“Can I take you back to your house?” Cal asks, his voice low. His thumbs work steady circles at the space between neck and shoulders. “We can walk, give you some time.”

“I’m not giving him any more of my time.” Angry, I turn around and raise my chin, forcing myself to look Cal in the eye. He doesn’t move, patient and unassuming. All reaction, adjusting to my emotions, letting me set the pace. After so long at the mercy of others, it feels good to know someone will allow me my own choices. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t want to stay here.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t want to talk about Maven or politics or war.”

My voice echoes in the leaves. I sound like a child, but Cal just nods along. For once, he seems a child too, with a ragged haircut and simple clothing. No uniform, no military gear. Only a thin shirt, pants, boots, and his bracelets. In another life, he might look normal. I stare at him, waiting for his features to shift into Maven’s. They never do. I realize he isn’t quite Cal either. He has more worry than I thought possible. The last six months have ruined him too.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

His shoulders droop, the slightest release of steel tension. He blinks. Cal is not one to be taken off guard. I wonder if anyone has bothered to ask him that question since the day I was taken.

After a long pause, he heaves a breath. “I will be. I hope.”

“So do I.”

This garden was tended by greenwardens once, its many flower beds spiraling in the overgrown remnants of intricate designs. Nature takes over now, different blossoms and colors spilling into one another. Blending, decaying, dying, blooming as they wish.

“Remind me to trouble both of you for some blood at a more opportune moment.”

I laugh out loud at Julian’s graceless request. He idles at the edge of the garden, kindly intruding. Not that I mind. I grin and cross the garden quickly, embracing him . He returns the action happily.

“That would sound strange coming from anyone else,” I tell him as I pull back. Cal chuckles in agreement at my side. “But sure, Julian. Feel free. Besides, I owe you.”

Julian tips his head in confusion. “Oh?”

“I found some books of yours in Whitefire.” I don’t lie, but I’m careful with my words. No use hurting Cal more than he’s already been. He doesn’t need to know that Maven gave me the books. I won’t give him any more false hope for his brother. “Helped pass the . . . time.”

While the mention of my imprisonment sobers Cal, Julian doesn’t let us linger in the pain. “Then you understand what I’m trying to do,” he says quickly. His smile doesn’t reach his darkening eyes. “Don’t you, Mare?”

“‘Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed,’” I murmur, recalling the words he scrawled in a forgotten book. “You’re going to figure out where we came from, and why.”

Julian folds his arms. “I’m certainly going to try.”

TWENTY-TWO

Mare

Every morning starts the same way. I can’t stay in the bedroom; the birds always wake me up early. Good that they do. It’s too hot to run later in the day. The Piedmont base makes for a good track, though. It is well protected, the boundaries guarded by both Montfort and Piedmont soldiers. The latter are all Reds, of course. Davidson knows that Bracken, the puppet prince, is likely quietly scheming and won’t let any of his Silvers past the gates. In fact, I haven’t seen any Silvers at all, except the ones I already know. All of the abilitied are newbloods or Ardents, depending on who you speak to. If Davidson has Silvers with him, serving equally in his Free Republic as he says they are, I haven’t seen any.

I lace my shoes tightly. Mist curls in the street outside, hanging low along the brick canyon. Unlatching the front door, I grin when the cool air hits my skin. It smells like rain and thunder.

As expected, Cal sits on the bottom step, legs stretched out on the narrow sidewalk. Still, my heart lurches in my chest at the sight of him. He yawns loudly in greeting, almost unhinging his jaw.

“Come on,” I chide him, “this is sleeping in for a soldier.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t prefer to sleep in when I can.” He stands with exaggerated annoyance, all but sticking his tongue out.

“Feel free to go back to that little bunk room you insist on staying in at the barracks. You know, you’d get a bit more time if you moved to Officers Row—or stopped running with me altogether.” I shrug with a sly grin.

Matching my smile, he tugs on the hem of my shirt, pulling me toward him. “Don’t insult my bunk room,” he mutters, before dropping a kiss on my lips. Then my jaw. Then my neck. Each touch blooms, a burst of fire beneath my skin.

Reluctantly, I push his face away. “There is a real possibility my dad shoots you from the window if you keep this up here.”

“Right, right.” He recovers quickly, paling. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cal was actually scared of my father. The thought is comical. A Silver prince, a general who can raise infernos with a flick of his fingers, afraid of a limping old Red. “Let’s stretch.”

We go through the motions, Cal more thoroughly than I. He scolds me gently, finding something wrong with every move. “Don’t lunge into it. Don’t rock back and forth. Easy, slow.” But I’m eager, thirsty to run. Eventually, he relents. With a nod of his head, he lets us begin.