King’s Cage (Red Queen Book 3)

Even though my time at the Notch was fraught with exhaustion and heartbreak, it still holds a corner of my heart. For once, I remember the good more vividly than the bad. Days when we returned with living newbloods, snatched from the jaws of execution. It felt like progress. Every face was proof that I was not alone—and that I could save people as easily as kill them. Some days, it felt simple. Right. I’ve been chasing that sensation ever since.

The Piedmont base has its own training facilities, both indoor and outdoor. Some are equipped for Silvers, the rest for Red soldiers to learn war. The Colonel and his men, now numbering in the thousands and growing every day, claim the shooting range. Newbloods like Ada, those with less-devastating abilities, train with him, perfecting their aim and combat skills. Kilorn shuttles between their ranks and the newbloods on the Silver training grounds. He belongs with neither group, yet his presence soothes many. The fish boy is the opposite of a threat, not to mention a familiar face. And he doesn’t fear them, like so many of the “true” Red soldiers. No, Kilorn has seen enough from me to never be afraid of a newblood ever again.

He accompanies me now, escorting me around the edge of a building about the size of an airjet hangar. But it has no runway. “Silver gymnasium,” he says, pointing at the structure. “All sorts of stuff in there. Weights, an obstacle course, an arena—”

“I get it.” I learned my skills in a place like that, surrounded by leering Silvers who would kill me if they saw one drop of my blood. At least I don’t have to worry about that anymore. “Probably shouldn’t train anywhere with a roof or lightbulbs.”

Kilorn snorts. “Probably not.”

One of the gymnasium doors bangs open and a figure steps out, a towel around his neck. Cal scrubs sweat off his face, still silver-flushed with exertion. Weight lifting, I assume.

He narrows his eyes and closes the distance between us as quickly as he can. Still panting, he puts a hand out. Kilorn takes it with an open grin. “Kilorn.” Cal nods. “Taking her on a tour?”

“Ye—”

“Nah, she’s going to start up with some of the others today.” Kilorn speaks over me, and I resist the urge to elbow him in the gut.

“What?”ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Cal darkens. He heaves a deep breath. “I thought you were going to give yourself more time.”

Kilorn surprised me in the hospital, but he’s right. I can’t sit around anymore. It feels useless. And I am restless, with anger boiling beneath my skin. I’m not Cameron. I’m not strong enough to step back. Even lightbulbs have started sparking when I enter a room. I need release.

“It’s been a few days. I thought it over.” I put my hands on my hips, bracing myself against his inevitable counter. Without even realizing it, Cal settles into his patented arguing-with-Mare stance. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, feet firmly planted. With the sun behind me, he has to squint, and after his workout, he reeks of sweat.

Kilorn, the rotten coward, backs away a few steps. “I’ll see you when you finish having a moment.” He tosses a shit-eating grin over his shoulder, leaving me to fend for myself.

“Just a minute,” I call at his retreating form. He only waves, disappearing around the corner of the gymnasium. “Some backup he is. Not that I need it,” I add quickly, “since it’s my decision and this is just training. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Well, half my worry is for the people in the blast zone. And the rest . . .” He takes my hand, using it to pull me closer. I wrinkle my nose, digging in my heels. Not that it matters much. I slide along the pavement anyway.

“You’re all sweaty.”

He grins wrapping one arm around my back. No escape. “Yep.”

The scent isn’t entirely unpleasant, even though it should be. “So you’re not going to fight me on this?”

“Like you said. Your decision.”

“Good. I don’t have the energy to bicker twice in one morning.”

He shifts and pushes me back gently, to better see my face. His thumbs graze the underside of my jaw. “Gisa?”

“Gisa.” I huff, brushing a wisp of hair out of my face. Without the Silent Stone, my health has vastly improved, down to my nails and hair growing at a normal rate again. Still gray ends, though. That’s never going away. “She keeps bothering me about relocation. Go to Montfort. Leave everything behind.”

“And you told her go ahead, didn’t you?”

I blush scarlet. “It just slipped out! Sometimes . . . I don’t think before I speak.”

He laughs. “What? You?”

