War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,174
heart truly belonged to.
Maven, help me up.
No, I don’t think so.
Maven Calore chooses his words carefully, and he does so now. Even when they have no meaning, when he has no power left, he can still cause us pain.
On the throne, Cal darkens, one hand curling into a fist. I feel the monster rise up inside me, begging to tear Maven into pieces. Obliterate him. I can’t deny the desire, but I have to. For my sanity. For my humanity.
“Stand if you wish,” Cal finally says, some tension in him releasing again. He waves a hand like he doesn’t care at all. “It doesn’t change where you’re standing. And where I currently sit.”
“Currently, yes,” Maven replies, careful to emphasize his meaning. His eyes glint, cold as ice, hot as blue flame. “I doubt you’ll sit there long.”
“That’s not your concern,” Cal says. “You have committed treason and murder, Maven Calore. Crimes too numerous to name, so I won’t even try.”
Maven just scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Low effort.”
His older brother knows better than to take the easy bait, and he lets the insult slide off. Instead he angles his body, turning toward Davidson as if consulting an adviser, or even a friend.
“Premier, what would his punishment be in your country?” he asks, his face open and inviting. It’s a brilliant show of solidarity, all part of the image Cal is trying to build for himself. A king who unites, rather than destroys. A Silver who looks to Reds for counsel, disdaining the divisions of blood.
It already has consequences.
On his throne, Volo curls his lip, rustling in his robe like an annoyed bird puffing up his feathers. Maven is quick to notice.
“You’re going to allow that, Volo?” he croons. “Standing second to a Red?” His laughter echoes, a sharp sound to cut glass. “How far the House of Samos has fallen.”
Like Cal, Volo has little desire to sink to Maven’s taunting. He stills, crossing his chrome-covered arms over his chest. “I still have a crown, Maven. Do you?”
Maven only sneers in response, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“Execution,” Premier Davidson says firmly, leaning forward. He plants his elbows on the arms of his chair as he shifts for a better view of the fallen, false king. “We punish treason with execution.”
Cal’s eyelids barely flicker. He turns again, leaning to Volo. “Your Majesty, how would you deal with him in the Rift?”
Volo is quick to respond, teeth clicking. Like Evangeline’s, his eyeteeth are capped in pointed silver. “Execution.”
Cal nods. “General Farley?”
“Execution,” she replies, raising her chin.
On the floor below, Maven doesn’t seem bothered by the sentence. Or even surprised. He spares little attention for the premier, or Farley, or Volo. Or even me. Whatever snake coils in his brain has eyes for one person. He stares up at his brother, unblinking, his chest rising and falling in tiny puffs of breath. I forgot how similar they are, even as half brothers. Not just in coloring, but in their fire. Determined, driven. Constructions of their parents. Cal is built from his father’s dreams, and Maven from his mother’s nightmares.
“And what will you do, Cal?” he asks, his voice so low and quiet I almost can’t hear him.
Cal doesn’t hesitate. “Exactly what you tried to do to me.”
Maven almost laughs again. Instead he chuffs out a short breath. “So I’ll die in the arena?”
“No,” the king replies, shaking his head. “I don’t intend to watch you spend your last moments embarrassing yourself.” It isn’t a joke. Maven isn’t a fighter. He would barely last a minute in the arena. But he doesn’t deserve what Cal is offering, a little piece of mercy in otherwise iron judgment. “It will be quick. I can give you that.”
“How noble of you, Tiberias.” Maven scowls. Then he thinks better of it, his face clearing. He widens his eyes, and I’m reminded of a dog begging for scraps. A puppy who knows exactly what he’s doing. “Can I make a request?”
At that Cal nearly rolls his eyes. He fixes Maven with a look of pure derision. “You can try.”
“Bury me with my mother.”
The request drives a hole through me.
I think I hear someone on the other side of the council gasp, perhaps Anabel. When I glance at her, she has a hand over her mouth, but her eyes are stoically dry. Cal has gone bone white, both hands clawed to the arms of his throne. His gaze wavers, falling for a moment, before he forces himself to look back at