So. About this. I'm quite aware I've been a very naughty fanfiction writer! I mean, afterall I haven't updated in almost two months! For all you guys who complain about Natthefantastic to your friends, I totally forgive you. Because you really should be complaining, I deserve it. To tell you guys the truth, I just haven't been in a writing mood lately. But tonight I decided to pick up the laptop, and finish Ch28. If you're still loyal to Bleeding Crown, like and comment!
Enjoy! "We will rise up, red as the dawn."
Mare
"You're sure you have it in you to kill him?" Cal asks as we dress in thick, black battle clothes. They've given us bulky, bulletproof jackets to wear in battle, and pants that are nearly too heavy to fight in.
"I've asked myself that far too many times." My fingers absentmindedly trace over the rough edges of my brand. For the longest time, I kept it there to remind me exactly who Maven is; but after discovering his newest sins, that last string of hope snapped. The brand wasn't needed anymore. My memories were enough. "I won't hesitate, I promise. Will you hesitate?" I peer at Cal intently, curious to know his answer.
He slowly ties up his boots, meticulously weaving the laces in and out of rings. "Six months." He speaks of the time I was held as a prisoner to Maven. "And if it had been his way, it would've been an eternity." Cal's words make me wince at the possibility. An eternity locked in Whitefire, wasting away until I am no longer myself. The hours of throwing plates, sitting on that plush bed and having only two options: scream until you believe no one will ever hear you, or spend days at a time locked inside of your own head, with only thoughts as company. "That person sitting on his slab of silent stone, high and mighty with a crown on his head," Cal stops and momentarily lowers his eyelids, slowly blinking. "Is not my brother. Maven has been gone for a lengthy amount of time now." My heart spasms hearing his words, which I know are true.
"I suppose so," I whisper, taking a drawn-out breath. "He's gone," I say more to myself than Cal.
From the monitor inside the plane, we watch chaos reign down in Caesar's Square. Maven looks more tired than usual; with noticeable gray around his eyes and a thinned-out face, bones just under his pale skin. "The lightning girl, otherwise known as Mare Barrow will be recaptured, and brought to justice." The king speaks lazily and robotic, as though he just woke up from a long nap. "The rebels known as the Scarlet Guard have reclaimed her, using a newblood with an ability we were not aware of. Silver houses have no fear; the red rebellion is weak and crumbling, and will soon perish. It is a miracle they have lasted this long." Maven lies, with a neutral expression painted across his face. Him and I, the guard and silver houses are all well aware the Scarlet Guard is not weak and is a real threat. Reporters scream questions towards the king, which Maven ignores altogether. With his army of loyal Sentinels, he's marched back to the safety of his grand palace. Whitefire won't be safe for much longer, though.
Whitefire holds not a single memory of happiness, only thoughts of torture, loneliness, and overall sadness come to mind as I envision the sparkling palace, glittering in the golden sunlight. Evangeline once ordered me to let Whitefire burn. When the final battle is over and all goes as planned, the diamondglass will turn to ash and every room will be decimated.
Still watching the monitor, I watch the silver's futile attempts to question the king. Sentinel after Sentinel pushes them down, creating a domino effect. We're going to let them kill each other. The words echo in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my brain until it seems as though one-hundred voices are screaming. The words no longer hold the same meaning; Samos, Calore, and Cygnet were meant for the words once, the royal families. Now all of the silvers turn against one another, blaming each other for the pain I've caused. Silvers will yell at silvers, screeching how they're houses should've been strong enough. High houses will blame each other for their families deaths.
I was the one who slaughtered one-hundred Sentinels with a single thought. They couldn't have protected themselves against a blow of white-hot lightning of that magnitude. But they don't know that. They have no idea how powerful a newblood can become with a double-dose of power enhancement.
The once powerful Nortan silvers will tear each other apart, oblivious to the fact they're destroying themselves. All the while the Scarlet Guard ties dark red bands around our wrists, the color of my blood. Red's won't be the ones to bleed today, though.
Farley exits the cockpit, hands on her hips; like the rest of us, she wears a scarlet band around her wrist, nearly painful in contrast to her white skin. Her skin as white as any other silver's, different from how it used to look. Every day before the truth was revealed she painted her skin to look like a red; scarlet blood cells supposedly beneath the surface of the flushed skin. In a sort, I feel her pain. For weeks, palace maids would arrive in my chambers at the crack of dawn; they'd tug me out my too-plush bed, and brush layers of thick, white paste over my dark catches my gaze. "What are you looking at?" She askes the question, though unnecessary as she's a whisper.
I tell her anyway; there's no point in lying to a whisper. "You know. Your skin. You look just like them." And of course she does, after all, she is one of them.
Farley's expression tells a tale of hurt and sadness. "I'm not like the others, Mare. I hope one day I can gain your trust back." Farley's tone doesn't imply snarkiness or cruelty. Only yearning.