“And then Mom took her side, of course, and Dad didn’t take a side at all, playing peacemaker, of course. It’s like”—my breath hitches—“it’s like nothing ever changed. We could have been back in the Stilts, in the kitchen. I guess that shouldn’t bother me so much. In the scheme of things.” Embarrassed, I force myself to look up at Cal. It feels horrible complaining about family to him. But he asked. And it spilled out. He just studies me like I’m battlefield terrain. “This isn’t something you want to think about. It’s nothing.”

His grip on my hand tightens before I can even think to pull away. He knows the way I run. “Actually, I was thinking about all the soldiers I trained with. At the front, especially. I’ve seen soldiers come back whole in body, but missing something else. They can’t sleep or maybe they can’t eat. Sometimes they slide right back into the past—into a memory of battle, triggered by a sound or a smell or any other sensation.”

I gulp and circle my wrist with shaking fingers. Squeezing, I remember the manacles. The touch makes me sick. “Sounds familiar.”

“You know what helps?”

Of course I don’t, or else I’d do it. I shake my head.

“Normalcy. Routine. Talking. I know you don’t exactly like the last one,” he adds, smirking slowly. “But your family just wants you to be safe. They went through hell when you were . . . gone.” He still hasn’t figured out the proper word for what happened to me. Captured or imprisoned doesn’t exactly carry the right weight. “And now that you’re back, they’re doing what anyone would do. They’re protecting you. Not the lightning girl, not Mareena Titanos, but you. Mare Barrow. The girl they know and remember. That’s all.”

“Right.” I nod slowly. “Thanks.”

“So about that talking thing.”

“Oh, come on, right now?”

His grin splits and he laughs, his stomach muscles tensing against me. “Fine, later. After training.”

“You should go shower.”

“Are you kidding? I’m going to be two steps behind you the whole time. You want to train? Then you’re going to train properly.” He pokes me in the small of my back, making me stumble forward. “Come on.”

The prince is incessant, jogging backward until I match his pace. We pass the track, the outdoor obstacle course, a wide field of close-cut grass, not to mention several circles of dirt for sparring and a target range more than a quarter mile long. Some newbloods run the obstacle course and the track, while a few practice alone in the field. I don’t recognize them, but the abilities I see are familiar enough. A newblood akin to a nymph forms columns of clear water before letting them drop to the grass, creating spreading puddles of mud. A teleporter navigates the course with ease. She appears and disappears all over the equipment, laughing at others having a more difficult time. Every time she jumps, my stomach twists, remembering Shade.

The sparring circles unsettle me most of all. I haven’t fought someone for training, for sport, since Evangeline so many months ago. It was not an experience I care to repeat. But I’ll certainly have to.

Cal’s voice keeps me level, drawing my focus back to the task at hand. “I’ll get you on your weights routine starting tomorrow, but today we can jump into target and theory.”

Target I understand. “Theory?”

We stop at the edge of the long range, staring at the mist burning off in the distance.

“You came into Training about a decade late for that. But before our abilities are in fighting form, we spend a lot of time studying our advantages and disadvantages, how to use them.”

“Like nymphs beating burners, water over fire.”

“Sort of. That’s an easy one. But what if you’re the burner?” I just shake my head, and he grins. “See, tricky. Takes a lot of memorization and comprehension. Testing. But you’re going to do this on the fly.”

I forgot how suited to this Cal is. He is a fish in water, at ease, grinning. Eager. This is what he’s good at, what he understands, where he excels. It’s a lifeline in a world that never seems to make any sense.

“Is it too late to say I don’t want to train anymore?”

Cal just laughs, tipping his head back. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck. “You’re stuck with me, Barrow. Now, hit the first target.” He stretches out a hand, indicating a square granite block ten yards away, painted like a bull’s-eye. “One bolt. Dead center.”

Smirking, I do as asked. I can’t miss at this range. A single purple-white bolt streaks through the air and hits home. With a resounding crack, the lightning leaves a black mark in the center of the bull’s-eye.

Before I have time to feel proud, Cal bodily shoves me aside. Off guard, I stumble, almost falling into the dirt. “Hey!”

He just steps away and points. “Next target. Twenty yards.”

“Fine,” I huff, turning my eyes on the second block. I raise my arm again, ready to aim—and Cal shoves me again. This time my feet react more quickly, but not enough, and my bolt goes wild, crackling into the dirt.

“This feels very unprofessional.”

