With only two days left to go until the planned meet with the Voice, I am keeping totally calm, collected, and poised, as I always knew I would.

"Susanetta, stop! You're gonna' crash—!"

I slam chest-first into the wall and stagger back, falling onto my butt and shrilling as pain ricochets up my spine. The ice is a cold, hard demon when it wants to be.

Rose skates to me, offering a hand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." I take her hand and come to shaky skates. The ice is so not working with me today – did I forget to pay it respect when I stepped on this evening? "I'm a little distracted."

"I can see that." Even through her helmet, Rose's frown is pronounced. "Are you sure everything's okay? Do you want to talk about it?"

Oh, you know, just meeting the leader of the rebels the day after tomorrow! No big deal! I'm definitely coping okay!

I think it so strongly if she had telepathy my secret would be out.

"Watch where you're going, Vivas!" Bellona calls. The line of my waiting teammates behind her rustles. "Lamb, back into position. Let's continue the drills sensibly, please."

Chastened, I skate to the back of the line. Bellona doesn't even look my way, but Zelda grimaces a clear the hell was that? Not that she should be surprised; I've been off my game all day, and me missing a third of my passes and crashing into the sides is the least of it.

I can't talk to anyone about it. Zelda knows the bare minimum details at Durante's request and I don't want her to worry, and leaving her out it's just Roy, Cami, Lilly, Durante, Naomi and a handful of guards that know. None of them I feel comfortable talking to. Not really.

"So much hate." Janet mooches to the back of the line to join me. "You trying to injure yourself?"

"I promise I'm not." If I did, would I get out of the meeting on Tuesday?

"Good. I would kick your ass if you were. It's like you're self-destructing your chances to play in the tournament."

"What tournament?"

"The upcoming regionals?" Janet chuckles. "Girl, you been living under a rock?"

"Or a chunk of ice?" Beverly comes around behind me with a sympathetic smile. "No offence meant. I saw the pun and I took it."

"Absolute trash tier pun work."

"You're so mean, Janet."

"I prefer to think of it as bluntly honest," Janet remarks.

Beverly shakes her head with a laugh and then says to me, "All the women's second teams in the Angeles area play against one another in a regional tournament. For fun."

"Not for fun. To the death!" Janet says, stamping her skates against the ice like a haiku dance. "We have to wreck our competition!"

"Gently," says Beverly.

"I don't remember Bellona announcing it," I say.

"She hasn't, but we all know it's coming," says Janet, jamming a thumb towards our manager. "I'd be surprised if she didn't end today's sesh with a motivational speech about it."

At the end of practice, the changing rooms are explosive with discussion of the drills today. Naturally I'm too tired to talk much and I take a towel to my forehead. It comes away oily. Then I replace my glasses and gather my stuff to head to the showers.

A shadow catches my eye. I turn at the shower room door to see Bellona blocking the exit, waving at me to stop. Conversation dies instantly.

"Apologies for the interruption. Before everyone leaves for the day, I have something short to announce to you."

Behind me, Janet nudges Beverly and wiggles her eyebrows. Is she psychic?

"As you may know, the Angeles Regionals are upon us. For the first teams of both men and women of the All-Stars, winning the regionals is the next step in to the national championship leagues. For our second team here, this is merely a casual tournament meant only to prove the skill of each team's management and the enthusiasm of local players."

She places heavy emphasis on the last part. The enthusiasm of local players. Because, of course, if what Felice said is true, Glendale Rink is under pressure to stay open. We have to show the bigwigs we're enthusiastic or risk the rink being shut down forever.

It doesn't need to be said that winning, for us, will mean big bucks for the team.

"As if it wasn't obvious enough, we will be competing in this tournament," Bellona declares to a rustle of excitement. "So, ladies, over the next couple of months I expect your best play. I have encouraged the Angeles Regionals organisers to hold our matches here as many times as we can squeeze in; however that is not always possible, as it is for our first match, so prepare to travel around Angeles when necessary."

My heart drops. As if I can leave the palace for a few days and get away with it! I gnaw at my lip; I want to compete, I do, but what sort of excuse will I have to cobble to avoid suspicion?

