thank you for your kind reviews uwu

i am sorry for this being late. mavey is a hard character to write well tbh


pâro

n. the feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong—that any attempt to make your way comfortably through the world will only end up crossing some invisible taboo—as if there's some obvious way forward that everybody else can see but you, each of them leaning back in their chair and calling out helpfully, colder, colder, colder.

- the dictionary of obscure sorrows.


Maven Calore was a useless child.

He remembers, nowadays, when he was young. The boys—always boys, of course, the girls knew better than to bother him; it'd ruin their chances with Calfrom House Iral and House Samos who mocked him. Useless. The King and Cal don't need you. Useless prince.

He always hung around Cal, see, fluttering and clinging to him like his shadow (even though flames do not have shadows, but that was not the point) and so eventually Cal would come in and stand up for him and beat up those boys because he, of course, was much stronger than them. Cal would laugh and beckon to Maven, saying that Father—disgusting, ew, Father—would be mad if they were late.

"Yeah, you're right," Maven had muttered, trying his hardest not to look at Cal, because suddenly he'd felt very inadequate compared to his older brother.

But that wasn't what he had really wanted to say. No, how he longed to tell Cal that Father would not care if Cal were days late. The boy was the only thing Father seemed to actually care about. If Maven were even a second off, it'd be a different story, which the young teen knew ever so well. There were many of the days when he arrived just a moment off time and his father had snapped with a harsh rebuke. Mother glared viciously at the king while he made his ramble (Maven wasn't really listening, though—all he heard was Father insulting him, but he got that enough, didn't he?)

Mother would always smile and whisper in his head, You'd be a much better king than either of them, Maven.

I couldn't be king, Maven thought each time, Cal is destined to be king, and I couldn't be king if he is.

Elara's smile would turn secretive, but she would not respond.

Of course, those were the moments when Cal would show up, even later than him, and Tiberias's speech would be two times shorter than it was with Maven even though Cal did this much more often and had much more responsibility.

"Come on, Mavey," Cal had said eagerly, snatching him away from his memories.

He nodded without answering out loud, because he knew that the type of words that he really wanted to say were not things that you say to your brother.

Cal had met his brother's eyes, frowning. "You don't believe what they said, do you, Mavey?"

"No." Maven would always shake his head whenever Cal would say something similar to that. "I'm fine, Cal. I'm all right."

He did believe what they said, though.

His mother had always studied him over her cup at dinner after Cal and Maven returned from whatever they were doing. He could feel her pricking at his mind, but after a while, he'd desensitized himself to it. His mother had only ever wanted what was best for him, and she knew that however good of an actor he was, he was not very good at discussing his real feelings. Besides, she was his mother. She loved him dearly, unlike his father. She'd never do anything to harm him.

(Not intentionally.)

You'll make them eat their words, darling. She'd muttered in his head, after Cal and his Father had started leaving ahead of them.

What do you mean? he'd thought back.

Elara had laughed. In time, Maven. She patted him on the shoulder, a motherly gesture. In time.

She'd walked ahead of him. Maven frowned to himself, then, and followed her after a second or two. He'd always wondered, since then, why she hadn't spoken aloud.


Maven first looks upon Mare with disgusted eyes, and she never forgives him for it. He can't blame himself; she's supposed to be his bride, and yet she is overly thin with dark circles under her eyes (like his: they match!) and her deep brown hair is ratty and tangled. Still, since he has to put up with her company for at least a month or two, he tries to look for the best in her aesthetically. He can't find much.

She bites at him during the dinner, drinking far too much champagne and getting far too angry.

Mare is hesitant to befriend him, despite how easily she swoons and falls into Cal's arms. He talks to her occasionally, not enough to seem desperate, but casual. He watches with disguised, hungry eyes as she slowly begins to let down her walls, relieved at someone with no security, relieved for some stumbling, blushing boy over the usual cold grace of Silvers, thankful for some 'honesty' in the world built on lies.

