Mare

Tyton's forehead presses against mine, a blessed warmth this chilled afternoon. I lean into him so dependently, that if he were to step to the side, I'd fall right on top of my face. His gloved hands grip my bare ones, and I squeeze tightly in return.

The thought of him leaving, riding back to Norta, makes my throat close up. But he has to, per Davidson's orders. He'd make me leave too...if not for special circumstances.

I hardly recognized my hometown when I laid eyes upon it. Or at least, I thought I'd feel a little triumphant in returning here. When last stepping foot on this soil, I was an anomaly. Living as a pawn in a game ruled by Silvers.

"I suppose I'll see you in Archeon soon," I murmur near his lips. "What exactly does Davidson intend for you to that is so urgent?"

"Preparations," he says, lowering his voice further from the polite quiet we've already established. "There's no point in us being here for Cal's victory lap. The Scarlet Guard and Montfort need to get into the city before the key players arrive to mess everything up. It won't be for awhile, but Davidson and Command already have the thought of sneaking in entire legions of soldiers. So it'll be peaceful. And anyways, I imagine that you'd like to visit your house alone."

I nod fiercely, glancing towards the dilapidated shacks and houses on poles that make up the stout skyline of the Stilts. "I would go, if not for where we are. You know, I haven't visited my home since my early days of faking royalty."

Tyton offers an encouraging smile. "You'll be perfectly fine, and we'll be reunited within the week. Then the real work begins. And if you get terribly bored, I'm sure you could join Evangeline and Maven in their transport."

Slapping his cheek halfheartedly, "Those two are a toxic combination. I'd pull out all my hair before we got to Archeon," I say.

One of Davidson's men up ahead mounts his cycle and starts its engine, preceding a chorus of rumbling.

Reluctantly, and letting out a rumble of my own, I rock onto my heels. "Go," I whisper.

"I love you," he says, and I open my mouth, but he's turned around in an instant, walking towards an open cycle.

Twenty transports are lined up along the main road leading into our river town, black as the night that will soon cloak the air. I know for certain that one holds Cal and Anabel, another holds Volo, and a third contains Iris and Bart. I try not look too hard at the others, most of which are piled to the brim with Sentinels and other High House warriors who were in the mood to gloat. But one in the middle of the fray is different than the rest. The rest are trimmed with red and orange flowers, courtesy of Greenwardens, and seals of various gibberish are painted onto the sides. The middle transport is jet black, but instead of colorful flowers, its windows are prison bars.

In time, each of the cycles departs, kicking up dust in their wakes. Then they fade away off into the twilight, their helmets becoming specks against pink and blue.

On the opposite end of the road, the street bleeds into avenues and alleys-and more dirt. Despite the hatred I own for this place, a crusher of dreams and freedom, I take a single step towards the Sentinels that so desperately guard the convoy. Just a single step.

But then, scowling, and against all logic and sense, I enter into a steady walk. Plenty of men and women have stepped out of their transports, figuring that it'll be a while before Cal's soldiers secure the city. Some lean against their vehicles in weariness and others stretch their limps.

In an earshot, I hear the crowds complaints behind the dozens of guards, all of which brandish some sort of threatening weapon. Off to a fantastic start, I see.

One of them sees me coming and shouts to a coworker, who alerts half of the squadron of my approach.

"What?" I ask, halting five feet away from the line. "Do you think I'm going to kill them?" If only they'd part, I'd probably see a hundred faces seen before. Half-tempted to leave before a fool can shout my name, I bite onto my lip.

"We've already let Samos slip past our guard," a Sentinel barks at me, not at all threatened. "We don't need another liability."

I resist the urge to spit at him. As if any of them care about my well-being, let alone a bit of wrath Cal has promised if I, in particular, wind up dead. They hate me enough for any punishment to be worth it.

Craning my neck, I angle my ear to the jeering crowd. Some of them snarl for the king to get lost-and a gruff-voiced man yells for him to go and hang himself. But others, more trusting of the Silver's promises, shout words of encouragement. Fools. If Anabel and Volo ever get the chance, they'll spin things around until the world is exactly how it was a decade ago.

"Then let me help you," I say through gritted teeth. "I spent seventeen years of my damn life in Albanus. They know me, I'm one of them. Let me speak to them, calm them down. If I fail, you can shoot them. See how that affects Silver-Red relations."

Underneath the guard's mask, hazel eyes shift in contemplation. "Fine," he says, then turns to his compatriots to exchange words.

My fists curl in on themselves while I wait, but true to my word, my feet stay planted on the greasy tar.