"I will give you plenty of warning when matches will take place, and I intend to rotate players in and out to fit required skillsets for each team." Her gaze fixes on me oddly; she definitely noticed my terrible play today. "Our first match, as tradition dictates, will be against the Franciscan Ferrets in San Francisco in two weeks. Everyone is required to attend this game whether I have you play or not, so you can accustom to the tournament atmosphere. They have been, historically, our biggest rivals in Angeles, so though winning isn't entirely necessary, it would be nice to wipe the smirk of Marco de Lucas' face for once."

Chuckles bubble. Marco de Lucas is, I can only guess, the manager for the Franciscan Ferrets.

Bellona makes one last round of eyeballing before nodding. "I shall send more details in an email tomorrow. Otherwise, enjoy your evenings."

She leaves. From behind her, Zelda crawls inside and makes a beeline for me.

"Hey, we—"

"Hah!" Janet slaps me on the back and ruffles the blonde locks of Zelda's hair. "What I tell you? Regional tournament, here we come!" Then she leers at me. "So you better up your game. I will not tolerate anyone exploding their own chances to play, got it?"

"I-I got it."

"Sheesh, if you don't half scare her to death first." Zelda takes my arm and drags me away, whispering, "We gotta' talk desperately about this tournament, Gail. I'll wait for you in the car."

After my shower and saying goodbyes to everyone, I head to her car, noticing the way Zelda's hand twitches on the wheel. The door slams and the engine revs, and we're leaving just as Zelda starts to talk.

"Bellona requested I accompany her to all the tournament matches."

Oh. Oh dear.

"Listen, the palace guards? They'll be okay us leaving every other evening and coming back after a few hours. But us leaving for days to travel to some other part of the province? We'll get roasted alive, and that's before Durante gets involved." She swings the wheel aggressively at intersections. "What are we gonna' do?"

"Say we can't afford it?"

"Tried that. Everything's covered by travel expenses. Hotel, coaches."

I sit back and pull off my wig. It's uncomfortable to wear it wet, let alone when my real hair beneath is wet, and the strands fall thickly down my neck. Even though I do care about playing, the regionals are the least of my worries right now, and having to entertain Zelda's panic about it really doesn't seem that important in the long run.

She raps on wheel's leather. "San Francisco isn't even that far. What about when we go to Fresno? Sacramento? That'll take even longer to get there."

"I don't know to be honest."

"Unless we can make our own way there? To San Fran? Maybe under the guise of a group date or something?"

"With you there?"

"Pffft. Claim best friend benefits."

I flap my wig, hoping to air it out. It's an idea, I guess. We've got a few days to mull it over. "We'll think of something."

"I like how you say we when usually it's just me."

"You're the planner, I'm the doer."

"I take great offence to that, as a person who does things all the time. You never plan. You should do it for once."

"I plan things all the time."

"Oh yeah? Like my sixteenth birthday party with the broken stereo, the decorations made out of leftover pink napkins, and the cake that was too hot to eat because you literally took it out of the oven three minutes before I blew out the candles?"

"… But you had fun, right?"

I'm cheered up immensely as we head back home. Even the sneak across the palace grounds and the walk through the hidden passages doesn't seem so dark and dismal. I make the pain-staking climb back to my room, cool and still, and I roll inside with a gentle oof, glad I've already showered so I can go straight to sleep.

Except Aderyn is there.

She sits motionless at my vanity table, staring idly at the mirror. Her cutting gaze fixes on me in the reflection as I right myself.

"So that's how you've been escaping recently."

My heart could explode right then and there. Forget trying to get out the palace for a couple of days. Aderyn has busted me after a couple of hours.

She twists in the chair and stands. "Do you know how—"

"I know, I know. I remember your speech from last time you caught me sneaking out."

"That was when you rolled through the ground floor window into Zelda's bedroom. How did you get in?" Then she gasps. "Oh no. You climbed the walls?"

"Ssssh!" I hiss, waving my hands madly. If Naomi overhears I might as well engrave my own headstone. "Please, Aderyn. I know how dangerous it is and I know what I'm doing. I'm being very safe about it."

"What about climbing the outer wall of the palace is safe—?" She startles. "Wait a moment. Are those contact lenses?"

Hastily I blink my eyes and look away, cursing the bright lights of the spots in my ceiling.

"Why are you sneaking out? Tell me this instant."

