They’ve come outfitted for war while I have just a handful of bullets. This will take some creativity on my part if I want to survive the next several minutes.

I exhale and an open my eyes. I may not be used to the ways of queenship and polite society, but I’m intimately acquainted with death.

I push away from the stairs and sprint towards a nearby couch. As soon as I hear the first gunshot go off, I slide the last few feet behind the couch.

They’re relentless. They must have a bottomless supply of ammunition to use it so carelessly.

Above me, Montes’s gun goes off. He fires three separate shots.

I don’t have time to wonder about what’s happening outside these walls. The couch I hide behind is getting shot up with bullets; stuffing and scraps of material flutter into the air. I have to flatten myself along the floor to avoid getting nicked.

And then I hear a sound that makes my stomach bottom out.

A grenade clinks against the ground next to my head. My eyes lock onto it. I don’t give myself time to think. I simply grab it and lob it back over the couch. The split second decision ranks as one of the stupidest, riskiest maneuvers I’ve made in battle.

And this time it pays off.

The grenade explodes seconds after I throw it. I hear shouts and the thud of large bodies as they hit the ground. The blast shoves the couch against me, and a wave of heat ripples through the room.

I peer over the back of the couch and level my gun at my opponents. Some are getting up off the ground, some aren’t. I take advantage of their temporary disorientation and fire my gun. I aim for their necks.

Five out of the eight shots find their mark. And then my gun clicks empty.

Shit.

While my opponents are shouting and scrambling to regroup, I duck again behind the couch and tuck my father’s gun into my waistband.

This is the moment where my chances of survival are the slimmest. I’m out of weapons and the enemy hasn’t retreated.

In fact, more vehicles are approaching; I can hear their engines in the distance.

It hits me again: I’m pregnant. Whatever happens to me doesn’t just affect my life anymore. It makes me hesitate when I shouldn’t.

Behind me, several of the windows have been shot out. It’s no honorable exit, but honor has nothing to do with this entire situation.

I begin to crawl towards them, keeping my body as low to the ground as I can.

Two successive shots pierce the air.

There’s a moment, right after the shot is fired and before the pain sets in, where you actually don’t know whether or not you’re hit.

But then the moment passes and the pain doesn’t come. I feel the ground vibrate as two bodies collapse.

I cast a glance over my shoulder.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, gun still raised, is the king.

King Montes Lazuli killed for me. The evilest man on earth killed for me and probably saved my life by doing so.

And, God, the look on his face. The vein in his temple throbs, and his eyes are cold and resolute. There’s no shell-shocked expression, and he doesn’t double over and vomit. He’s remorseless.

I shouldn’t be surprised. This is the king we’re talking about. If anything, I should be worried that he’ll get a taste for it.

I nod to him. “Thank you.”

He takes his eyes off of his victims to nod back to me, finally dropping his aim.

I stand and head to the bodies. Most of the dead are missing appendages. Grenades are a messy way to go. Ignoring the gore, I begin to take what weapons I can. Montes joins me, and together we strap on guns, grenades, and ammunition.

When I begin to drape weaponry across my chest, he stops me.

“Kevlar first,” he says. “To protect the baby.”

My stomach drops at his words. It’s real, this is real. We’re in the middle of a shootout and I’m pregnant.

This is some sick parody of real life, and Montes is some twisted version of my knight in shining armor as he removes the bulletproof vest from one of the dead men and slips it on me. The thing’s heavy, and the top left breast is soaked with blood.

I don’t focus on that. Instead I string ammunition and guns across my chest while Montes dons a vest of his own. I check the men for keys, but come up empty-handed. They must’ve left them in the car.

Meanwhile the sound of engines is getting closer.

“We need to go, now,” he says, and his order actually makes me smile. I hadn’t imagined him to be an equal on the field, but it seems that’s just what he is.

Together we sprint for the only car out in the driveway. In the early morning light, I make out several unmoving bodies sprawled across the yard. The jeep our attackers drove in is outfitted with a crate of explosives, semi-automatic assault rifles, and ammunition. The keys sit in the glove compartment.

“You drive; I’ll shoot,” I say.

Montes doesn’t argue, which I appreciate.

While he cranks on the engine, I familiarize myself with my new weaponry. In addition to assault rifles, Montes and I lifted machine guns off of our attackers, the kind you can hold and fire continuously. They have a mean kickback, which means that if you’re not stationary or bracing yourself well, your accuracy will take a hit. I’m neither of those things at the moment, but the sheer quantity of ammunition we’ve acquired makes up for it.

Montes floors the gas and the car screeches around the circular drive before cutting down the dirt road off the property. Mud and pebbles shoot out from under the wheels as I make my way to the back of the jeep.