War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,164

already done and will continue to do.

This world is a storm I helped create. We all did, in ways big and small. With steps we could not fathom, paths we never thought to walk.

Jon saw it all. I wonder which second put this in motion. Which choice. Was it Elara, looking into my head for an opportunity to strike the Scarlet Guard? Was it Evangeline, making me fall into the arena of Queenstrial? Was it Cal, his hand closing on mine when I was just a Red thief? Or Kilorn, his master dead, his fate decided, the doom of conscription looming before him? Maybe this didn’t even start with any of us. It could be Farley’s mother and sister, drowned by the Lakeland king, their deaths sparking her father, the Colonel, to action. Or Davidson fleeing death in the legions, escaping to Montfort to build a new kind of future? Perhaps someone even further away, a hundred years ago, a thousand. Someone cursed or chosen by a distant god, doomed and blessed to make this all real.

I suppose I’ll never know.

TWENTY-FIVE

Evangeline

The Silent Stone grates against me, and my skin itches with the constant pressure. It isn’t easy to ignore, even with my extensive years of Training. I fight back the searing urge to rip my nails down my arms, if only to feel a different kind of pain instead of this foul, decaying weight. I wonder where the Stones are buried. Beneath the meeting platform? Under our seats? They feel so close I could choke on them.

Everyone else looks undisturbed by the unnatural sensation of our deepest parts repressed. Even Mare, despite her history. She keeps her head high, her body still. No sign of discomfort or pain. Meaning I have to hide it as well as she does. Ugh.

Bracken’s lip curls in distaste, hating the feel of the Silent Stone as much as the rest of us. Perhaps it will make him more amenable to our cause. Yes, he despises Montfort, and he has reason to. But I think he hates losing more. And if Cal’s blustering works, he certainly won’t have faith in Maven much longer.

Maven glares at Cal, as if he can somehow measure up to his warrior brother. Whatever compassion he counted on exploiting seems to disappear as Cal holds firm, unmoved in his seat.

“Those are my terms, Maven,” he says, sounding more kingly than his father ever did. “Surrender, and live.”

Maven deserves little more than a bullet to the brain or a knife to the gut. He’s a danger none of us can afford to leave breathing.

His reply is guttural, coming from the deepest parts of him. “Get off my island.”

No one is surprised. Ptolemus lets loose a low breath. His fingers twitch, itching for the knives strapped across his chest. At least the Sentinels didn’t think, or didn’t care, to disarm us. They must think magnetrons defenseless without ability. They are wrong. My brother could put that knife into Maven’s gut if the circumstances allowed.

My betrothed leans forward in his seat, rising slowly. “Very well,” he says, pained. “Remember this day, Maven, when you are abandoned and alone, with no one to blame but yourself.”

Maven has no response but a smirk and a chuff of laughter. He acts well, relying on the carefully crafted image of beleaguered boy called to greatness. The second son never meant to rule. It has no use here. All of us know who he is.

Still in her seat, Queen Cenra angles her face to him, leaning past her daughter. “Our terms, Your Majesty?”

He doesn’t reply, too distracted by Cal and Mare to know she’s even speaking. Iris nudges him.

“None but surrender,” he says quickly. “No pardons, no quarter,” he adds, eyes flying to Mare’s face. She recoils under his attention. “For any of you.”

On Cal’s far side, Anabel stands. She wipes her hands, as if ridding herself of this situation and her poisoned grandson. “That’s settles it, I suppose,” she sighs. “We’re all in agreement.”

Strangely, her eyes are on Iris. Not on Maven, or even Cenra or Bracken. On the young queen with little to say and even less power in this circle.

The young woman bows her head, gray eyes flashing with some meaning. “Yes, we are,” she says. Next to her, Queen Cenra does the same. A Lakelander tradition, probably. As silly and useless as their do-nothing gods.

The two queens rise first on Maven’s side of the platform, followed quickly by Bracken. He offers a low bow in