I-
No, Kit-
No, Vin-
No? No? No?
Kit and Vin were yelling below me. About something important, I thought. But I was needed upwards. On the wall.
Tully was on it as well. Some of her guards, too: Elli and Cam. My runestone was very heavy on my arm. I pulled a hand from beneath where I lay and ran my fingers over it. Vin’s blood swirled within: more potent than any I had ever known.
On the other side of the wall were people. My eyes skidded over the scene. Tully used a runic (light/shape, recursive array, ??, heavy fuel usage) device to blast azure light over them. There were many. They were arranged in two shaky ranks, like two lines of ants rattled by an Aching. Most had their hands over their eyes. Some held their ears. A few had avoided the earlier blast. It had been a runic (light, motion, basic array) canister that halted their advance.
Their armour – some thick, metal kind – was covered with forest detritus and mud. Good for hiding. But beneath was paint. Two shades of yellow. Arranged in plates. Like a turtle’s shell.
I noticed Kit had been wrong. There were more than three-dozen.
I counted sixty. Maybe more.
Nowhere in the fields was absent of the blue glare. At the back of their ranks stood an additional six soldiers. They stood in front of two figures: a large one and a much smaller person.
A scraping from nearby had me slowly shifting my head. Davian carefully clambered up the side of the wagon-wall. Unusual. Behind him, Vin and Kit were still arguing. They looked close to blows. But few were around to stop them. Just Ronnie, hovering close by. Most of the caravan had disappeared. Only Rita, Whip, and the nomads were left in the yard. The quiet men, too. They were putting together pieces (motion, recursive array; motion, activation array; heat, basic array; motion…) of a large contraption. I fell into the runes. They spat me up. It was large. Like a crossbow.
He fell on his belly beside me. “Has anything happened yet?”
I shook my head, cheeks jiggling.
Davian gathered air into his throat.
I spoke. “No.”
Speaking would be stupid. Tully was about to. And she seemed-
----------------------------------------
-angry. Livid. And though I’d spent most of a lifetime learning to keep it under control, beneath my rage lay the same wretched feeling that captured my kind on even their best days. The feeling of a spider reeling at their web being torn. The feeling of an insect under a predator’s knife. Both were familiar.
These kinds of emotions had no place in a commander. A leader needed to adapt, for every plan was fallible. I’d planned for variants of this situation anyway. But I hadn’t expected them.
Time crawled as I tried to turn my mind towards the situation. Yet I was unbalanced.
The soldiers left in Spires should have been capable of fending off whatever opportunistic forces headed towards it for months. The size of any assaulting force was necessarily choked by terrain: few supply-trains could hold in the face of the monsters and bandits that ran rampant through the Heartlands, or travel at speed through its beaten trails. Especially not with most of humanity’s greatest warriors twelve years dead. Any trains well-guarded enough to survive would travel at a glacial pace, and face heavy resistance from the city. The Spires of Heltia could fall, but not without significant losses on the besieger’s side. Our height-advantage and stockpiled weaponry would allow nothing else.
In the unlikely event they knew one of House Heltia had survived, pursuers would split along the possible routes to Fort Vane. Given the number of dummy caravans I’d created over the past four weeks, their forces would undoubtedly chase dead ends. And the oncoming Frost would halt their advance, allowing time for us to smuggle Head Maleen somewhere safe.
Smaller teams may slip past Spires’s patrols, but diluted by the necessities of hasty and stealthy travel, the four veterans and three Blooded under my direction were more than sufficient to handle them. And, competent as they were, the monster-hunters would provide more than sufficient shield to blunt whatever losses were taken. Especially Vin – undoubtedly a deserter of another House – and…
Kit.
Every move she made was a reminder. Her toothy grin. Her capricious moods. Her constant attempts to intimidate. Sometimes, when I saw her, my body could no longer move. Despite the decades of distance, every part of me below the neck buried itself. She made my scars ache.
But most of Kit was but a shadow; an empty body possessed by a singular ghost. Most, except her swordplay: talent and mastery beyond anything a mortal should be capable of. Between her and the Lizardblood, it was little wonder their group’s survival-rate had caught my attention. And the moment I’d seen their ability, I’d known I couldn’t let them go.