She hugs him one night. He tenses, but she smells strongly of vanilla and her hair tickles in a pleasant way. He relaxes, pressing himself just a little more against her, his stomach lurching in a pleasant way. It's more intimate than he's ever been with any girl before, and for a split second he wishes this moment would last a long time. He inwardly hits himself. A mentality like that could get him slaughtered.

...Never the less, he finds himself enjoying the moments she spends looking only at him. A guilty pleasure.

He sneaks into the camera rooms on the night shift when he knows the guards have left for a moment, watches Cal and Mare spin and twirl and kiss. His stomach lurches uncomfortably, but he ignores it, instead focusing on the new light of determination in his stomach. If Cal has her...

...what would he be like if he lost her?

He taps his fingers on the dashboard, and grins, Cheshire Cat-like in nature. His mother would be proud of him if she saw. Then again, she is proud of him already. She knows that he is doing excellently with executing this plan.

Mare looks pretty during the ball. Beautiful is an all-too elegant word, and it does not fit the rough way she looks attractive. When she's not deadly thin, he can notice things like that her freshly cut brown hair is silky and straight, that her eyelashes are dark and thick, that she's actually finely curvy when she's not starved and bone-thin. Yet she's also constantly frowning, her hands clamp tightly into things like fists, and her eyes are dark and dangerous. When she smiles (genuinely), it's more like a feral flash of teeth. He compliments her with beautiful anyway, because he's not sure what word to use to describe a strange mix of wildness and prettiness that she is. He tries not to pay attention too much, anyway. He still does.

On the boat, he's not scared for her. No, that'd be silly! His mother will sweep it under the rug, as she always does, bless her. Still, he meets her eyes, and for a second, they're both anxious, and he hates it, because no, he shouldn't be feeling this, not for her, not for her, not her—!

He takes her hands in his, thankful he's not breathing heavy, though he feels like he needs to hyperventilate. This was a necessary part of the plan, and yet his eyes flicker between their interlocked hands and her lips, and suddenly it's not about the plan, it's about how it will feel with her lips against his, how she would feel in his embrace again, how much it'd be a slap in the face to his brother.

He relishes in the feel of her lips on his, and he can't describe it; she tastes like a perfect mix of chocolate and vanilla, and he feels so dominant with his arms wrapped so tightly around her, and he adores how it feels to be in control for once—and then, of course, his idiotic brother interrupts it, Mare pulling away faster than he would've thought possible. He feels another rush of adrenaline watching his defeated brother—is this how it feels to win, to be loved, to be in control? But he's hesitant when he notices the guilt in Mare's eyes as she gazes after his bent-backed brother. He tries to ignore it.


The crown slips on his head, cold metal that hardly fits. Mother breathes heavily next to him, hands curling into fists. Maven glances at the scrambling Silvers, panic-induced running and horribly frightened as opposed to their usual cold behavior. The Silver soldiers halt by the crevice where Cal and Mare had fallen, scrambling and squawking. Maven rolls his eyes and pulls back.

"They're gone, aren't they, Maven?"

Sonya Iral casts him a frightened look, hovering one hand over her tanned skin. Maven meets his mother's eyes. They nod together.

"I doubt it," Maven murmurs, shaking his head sharply. Sonya bites her lip, though her pupils dilate. She's trying to hide her fear, unsuccessfully, he might add. "Get going. Take guards with you. Get back with your house."

Sonya nods shakily, and her grandmother, Aya, follows her lazily. When all of the other Silvers have left, Maven glances back out over the now empty arena. It shouldn't have been possible—how they could have pulled it off, he's not sure, but he knows they're not dead. He can feel it, like a pull in his gut. The new king raises an eyebrow at Elara in silent question. She nods, knowing without even looking what he's asking her.

Part of him is grateful that they are alive—no, not they, Mare. After all... he couldn't have a Red queen, but certainly...

He shakes his head. He's getting too far ahead of himself.

"They're in Naercey." It's a short, simple thing. "We can attack them there. It won't be a surprise, but they'll be making their escape from there. Their Undertrain will take a few hours to get there, if we're lucky." We are lucky, his mother murmurs in his head. He nods in silent agreement. "We need to stop them."

Elara laughs softly. "You'll make a good king, my son," she chimes.

Maven smiles.