"You're not my mother," I snap.

"No, I'm not. Would you like me to retrieve her?"

"No!" I shrill. "No, please don't."

"Then tell me what's going on." Her eyes narrow. "This wasn't another impromptu date to In-N-Out again, was it?"

"I'm not telling you."

Her shoulders rise. Suddenly her angry demeanour disappears. "You've been so distant lately, Gail. I thought it was because you were busy, but I'm starting to think it has something to do with all these late-night excursions."

"I promise, I'm okay."

"I've been worried."

"I'm sorry. I just… I've just been stressed because of the Selection, is all. I have so many people to please and I don't know how to do it. Escaping for a while helps, and I'm always careful when I sneak out. See?" I point to my green eyes. "Even have a disguise."

I don't realise until the words have left my mouth how true they are.

Aderyn tilts her head. A single lock of blonde falls from her bun, and she pets the side of my bed. "Sit." I do, and she holds onto my shoulders. "You know, a few years ago, I was dating this person—"

"Is this the same man that woke up in Argentina?"

"No, this was a woman—"

"Then the girlfriend that was really mean—?"

"Different from her."

I frown. "How do you have so many stories?"

She shrugs. "I must collect them like trophies. But you're digressing! My own ex-girlfriend was cold and aloof to me for what felt like the longest time, and it culminated in physical sickness that manifested in a month-long cold."

I frown. "I'm not feeling ill, Aderyn."

"That's not the point. It's that we were in a relationship but wouldn't share her burdens with me. And Gail, you know you can talk to me, right? I'm your confidant as well as your lady's maid. I may threaten to tell someone about whatever you do, but that's only because I worry about your safety. If you want me to stay quiet about your escapades, I will, but I'm always terrified that I'll let you go one night and you won't come back."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know. You're tough, but I still worry. And I don't want to let the stresses get you down." She gives me a little shake. "But goodness, do you really have to climb up the palace wall? Isn't there a safer way?"

"It's the only way I can leave," I protest, deciding it better not to involve Max. "It's the only way Naomi or any of my bodyguards don't get up in my face."

"I see." She scratches her chin. "Next time, come get me and we can go to the tailor's workshop on the ground floor. I'll pretend to measure you for a dress. We can ditch Naomi there; it's connected to the loading bay."

That sure is a lot less life-risking than climbing a wall. "That would be great."

"On one condition," she says. "You take me wherever you go."

I stand sharply. "No! No, I can't do that."

"Why not? Are you doing something illegal?"

"N-No, but…" To bring her into the hockey world? It's too risky. "No. I just can't. It's… it's a big secret."

"I'm a palace servant, Your Highness," she says with teasing. "I hear and keep many secrets."

"Yes, but…" Not only does this jeopardise me, but Zelda, too. "I'm sorry. I just can't."

Aderyn takes a moment to process. In the end, a long sigh brushes from her lips. It fills me with despair.

"All right. I can't force you." She heads for my door. "I can take you to the tailor's workshop regardless if I go. It's much safer." She stands and moves towards the door, pausing as her hand reaches for the knob. "I'm here whenever you need me, okay?"

Then leaves as quietly as she appeared, and I feel guilt eat away at my soul even more.

After etiquette class and lunch the next day, I'm too tense to do anything productive.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I meet the rebels in Fennley. Tomorrow, everything could change. I take a deep breath. No, as wound up as I am, I know being productive is exactly what I need. It'll keep my mind off things, keep me grounded.

So I strike myself a deal – I'll have a homework date. Too tense as I am to go on a normal date or do homework for class, at least this way I can do both. Two birds, one stone. I force myself to change into something more suitable – a plain baby-blue dress that sweeps at my knees – and head down to the Men's Parlour.

I'm halfway there to ask an undecided someone (definitely not Sheng) on such a date when a figure mutely passes me around the corner. Soren Reinhart.

Even though I yelp, he barely raises his eyes. "Your Highness."

"Oh, Soren! I didn't hear you coming!"

No wonder he and Max are so similar: both dark and broody, but whilst Max basks in black, black and only black, Soren's dark suit is at least filtered with a wine-red button-up and accents on the blazer. And of course, his platinum-blond hair.

He glances down at his feet. "Rug."