My shame was behind bars – its crimes tallied, its death scheduled – yet remained just as vicious and cunning as before. Its teeth, quelled for decades under Tam’s gentle ministrations, stalked my dreams once more. I’d sent her and the girls to Fort Vane after a long and twisted night.
It held me still. Using its daughter would have to be sufficient vengeance.
The inconceivable truth was that Spires had fallen, likely in less than three days. I would have to plan around that fact.
My mind fell back into the present. Beneath my consciousness, a roiling sea of gears churned.
Click. My eyes flickered towards the forces in front of us.
Click. My eyes flickered around our location; vulnerable, indefensible.
Click. They fell upon the bloodtech weapon.
Click. My eyes flicked towards the road behind us. If we’d carried more explosives… But there were no ifs. There was only what was.
Click. The town on the horizon – infested with a handful of Godkin, if my Dolphinblood had reported accurately.
Click. The monster hunters.
Click. The other pieces, huddled in the barn.
Clunk. A plan.
Without moving from my position, prone atop the carriage, I quietly spoke. “Rita.”
Adjusting quickly, my second responded. “Still need time, Tully.”
I clicked my tongue. “How long?”
“Few minutes, mebbe.”
“That’s not ideal,” I informed her. “Corral the Lizardblood.”
“S’not happening. You know how it is; Lizardbloods’re harder t’topple than most, but when they do fall, they stay down. Man’s stuck as stuck can be. He’s done.”
My eyes flickered. “Prepare to lead our charges to the town up the hill. He will be open to that, at least.”
In the likely case our opening blow was insufficient, we would need better terrain. The abandoned town up the hill would serve, and the deserter would be indispensable in getting there. The other caravaners would provide both a smoke-screen and cover for the Head.
“I’ll try after I’m done. Still need time, though.”
“Be quick,” I commanded.
Something caught my eye. Two of the Strains – Gast; Davian – exchanged words beside me. The male Strain breathed in, and to my disbelief I realised he was going to address the force in front of us. We had scarcely seconds before the stunner wore off; a subordinate speaking would ruin the authority of the moment.
The female shut him up. Sensible, for a mutant.
I breathed in, then out.
“What- “
----------------------------------------
“- is such a large force doing out here?” a harsh voice called.
Some magic contraption threw incredible amounts of light in the eyes of our forces, making identifying our quarry’s movements impossible. The effect was further exacerbated by the confusion of sound and colour that had assaulted us moments before.
Our soldiers spilled across the landscape beside their farmstead, like choppy waves surrounding an island. The air smelled clean and clear – as it always did within the Heartlands – yet concealed beneath it was the acrid scent of a thunderstorm. Tempest season lay on the other side of Frost, but mankind carried that charge with us; only beaten by gods when it came to shaking the world.
A half-step in front of me, Commander Andros straightened his diminutive form, brushing mud off the strips sown to his cloak. Every single one was made redundant by the identical ribbons sown into his coat beneath, yet served the additional utility of identifying him to any would-be ambushers. Seeing him die would be one of my life’s greatest pleasures, were it not for the fact that it would sabotage my purpose on the expedition.
“Now, now,” Andros called, “let’s not play games. You know why we’re here.”
Ornamentation did matter in social affairs. The fact the little grub chose to make this moment such an event was baffling.
I leaned my head forward. “Sir,” I whispered. “Would it not be wiser to let me do the speaking?”
He frowned. “A leader is a leader, Seoras.”
“A leader,” I began, careful to keep my voice even, “is vulnerable to getting shot when identified.”
“Come now,” Commander Andros said. The roll of his eyes was visible beneath the glare of their incredible lantern. “We outnumber them three to one. Even if they can find a decent angle, little will get through six Blooded.”
“Sir. They are Heltia- “
He shushed me. “She’s speaking! Just look intimidating.”
I flexed my fingernails rigidly, hidden in the folds of my cloak
Attaching me to his regiment was unusual, given Andros’s propensity for ignoring advice. What use was an advisor to such a man? But assisting him remained secondary. The search was far more important.