The guards shuffle to make a narrow rift meant for me to slink through, to the other side. To think that two worlds are separated by a couple dozen men astounds me.

I try not to look at their faces, but rather use their tattered pants and ripped boots as a focal point. Still, curious eyes betray me, and I hold back an ocean of feelings as I see the girls I once went to school with, the well-off Reds I've pickpocketed a thousand times. It comforts me, at least, that Mom and Dad, Kilorn and my siblings aren't here. We got out early. It's so, so obvious that their situations have only worsened since I've been gone.

War demands resources and resources demand people. Prices of just about everything besides for blood have rocketed, and if I were a betting woman, I'd say that half of these people are starving.

Behind me, on the other side of the crevasse of soldiers, Cal looks towards me. He probably heard me arguing with the soldiers. Wanting nothing more than to scream at him, to grab his broad shoulders and tell him to fix this, I merely shake my head. The civilians will get the chance to gaze upon him and interrogate him to their heart's desire later on, probably in the arena.

From his sudden manifestation, the calling grows louder, screams of hate and menace. I shake my head again, a warning. He has about five seconds before the hot-headed townsfolk decide to grab guns and fire.

Somebody near me swears loudly, my presence wholly forgotten. "One traitor prince for another, eh? A monarchy built on the bones of our ancestors and millennia of descendants to come!"

Almost subconsciously, a bolt of lightning snaps from the clouds, barely more than whisps. "Enough," I say with firmness and volume. The last thing I want is for them to see my lightning. They know what I am, they must. From the news reports, Maven's propaganda... but when they see it for themselves, I'm not one of the Reds. I'm a Silver, snatched from them and taken to glittering luxuries.

My tongue is leaden in my throat and many of the people clutch pitchforks and butter knives. "Maven Calore was a tyrant," I start slowly, not sure of where this speech will carry me. "His brother is not."

Somebody shouts an extraordinarily vulgar comment detailing why I support Cal.

Ignoring the speaker and swallowing my pride, I inwardly wish I could tell them all of our plans, to overthrow the Nortan government, to create a new country, to truly cast Reds and Silvers as equals.

"My name is Mare Barrow. Many of you know my parents, Ruth and Daniel. My brothers, Shade, Bree and Tramy. My sister, Gisa, the seamstress. They're safe, if you ever wonder." I don't mention that Shade was killed in attempt to rescue me. None of them have the need nor desire to know that. "You have the right to hate me for what I am. But underneath the hours I've spent in Silver's company; dancing with them; plotting with them. I'm a Red girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong moment."

This is wrong, as well. The sky has bled into warm colors: red, orange, and yellow. Like the blooms plastered to the transports. The stalls further into the city and a couple blocks down that aren't permanently closed were shut down for the day moments ago, and the city enters a weird silence. The timid stay tucked in their houses, perhaps cracking open a window to hear. That is, for those who are lucky enough to have windows in the first place.

"Believe what you want; I'm in no position to tell you." I daringly try to make eye contact with a few of the people, but they look at their shoes in haste. I never knew them well, but still, two years ago, they would've offered me the basic gesture.

Yet, that would require they think me human.

"I need to go to my house," I say.

Begrudgingly, the crowd parts, quieted.

My shoulders refuse to relax as I begin a short and long journey to my house, which must be shrouded in dust. If it were a different family that went missing in this town, the carcass of wood and metal would modestly be put up for sale. But Maven wouldn't let that happen over his dead body. Just as I'm sure that my rooms in Whitefire and Summerton remain perfectly intact, though they could be renovated and made into guestrooms for unwitting courtiers.

It was either burn or freeze to death in the winter. The cold air that comes with a dying sun brushes at my cheeks and sneaks down my scarf.

In the distance, my house sits, a beacon. None of the candles are flickering that lined our windowsills, and the cheap light fixtures don't radiate through the thinning but drawn curtains. Maven could've burnt it, too, had he ever saw it. He probably would've, too.

All coulds and woulds.

My left-hand touches the first latter rung, and my boot pushes weight to the rotting wood in order to test its strength. Adequate.

Nimbly, as it would be if I had never gone, I climb the latter with deft hands and legs, the action done too many times over to be forgotten.

Nobody in this town missed me. I kick up thickly coated dust as I step through the threshold.

It's the same. The residents are replaced by dust, but the differences stop there. The moon casts the household into a silver opaque tint. The dining room sits in front of me, consisting of a worn out table and seven chairs. The kitchen is off to the right, small but tidy, and the living room is behind the table.

