War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,93

flare of heat down my spine.

A shadow seems to pass over Ibarem as he relays the prince’s words and presence. “Good of you to step forward, brother,” Maven whispers. “I thought you’d never find the spine to speak to me.”

“Name the place and we’ll see exactly who has the stronger spine,” Tiberias fires back, his growl feral and unchecked.

In reply, Ibarem just wags a finger back and forth. “Let’s leave the posturing for your inevitable surrender, Cal. When you have to kneel before Norta, the Lakelands, and Piedmont.” He rattles off each country with a spreading grin. I feel the weight stacking against us, the wall getting higher and higher.

Farley puts a hand on my shoulder, holding me back to my chair. Bidding me to wait.

Finally, Ibarem moves, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. His body language is all Maven. Dedicated to a performance. Now he isn’t wearing the false mantle of the young man called to duty. He dons the mask of the heartless, impenetrable son of Elara Merandus. Someone who cares only for power and nothing else.

It is an act as much as Mareena was to me.

“How many bombs did you say, General?”

He uses her rank to throw her off, but Farley is more difficult to rattle. “I didn’t.”

“Hmm,” Maven murmurs. “Well, Bracken won’t take kindly to any further damage done to his installation. Though we bought enough goodwill returning his children, so he might not mind.”

I don’t know exactly where the explosives might be, only that the Guard planted them some time ago. Buried them below the roads, the runways, and most of the administrative buildings. Where they could do the most damage, not just to enemy soldiers, but to the base itself. They’re tuned to a specific frequency, triggered and ready to blow. A perfect and deadly piece of foresight.

“The decision is yours, Maven,” I answer. “The prisoners for your base.”

Ibarem mimics Maven’s grin. “And this newblood, of course,” he says. “Though I’d like to keep him, if you don’t mind. This is much easier than sending you letters.”

“Not part of the deal.”

Pouting, Ibarem huffs. “You make things so difficult sometimes.”

“It’s my specialty.”

At my side, Tiberias scoffs quietly. I’m sure he agrees.

We wait in blistering silence, hanging on every breath from Ibarem’s body. He turns in his seat, looking back and forth. Pantomiming Maven as he paces.

Farley looms above me, a storm cloud as much as I am.

“Where would you like them released?” he says finally.

Silently, Farley punches the air with a pair of brutal, triumphant jabs. I’m reminded of her young age. Only twenty-two, just a few years older than me.

“East gate,” Farley replies, and I try to keep my triumph in check. “The swamps. Dusk.”

I hear Maven’s confusion. “That’s it?”

Tiberias is just as puzzled. He glances sidelong at Farley. “That’s no rescue,” he murmurs, gesturing for Ibarem not to relay his words. “General, we need to get dropjets in place. A clear path. A cease-fire while we evacuate the prisoners and those who managed to escape.”

She slices a hand through the air. “No need, Calore. You keep forgetting the Scarlet Guard isn’t the kind of army you’re used to.” Proud, she plants her hands on her hips. “There’s already infrastructure in place, and we have boots on the ground in the swamps already. Moving Reds across enemy territory is sort of what we’re best at.”

“Good to hear,” Tiberias grinds out. “But I don’t like being left out of the loop. We work better with everyone on even ground.”

“You call this even ground?” Farley says, gesturing between him and us. His blood, our blood. His rank, our rank. The canyon between a Silver born to be a king and Reds born to nothing at all.

His eyes flicker, dancing from her to down to me. He towers over me in my seat, his height exaggerated by the distance. So much space between us and yet none at all. Though it pains him, Tiberias bites his tongue, and a muscle feathers in his cheek as he wrenches his gaze from mine. I see the struggle in him and I expect him to push. Keep arguing. To my surprise, he settles back, gesturing for us to continue.

In front of me, Ibarem heaves a breath. He touches the scar on his chin, brown skin knobbled white between the curls of his black beard. Then he brushes the flesh below each of his eyes. Where the scars of his brothers lie. “The king lingers, thinking. Miss Barrow, tell him