The woman’s voice finally responded. “No. I do not.”
Andros’s ability to project his voice, despite it being obstructed by six men and considerable distance, was admirable. “You have no affiliation with House Heltia, then?”
“I do not. Why? Has something happened?”
“Surely you’re aware of the Albright’s Declaration? Amongst its many crimes, House Heltia shelters the Ravenblood. And our monarchs can no longer stomach the existence of a Head tainted by Godsblood.”
“I’ve heard of it, vaguely,” the voice responded tersely. “But it simply removed the Albright’s endorsement of House Heltia, did it not?”
“You should understand why we need to investigate your caravan.”
Andros raised his arm to give the order, then halted when the woman responded. “The ground beneath your feet is rigged with bloodtech. If I see any movement from your forces, we will destroy you.”
“I see the veils are off. Alright, then,” the Commander said, acquiescing to the threat. “You will answer my questions, however.
I leaned forward again. “She’s stalling, Commander. If she had such tools, they would’ve been used immediately.”
He clicked his tongue. “Seoras, we cannot afford to avoid an opportunity to gain information.” I opened my mouth again, only to be cut off. “I have made my decision. Do not question it.”
I withdrew several steps, allowing him to continue his ill-advised conversation.
In other ways, Commander Andros was capable. House Baylar and its nobility frequently made a sport of hunting, and amidst such games he was renowned as a tracker. I’d been impressed with our speed and low casualties while we were on the move, especially seeing as we weren’t a mounted company. If he weren’t so… unjustifiably confident, I might’ve been able to respect him.
Initially, I’d been uncertain that caravan we’d been tracking had a chance of containing whatever individual House Heltia was attempting to smuggle away – if there were any such individual at all. There were a variety of routes out of the Spires of Heltia, and as many people who’d recognised the city as a sinking ship and escaped – and given the wreck the Ox had left Spires in, little information could be gathered. We’d already assailed another caravan travelling alongside the River Ien, and found nothing.
House Baylar had determined it likely that some of House Heltia had survived, and that they likely travelled to Fort Vane, given that the Vanes were Heltia’s only other nobility – giving them a truly singular position within the Heartlands. Yet brute-forcing the issue seemed to be ‘General’ Yalo’s only solution. The man seemed to be incompetent, and his demands we avoid specific areas of the Heartlands reeked of the Albright’s long fingers.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I couldn’t truly know – my engineered series of demotions took me out of such circles – however it seemed obvious that the ‘General’ hadn’t truly earned his title, as the post-deicide climate had been lacking in major engagements, giving him little chance to gain experience. His competency was untested, for the most part. The rank he aped was, historically, earned through dozens of victories, but the Houses’ greatest were all buried with the Raven. The untried and the incompetent were all that remained.
Using Enn indicated a kind of reckless creativity, but sacrificing a band of mercenaries to lead a god to a city would have long-lasting political ramifications. Choosing short-term gain over long-term profit was rarely a clever move. House Baylar must’ve been fearful of another House snapping up the Heartlands.
Though I was almost entirely certain Yalo hadn’t come up with the plan himself. Private correspondence had indicated it advanced more… subtle interests. The kind conducive to the Seed’s needs. But until I resigned from my post, I couldn’t know more.
In any case, my doubts regarding our tailing of the caravan had seemed reasonable. But then their lookouts had evaded our forces dextrously; the caravan had produced some stunning device, obvious bloodtech weaponry, which Heltia was known to keep firmly away from civilian hands; and finally, the woman had outright threatened a representative from a House.
As Commander Andros continued exchanging words with the caravan’s leader, I reached my conclusion. She might not be guarding some heir to Heltia, but she was guarding something.
My fingernails ached as they slowly extended.
I could only hope it was the boy.
In the end, though, I had no idea-
----------------------------------------
“-what I’m running from.”
“Vin, I don’t care what yer haulin’,” Kit carefully stated. “It don’t make this any less pathetic.”