"A rug, right." With his hands shoved in his pockets, and a backpack thrown lazily over one shoulder, it's hard to suss what he's doing. "The Men's Parlour is the opposite way."

"I'm not going to the Men's Parlour."

"… Where are you going?"

"The Amendment wing. The history classroom."

Ah, the essay, the one he's forced to redo when a lost bet with Kingsley landed him more homework. Suddenly thinking this a great way to, one: date, two: do homework, and three: impress JJ with my own essay skills and knock three birds with one stone, I loop my arm through Soren's.

"I'll join you! I need to do that essay too."

His arm tenses; beneath the blazer and shirt there is muscle that cords through his flesh, but he relaxes too quickly for me to savour the feeling.

"Okay."

Okay? Just okay? I glance sidelong at his face. Still not a wink of emotion – his eyes are alert but not focused, and his mouth rests in a neutral frown. It's like he was born without facial expressions. I think for a moment that I've done something wrong, but he leads us towards the Amendment wing without fanfare. Without anything, really. My attempts at conversation go like this:

"So, how far have you got through the essay?"

"Base draft."

"… How many words?"

"About two thousand."

"Wow! That's a lot."

"Yeah."

In the end I grimace and shut up. Soren really isn't much a talker, and I wonder how far that will get him through the competition.

JJ and, to my astonishment, Kingsley wait outside of the classroom as normal. JJ has two textbooks in hand and bops his head in greeting.

"Your Highness, you've decided to join us today!"

"Your Highness," Kingsley also greets, but I definitely notice the stiffness as he addresses Soren with his eyes. "I didn't know you were coming today. I would have escorted you personally."

"That's okay. I wasn't really planning to come, but I bumped into Soren in the hallway."

"How fortuitous," says Kingsley, eye twitching.

"Yep!"

I glance at Soren. That's definitely a teeny, tiny hint of a smile there, and I can't deny there isn't something hilarious about their rivalry. Is this what it's like to be in a love triangle in all of my favourite cheesy YA novels?

JJ opens the door for us and waits at the front of the classroom for us to take our seats. Except neither Kingsley nor Soren move, and being attached to Soren that I am, I don't move either.

JJ's gaze darts between them with an amused smile. "I only brought two textbooks. One of you will have to share with Her Highness."

"I will gladly do it," Kingsley offers, holding out a hand.

"You've only written five hundred words, Kingsley," Soren says, voice level. "I'm ahead. I can spare time to help Her Highness with her own essay."

"Yes, that's a good idea." JJ foists a textbook into my hands. "I would remind you to keep chit-chat to a minimum, but it is you I'm talking to, Mr Reinhart."

"I— yes. This is probably a good idea. Her Highness and I wouldn't be able to stop talking, we work so well together." And with that, Kingsley rolls around and swaggers to the back of the classroom.

Oh, that was definitely a jab. It's almost imperceptible, but Soren's brow furrows. Does that actually sting?

"You two can be here." JJ points to the desk a row away from the front. "Less ogling, more studying, Your Highness. Remember that."

"I-I won't be ogling Soren," I protest.

"I didn't say you'd be ogling him, but I see where your mind is."

Hmph. Touché.

Soren, as usual, has no comment, even to the indirect compliment, and settles himself in the chair to unpack his various pencils, pens, highlighters and a spare notepad from his bag. I sit next to him and open the textbook, because I didn't bring a single thing and I want to busy my hands.

"Do you…" his voice injects into the air so suddenly I have to look up and make sure he's actually speaking, "do you want to borrow a pen and paper?"

"I— oh, yes. Please. I mean, I probably won't give the paper back, so it's not really borrowing…"

He rips me a sheet. "You can have that to keep then." He also gives a pretty fountain pen, and the nib is so smooth across the page it's like spreading hot butter.

Like clockwork, Soren finds the right page of the textbook and starts to make notes. Southern Rebel History reads the chapter title in bold letters. What follows is paragraphs and paragraphs of thick, chunky text that makes my eyes water, but JJ criticised my first essay for lack of argument for their side, so I guess I have to start reading it. Even if I don't want to.

Maybe this will prepare me for tomorrow.

My hearts starts to thunder all over again. Doing an essay that argues partly for rebels the day before I visit said rebels? Not my wisest move. I swallow my apprehension and read.

