War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,33

place where we can exist without consequence. Nothing before, nothing after.

At the end of the street, a figure seems to materialize from the rain, shedding drops of dark and light. I recognize the silhouette before my body has time to react.

Julian.

The gangly Silver hesitates when he sees us, only for a second, but it’s enough time for me to know. His side is chosen, and it isn’t mine.

Cold bleeds through me, from fingers to toes. Even Julian.

As he approaches, Kilorn nudges me.

“I can head back,” he whispers.

I glance at him briefly, drawing strength from him. “Please don’t.”

His brows knit with concern, but he nods curtly.

My old tutor still wears his long robes, despite the rain, and he shakes water from the folds of his faded yellow clothing. No use in it. The rain keeps pelting down, smoothing out the slight curls of his gray-streaked hair.

“I was hoping to catch you at home,” he calls over the hissing downpour. “Well, honestly, I was hoping to catch you indisposed so I could do this in the morning. Instead of out in this infernal wet.” Julian shakes his head like a dog and pushes hair away from his eyes.

“Say what you came here to say, Julian.” I cross my arms. As the night falls, so does the temperature. I might catch a chill, even here in steaming Piedmont.

Julian doesn’t reply. Instead his eyes flick to Kilorn, one eyebrow raised in silent question. “He’s fine,” I say, answering before he can ask. “Speak up before we all drown out here.”

My tone sharpens, and so does Julian. He isn’t a fool. His face falls, reading the disappointment etched on me. “I know you feel abandoned,” he begins, choosing his words with maddening care.

I can’t help but bristle. “Stick to history. I won’t let you lecture me on what I’m allowed to feel.”

He only blinks, taking my response in stride. Again he pauses, long enough to let a raindrop roll down his straight nose. He does it to gauge me, to measure, to study. For the first time, his patient manner makes me want to seize him by the shoulders and shake some impulsive words out of him.

“Very well,” he says, his voice low and wounded. “Then, in the interest of history, or what will very soon be history, I am still accompanying my nephew on your journey west. I would like to see the Free Republic for myself, and I think I can be of use to Cal there.” Julian starts to take a step forward, toward me, but thinks better of it. He keeps his distance.

“Does Tiberias have some interest in obscure history that I don’t know about?” I scoff, the words coming out harsher than usual.

He looks torn; that much is very clear. He can barely look me in the eye. The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, clings to his lashes, pulls at him with tiny fingers. It smooths him out somehow, as if washing away his days. Julian seems younger than when I met him, almost a year ago. Less sure of himself. Full of worry and doubt.

“No,” he concedes. “While I normally encourage my nephew to pursue all knowledge he can, there are some things I’d like to steer him away from. Some stones he should not waste time trying to overturn.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Julian frowns. “I assume he mentioned his hopes for Maven. Before.”

Before he chose the crown over me. “He did,” I whisper, sounding small.

“He thinks there might be some way to fix his brother. Heal the wounds of Elara Merandus.” Slowly, Julian shakes his head. “But there is no completing a puzzle with missing pieces. Or putting a shattered pane of glass back together.”

My stomach twists, tensing with what I already know. What I’ve seen firsthand. “It’s impossible.”

Julian nods. “Impossible, and hopeless. A doomed pursuit, one that will only break my boy’s heart.”

“What makes you think I still care about his heart?” I sneer, tasting the bitter lie.

Julian takes a wary step forward. “Go easy on him,” he murmurs.

I snap back without blinking. “How dare you say that to me?”

“Mare, do you remember what you found in those books?” he asks, pulling his robes tight around himself. His voice takes on a pleading edge. “Do you remember the words?”

I shiver, and it isn’t because of the rain. “‘Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.’”

“Yes,” he replies, nodding along with fervent motion. It reminds me of the way he used to teach,