Defy the Sun (Beware the Night #2) - Jessika Fleck Page 0,74

we hope to wage the change we want. The change ALL people of Bellona deserve.

On a much lighter subject, I have to admit, I’m relieved to hear my disguise skills are so impressive. I mean, if this Lunalette thing doesn’t work out, I’ll need something to fall back on to buy my bait.

I count the days until your reply and keep busy down here milking the mud beetles.

Yours dearly,

Veda Adeline, Lunalette, Expert in Disguise

CHAPTER 15

NICO

Salazar walks two steps behind me.

Always.

As I’ve been instructed to stay at least two steps behind the High Regent.

Always.

It’s early evening—and I’m on my way to the first High Regent–sanctioned reward tea with my mother.

Despite the fact that I just saw my parents this morning, there’s much to celebrate after the successful Offering.

Or so Raevald claimed.

Salazar and I have been quiet since passing through the security fence into the north Dogio village. Uncharacteristic for him, but if he’s experiencing anything near the dread and sadness and guilt threatening to bury me, then his silence is understandable. Warranted.

It’s the first time I’ve been off the palace grounds aside from my visit to the Coliseum. The first time I’ve seen the Dogio side of the island since the night Veda showed up at my back gate.

The night we held one another in my bedroom.

The night she was taken from me and marked for Offering.

In comparison to the Basso villages—muted, gray, everything one light breeze away from falling apart—the Dogio side of the island has always been livelier, more plentiful, vivid and fresh, from the clothes we wear to the flowers gracing our gardens, and, it goes without saying, wealthier.

Not now.

I stop dead—my legs instantly leaden.

It’s as if the entire village was bathed in smoke.

The homes, the walkways, and even the gardens are ashen. Dilapidated and in disrepair. War-ravaged.

There are extra fences around some homes.

Windows boarded up.

No lamps lit over doorsteps.

No delicious scents wafting from open kitchen windows.

No children out playing. Not a one.

“I’m sorry, my lord … Did the High Regent not warn you?”

I only shake my head.

I swear Salazar cusses under his breath, but maybe it’s me because I’m in shock.

How could Raevald allow this to happen?

But the minute I think it, I realize my hypocrisy—Veda’s voice ever in my head these days. Sometimes I’m just deaf to the truth of it.

Because how could Raevald—and Dogio—allow Basso to live in these same conditions day after day and not in wartime?

Veda would call me out on that thought before I had the chance to make an excuse for my lack of forethought.

She’s not here so I must do it myself.

It’s not right.

It’s not right.

“Shall we?” Salazar snaps me out of it, motioning that we keep moving.

“Yes, of course.”

We walk on, and I spot postings both warning of the Night and promising their return tacked everywhere from trees to fences to the hundreds littering the ground like a second layer of dirty snow. There are also recruitment posters for both sides, but there are several low-ranking Imperi guards tearing down anything that advertises for the Night.

Not intending to, simply traveling the road to my house, I’m following a paper trail of postings.

My eyes are down as I approach my family’s home. I stop when I see Veda’s eyes staring up at me. At my feet is a wanted poster. I resist the urge to pick it up. For Salazar’s benefit, I force myself to kick it aside.

Then I look up.

And I nearly weep.

My home is unrecognizable.

I feel Salazar’s hand on my shoulder. “I’ll return in one hour to escort you back to the palace, my lord.”

“Thank you, Salazar,” I say without looking back at him, my eyes glued to the scene before me.

* * *

“WHAT’S HAPPENED HERE?” I ask my mother, who’s busying herself over the perfect cup of tea. She’s much more casual than when I saw her at the palace this morning. She wears all black and her pants and tunic flow almost as one piece. Her long dark hair is pinned into a tightly braided bun at the nape of her neck, a thin gold scarf tied around it, the ends hanging down to her midback.

We sit at our breakfast table in the parlor that overlooks her prized garden. But the garden, a month ago her pride and joy, has been deserted. Left wanting and neglected. Much like the rest of the house.

There’s dust where there didn’t used to be dust.

The antique chair that used to sit like an art piece in the corner is now