Mare

"Good," Julian murmurs from the sidelines above. "But you can do better."

I grunt and sweep a stray hair behind my ear. At least this way my hair sticks behind my temples nicely, sweat pasting everything into place. "Maybe if I had an audience I'd do better, Jacos," I respond, sending a bolt into the cavern's wall.

The training base here in Tiraxes is expansive and makeshift, but the years have been kind to odd facility. It really isn't manmade at all, save for a couple of wings, but a series of caves that are conveniently suited to an army's needs. The mess hall, training rooms, and viewing arenas are massive, and the echo of my voice gets worse every day.

My instructor leans over the iron railing two stories above that wraps around the jaggedly circular arena, and though his tone is playful, there's not a bit of sarcasm on his face. "You can do better."

"Doubtful." The sky above us is open and cloudly, though the wisps are rapidly dissolving into nothing but brisque autumnal wind.

"Perhaps you are right, Miss Barrow. Perhaps the day you conjured that Godly storm was simply a fluke. Just like that evening you walked through inferno at the capital, no?" Julian begins to saunter around the ring-shaped platform, identical to one below it and ten above. "Forgive me," he amends as I don't say much, only to continue glaring at the reddish-brown sandstone in front of me, all around me.

The clouds continue to dissipate, and a chill filters down into our hollow space. Julian tucks his robes further around him.

"The fire... it was some sort of miracle, Julian. I didn't conjure my lightning or even consider using it. There were suddenly sparks across my body, and that's all there was to it." I look down, somewhat ashamed of eye contact with the man that has taught me so much. It must sound so idiotic in his mind.

But Julian only says "Hmm," an intrigued sound. "Your lightning proves more and more each day that it has a mind of its own. I would call it self-preservation, but I suppose it was not. As for that storm you created with inky clouds and hundred-mile high volts, that was inspired."

"By hatred."

He cants his head in a sad agreeance. "I asked what made you angrier than anything else. But it would be a shame if you had to go through a mental breakdown and a session of passing out every time you wanted to create a storm."

"Indeed, it would be."

"Try again," he veers us back on course, and I try a new tactic, by kneeling down.

The clouds drift through my veins and the rain itches to be poured down as I draw a perfect storm together in my mind and reality. The first clap of thunder is louder than previous ones, and it is followed by another few, matching the beat of my pulse. Without glancing up, I can tell it's getting darker. Because of the shadows shifting on the floor, becoming darker and obvious.

It's taxing, it's taxing, but the feeling that I get is like a drug, addicting to the senses. The scent of coming rain bobs in the air and my hair prickles with static.

Addictive things destroy.

In anticipation, Julian backs up precisely three steps. He made us hike down a dozen stories of stairs to get here, rather than stand outside. It's safer for him and warmer for me, but I'd still rather be out there, discovering exactly what the wind is like, how dark it is without all these flamed sconces. But looking up, it's dark. Not as extreme as it was at the Rift, but a nice charcoal.

Had the sky been a piece of stationery at the Rift, then's it was dripping in pitch ink, so black, where it begins and ends was a mystery.

Clouds bubble and froth, about ready to explode. Anywhere but the pit, Julian told me a while ago, before it mattered and I was still struggling with getting more than a few clouds into the sky. I nod and release them to jerk down and dip into the sky, anywhere they please besides for the cavern and its vicinity.

The sky is a display of purple fireworks, pounding into the air and earth so frequently I have to steady myself when I stand. For a moment I wonder if they should be called off, that the entire network of tunnels and rooms will implode on themselves if another second of this goes on.

Though if I really should stop, I don't, the twinges of euphoria too strong to ignore. My hands raise and my eyelashes narrow, searching for a collection of electricity up there that I've already made. So then, the same way Gisa used to braid my hair when we were younger, I intertwine strands of purple together, until the strands run out and I'm forced to let go.

A satisfying boom graces my ears before the storm begins to drift apart and Julian's clapping no longer has to compete with the thunder. "Good. But you can do better."

I scowl at him and shake my head before stalking out of the chamber. "Have a good evening, Silver."

"Do you ever think-"

"Absolutely and constantly," Tyton replies without letting me finish my sentence, leaning in to graze my neck.

Against my train of thought, I do the same and close my eyes. Only for a second. "Sometimes I think that Maven knows where we are, because of the things that I do in training. How could they not notice? Radars, public sightings, something..." I trail off as Tyton sits up, pulling me along with him off the small bed we like to rest on together during break.

"If he knew where we were, would he not send every able man and woman straight out from that wolves' den of Archeon? It's not like he hasn't before. Maven was willing to burn an entire Piedmontese base to draw you out."