There are no footprints beside for mine, freshly made. Nobody comes here, not to pay their respects or even to loot this house. A ping of sadness echoes through me.

The townspeople never liked me in the first place. I was that jaded girl who dropped out of school sooner than the rest. Dad didn't come outside, Mom rarely wanted to, and my brothers were already gone. Gisa is the only one they might've wanted to see tonight.

Still, for some logic, I thought that speaking to them would be different. Maybe a kind, eccentric family would recognize me and say a "hello."

They wouldn't have dared to utter some of those words had Maven still been in power. The entire country was a submissive pet while he sat on the throne. But now, with Cal's promises, the Reds are testing out exactly how far they can push him before punishment ensues.

At least Dad had the common sense to give this house one good attribute. He embedded a fairly large window in the back wall of the house overlooking the river. In the afternoon transitioning into evening, ships that carry goods sail south, en route to the capital. I so often forget, that despite this madness of the war, a world manages to function outside of it.

I get the fire burning in the hearth, chasing away the ghostly silver.

Then, I settle into my father's overstuffed chair. Mom used to bark at us when we dared sit in it. I never found out why they were so protective of it. A spring juts against my spine, but I ignore it to the best of my ability. The chair provides a good vantage of the rest of the house, and Dad would be the first to notice if somebody burst through our door. Maybe it was his way of having some power; though he couldn't fight an intruder, he sure could holler.

Even with the fire, drafts assault me from the creaking floorboards and the window that never has completely closed.

The dinner table has plates strewn about it. The food's gone, of course, from rats and flies picking at it. But the plates remain. My family never told me about how they fled, but judging by the looks of our house, when they left, it was sudden and messy. Maven surely ordered their heads the day Cal and I were captured.

My eyes whip past the table and to the door when I hear the creak of feet against the latter. Three knocks on the door.

"Who is it?"

A whistle.

I raise my eyebrows, racking my brain for any indication of who is behind that cheap plank of wood.

"No," I mumble. "Come in."

Lo and behold, Will Whistle opens the door to reveal himself and his white beard. I straighten my spine. The months have not been good-natured to the old man. New winkles pepper his face, and honestly, I'm amazed he made it up the latter.

"It's apparent you've never been popular with the townspeople," Will says, coughing. "But for what you represent, I'm ashamed of my friends."

I smile bitterly, crossing my legs at the ankles. "If I were here without the Silver convoy, they might very well applaud me. They think I support him and his cause."

Making himself at home, Will pulls out a chair. Shade's chair. "Why do you fight in his battles if you don't support him?" He stares at me closely for all the feet between us, his eyes full of questions and answers of his own.

"We're biding our time," is all I say, vague, but clear enough for him to understand. I don't know why I don't question what he wants. Maybe I'm just desperate for some company.

Will nods. "Just know, Mare. A many in that crowd love you for what you are. But hate often overthrows love, doesn't it?"

"Always."

I haven't seen Will since the night I joined the Scarlet Guard. "Why are you here?" I ask thoughtfully. He's another person I have to thank for all of this. If not for Will, I wouldn't have had means to joining the Scarlet Guard, and never would have been Farley, for that matter.

Out of all the people in this town, besides for my family and Kilorn, Will was my favorite. He didn't make me feel ashamed of how I made ends meet, endorsed it actually.

"Perhaps you forget, running around with those royals," he explains and I cringe, "but I was the reason you became a part of the Scarlet Guard, back in its primitive times, along with Diana. How is she, by the way?"

"She's alive."

Will continues. "For the longest time, your name was the only name I heard. Wanted ads in the newspapers, security footage on television, I could go on. I don't listen to news brought to us by Silvers. I want to hear it out of your own mouth."

"There's nothing much to it," I start, twiddling my thumbs. "None of it matters, now. The future is relevant."

"Then tell me about it."

"Well, where to begin? After this stupid parade across Norta, we'll return to Archeon. If you're interested, you should ask Anabel Lerolan about the logistics. Begin a reconstruction period, Evangeline and Cal will get hitched, and the Reds will get their freedom."

Will tsks me twice. "That's the Silver's future," he says, shifting in his chair. The sun has begun to set, and its departure casts the room in growing shadows, fended off by the fire. "I assume Montfort and the Guard possess a grand scheme involving the toppling of multiple empires. Do tell about those plans." He's not a Silver, and Will Whistle is about as Red as it can get. While Cal and his counterparts can believe that the Reds are okay with another Silver king, Will knows better. So infinitely better.

I swallow, shifting my eyes to the doorway on the opposite side of the room. Though I haven't paid careful heed to the sounds coming from down below, I would've heard anybody coming nonetheless.

