unable to stop him, I hope he hears what the premier is saying.
He looks at his hands, his fingers clawed on the arms of his seat. His knuckles are just as white as mine.
“And yet we cannot claim to be free, we cannot claim to be any kind of beacon, if we allow atrocity on our borders,” Davidson continues. He stalks toward the lower seats, gazing at each politician in turn. “If we can look at the horizon and know there are Reds living as slaves, Ardents slaughtered, lives crushed beneath the feet of Silver overlords.”
The royal Silvers with us do not flinch. But they don’t do anything to deny what the premier is saying either. Anabel, Tiberias, and Evangeline keep their eyes forward, their expressions locked in place.
Davidson paces back, completing a circle of the floor. “One year ago, I petitioned for the ability to interfere. To use a fraction of our armies to aid the Scarlet Guard in their infiltration of Norta, the Lakelands, and Piedmont, all kingdoms built on tyranny. It was a risk. It exposed our nation, which had been growing in secret. But you graciously agreed.” He steeples his fingers, half bowing to the Gallery. “And so I ask again. For more soldiers, more money. For the ability to overthrow murderous regimes, and for the right to look ourselves in the face. So we can tell our children we did not stand by and watch as children just like them were murdered or condemned. It is our duty to witness, and to fight now that we can.”
In the seats of the Gallery, one of the politicians stands. A Silver man, with wispy blond hair, bone-white skin, and robes of deep emerald green. His nails are oddly long and polished to a high shine. “You speak of overthrowing a regime, Premier,” he says. “But I see beside you a young man with Silver blood and a crown upon his head. I see no other crowns in this room. And you know, as well as I do, the crowns we had to destroy to forge our country. How much we had to burn to rise from the ashes.”
The politician touches his own brow. His meaning is clear. One of the crowns given up was his own. I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to look at Tiberias. I want to yell at him, See? It can be done.
Davidson offers a deep bow of his head. “Very true, Representative Radis. The Free Republic is a nation made from war, from sacrifice, and above all things from opportunity. Before we rose up, the mountains were a patchwork of petty kingdoms and worse, fighting for dominance. There was no unity. It was easy to worm ourselves into the cracks and break apart what was already breaking.” He pauses, eyes alight. “I see a similar opportunity now, in the Silver kingdoms of the east. Room to change things in Norta. To remake things for the better.”
Another politician stands from the Gallery ranks, a Red woman with smooth copper skin, close-cropped black hair, and a white gown crossed with an olive sash. “Does Your Majesty agree?” she asks, fixing her eyes on Tiberias.
He hesitates, surprised at her directness. Tiberias isn’t as quick with his words as his cursed brother. “Norta is in a state of civil war,” he replies, his voice wavering. “More than a third of the nation has seceded, some pledging fealty to the Kingdom of the Rift. Where my betrothed’s father is king.” Clenching his jaw, he gestures to Evangeline next to him. She doesn’t react. “The rest are pledged to me. To putting me back on my own father’s throne, and casting out my brother.” A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Who murdered his way to it.”
Tiberias lowers his eyes slowly. I can see his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the folds of his red cape. The thought of Maven still wounds us both, Tiberias even more than me. I was there when Maven and Elara forced him to murder his own father, the old king. I see that terrible moment written on his grim face, clear as letters in a book.
The representative is not satisfied. She tips her head, bringing long fingers together. “Reports say that King Maven is beloved among the people. The ones still loyal to him, I mean,” she adds. “Curious, that the Red populace of Norta is counted in that regard.”
A low current of heat ripples across my exposed skin. Not a