We stood in the yard, surrounded by scarred, blood-stained stumps and the crimson crackle of grass. The cold of Frost had been broken by the sudden heat – the hot breaths of a House’s weight on the other side of our flimsy wagon-wall. Its walls contorted with the pressure of it all; rippling alongside the entire world like sand beneath a river-bank, disturbed by a child’s feet. Underneath it a thousand cursed tombs; all dead of the same disease, and all released upon the world again.
Whip; Ronnie; Kit; Davian; Malee; Laja; Taja; Rita; the three quiet men – all remained; ants trapped in slowly melting honey.
There was no fire, but it was all aflame.
Within the barn were the beat of the rest of the caravanners lives, frantically pulsing to the pattern of their own-
No, no, no, I couldn’t focus on them, I needed to be present. Beneath the sweat-soaked tunic and between a sore throat and pounding headache and discomfort melting to agony within a gut; firmly nestled in the putrid slosh of my own being. My eyes rested on Kit’s.
How could I make them see?
“This’s the wrong decision,” I hissed.
“Oh, an’ th’ right one’s runnin’? Leavin’ everyone here t’spike their heads on a long, pointy stick?” She shook her head, releasing a snort. “I couldn’ care less ‘bout most o’ these people.” Her next words were slow and accusatory. “But you do.”
I pushed the lump down my throat. “The right choice,” I enunciated carefully, “is one where we don’t all die.”
Her lips peeled away, transforming her face into that a vicious animal. “An’ what’s death, t’make you so scared? We’re all gonna die, Vin – that’s th’ way o’ things.”
A scoff escaped me, harsh and guttural. “Said like a woman who doesn’t know death.”
“Oh, I know death.” Her black eyes gleamed. “Better than you ever will.”
“You,” I stated, “are a violent thug. You don’t know death. You know killing.”
She cocked an eyebrow challengingly. “There’s a difference?”
The world twisted. I felt my face contort. “Are you stupid?” I growled, then continued in a shout. “Of course there’s a bloody difference! Killing’s easy. You don’t feel the pain; you don’t feel your entrails rip away; your flesh get torn apart; your blood leaving your body; you don’t suffer. You don’t mourn.”
Shallow panting distorted my chest. I pointed a trembling finger at Kit “Killing’s the easiest thing in the world: you just hold a godsdamned spear and twist.”
Vaguely, I noticed Ronnie extending their good arm between us.
Yet Kit’s eyes was firmly on my own. “Well. Maybe I don’t know death. But if I know anythin’ I know livin’.” She licked her lips. “An’ yer makin’ a pretty damn poor showin’ of it.”
“I am trying,” I said, holding my hands in front of my face, “to keep us alive! Keep us away.”
“Life’s not about runnin’, Vin!” she yelled. Her tone was plaintive. “’specially not from somethin’ as piss-normal as death. Yer born, an’ that sends you forward; th’ one push not from yer own power. But then you hit an obstacle – one, then two, then three – an’ that… that speed gets cut. It bleeds. An’ you gotta push yerself t’staunch it. Fight forward, y’know?
“But we all run out, one day. Has it broke you from you, though?” She stared at me, and I swallowed. “That’s th’ real question, right? Yer born; you die – what matters’s how true you are in-between.”
She grasped at the air, searching for the words. “How… Real you are. T’you. T’everyone else. Makin’ yer time yours.” The swordswoman shook her head zealously. “Not livin’ scared. Y’see?”
“Being authentic,” I muttered.
She bobbed her head. “You get it. Not givin’ up who you are. But you’ve done jus’ that. An’ I don’t even know what th’ blood yer meant t’be.”
The world turned around us – those in the yard scrabbling towards some endeavour while those in the barn scattered and coalesced wildly. Faintly, I could hear arguments and shouting, alongside muted sobbing. None of that was relevant. None of that was my business.
Air blew from my nose. “And who are you, Kit? Someone who’ll beat people for looking at them wrong? Who’ll kill for nothing more than an insult?”
