, and five Nortan High Houses. Military-wise and in theory, we could take Norta by force with ease. But because I'm in love with a Red girl, they won't support me," Cal states monotony, a clean canvas of an expression. He's annoyed, angered, even. "So what the hell am I supposed to do?"

A thought circulates throughout the chambers. The High Houses will not stand by a king like him, not while they have this perfect photograph of what a Silver king should look like.

If he wants to reign, he'll sever his ties to the Guard and Montfort.