“I used to do this with someone firing blanks next to my head. Would you prefer that?” he asks. I shake my head quickly. “Then hit—the—target.”

Normally, I’d be annoyed, but his smile spreads, making me blush. It’s training, I think. Get a hold of yourself.

This time, when he goes to push me, I sidestep and fire, clipping the granite marker. Another dodge, another shot. Cal starts to change up his tactic, going for my legs or even burning a fireball across my vision. The first time he does that, I hit the ground so fast I end up spitting dirt. “Hit the target” becomes his anthem, followed by a yard marker anywhere between fifty and ten. He shouts the targets at random, all while forcing me to dance on my toes. It’s harder than running, much harder, and the sun turns brutal as the day wears on.

“The target is a swift. What do you do?” he asks.

I grit my teeth, panting. “Spread the bolt. Catch him as he dodges—”

“Don’t tell me, do it.”

With a grunt, I swing my arm in a chopping, horizontal motion, sending a spray of voltage in the target’s direction. The sparks are weaker, less concentrated, but enough to slow a swift down. Next to me, Cal just nods his head, the only indication that I did something right. It feels good anyway.

“Thirty yards. Banshee.”

Clapping my hands to my ears, I squint at the target, willing lightning without use of my fingers. A bolt vaults from my body, arcing like a rainbow. It misses, but I splash the electricity, making the sparks burst in different directions.

“Five yards. Silence.”

The thought of an Arven floods me with panic. I try to focus. My hand strays for a gun that isn’t there, and I pretend to shoot the target. “Bang.”

Cal snorts a bit. “That doesn’t count, but okay. Five yards, magnetron.”

That one I know intimately. With all the force I can muster, I rocket a blast of lightning at the target. It cracks in two, sliding apart at dead center.

“Theory?” a soft voice says behind us.

I was so focused on the range that I didn’t notice Julian standing by to watch, with Kilorn at his side. My old teacher offers a tight smile, his hands folded behind his back in his usual way. I’ve never seen him so casually dressed, with a light cotton shirt and shorts revealing thin chicken legs. Cal should get him on a weights routine too.

“Theory,” Cal confirms. “After a fashion.” He waves me down, giving me a brief respite. Immediately I sit in the dirt, stretching out my legs. Despite the constant dodging, it’s the lightning that makes me tired. Without the adrenaline of battle or the threat of death hanging over my head, my stamina is decidedly lessened. Not to mention the fact that I’m about six months out of practice. With even motions, Kilorn stoops and puts a frosty water bottle down at my side.

“Thought you might need this,” he says with a wink.

I grin up at him. “Thanks,” I manage, before gulping down a few cold mouthfuls. “What are you doing down here, Julian?”

“Just on my way to the archives. Then I decided to see what all the fuss was about.” He gestures over his shoulder. I jolt at the sight of a dozen or so assembled on the edge of the range, all of them staring at us. At me. “Seems you have a bit of an audience.”

I grit my teeth. Great.

Cal shifts, just a bit, to hide me from view. “Sorry. Didn’t want to break your concentration.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, forcing myself to stand. My limbs groan in protest.

“Well, I’ll see you both later,” Julian says, looking between me and Cal.

I answer quickly. “We can go with you—”

But he cuts me off with a knowing smirk, gesturing toward the crowd of bystanders. “Oh, I think you have introductions to make. Kilorn, would you mind?”

“Not at all,” Kilorn replies. I want to smack the grin right off his face, and he knows it. “After you, Mare.”

“Fine,” I force through a clenched jaw.

Fighting my natural instinct to slink away from attention, I take a few steps toward the newbloods. A few more. A few more. Until I reach them, Cal and Kilorn alongside. In the Notch, I didn’t want friends. Friends are harder to say good-bye to. That hasn’t changed, but I see what Kilorn and Julian are doing. I can’t close myself off from others anymore. I try to force a winning smile at the people around me.

“Hi. I’m Mare.” It sounds stupid and I feel stupid.

One of the newbloods, the teleporter, bobs her head. She has a forest-green Montfort uniform, long limbs, and closely cropped brown hair. “Yeah, we know. I’m Arezzo,” she says, sticking out a hand. “I jumped you and Calore out of Archeon.”