The origin of the Southern Rebels is muddied by different sources, but many believe they began when a disenchanted group of protestors gathered in an underground bar in Honduragua, angered by the monarchy's imposed caste system…

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Your Highness?"

Soren is staring at me with those hollow, icy eyes. No, I notice, as I take in the vision of them. They're a light green.

"I'm fine."

He swallows audibly. "Are you… having trouble?"

Am I? I guess this is kind of hard for me. "I think so."

To my surprise, he smiles. It's both a smirk and something more genuine, and therefore neither. "You either are or you aren't."

"Then I am. It's just… difficult to have to give them an opinion."

He considers my words for a moment. "Don't think of it like that. You are impartial, neither for nor against either side. All you are doing is reporting the facts, and the relevance of those facts to your argument." He taps his pen to the page. "The conclusion is the only place where you can input your personal opinion. Reserve your feelings for then."

For a second I'm too stunned to react. "Wow, you can talk a lot."

"When I need to."

"Oh, so you need to help me, do you?"

"… Did you not want help…?"

"I'm teasing." I grin.

Soren stares at me. I think that's supposed to be confusion, but oh heck, does it look like literally every other expression he has. He makes a non-committal grunt and continues note-taking, and I do the same, though I watch him in my peripheral vision, tracing his profile with my eyes.

Quite a handsome profile it is. For all his almost unhealthy pallor, Soren doesn't have a bad-looking face. My cheeks heat and I stare at my page. How am I going to eventually choose a winner when all my Selected are so freakin' hot?

I clear my thoughts of sordidness and focus on the textbook. Totally impartial. I take some notes and write some important dates. Time seems to pass at snail's pace, and though the hour chimes on the clock above the whiteboard, I don't have much of an essay to show for it. A jumble of notes and bullet points, but no real substance.

Huffing quietly to myself, I watch Soren. His handwriting is a chicken scratch scribble, but somehow it's like he's added another thousand words. The minimum was a thousand and yet he's going all out.

"Soren, how many words was your original essay?"

"A thousand words exactly."

"You're writing so much more now."

"Yes," he says, "because Kingsley isn't copying me."

Oh. At my understanding, another teensy-weensy smile edges the corner of his lips. Clever.

He clears his throat. "Do you want me to read it and tell you what I think?"

"Yes, please."

I know I have his full attention when he turns to scrutinise my notes. Emotions flicker and peter like a broken light bulb, in rapid succession and without me being able to fixate on any of it before it's gone, displaced for something else. He's trying, I think. Making an effort to get to know me. My spine tingles; Kingsley is still there, watching us from the back of the classroom. Is he doing it to annoy Kingsley or is he doing it to prove to Kingsley that we can get along, too?

Say what I will about Kingsley irritating Soren, it seems like it's actually working.

"There's… no flow," he says eventually.

"No flow? What do you mean?"

"Your points are not cohesive. You're just stating something, then something else, then something else. There's no train of thought to follow."

"Oh…" I guess it's still notes, but Soren's delivery is blunt and unwavering and makes me sadder than I should feel about an essay. "Okay."

"But… it's not bad. Really."

"Now I'm convinced."

"You're redoing this because you needed additional perspective about the rebels, right?" He points to a paragraph. "You have it. There. That's… good."

"… You really think so?"

A single nod. Somehow it makes me feel accomplished. Sure, the paragraph in favour of the rebels is small and my skin crawls at the thought of it, but it's a perspective I'm willing to give them here, and I'm glad it balances the counterpoints of my argument enough that Soren thinks it's good.

"Chit-chat," JJ sings.

Soren promptly returns to his own page, and so do I.

It's only a slight comfort for what I have in store, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

It's raining when the plane touches down in Fennley.

There's a word in literature when the weather reflects the mood of a scene. Pathetic fallacy, they call it. Right now I am feeling both pathetic and that this is one, big fallacy, so as the rain continues to chuck against us even as we move into the car convoys, I can only hope this isn't some ominous sign for what's to come.

"Nearly at the co-ordinates," Durante barks into his walkie-talkie. "Stay sharp, everyone."