He's probably right. Probably. "Maven is aware, you know. That the Reds don't intend to leave him on the throne. He whispered it in my ear when I was alone with him in that ballroom. A fool could figure it out if they pleased. And I'm sure that Tiberias knows it as well as Maven deep down." But the difference between those brothers are their wants, similar as they may be. They both seek the other's destruction. "He threatened to broadcast it too."

Tyton shifts away from me to get a more adequate gander at me. "But he didn't. So what did you do to change his mind?"

I look at my roughened palms, bandaged from rubbed blisters and cuts. "He wanted to dance. One dance." I don't bother to tell him about the security camera I noticed peaking at us from the corner of the room. The sure deeds he'd use that footage for. To torture Cal day and night when Maven has him. Or when Tiberias has Maven. He'd look at it either way. "We didn't, though. You came just in time."

"Ah," he says, nodding, as a gentle knock comes from the door. "And that knock came just in time to save this conversation."

My lips lift the slightest bit, and Tyton opens the door for Davidson, who looks boredly around at our room.

"The figurehead of the rebellion and her boyfriend get quite a swanky room, don't they?"

I huff out a laugh. Our room can't even compete with the space Gisa and I shared in the Stilts. Somebody bothered to slap a can of red paint onto the walls, but besides that, the room drains me. An empty, wooden dresser, a gray rug that blends into the cement floor, and a bed that two people can lie on shoulder to shoulder.

"Mare gets a room to herself, though," Tyton says to Davidson with a sneer. "I share mine with Rafe. He snores."

Davidson roles his eyes, putting a shoulderblade to the door. "For the things you two have gone through, I'm thoroughly shocked you can't handle this. Most here share their quarters will eight others. The Samoses have made you soft."

Though he wears a grin, Davidson's eyes gleam with weight, an unsaid burden. "You didn't come here to make fun of my room, did you? What is it, Davidson?"

He shakes his head in dismissal, crossing further into the room. "Nothing bad, Mare. Only my fears for the path ahead. Surprising, but the mask of stone I wear is cumbersome."

I say nothing, waiting for him to finish his thought. In the seconds that linger in silence, I gulp. It isn't like Davidson, our mighty general, to be in fear. Infinitely indifferent and rational, he is, but now the aging man's lips are turned upside down, disturbed as he can be.

"Silver Whispers are dangerous. The Lakelands were wise to kill them off and band the remnants from their capital. And you were wise to kill Elara and Samson. They were manipulative enough with gifts, and the Queen successfully altered the natural course of ascension."

"Farley," Tyton says under his breath.

"Julian's been teaching her well. Initially, I doubted him, wanting to come here and help her. He may have taught you everything you know, Miss Barrow, but the circumstances were a far cry of what they are today-"

"He would never, General."

Davidson puts up a finger and blinks twice as if to cleanse this conversation. "You are the last on this planet who should be making statements like those, Miss Barrow," he says my name again, lacking the tenderness it held a moment ago. "Silvers, wicked and power-hungry as they might be, are loyal to last, tied together by one apparent thought: order. "

"Order," Tyton echoes, sitting down. "Their conjecture that Reds belong below them."

"While they're independent people, they were all raised in households that grounded it into them. I was leary of Julian for that reasoning, despite the countless stories I've heard of him. But after these past days, it's apparent that he's with us."

I let out an unladylike snort before plopping down onto my cot, feet away from either of the men. I've been left behind time after time, Silver after Silver, but Julian... Julian would never. My mentor wasn't raised in Whitefire or anywhere near Archeon. Born into a poverty-stricken House-though while in the Silver's eyes they were destitute, they were ten times better off than the richest of Reds in the Stilts-and shunned by the palace, Julian was.

Yet Davidson knows this. The Monfortans are well versed in Nortan history and didn't forget to learn of the dead Queen's brother. "You trust him because you had Farley reach into that head of his." And though Davidson has all the knowledge books could ever provide on the Singer, he is certain that trust is reserved for fools. He's not wrong.

"Not precisely. Farley looked in on her own accord. In that aspect, her ability is good."

I swallow, the premonition of bad news stark. "You said yourself Silver Whispers are lethal. So what do you think of her? A Newblood and a Whisper?"

"I think," the Premier states, drawing in a hefty breath. "That her very DNA contains a recipe for destruction. She told me, almost immediately after the band left Whitefire, what she had done. Holding off dozens of soldiers at a time, influencing dozens to freeze in a hallway and not breath a muscle. Demanding they slaughter one another.

"Diana Farley had never even tried using her ability prior, the very ability that she discovered existed hours before," he finishes.