No wonder I didn’t recognize her. The minutes after my escape are still a blur of fear, adrenaline, and overpowering relief. “Right, of course. Thank you for that.” I blink, trying to remember her.

The others are just as friendly and open, as pleased to meet another newblood as I am. Everyone in this group is Montfort-born or Montfort-allied, in green uniforms with white triangles on the breast and insignia on each bicep. Some are easy to decipher—two wavy lines for the nymph-like newblood, three arrows for the swift. No one has badges or medals, though. There’s no telling who might be an officer. But all are military-trained, if not military-raised. They use last names and have firm handshakes, each one a born or made soldier. Most know Cal on sight and nod at him in a very official manner. Kilorn they greet like an old friend.

“Where’s Ella?” Kilorn asks, directing his question at a man with black skin and shockingly green hair. Dyed, clearly. His name is Rafe. “I sent her a message to come down and meet Mare. Tyton too.”

“Last I saw, they were practicing on top of Storm Hill. Which, technically”—he glances at me, almost apologetic—“is where electricons are supposed to train.”

“What’s an electricon?” I ask, and immediately feel foolish.

“You.”

I sigh, sheepish. “Right. I figured that about as soon as I asked.”

Rafe floats a spark over his hand, letting it weave between his fingers. I feel it, but not like my own lightning. The green sparks answer to him and him alone. “It’s an odd word, but we’re odd things, aren’t we?”

I stare at him, almost breathless with excitement. “You’re . . . like me?”

He nods, indicating the lightning bolts on his sleeves. “Yes, we are.”

Storm Hill is just like it sounds. It rises at a gentle incline in the middle of another field at the opposite end of the base, as far from the airfield as possible. Less chance of hitting a jet with a stray bolt of lightning. I get the sense the hill is a new addition, judging by the loose earth beneath my feet as we approach the summit. The grass is new growth too, the work of a greeny or newblood equivalent. It’s more lush than the training fields. But the crown of the slope is a mess, charred earth packed flat, crisscrossed by cracks and the smell of a distant thunderstorm. While the rest of the base enjoys bright blue skies, a black cloud revolves over Storm Hill. A thunderhead, rising thousands of feet into the sky like a column of dark smoke. I’ve never seen anything like it, so controlled and contained.

The blue-haired woman from Archeon stands beneath the cloud, her arms outstretched, palms up to the thunder. A straight-backed man with swooping white hair like a wave’s crest stands back from her, thin and lean in his green uniform. Both have lightning-bolt insignia.

Blue sparks dance over the woman’s hands, small as worms.

Rafe leads us, Cal close at my side. Even though he deals with his fair share of lightning, the black cloud puts him on edge. He keeps glancing up, as if expecting it to explode. Some blue flashes weakly in the darkness, illuminating it from within. Thunder rumbles with it, low and thrumming like a cat’s purr. It shivers my bones.

“Ella, Tyton,” Cal calls. He waves a hand.

They turn at their names, and the flashing in the clouds abruptly stops. The woman lowers her hands, tucking away her palms, and the thunderhead starts to dissolve before our eyes. She bounds over in leaps of energy, trailed by the more stoic man.

“I was wondering when we would meet,” she says, her voice high and breathy to match her dainty stature. Without warning, she takes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. Her touch shocks, sparks leaping from her skin to mine. It doesn’t hurt, but it certainly perks me up. “I’m Ella, and you’re Mare, of course. And this tall drink of water is Tyton.”

The man in question is certainly tall, with tawny skin, a sprinkling of freckles, and a jaw sharper than the edge of a cliff. With a flick of his head, he tosses his white hair to one side, letting it fall over his left eye. He winks with the right. I expected him to be old, with hair like that, but he can’t be more than twenty-five. “Hello” is all he says, his voice deep and certain.

“Hi.” I nod at them, overwhelmed both by their presence and my own inability to act anywhere close to normal. “Sorry, this is a bit of a shock.”

Tyton rolls his eyes, but Ella bursts out laughing. A half second later, I understand and cringe.

Cal chuckles at my side. “That was pretty horrible, Mare.” He nudges my shoulder as discreetly as he can, a brush of warmth emanating from him. A very small comfort in the Piedmont heat.