Surrounded by guards, it's hard to keep calm, so I force myself to stare through the window again. Rain in Fennley is unusual, being an arid desert province, and besides the mist obscuring a perfect view, I can see far down the acres of dry land into nothingness. There's hardly anything here. A few shrubs and that's it.

No wonder the rebels chose this location.

Opposite me, Naomi is typing rapidly on a secure briefcase with a laptop inside. She catches me staring.

"It's not too late. We can turn around."

"We're doing this," I say, with more confidence than I feel. "I have to meet with them and stop them before there's chaos."

"You're the boss here." She grimaces. "I hope this meeting actually solves things."

Me too.

The convoy rolls to stop in a small, Podunk town not too far from the local landing strip. It seems to be compromised of only a few streets, a smattering of buildings, and a giant water tower that if it was sunny could create a shadow right across the main street. Everything seems abandoned, let alone the swimming venue, which seems to be the only source of recreation here. And now they don't even have that.

"Hartsville, Fennley." Durante offers Naomi an umbrella. "You know the drill."

Naomi gives one nod and exits the vehicle. Durante faces me and offers a gentle smile.

"We're here whenever you need us. You have your device?"

My hand goes to one pocket of my leggings. There's a small device that needs only a button press to alert the team that I need help. That is, it's what it's supposed to look like. It's actually a decoy for the real thing. The listening devices tingle in my ears, two pearls that appear innocent to most, but are the highest-tech recorders we could procure.

(And they look really cute, too.)

"Yes."

Durante inspects quickly and nods. "Stay vigilant, Your Highness, but most importantly stay safe, okay? If you smell even the slightest whiff of trouble, call."

"I will."

I open the door, stepping out beneath Naomi's open umbrella. The smell of the downpour instantly overwhelms me, but doesn't quite hide that dusty taste of rural Illéa, and I take a moment to adjust and pull my thick coat tightly.

"Your Highness." One of the guards approaches, rain spitting against his head. "The town… it's entirely abandoned."

"What?"

Naomi looks at him in alarm. "No. There's a small population here—"

"That's right, but… it's like nobody's in. There's no one manning the gas station. I knocked on a few doors and no one answered."

My fear spikes. Did the Resurgence capture everyone here? Or are they just hiding?

"Nothing changes," I say with a rush. "We go to the co-ordinates as planned."

No one looks pleased. Naomi relays the information to Durante in the vehicle, who will in turn relay it back to the palace and Roy. It wasn't like we were relying on the townspeople's help or anything, but knowing that they were there was comfort enough. Now it's eerie. We are truly alone.

I am truly alone.

The swimming pool is boarded up crudely with planks of wood, darkened by rainwater. The doors swing open with no protest, and I shake off the wet but not the cold, which seeps through the linoleum and cracks in the walls like a snake in the grass. The foyer is small and has no more than a small desk.

A lady waits, most of her face obscured by a thin scarf. The Second. I recognise her instantly; the tall build, the sharp, cutting eyes, the muscled body swathed in black and leather. Time away has allowed me to make comparisons to Felice – a hulking, intimidating figure that would never go down without a fight, but whereas Felice wore her emotions on her sleeve, the Second hides behind a thin veneer of politeness. It turns my stomach.

"Your Highness. We have been expecting you." She raises her arms. "I hope you won't object to a search, for the safety of our members. Your contingent will stay put, of course."

Naomi grips her gun, but I hold out a hand. "I don't object."

I stand forwards as rebels pour from the side rooms. Four or five, dressed in entirely black and leather, scarves hiding their faces. A few approach and pat me down, searching through my pockets. My eyes widen as they tug out the device.

"No!" I feign. I'm a pretty good actress so it sounds genuine.

"And what is that?" the Second asks.

"It's nothing— it's none of your business."

She pauses, eyes narrowing. Then she comes forward, and I can smell old leather and sweat on her person before she tosses the button away and reaches forward… and brushes my hair behind my ears.

"A nice attempt to hide the real thing. I'm sure your Captain of the Guard thought of that. Standard protocol for you political types. We've even used the earring trick in the past, I'm sure you're aware. Unfortunately, we will only be allowing one ear to listen today, and that is yours, Highness." She stands back. "Remove them."

My chest constricts. The command is for me. It was my only safety net, and she taunts me by asking me to remove it myself.