She shook her head, brows furrowed. “See, Vin. That’s what I don’t get. Most people ain’t me, sure, but that’s only ‘cause they’re scared. Killin’ s’not some… big…” She opened and closed her mouth. “S’not some big wrong. You an’ me an’ th’ Strains – we kill monsters. Eat animals. An’ people: they’re not so different. Worse, even.”
I blinked, disbelieving. “What are you talking about?”
“Monsters jus’ do what they have to. People, though? They do what they want to.”
I shook my head. “You aren’t speaking sense. You want us to die, because… we’re like…” I swallowed. “Monsters? You say death’s inevitable, but that doesn’t mean nothing is lost, Kit. All that’s left is just…” My own patchwork soul stretched within my body, a well far too deep for its size. “Ghosts.”
“Gods, Vin. What’s lost, anyway? Mos’ people’re pathetic.” My lips sunk further and further into a sneer, and she scoffed. “What? What? You wanna contest it?
“You’re so godsdamned twisted,” I spat furiously. “How’d you come up with something so stupid?”
She threw an arm sideways. “What’d we see in Spires? Some Lizard-brained bastards skimmin’ chits off a group o’ Strains? Refusin’ t’pay out of pure godsdamned malice? A bar rigged to drain idiots from their money; money they needed to stop them an’ theirs from starving?” Kit let loose a humourless chuckle. “People stealin’ kids, an’ usin’ them t’ water the dirt?
“It’s all nothin’, Vin – it’s worse’n nothin’.” The swordswoman scoffed. “Gods got every right t’flatten us all.”
Blood flowed from where I’d bit my cheek. Words stumbled forward like wounded hounds. “Then why are you even here?”
“’Cause bein’ born means I got a right to fight. An’ fightin’ means hurtin’ people. An’ that,” she spat, “is that.”
I shook my head silently, my eyes drifting lower.
Her sudden scream had me gripping my sword. “Everyone knows it, Vin!” She paused, tilting her head to catch my dropped gaze. “Everyone. An’ I just can’t get how you got it so wrong.”
We stared at one another. My gut roiled with imminent failure. Awareness stretched: the panic of the caravanners’ writhing inside the barn; the manic building of those still in the yard, forming some sort of weapon; an exchange between Tully and the soldiers outside. The enemy forces numbered in dozens – far more than I count in a brief instant. All mapped in the delicate pulse of life, waiting to be eternally smothered.
I should’ve stayed in the forest. Yet the situation beckoned, awaiting correction, and the only hand available to help was one proven incapable.
If I could get Kit on my side, we could get the others to run – by persuasion or by force, if necessary.
There was only ever one chance.
Yet when my mouth opened to speak, no sounds emerged. They caught within my throat, a bundle of marrow simply too large for its circumference. I tried to push, yet another equal part of me revolted against those intentions. It pulled the sounds back downwards, trying to leave them between stomach and intestines and liver and heart to fester between those organs, rotting in the same way they had for the last four years.
I’d never tried to vocalise these thoughts before. It was a chain that wound my jaw shut. I’d just have to hope Kit could chip the right links for me.
Had it been the same with her? Had she fought against her own set of bindings; her own jittering strings?
“T-There’re,” I stuttered, “chains of events. When you throw something up, it’ll come back down. When you punch a wall, the wall will hurt you back.” I paused, holding my hands together a short length. “When you walk, the things underneath you crumple.”
Kit narrowed her eyes, frowning.
“The chains get bigger.” The distance between my hands grew as I continued speaking. “You might kick a rock, and then trip over it a few days later. And then that tripping breaks a tooth, and you need to get it pulled. And because the tooth isn’t pulled right, you get an infection in your mouth that pains you ‘til you die.
“And it’s not just about you, either. The rock might trip another instead, and then that person’s stuck with the infection and the pain and the suffering.”
The swordswoman’s head withdrew, slightly. “What’s that t’do with anything?”
“I-it’s… You… You say…” The situation was moving. I needed to speak faster. “You say that there’s…” I shoved the nausea back down. “Y-you’re saying that everything alive is fighting to be that way, all the time.”
Kit nodded, a slight scowl on her face. “Yeah.”
“Is there no value in that?”
She squinted. “What?”
“The fight. Life.”