“We understand,” Ella offers quickly, stealing the words away. “It’s always overwhelming to meet another Ardent, let alone three who share your ability. Right, boys?” She elbows Tyton in the chest and he barely reacts, annoyed. Rafe just nods. I get the feeling Ella does most of the talking and, based on what I remember from the blue lightning storm in Archeon, most of the fighting. “I despair of you both,” Ella mutters, shaking her head at them. “But I have you now, don’t I, Mare?”

Her eager nature and open smile take me severely off guard. People this nice are always hiding something. I swallow my suspicion enough to give her what I hope is a genuine smile.

“Thank you for bringing her,” she adds to Cal, her tone shifting. The cheery, blue-haired pixie draws up her spine and hardens her voice, becoming a soldier before my eyes. “I think we can take her training from here.”

Cal barks out a low laugh. “Alone? Are you serious?”

“Were you?” she shoots back, narrowing her eyes. “I saw your ‘practice.’ Little bursts on a target range is hardly sufficient to maximize her abilities. Or do you know how to coax a storm out of her?”

Based on the way his lips twist, I can tell he wants to say something decidedly inappropriate. I stop him before he can, grabbing his wrist. “Cal’s military background—”

“—is fine for conditioning.” Ella cuts me off. “And perfect for training you to fight Silvers the way he does. But your abilities stretch beyond his understanding. There are things he can’t teach you, things you must learn either the hard way—by yourself—or the easy way . . . with us.”

Her logic is sound, albeit unsettling. There are things Cal can’t teach me, things he doesn’t understand. I remember when I tried to train Cameron—I didn’t know her ability the same way I knew mine. It was like speaking a different language. I was still able to communicate, but not truly.

“I’ll watch, then,” Cal says with stony resolve. “Is that acceptable?”

Ella grins, her mood bouncing back to cheerful. “Of course. I would, however, advise you to stand back and stay alert. Lightning is a bit of a wild filly. No matter how much you rein her in, she’ll always try to run wild.”

He gives me one last look and the tiniest quirk of a supportive smile before heading to the edge of the hilltop, well beyond the ring of blast marks. When he gets there, he flops down and leans back on his arms, eyes trained on me.

“He’s nice. For a prince,” Ella offers.

“And a Silver,” Rafe pipes in.

I glance at him, confused. “There aren’t nice Silvers in Montfort?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been,” he replies. “I’m Piedmont-born, from down in the Floridians.” He dots his fingers in the air, illustrating the chain of swampy islands. “Montfort recruited me a few months ago.”

“And you two?” I look between Ella and Tyton.

She’s quick to reply. “Prairie. The Sandhills. That’s raider country, and my family lived on the move. Eventually we kept west into the mountains. Montfort took us in near ten years ago. That’s where I met Tyton.”

“Montfort-born,” he says, as if that’s any explanation. Not very talkative, probably because Ella has enough words for all of us. She steers me toward the center of what can only be called a blast zone, until I’m directly beneath the still-dissipating storm cloud.

“Well, let’s see what we’re working with,” Ella says, nudging me into place. The breeze rustles her hair, sending bright blue locks over one shoulder. Moving in tandem, the other two take up spots around me, until we’re clustered in the four corners of a square. “Start small.”

“Why? I can—”

Tyton looks up. “She wants to check your control.”

Ella nods.

I heave a breath. Excited as I am with fellow electricons, I feel a bit like an overnannied child. “Fine.” Cupping my hands, I call forth the lightning, letting jagged sparks of purple and white splay around the bowl of my fingers.

“Purple sparks?” Rafe says, grinning. “Nice.”

I flicker between the unnatural colors on their heads, smirking. Green, blue, white locks.

“I have no plans to dye my hair.”

Summer hits Piedmont with a boiling vengeance, and Cal is the only person who can stand it. Gasping from exertion and heat, I smack him in the ribs until he rolls away. He does so slowly, lazily, almost drifting off to sleep. Instead, he goes too far and falls right off the narrow bed onto the hard, laminated floor. That wakes him up. He vaults forward, black hair sticking up at angles, naked as a newborn.

“My colors,” he curses, rubbing his skull.

I have little pity for his pain. “If you didn’t insist on sleeping in a glorified broom closet, this wouldn’t be an issue.” Even the ceiling, blocks of speckled plaster, is depressing. And the single open window does nothing for the heat, especially in the middle of the day. I don’t want to think about the walls or how thin they might be. At least he doesn’t have to bunk with other soldiers.