"Adrenaline does that," I draw up arguments out of thin air, the sense in them floating away as soon as the words burst out of my lips. "It happened to me, too. In the Bowl of Bones and it must have happened at Archeon's airbase. Maybe not with the same magnitude, but it happened nonetheless. Farley is not a fraction of the monster Elara was."

Davidson sighs and sits next to me on my cot, their springy intestines groaning with his weight. Up close, he looks no better than the rest of us. This place pales in comparison to Piedmont, where I bathed in hours of sunlight and was never hungry. Sunlight is rarely seen here, and the rations are stretched tight between the hundreds of fighters that live in these caves. Shadows and wrinkles scar his face when he offers a tight smile.

"General Farley is no monster. But no human should be cursed with what she holds."

In the cafeteria, when everybody should be busy chomping away at their food, I'm stared at.

Not like a freak or a rodent, though. But I'd rather be ignored than looked at with the hope Davidson's soldiers hold in their eyes.

"Where are Rafe and Tyton?" I ask as Ella drops a tray of food between my arms, resting upon the table. Today's dinner is a single chicken leg, watery potatoes, and peas. There have been worse.

"Volunteered to be Julian's test subject. He hasn't taken his attention off our secret weapon since morning."

My eyebrows raise at "test subject," and water is swallowed from my cup if only to wash down her response. "I'm worried about her," I admit, though it's hardly a revelation. "Julian's been hogging her since we got here, two weeks ago. Sometimes I think he forgets to sleep and eat, too preoccupied with training Farley and me. Do you know what he's been doing with her?"

Ella shakes her head gravely before taking a flask out of her pocket and shoving it across the narrow iron table. "Drink. You need it more than me."

Hesitantly, I inch my fingers to reach the metal canister. Alcohol can stop my thoughts from racing, but it'll take the edge off my instincts. "What the hell," I murmur. "We'll just have to pray that Maven doesn't attack the base and find me drunk."

The shot burns in my throat, and I take a second one, slamming the flask onto the table. Ella snatches it, tucking the vile back into her pocket, and in the back of my buzzing mind, I'm thankful. I've witnessed too many from my home lose their sanity to the ales and brandies that they thought would fix them.

The scene around me looks the same, but I hate it less now: rows and rows of skinny and tall tables, small margins between them. There isn't an opening in the ceiling like the room I trained in this morning; in lieu, there are more torches bolted to the rocky circumference and more candelabrums handing from the ceiling thirty feet above. Peoples' laughter and conversations blur together in my eardrums, and I offer a remorseful smile to the air. My family is safe and gone, and so many others I've loved before.

Ella has begun to cut into her chicken, using a fork to help her tear it from the bone. "Ella?" The woman looks up expectantly, but I'm at a loss for words, unsure of what I should tell her. "Davidson's right," is what I say in the end, and I move to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere I should've gone awhile ago."

I turn, to walk between the maze of tables that stands between me and the door. Ella doesn't make a peep of protest, and my stride lengthens in confidence. I weave through the tables, arousing plenty of stares that are turned a blind eye towards.

The massive cafeteria narrows into a single hallway, just big enough to flatly lie down in. Sconces are placed at regular sections, giving the tunnel stripes. Orange and then black and then orange again. It reminds me of the caves under Whitefire and Archeon, yet less terrifying. Cold as they might be, this system is kept as clean as caves can be, not blocked and sealed like they did in Norta. Intentionally forgotten.

The din of the soldiers' cries ebb away, and severe quiet sets in. It's always this way during dinner time, when every last human is supposed to gather in for eating. The echo of my boots against the cement and stone, and my breathing sets chills down my spine.

It's in these moments most at the base that I feel so painfully alone. I haven't talked to Mom, Dad, Kilorn, or any of my siblings since we left the Rift. Haven't tickled little Clara's belly in ages. Sometimes I dream that I return to them, but the girl is no longer little, but an old lady.

Maybe the war will rage until she is old and grey.

Tyton and Rafe stand outside the doors that lead to the arena. Tyton looks blankly ahead, while Rafe rubs his temples, cringing.

When they notice me coming towards them, Tyton straightens from his slouch. "Mare-"

I shove in front of him, my arm grazing his own. If I didn't he'd tell me to not go in, that they're busy. But waiting irritates me, after waiting weeks to see her. I've provided Julian enough distance, haven't asked him questions about Farley's progress.

The sight inside pummels a nerve, and my stomach grows cold with me.

Farley sits with crossed legs in the center of the arena, a brown cushion under her. I would call her peaceful, with a trace of a smile on her face and a pair of closed eyes, her eyelashes lightly twitching, as though she's having a dream. But her nose is bleeding, one nostril with a river of blood that stains down her lips and chin. Droplets patter onto the ground, her nose a leaky sink. The sound of it colliding with the floor disturbs me more than my breathing ever could.