They won't kill you, I remember. Otherwise they would've done it already. They need you, Gail.

It doesn't comfort me much. Reluctantly, I unclick the earrings and place them in the hands of a waiting rebel. Now my heart is in my throat, threatening to unspool whatever courage came packaged in those pearls.

"What have you done to the town?"

"Persuaded them to leave for a few days, so there will be no unexpected interruptions." She nudges her head. "The Voice will join us shortly. Come along. Alone."

The Second turns and paces through double doors to the pool area. I give one last look of longing Naomi's way.

"Wait," Naomi calls. "Your Highness—"

"I'm fine," I say. But it's an automatic response.

I follow the Second.

The swimming pool is not nearly as vast as I expect it to be, definitely not on the same level as the new Daugherty Building of Los Angeles Elementary School. The pool itself is half the size and empty, leaving a hollow basin nicked with marks and moss. The only doors lead to changing rooms, showers and a fire exit at the back.

In the pool is a handful of rebels. Their no-gun policy doesn't help to calm nerves. Right in the centre of the group is an erected dark-green screen and an empty fold-out chair, for where I am supposed to sit. The Voice, no doubt, will be on the other side. The Second marches down the steps into the pool and I follow, and take a seat in the chair.

My ears feel bare and naked without the earrings. I wrestle with my earlobe like the jewellery will magically reappear. Nothing will be recorded. We've lost another chance at identifying anyone here.

Not yet. I turn my body to the Second, who is a distance away, arms folded across her broad chest.

"Why do you follow the Voice?"

Her dark eyes dart to me. "Because I want to."

To be honest, I thought she would tell be to shut up, so I consider this a massive win already. "Like, you like her policies? Or you like that she's advocating for change?"

"I don't have to explain my reasoning to you."

"If anything, I'm the person you should explain to the most. I am the princess, after all."

Her toes wrinkle in her boots. "I believe her methods are the fastest way to make change. She goes directly to the source of our problems."

My face burns. "You could talk to my brother or Prime Minister Ahmed, you know."

"And why? Their heads are so far lodged up their asses that they couldn't see the wood for the trees. You, however," she leans down so her eyes are level with mine. "We can work with you."

"You can't work with me. I'm not putty."

"On the contrary, Your Highness, you have been malleable from the very beginning. Don't think we didn't notice the fortunate timing of your Selection and your recent attempts to involve yourself in the political sphere. You have been made into an opportunity because you distract the adoring people, but you are nothing but naïve." She pulls the scarf higher so the tips of her feral grin don't show. "The naïve princess who is in over her head."

Footsteps clack loudly on tile. I turn swiftly as I fight to stop the tears welling on my eyes, to stop my breath from puffing in short, sharp raps.

The naïve princess.

Is that really all I am?

The chair on the other side groans with new weight.

"Your Highness."

The Voice is my real target and the Second is only winding me up, I know it, but it hurts all the same, right to my core. They're targeting me because I'm the weak link. Pretty but pliable, like silver. My reasons for starting the Selection now are even less serious than a potential rebel uprising – I started it to spite a boy I liked. That only proves her point.

"Hello, Voice," I force out the words without a waver.

"I hope my Second is not being too hard on you. After all, potential allies are always treated with utmost respect."

That same, impossibly monotonous voice, devoid of any love or care. Business as usual, it says. All I am is a means to an end.

"Yes." I decide to move on before tears fall. "You summoned me here to talk, so let's talk."

"Indeed. I assume you have had time to think upon my reasonable requests?"

"Reasonable," I scoff. "An alliance with rebels is not reasonable."

"Perhaps not to you, but think of the many who would benefit."

"You and your rebels, you mean."

She ponders for a moment. "You would not be here if you did not believe an alliance would benefit the entire population of Illéa, Your Highness."

Roy told me to outright refuse any ideas of an alliance with the Resurgence. Yet here I am, unable to completely veto the idea. The words are stuck on my tongue, there but unmoveable.

If I reject the offer now, what's to say they won't continue causing trouble across the country? What's to say their little acts of rebellion won't get much worse? Turn violent? Cause upheaval everywhere they touch?

What if it ultimately leads to our demise?

I swallow the words. I can't say them. Not yet.

"I haven't come to agree to anything. I've come… I've come to hear you out."