"Shouldn't you know this information yourself, Will? After all, you're a veteran of the Scarlet Guard."

"Ah, little lightning girl, you've been out've this town for far too long. And I've long since lost contact with the Scarlet Guard. I'm an old man. The leaders of Command have cast me aside for younger, prettier faces. But my brain remains intact."

I sigh, losing a long, nervous breath. It isn't safe to talk about these kind of things here. And even when we do, its usually a small group of people tucked inside a guarded, soundproof room. "Montfort and the Scarlet Guard are far larger than they let on to the Silvers. And Maven knew that his time was running out, so we struck a deal. The war decimated both side's troops, and the while our troops are actually thriving in the shadows, the Silver's numbers have suffered dearly. We'll strike soon, in Archeon. When all of them are gathered in one place so we can have our best at damage control," I say, still worried that somebody could be listening to my traitorous words. "Now you know as much as I do."

Will pushes himself out of the chair. "Thanks for the enlightenment. You're playing games far more dangerous than the pickpocketing you used to do, Barrow. I miss selling the little trinkets you used to come to me with. Be careful with those fire princes. Playing with fire-"

"Gets you burned," I finish the thought for him, standing up myself. "I'm familiar with the phrase. I'm being about as careful as it's going to get."

We shake hands and Wil leaves, deserting me in silence far too soon.

But at least somebody in this entire and forsaken town wanted to hold a conversation with me, even if it was short and adorning the intention of gathering facts.

I watch the fire, daring it to scorn me. The arena that's typically used for fighting is filling up, I can imagine, with willing, unwilling, and curious citizens. I wonder if Maven will make an appearance in the arena tonight. Whether or not the crowd supports Cal, he'll surely get a nice round of jeers.

A photo on the fireplace's mantle stops me from leaving and walking to the arena. I pick it up with tender fingers.

My brother's face is fifteen years younger, surrounded by a thick white border. It's black and white, not enhanced with color like the photographs in Whitefire and Rift are. He's missing his front teeth and has one of those smiles children have when they try to smile but fail miserably.

He was the only one out of the five to get his photo taken. That was before money was stretched unbearably thin and prior to Dad coming home with a mechanical heart and two missing legs.

I will myself to tuck the paper into my pocket, rather than throw it into the flames. Farley would like to see it, and Clara too. Otherwise, she'll never have an inkling of what Shade looked like.

This house holds nothing but pain for me, and it's beyond a shadow of a doubt that my family feels the same way.

Grabbing Gisa's sewing supplies basket, I glance around the house. I take Mom's favorite teacup, old letters my brothers wrote us from the front, my little sister's favorite dress that I find hung over one of the dining room chairs.

I heave myself up the latter to my bedroom, surveying the area. My bedsheets are crumpled; I must have never folded them the day I left. But no matter where I look I don't see anything worth taking with me. Gisa destroyed most of my clothes in her endeavors to make something better, and the items I stole I never kept. There wasn't a single thing I kept for myself.

There is no object in this world that means something to me.

Except...

I find the cooking oil in the cabinet above the stove, contained in a metal canister. The yellowish oil finds the floor of the kitchen, the table, Dad's chair.

I try to be regretful, I try to stop myself from burning this place to the ground for even the smallest reason at all. I don't find one, and the oil continues to flow, seeps through the floorboards of my house.

Tears, tears blur in my eyes, but I don't blink.

Dad always kept his matches upstairs in his room shared with Mom, tucked into his nightstand. Oil trails me up the stairs, into their room. I find the matches with ease, and as my oil-free hand touches them, my heart slivers in half.

But it doesn't matter, nothing here matters as I jump onto the first floor landing. This place has no reason to exist anymore. Nobody gives a damn about Dad's chair or the plates at our dinner table. Nobody in this town thinks me a hero. I don't think I'm a hero. Nobody will ever pass by this house and stare up at it in wonder.

Near the door, I strike the match, and a flame flares up from its tip.

Gisa's basket in hand, I throw the match to the oil-slickened wood. In a heartbeat, fire erupts, and I push open the door to the wintery air, in order to descend the latter.

The fire grows like a hungry beast, ravenous for wood and memories. Sounds of walls folding in on themselves and glass cracking sizzles, and I start when a blast on the back wall of the house explodes.

I wouldn't have done it had our house been in the clustered streets near the market. But our house is a good fifty feet from the next, and the snow on the earth will prevent the fire from running around.

Too fast for my liking, the fire prince arrives, accompanied by a dozen guards.

"You may put it out when there's nothing left for it to devour."