“I s’pose.”
“And is it just valuable… to you? Or is life valuable to other people?”
“I guess, but- “
“So when someone dies, something is lost.”
Kit sneered. “Nothin’ is lost – weren’t you bloody well listenin’?”
“Maybe not in terms of overall value, but something disappears. Right?”
“That’s th’- “
My hands jerked like a marionette’s, yet my eyes didn’t leave Kit’s. “So i-if we want to preserve that value – to keep it safe – people need to be alive. They need to not be dead.”
“Sure,” she spat. “An’ you leavin’ll make people dead.”
I shook my head vigorously. “No, no – that’s not the point.” Ideas met, coalesced, and fell apart again within my mind. My script trembled in my mind, its language insufficient for the task. “W-we do something, a-and events happen. A-a-and sometimes, that means…” I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “People die.”
“So what?” Kit pushed. “What’s new, there? I do things, an’ people get hurt? So what?”
“It’s not just ‘hurt’, Kit,” I spat. “People bleed. They suffer.” Everything fell away, as if the swordswoman and I were the only individuals on-stage. “And death’s not the only outcome; people twist. All the things you hate about others can be brought about by your own reckless actions. Actions lead to consequences, and when they do they’re your fault. Nothing good happens to the dead, Kit.”
“So what?” she spat. “You get out yer ledger an’ yer abacus, twiddle with the beads, an’… jus’ see where th’ happy endin’ is? That’s not…” She let out a growl of frustration. “Nothin’ good happens t’the dead? Sure, but that’s not th’ only thing that matters. Life’s not a godsdamned number-game, Vin.”
I shook my head.
She continued. “People ain’t measured one to ten. People ain’t measured period. Yer figurin’ what leads to what, an’ doin’ the math, but no creature alive fits in that box. An’ how’s runnin’ bring the best consequences?”
“Yeah,” I said weakly, “that’s it. We’re not gods. No human alive can do that math. So the moment we start this show, none of us know how it will end.”
Kit blinked. “Vin. Everyone wants this. No matter what happens.”
“They don’t know what they’re asking for.”
“Vin.” Her eyes locked on mine, disbelieving. “All the Strains’re lookin’ for is a way t’live. A job an’ a bit o’ food. S’it wrong to help them?”
Kit was right, in a way. Part of the reason Whip, Ronnie, and Davian had wanted this job was the chits. Yet she’d missed their core motivation. When Kit and I had first sat down in their vandalised house and outlined the offer, I’d thought I could stop them. I might’ve even been able to if money was the only payment promised.
Instead, they added something no one could’ve expected. The Strains had lived entire lives being loathed for what they were. However, directly in front of their eyes lay something entirely different: employment. A potential position. A chance to receive a role. A promise that if they played their cards right, Tully would carve them a place in human society.
However long the odds were, no one could resist that kind of wager. But only I knew that the game was rigged.
It was a stroke of bitter irony that I, the one attempting to stop them, understood their desires better than the one trying to help.
“They’re playing with chips they can’t afford to lose,” I stated.
She shook her head, disbelieving. “Most o’ the world hates ‘em. It can’t get worse for ‘em, Vin.”
I scoffed harshly. “You’re a fool if you believe that.”
“How’s it gonna get worse?” she yelled, spittle flying into my face. “We spent our whole time in Spires stakin’ our lives fer barely enough to last th’ week. They’re at th’ bottom of a well deeper’n I ever knew, an’ here’s a chance fer them t’climb up!”
“There is no bottom to this hole. No end to arrest our fall.”
The dark skin of Kit’s face twisted into a snarl. “An’ what’s worse, huh? I can’t imagine anythin’ worse’n livin’ a whole life bein’ treated like a godsdamned roach!”
“Imagination is feeble,” I spat. “There’s only one rule you can trust: it can always get worse.”
“Can always get better.”
“Is this the kind of situation that gets better, Kit?!” I roared. “Do you even care about them? About Jana; Tippi; Crumpet? Because they’ll be dead if you keep at this, and that’ll be on you.”
“Runnin’s jus’ gonna get us shot in th’ back. This way, I can protect them.”