"I see. I admit I'm disappointed. I would've thought your mind made up."

"Well, you thought wrong." I withhold an embarrassed grimace at my terrible comeback. "You cannot scare me into making a decision that will have huge repercussions for me and my family. So I want to hear more about what you plan to do and how you plan to do it."

"It's rather simple." I hear it then, a taste of emotion. Frustration? "You listen to our requests and act upon them."

"I am not—"

"A member of government, no. But you are close to them."

Puppet. "What sort of requests?"

The Voice must motion something, as the Second tromps around the screen and returns shortly with a small, busy stack of papers. Proposed Changes to Illéan Infrastructure it says in bold at the top.

"These are some of them, in proposal form. Obviously the details will need further fleshing out, but the main premise of each of our ideas is there."

I flick through. Larger taxes to the rich. More accessible food banks. Job centre openings across the country. Apprenticeships. Scholarship funding. The list goes on and on and doesn't touch on just one topic, but every aspect of life that I can think of. There's even ways to deal with the rampant corruption in capitalist companies, university selection programmes and prison systems.

"This— this is a lot."

"There is a lot that needs done," the Voice replies simply.

My head swims as I read. This is too much to ask. Far too much. There's no way I can even think about giving this to anyone expecting them to take it happily, let alone Roy or Prime Minister Ahmed.

"So," the Voice begins again, "will you join us?"

"H-Hold on," I squeak, losing my nerve, "you can't just hand this to me and expect me to immediately agree—"

"The terms are fair, Your Highness. You can read them for yourself."

"I will need time to read everything and think," I insist. "I need time to review everything and consider my options."

"How long will you need?"

"As long as it takes."

"That's not good enough. Your people did not protest for you to dally."

"Your people bullied me into this meeting by creating mass hysteria across the country! You raid supplies and tamper with electrics! Y-You smoke-bombed a parade! A pride parade, when my nine-year-old brother was there!" Now the tears fall hot and fast. "If you really believed in fairness you would have left him out of your agenda!"

Silence. My fists are so tight the paper crunches. I force myself to sit back, release, even though the floodgates are open and I can't stop tears from rolling down my cheeks.

Then, a quiet, "I apologise."

It's the last thing I expect her to say.

"You… you what?"

"I apologise. Truthfully we were not expecting Prince Taeyang to be there. An event of that size and scale, it seemed obvious he would not be in attendance. I apologise for harming him, physically or mentally. He is a strong boy, and I know he will recover quickly."

I'm too shocked to toss her apology away. Not from the fact that she said sorry at all, but that it went against her expectations.

We were not expecting Prince Taeyang to be there.

Why would she even have expectations? Does… does she have a source within the palace?

After wiping my tears, I stand, papers in hand. "Keep your apologies for someone who believes them. I will review your requests and contact you."

"You will review them by showing them to the Prime Minister herself."

I jerk my head back. "I can't—"

"You can, and you shall, Princess Gail. I imagine His Majesty is far less open to any negotiations with us, but Prime Minister Ahmed is not such a lost cause. It wouldn't be so farfetched to make a visit to Washington D.C., you being so politically engaged, and all."

If Ahmed can just read them, deliberate the proposals, then the chaos can stop – no more rebel interference or protests or nuisances. It'll be a moment long enough to think about our next moves. I don't know how I'll get it to her, how I'll worm my way through a thousand security walls to offer this heretical thing for her approval, but I have to try. Because if I succeed, the government can take over and I can go back to my normal life. Back to Gail. Though I don't think I'll ever be the same Gail again.

"I-I will try my best," I say, hoping that will be good enough.

The Voice pauses. I can almost see her on the other side of the divider, smiling to herself as she wins the evening. As she wins my reluctant allegiance.

"Very well. And try your best you must, Your Highness," she says airily. "For you know we will accept nothing less."

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Shame Gail is having a less merry and happy time, but alas... things are happening in the world of the Resurgence...

Quite a long chapter and I hope it satisfies since this is a lil' late, lol. What did you think of the upcoming tournament? Being busted by Aderyn? Gail and Soren? And of course, the document of rebel demands...?

Thanks for reading, folks!

~ GWA

NTT: "Yamato just thinks he's better than everyone else."