the relief swelling on her face. “What were you thinking?”
Alexander didn’t reply, just walked over to Oppenheimer and crouched down beside him. “Are you alright?”
Oppenheimer gripped him with a bloodied hand, patting him sporadically on the shoulder while still leaning over his fainted daughter. Her white dress was torn open across the waist, the delicate trailing hem spotted with scarlet. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” he managed to last.
“Can you stand?”
“My girl …”
“Here, let me.” Alexander helped Oppenheimer to his feet.
I’ll never forgive myself for this. But they need to know we’re still strong. He lifted the young girl like a trophy and held her limp body close against his, her head resting on his shoulder. “We are now all arrived,” he called. “The ambassadors”—he swept a hand around, picking them out from the crowd, drawn from across the country—“have assembled, despite the attacks. The council may now convene.”
Whispers exploded across the courtyard. The council summit of Canary Wharf had been the only true symbol of organised government since the End. Its word represented all the might western civilisation could still bring to bear. Even those in the cragged ruins of the North knew their names. For a long time, they had been the sole power in this land—for all they knew, the world.
How close it had all come to nothing, and how fast they had been reduced to a rabble of rats hiding behind concrete walls.
But Alexander wasn’t going to give up without a fight. They might have fallen, but there was life in them yet.
“Many are still injured,” Evelyn said. “The rest are weary from travel.”
“Our walls can stand strong for a few hours more, I’m sure.” Alexander looked skywards at the hunks of muscle manning the catwalks around the tower. As one, they stiffened, giving a single unified nod that seemed to bear down on the crowd and soothe the brewing panic.
Evelyn stepped forward and caressed Oppenheimer’s cheek. “Geoffrey, you old fool,” she crooned.
“Evie.” Behind the haunted sorrow on Oppenheimer’s mud-splattered face, the ghost of a smile flickered. “We made it.”
“We did. But we still have a job to do.”
His eyes hardened. Alexander had seen that look too many times to mistake it—the hardening determination, like a carapace swallowing doubt and fear. “We have a job to do,” he repeated, nodding.
She took him under the shoulder, and together, they stood and faced the crowd beside Alexander.
He looked down at the pale young girl in his arms. She still breathed, but with all that she had lost, she would never be whole again. Her face joined those of the dead outside, and the endless shadow parade behind them. “Two hours,” he called. “Two hours, and the council convenes.”
The crowd dispersed with vigour, milling and whorling as people piled into the lobby and disappeared into the tower. In moments the courtyard had almost emptied, and the only ones left were the guards, the council members, Marek, and Norman. While the guards stared away across the city with their ears sealed decidedly shut, the others all stared at Alexander.
“You should be full of holes, chief,” Marek said quietly. His leg had been haphazardly bandaged, already soaked through with blood, but he was standing on it nonetheless, staggering yet determined. “They gunned down some good fighters today, no easy targets. And you run right towards them across open ground and …” He looked Alexander up and down, speechless.
“What were you thinking?” Evelyn breathed.
Alexander swallowed. There was no answer to give.
“What if we had lost you? How would we go on?”
Alexander smiled automatically. He swept an arm at Norman Creek, and all eyes turned upon him. “For that, we have our champion. I was never going to lead the world back to glory, remember? That job belongs to Norman.”
Silence. Nobody would ever question Norman’s destiny; Alexander had made sure of that. The story of his succession had become sacred religion. They believed in him as much as they believed in Alexander. The council members were old, wise, and powerful, but everyone needed their comforts, even if they had to blind themselves to the truth.
Because the truth was Norman had never wanted any destiny. Even now, he cringed at the mention of his own name.
Marek took the girl from Alexander’s arms, and they departed to make preparations, leaving Norman alone with Alexander.
“Where’s Lucian?” Norman said. There were tears in his eyes.
Alexander touched him on the arm, but he recoiled. “Alive. I’m sure of it.”