“You don’t know.” My voice broke apart on that final word.
She stared.
The yard had shrunk as our conversation played out. Ronnie and Rita had stepped away, choosing to slowly drag the wagons inwards by lifting one end. Whip and the nomads worked alongside the three recalcitrant men to assemble the strange weapon according to a set of barked instructions I could scarcely understand. Atop the wagon-wall, Tully gave vague answers to a series of gloating questions. Within the increasingly claustrophobic confined, Kit and I stood, staring at one another. No light shined upon us; all was directed towards the force Tully still negotiated with.
Objectively, I understood the yard was dark. Yet Kit’s eyes were closed, her face turned away from me. The writing of her expression was mercilessly clear. Even before she opened her mouth, I knew what little eloquence I’d mustered hadn’t been enough.
I’d failed.
“This isn’t you. What’re you doin’, Vin?” she asked, and the authenticity in her voice made me wince.
“I…” I searched, vainly, for the words that could persuade her.
“S’this it?” she said, disbelieving. “This’s all you are?”
“Someone who wants you to stay alive?” I met her eyes. “Yeah.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No. You- you lied.”
“Everyone has secrets,” I spat.
“S’not just a secret Vin; you lied. You done nothin’ but lie to everyone.”
“About what?”
She closed her eyes, then opened them. “What you can do. What you feel. What kind o’ man you are.”
I scoffed. “I’m not taking moral advice from someone who kills easier than she breathes.”
Despite the brutality of my statement, she didn’t display a hint of anger. Unnervingly, she just watched. “I might be mean. Savage. Stupid. An’ even then, I never acted like somebody else.
“But you?” She let loose a hoarse laugh. “Yer just a whipped dog.”
My jaw tightened. I lowered my neck, bringing myself eye-level with her. “I am scared. You should be, too.”
Kit opened her eyes, and smiled hollowly. “All I’m scared of is bein’ like you.”
“We can still save this, Kit.”
“An’ what? They ain’t lettin’ us leave, Vin. Least this way, we get t’fight.”
“I can’t-“ I stopped, then started again. “We can’t take responsibility for an inter-House conflict. Especially not when we’re on the losing side.”
She threw open her arms. “We’re already part of it!”
“And we can get out of it!” I bellowed.
All she did was slowly, carefully, shake her head.
“There’s no happy ending, here.” I glared down at her. “Do you want me to beg? Is that what will make you stop this stupid idea?”
She turned away. “All I want’s some backbone. Until you find yours, get yerself away.”
I felt countless eyes upon me as Kit walked away. When I looked up, no one was watching.
A cry rose in my throat, empty of all language yet full of resentful edges; each so sharp it seemed to cut into my oesophagus and tear strips of flesh away. Before the cry could be born, it died. Screaming wasn’t worth the effort.
I went inside the barn. Immediately, someone – Aron – gripped the front of my tunic. He yelled words in my face, and I shoved him to the dirt. They stared at me. Old Snapper said something, and I walked past him. Jana positioned herself in front of me, and I brushed her aside. Odrin, I noticed, was locked in a conversation with his wife and his mother. They furiously berated him. I moved past them.
Maddie stood apart from the group, protected by the wounded guard who’d levelled a crossbow at the other caravaners. Upon seeing me, she swallowed and then asked me something. I wasn’t paying attention.
At the back of the barn was my bag. I squatted, gently rubbing the broken wing strapped to it between my fingers. After a moment, I slung it onto my back. Beside it was my halberd – wrought with the bones of monsters. I picked that up too.
I moved past the Smiths; the Growers; Aron and Willow and Daisy; Jana and Tippi and Crumpet. A confusing mass of others. I left the barn.
For a moment, I considered scaling the feeble defences in front of me and leaping into the soldiers on the other side, to fight and die on their blades. But that would be a loss. I looked around the yard between the derelict barn and the abandoned farmstead. The bloodied stumps and ransacked house bore all the signs of a family who had cut their losses and left. That would be the wise choice, for both myself and the world.
I couldn’t, though. All I could do was stand there.