We jump from the sky, simultaneously raining shiny silver bullets down on the high houses and Sentinels. We decided it was best to make an entrance from above, rather from the tunnels; those underground caves have often given us nothing but bad luck. The flying girl who became my savior today now soars at a gut-wrenching pace towards Caesar's Square, the ground growing closer every second. Her elbows hook my armpits awkwardly as my right-hand clutches a handgun. My shots are disastrous, a combination of the high speed we've been moving at and the blustery bitter wind crashing into my face like a thousand sewing needles.
I'll discard the gun the second I get the chance. Violet lighting would already be shooting down from the sky if it was my choice; but from this distance, the chances of hitting a friend are just as possible as striking a foe. Bolts of electricity are far larger than bullets.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
The flying girl releases her grip on me, and I plunge towards the marble floor of the square. The jolt of impact on my elbows and knees sends the gun from my hand into a nearby fountain. Good. Mere seconds tick by, and the battle's body count doubles; the Scarlet Guard will show no mercy this evening, I see. More soldiers with red bands around wrists rush out of the tunnels, others seeming to appear out of thin air; it's apparent now that we've used every method possible to arrive at Whitefire, not just airplanes.
Actions slow as I watch them from afar. Tirana Osanos, a girl I confronted just days ago is stabbed in the gut by a man, eyes, and mouth wide with horror and shock. An Eye I recognize from court takes a metal pipe in the leg then another following in his heart. I suppose he didn't see that one coming. In the corner of my vision, an inferno begins to blaze, strengthing as more Sentinels draw towards it. Cal won't need my help, he's a natural warrior. Meanwhile, his brother is not; Maven cowers in his grand palace, waiting for his precious train to save him. No one will save him today, and I'll personally make sure of it.
Pain vaults me away from my reverie, as blood springs from my shoulder. Sonya Iral opposites me, silent as a rock, wearing a wicked smirk across that smug face.
I decide I might as well wear a mask along with her. "You missed my heart, Sonya. Someone's a little rusty."
Sonya barks out a harsh laugh, though we both know nothing's funny about it. "I never miss. Just a little warmup, Barrow." One of a silver's poorest qualities. Overconfidence is always their downfall.
"Me either," I reply before whirling small bolts of electricity- yet big enough to murder- at her. Silks have excellent speed and agility, so it's important I don't wear myself out; we could battle for days otherwise. She whizzes past me in circles, constantly changing the direction of my aim. As if it's a game. While my back's turned, she skids to the smooth marble floor, kicking out her leg and jamming it into the back of my knees.
Sonya's fast, but not as fast as a swift. The first mistake: making contact with a living lighting rod; the second her leg makes contact with my body, I direct electricity to my knees, shocking her and brings the both of us down. I recover quickly, while Sonya lies twitching in the center of the very square Iris wed Maven in. Her eyes glow with the same shock Tirana's did, but also ask for forgiveness, for mercy. My lip twitches, as I decide her fate.
She's no older than twenty-five, still just a girl at heart; she has so much of her life ahead of her. Like everyone, she's was once a ball of clay, waiting to be molded; as a silver, she's been molded into the same monster so many of them have become. But clay can shift.
On the other hand, since the day I've known her, I've despised her. She was the one who caught me in the act of escaping Whitefire during my captivity, dragging me back to my prison, smirking all the way.
Though I suppose it no longer matters- the light in her eyes has faded considerably, the tremors still raking through her, and her skin is just a shade paler than it used to be. "Nevermind," I mutter.
Along the way, I encounter few others who have personal vendettas against me. Those who do make their work sloppy, their anger overpowering training. I take Cal's old wisdom into account, never killing unless necessary. But electricity's a fickle thing- always changing, never quite getting the level perfect. For all I know, half of them are dead; I tread a very thin line between unconsciousness and death when in battle.
Finally, I approach the main gates of the palace, where Sentinels and Houses alike ward off the red rebellion. They've hastily discovered they need to work together to win this battle. Despite their efforts, the silver's numbers dwindle, more and more corpses adding to the plethora of dead. The reds thrive, newblood or not alive with battle cries as they barge through guards into castle grounds.
My heart rolls with thunder as the blue sky darkens with clouds and newly formed ash. Lighting of varying colors reigns down before us, signaling Ella and the other electrons are present. The heat of the lightning turns the sour wind humid, warm with sweat.
My arm brushes upon something hard in a zipped pocket. A vial with a cork is revealed, containing none other than the power-enhancing drug. Taking a quick glance, I notice no one is approaching me before I take a longer gaze at the looming palace. The building stretches five stories above the ground, every level gleaming with diamond glass. In its own right, Whitefire is a work of art, an architect's masterpiece.
But underneath its skin, it was pure ugliness. A Stilts home was easily one thousand times grander in its own way.
Downing the vile, I make a promise to myself.
I will let this place burn, it's king along with it.