Julian stands off to the sidelines with his hands crossed behind his back. He glances at me briefly, passive, barely acknowledging the fact that I am here. He puts a finger to his mouth, telling me to be quiet.

My feet move me further into the cavern until I'm standing a couple feet ahead of Julian. Tyton trails behind me. Eyes aren't needed to see the frown on his face. I shouldn't be in here to see what's happening to her.

Farley grunts. Though it doesn't-not really-the fire seems to shrink backward, scared of the Whisper. "Maven."

I flinch backward, unhinged. She said it quietly, or perhaps not at all. She could've easily projected the word into my head. "What about him?"

Julian pats me on the back, but I pull past him to kneel next to Farley. "What about him?"

"She'll answer when she's ready," Julian hisses, a strange display of anger. "I understand that you are eagar and I've kept you from her for too long. Yet any minute now, it'll pay off."

Maven. Maven. This time it is apparent that the words are not real, syllables that are gone as soon as they echo through my head. More blood trickles. His name, not truly said, terrifies me to the bone, and I go further away before Tyton's chest is against my back.

"What did he tell her to do?" I snap at Tyton, my heart racing a million miles. It's not as though an answer is going to come out of Julian, who I have regretted tasking to train Farley since the moment I saw the blood spewing out of her.

He lays his hands on my shoulders, trying so very hard to soothe me. Still, it's Julian who responds. "I've been trying and testing her limitations. Right now, she can control thirty or so people at a time, if they are all directed with the same order. But then I decided, to see exactly how far her mental tether reaches. Samson's was fifty yards at the most."

"And?" I ask helplessly. I refuse to believe where this is going, and an estranged teardrop runs down the slope of my face.

"She's reached further every day. A week ago it was to an operative at a base in Piedmont, and two days past she spoke with a group of rebels hiding out south of the Nortan boarder," Julian explains, some sort of energy filling his eyes, as though this excites him. "The clinchers appear to be that it only applies to people she has spoken to in real life before and that she cannot control their actions or thoughts. Only speak to them and view their minds."

"Not yet," I say, and look to Farley, suspended on her mat. "She's been at this for a couple weeks, that's it. And you want to unleash Maven on her? To reveal to him who our one and only real advantage?"

"Of course not. We intend to look into his head, and then leave. He'll never know we were there."

What do you intend to see inside? "His mother clawed at his mind and emotions for over a decade. You wish to see that outcome?"

Farley shakes her head, small, quick turns. "The last thing I want is to know what goes on in that boy's head. Nothing, nothing could be worse. But I will not be viewing that part. We need intel, and we've been nearly cut off. Ada's still there, dropped off during our escapade in the palace. But one girl can get so much. Maven knows everything. Doing this will save time, energy. Lives."

Her eyes remain locked tight, a sealed vault that holds the secrets of the universe. "We want them to destroy each other, but now we're just wasting days. Give Cal and his allies a benefit, expedite the war, expedite our takeover. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can change things."

I find myself watching the ground, ideas churning and boiling. "I need to talk to him, Farley. You won't have to look into his head, and you won't reveal yourself."

"I didn't ask you for that. I'm doing it."

"No, you're not. I can manipulate him, get answers out of him. It's safer."

She lets out a crude chuckle, throwing her head back in laughter. "Why do you want to talk to him? I thought you hated everything about him."

"I do," is ground out from my teeth. "But I have questions of my own for him." It's a vague truth, but a truth all the same. A dark, twisted part of my soul yearns for it. To yell at him and taunt him from the safety of this cave that I didn't have last time. To ask him why he didn't release the Scarlet Guard's plans on the entire country. I never did dance with him. "If I don't get the answers, then you can have at him."

"I'm not sure if I can project you to speak to him."

"Just try. Please."

"Very well.

Then, the world turns inky, like the sky on that night at the Rift.

My breathing is unbearable to listen to. Tenfold worse than the caverns. Though this place isn't much different. They're both dark, and here the floor is wet, a viscous, black liquid flowing between my fingers.

It's all over my body, I realize. The black gel clings to my legs, my arms, and hair.

I struggle to get up, but as I do, the black melts away, dripping back to the floor. "Hello?" I say slowly, my purpose here slipping my mind. A few feet in front of me are visible, but my perception doesn't extend past that. Breath after breath, I try to focus on, intake of an air that cannot possibly exist in such a place like this.

Footsteps beat a path toward me, and I straighten my spine, unsure of what else I should do.

In time, a figure emerges from the darkness. At first, it's his outline, and then his distinctive features.

"Maven."

"Get out of my head," he whispers.