“Where are we going?” I ask.

“There’s an escape route inside the palace that leads to a launch pad. The king’s already on his way there.”

Our car slams to a stop at the fancy courtyard in front of the palace’s front doors.

“Move, move, move!” one of the soldiers shouts as we exit the vehicle. And now I understand; wherever this exit is, we’re not nearly close enough to it.

A black cloud of smoke rises to my left, where a third of the palace lies in smoldering ruins.

I sprint towards the entrance of the palace, shielded by a cluster of guards. Behind us I can hear gunfire. The soldier next to me grunts and grabs his arm. A man to my left goes down.

This all has an eerie sense of déjà vu to it. There’s even a good possibility that those shooting at us will avoid hitting me. Political figures tend to have higher currency alive rather than dead.

Though I doubt it’ll do me any good surviving this if the enemy captures me. Torture, humiliation, and a slow death likely wait at their hands.

We burst through the front door. Inside, plumes of smoke and dust hover in the air.

At our backs a car screeches to a halt and car doors slam. They’re practically nipping at our heels.

I still have the guard’s gun, and I can’t help swinging around and firing off a shot. My bullet hits a Resistance fighter square in the chest.

Finally made one goddamn mark.

“Come on, my queen.” Hands are on me, dragging me back.

I rotate around and begin running again. “Where to?” I shout.

“Montes’s map room.”

“Is the king still alive?” I ask. I hate the way my pulse jumps when I ask the question. I’ve been trying to shove him out of my mind. Worrying can sabotage a soldier so quickly. In my experience, the harder you think about your fears, the likelier they are to manifest themselves.

“Aye,” one of them says.

Relief courses through me. I’ve gone from wanting the man to die in the worst possible way to fearing for his safety. I’m sure there’s some unhealthy explanation for this, but I am also far beyond caring. I’m a recovering monster that cares about another soulless creature.

Behind us I hear shouts, gunshots, and the sound of shattering objects. Anything that the king once held sacred is likely getting desecrated.

“There she is! I see the queen!” someone yells on the other end of the hall.

The soldiers tighten their guard around me. “Keep moving!” one of them shouts even as bullets begin to spray. “We’re almost there!” I sense rather than see the soldier at my back go down. The tight circle around me shifts to close the space.

We take a sharp turn and the firing stops. The silence is a welcome relief until I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of an object clattering against the floor behind us.

“Grenade!” I shout.

My men shove me to the ground. I split my lip at the impact, but I don’t register the pain before the grenade goes off. I feel the heat on my back, hear the yells and groans of the men who’ve taken the hit, breathe in the smoldering air.

My leg burns, but that’s it.

The Resistance soldiers are already moving—I can hear their footfalls—and most of the soldiers that surround me are still.

I can tell the men above me are dead. I roll their bloodied bodies off me. Something sharp lodges itself in my throat at their instantaneous decision to cover me; they surely knew they were sacrificing themselves.

“Anyone alive?” I shout.

“Aye,” comes a pained voice beside me. Someone else grunts.

The survivors—two currently—are working their way out of the dog pile. None of us have any hope of escape unless we can get to that launch pad.

Pulling a gun out of one of the unquestionably dead men, I rise to a knee.

The Resistance fighters are already closing in on me, but all I see are targets—heads, hearts. I aim, fire, and move on to the next target. Rinse and repeat.

I’m in my element. Anger and aggression flood through my veins. I hit four soldiers before they get wise to my ways, and one shoots my arm. I scream as the bullet rips through skin and muscle.

Fuck that hurts.

I fire back before the shooter can clip me again. My aim’s off, and the slug buries itself into the wall instead of his heart. Behind me I hear another gun go off and a Resistance soldier falls.

I can’t turn, but I know it’s one of my surviving guards. I rise to my feet and back up towards him. Before I reach him, his head whips back. I see blood and bone spray onto the walls and floor around him. He’s gone.

I empty my gun and two of the three remaining men go down. The final man left standing reaches for his radio as I grope around for another weapon.

I feel like a grave robber as I lift a gun off a dead body. People who’ve never seen action think there’s something honorable in this—giving your life for a higher cause. This moment is proof that the human spirit is capable of nothing baser than war. The indignity of death. The desperation and apathy. I’ve been raised on it, but even I grasp the horror of it all.

I swivel and point the gun, but the Resistance member is gone, likely getting backup before he comes at me again. I push myself to my feet, hissing in a breath as I put weight on my scorched leg.

“Anyone alive?” I call out.

No one answers back. The second soldier who’d called out to me earlier must’ve died during the shootout.

I waste several seconds grabbing another gun and shoving it down the small of my back.