Still on the floor, Cal grumbles. “I like the barracks.” He fumbles for a pair of shorts before pulling them on. Then go the bracelets, snapping back into place on his wrists. The latches are complicated, but he slips them on like it’s second nature. “And you don’t have to share a room with your sister.”

I shift and throw a shirt over my head. Our midday break will be over in a few minutes, and I’m expected up on Storm Hill soon. “You’re right. I’ll just get over that little thing I have about sleeping alone.” Of course, by thing I mean still-debilitating trauma. I have terrible nightmares if there isn’t someone in the room with me.

Cal stills, shirt half over his head. He sucks in a breath, wincing. “That’s not what I meant.”

It’s my turn to grumble. I pick at Cal’s sheets. Military-issue, washed so many times they’re almost worn through. “I know.”

The bed shifts, springs groaning, as he leans toward me. His lips brush the crown of my head. “Any more nightmares?”

“No.” I answer so quickly he raises an eyebrow in suspicion, but it’s the truth. “As long as Gisa’s there. She says I don’t make a sound. Her, on the other hand . . . I forgot so much noise could come from such a small person.” I laugh to myself, and find the courage to look him in the eye. “What about you?”

Back in the Notch, we slept side by side. Most nights he tossed and turned, muttering in his sleep. Sometimes he cried.

A muscle ripples in his jaw. “Just a few. Maybe twice a week, that I can remember.”

“Of?”

“My father, mostly. You. What it felt like to be fighting you, watching myself try to kill you, and not being able to do a thing to stop it.” He flexes his hands in memory of the dream. “And Maven. When he was little. Six or seven.”

The name still feels like acid in my bones, even though it’s been so long since I last saw him. He has given several broadcasts and declarations since, but I refuse to watch them. My memories of him are terrorizing enough. Cal knows that, and out of respect for me, he absolutely does not talk about his brother. Until now. You asked, I scold myself. I grit my teeth, mostly to stop from vomiting up all the words I haven’t told him. Too painful for him. It won’t help to know what kind of monster his brother was forced into becoming.

He pushes on, eyes far away in the memory. “He used to be afraid of the dark, until one day he just wasn’t. In my dreams, he’s playing in my room, sort of walking around. Looking at my books. And darkness follows him. I try to tell him. Try to warn him. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t mind. And I can’t stop it. It swallows him whole.” Slowly, Cal runs a hand down his face. “Don’t need to be a whisper to know what that means.”

“Elara is dead,” I murmur, moving so we’re side by side. As if that’s any comfort.

“And he still took you. He still did horrible things.” Cal stares at the floor, unable to hold my gaze. “I just can’t understand why.”

I could keep quiet. Or distract him. But the words boil furiously in my throat. He deserves the truth. Reluctant, I take his hand.

“He remembers loving you, loving your father. But she took that love away, he said. Cut it out of him like a tumor. She tried to do the same with his feelings for me”—and Thomas before—“but it didn’t work. Certain kinds of love . . .” My breath hitches. “He said they’re harder to remove. I think the attempt twisted him, more than he already was. She made it impossible for him to let go of me. Everything he felt for both of us was corrupted, made into something worse. With you, hatred. With me, obsession. And there is nothing either of us could do to change him. I don’t even think she could undo her own work.”

His only reply is silence, letting the revelation hang in the air. My heart breaks for the exiled prince. I give him what I think he needs. My hand, my presence, and my patience. After a long, long time, he opens his eyes.

“As far as I know, there are no newblood whispers,” he says. “Not one that I’ve found or been told about. And I’ve done my fair share of searching.”

This I did not expect. I blink, confused.

“Newbloods are stronger than Silvers. And Elara was just Silver. If someone can . . . can fix him, isn’t it worth it to try?”

“I don’t know” is all I can say. Just the idea numbs me, and I don’t know how to feel. If Maven could be healed, so to speak, would that be enough to redeem him? Certainly it won’t change what he’s done. Not only to me and Cal, to his father, but to hundreds of other people. “I really don’t know.”

But it gives Cal hope. I see it there, like a tiny light in the distance of his eyes. I sigh, smoothing his hair. He needs another cut with a steadier hand than his own. “I guess if Evangeline can change, maybe anyone can.”

His sudden laugh echoes low in his chest. “Oh, Evangeline is the same as always. She just had more incentive to let you go than to let you stay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know who told her to do it.”

“What?” I ask sharply.

With a sigh, Cal gets up and crosses the room. The opposite wall is all cabinetry, and mostly empty. He doesn’t have many possessions beyond his clothes and a few bits of tactical gear. To my surprise, he paces. It sets my teeth on edge.

“The Guard blocked every attempt I made to get you back,” he says, hands moving rapidly as he speaks. “No messages, no support for infiltration. No spies of any kind. I wasn’t going to sit in that freezing base and wait for someone to tell me what to do. So I made contact with someone I trust.”

Realization punches me in the gut. “Evangeline?”

“My colors, no,” he gasps. “But Nanabel, my grandmother—my father’s mother—”

Anabel Lerolan. The old queen. “You call her . . . Nanabel?”

He flushes silver and my heart skips a beat. “Force of habit,” he grumbles. “Anyway, she never came to court while Elara was there, but I thought she might once she died. She knew what Elara was, and she knows me. She would have seen through the queen’s lie. She would have understood Maven’s role in our father’s death.”

Communicating with the enemy. There’s no way Farley knew about this, or the Colonel. Nortan prince or not, either of them would have shot him if they did.

“I was desperate. And in hindsight, it was really, really stupid,” he adds. “But it worked. She promised to get you free when the opportunity presented itself. The wedding was that opportunity. She must have given support to Volo Samos to ensure your escape, and it was worth it. You’re here now because of her.”

I speak slowly. I must understand. “So you let her know the raid on Archeon was coming?”

He moves back to me with blinding speed, kneeling to take both my hands. His fingers are blazing hot, but I force myself not to pull away. “Yes. She’s more open to channeling with Montfort than I realized.”

“She communicated with them?”

He blinks. “She still does.”

For a second, I wish I had colors to curse with. “How? How is this possible?”

“I assume you don’t want an explanation of how radios and broadcasters work.” He smiles. I don’t laugh at the joke. “Montfort is obviously open to working with Silvers, in whatever capacity, to reach their goals. This is an”—he searches for the right words—“even partnership. They want the same thing.”

I almost scoff in disbelief. Royal Silvers working with Montfort . . . and the Guard? It sounds positively ludicrous. “And what do they want?”

“Maven off the throne.”

A chill goes through me despite the summer heat and the closeness of Cal’s body. Tears I can’t control spring to my eyes.

“But they still want a throne.”

“No—”

“A Silver king for Montfort to control, but a Silver king all the same. Reds in the dirt, as always.”

“I promise you, that’s not what this is.”

“Long live Tiberias the Seventh,” I whisper. He flinches. “When the houses rebelled, Maven interrogated them. And every one of them died saying those words.”

His face falls in sadness. “I never asked for that,” he murmurs. “Never wanted that.”

The young man kneeling in front of me was born to a crown. Want had nothing to do with his upbringing. Want was stamped out of him at a young age, replaced with duty, with what his wretched father told him a king should be.

“Then what do you want?” When Kilorn asked me that same question, it gave me focus, purpose, a clear path in darkness. “What do you want, Cal?”

He answers quickly, eyes blazing. “You.” His fingers tighten on mine, hot but steady in temperature. He’s holding himself back as much as he can. “I am in love with you, and I want you more than anything else in the world.”

Love is not a word we use. We feel it, we mean it, but we don’t say it. It feels so final, a declaration from which there is no easy return. I’m a thief. I know my exits. And I was a prisoner. I hate locked doors. But his eyes are so close, so eager. And it’s what I feel. Even though the words terrify me, they are the truth. Didn’t I say I would start telling the truth?

“I love you,” I whisper, leaning forward to brace my forehead against his. Eyelashes that are not my own flutter close to my skin. “Promise me. Promise you won’t leave. Promise you won’t go back. Promise you won’t undo everything my brother died for.”

His low sigh washes across my face.

“I promise.”

“Remember when we told each other no distractions?”

“Yes.” He runs a blazing finger over my earrings, touching each one in turn.

“Distract me.”