Five Characters:

Andrew Iberi

His daughter

Veronica Lewis

Nicholas Jenson

Andrew's commanding officer

Chapter One (His Daughter: POV of Andrew Iberi)

In the cold, dark rooms of the hospital, I can only see what’s become of my daughter by dim candlelight. I don’t want to think about what she would look like fully illuminated. Her chest still rises and falls to the beat of the bombs that drop around us, but barely. The power has been out for three days now in New Seattle, ever since the war began, since my predecessor Nicholas Jenson had mysteriously died, and everything went to hell even more than it already had. The thing about relying on a single nuclear plant instead of a dozen small ones, is that it only takes one wayward engineer. One determined saboteur and the whole system collapses. So here I am, faced with a decision no father should ever have to make. It’s an easier one for me than for most, though.

The backup generators had kicked in almost immediately, so the nurses were able to get her on life support. Her skin is covered in burns so dark they are nearly black, the rest of her as red as the blood that leaked from every orifice, staining the bandages. I suppose she was a necessary sacrifice, but I can’t help but wonder if this is what my predecessors felt, watching what they had done to Hiroshima and Nagisaki. If this is what a small firebombing campaign could do, I don’t want to know what could happen if another nuclear war broke out, how mottled the victims would look. But to know that I caused all of what my daughter and countless others had suffered is the worst pain imaginable. And I’ve known far more than my share of pain.

Of course, I’d seen the victims of firebombing before in my time in the service, but only in photos. And as realistic as the virtual reality was, it did little to prepare me for the stench of burning flesh, disturbingly similar to a barbecue. It might be enough for me to swear off meat for the rest of my life.

“Don’t you dare look away,” my commanding officer had said, with the tone of someone who was used to being listened to and obeyed. “If you can’t stand to watch, you have no business being an officer. How can you inflict suffering if you won’t even observe it?” And I had heeded his words, watching the destruction, hearing those screams without flinching. Did that make me a monster? Perhaps, but the evil that wormed its way inside me was made, not born. It had been trained into me since I was a child. If that makes me the villain, then so be it. There is no story if nobody plays that part. And I play it so well. It comes to me as naturally as altruism comes to better men than I.

I allow myself a moment to gently press her eyes closed, whispering a goodbye to my dead daughter that I know she can’t hear. And then I pull the plug, without hesitation or remorse, because there is no good that could come out of pointless suffering. Because for all the darkness that wraps around my heart, I am never one for pain without reason, without excuse. I feel content in the knowledge that nothing could ever hurt my daughter again. I watch her heart stutter to a stop, feeling almost nothing for the girl that I frankly never knew well enough to care for.

I was beginning to regret starting this war, though. Almost.

And just like that, I’m out of time to mourn. I’m whisked into dozens of back-to-back meetings. Strategy sessions, we like to call them. We stick pins into deerskin maps, like children playing some kind of twisted board game. It is a cold thing, representing hundreds of young men ready to throw their lives and their souls away with red dots. As red as their blood would be, sacrifices to the greater goal. It is easier to think of them this way, as pawns instead of people. Think too long about their faces and their families back home and you lose direction, lose focus. After the UN had collapsed, governments became free to use any manner of torture, chemical or biological weapons, or even nuclear weapons. Some use all four, which I think is rather crude. Asia doesn’t exist anymore, for all intents and purposes. It started with Taiwan and China, then India got involved. They all had nukes, let’s just say. And they don’t anymore.

Any and all treaties went out the window when life became about survival rather than living. Now that the polar ice caps had melted, swallowing entire islands, releasing plague after plague that we are just now managing to get under control through antibiotics and vaccines, life was chaos at best. Just as smallpox ravaged the Native Americans, our bodies are unprepared to fend off these ancient diseases. The worst of them is called Icarus-103, for the year it was released and for the way it seems to melt away your flesh. It was a grisly sight, eerily similar to what I saw happen to my daughter who got a little too close to a bomb.

If you’re reading this, feeling guilty that you couldn’t stop climate change, don’t be. Past 2040, it was already too late. There was truly nothing to be done.

New Seattle is at the edge of what is now the West Coast, a place that used to be mountainous and has gotten much closer to sea level. There is still protection offered by the mountains, and by the gnarled oaks and pines that now grow easily in the altered climate, but less. Much less. If we thought climate change would be bad, it is nothing compared to this. And so quickly, too. The human population has shrunk to a little over two billion, ravaged both by war and disease. But enough about the world, about war. Let’s discuss a more pleasant subject: Me.

After graduating with a political science degree and a minor in economics, I was a shoe-in for Yale. Law school was something, but easy compared to the rigors of military life. I quickly climbed the ranks to become the Secretary of Defense. And defend America I did. By staging a wildly successful coup. I had the military and the people on my side, and we were all sick of Nicholas Jenson anyway. He’d started as president, but was practically a dictator, thanks to Unitary Executive Theory which had somehow managed to gain popularity even among scholars. Something about giving the president more power during times of war? We weren’t at war with anything but Icarus and the ocean, but whatever the Supreme Court said went at that time. The federal courts and state governments had been dismantled by now, which would have had Washington rolling in his grave. Every decision came out of the capital, so no one was surprised when Jenson formally declared himself a dictator.

So yes, I am a traitor and a liar and unbelievably handsome. I’m also wanted in 37 countries, but that’s unrelated. Mustard gas doesn’t win you any friends, I guess. I played a part in dismantling the UN, not that they had any power to begin with. But is it really a crime to take power from a brutal and repressive dictator? At least I have fashion sense instead of wearing a black suit every day. Sometimes Jenson even had the audacity to wear a uniform, despite not spending a day in boot camp. It was part of his strong man persona, as if the man could even grow a beard. He was weak, I am not. He is dead, and I survived all of this. End of story. I’d also slitted Veronica Lewis’s throat, but that was more of a personal vendetta. The Secretary of Education’s worst sin was wearing too much perfume and being unbearably irritating, but that was enough to me. Plus, she’s very passionate about democracy. well, was.

“There is no country if it cannot defend itself.” My personal motto which I had tattooed across my forearm, only slightly smaller than my daughter’s name. I would have to get the latter lasered off. I can’t be strong if I flinch looking at my own arm. Already I am starting to forget what she looked like in life, and all I can see is the burnt out mess my recklessness had made her.

So yes, I am a populist dictator, but I am popular, if nothing else. I didn’t have to be violent, because I brought security and food and vaccines to my country. I do everything for my people, and I do it gladly. I would do it all again, everything, even when it had cost me my only child. I didn’t mean for her to be the sacrificial lamb to my war, but the loss is an acceptable one. How could I bomb other children and then weep for my own? My mentors had taught me better than that.

And it is my war. I’m going to let you all in on a very dangerous secret. But before I do, please remember what I do to people who betray me. I might not prefer senseless violence, but I am more than willing to dole it out if the need ever arises. Just keep that in mind, alright? Nobody can ever find out what I’ve done. Your head and mine depend on this secret remaining a secret.

Alright, enough preamble. I who orchestrated the beginning of this war. I paid the engineer to sabotage that plant, to take the fall for it and spend the rest of his life in prison. And I had ordered the very bombs that took the life of my daughter. I would do it again, over and over until this “rebellion” had been stomped out. Why? It’s a show of strength, of course. An excuse to destroy my enemies. Because the unfortunate thing is, there really is a rebellion brewing, and they are more than happy to take credit for this bombing. They call themselves the Sons and Daughters of Liberty, and they have amassed in the South, just as the old separatists had. Originally, they had been nothing more than a thorn in my side, one that had long shed its rose, devoid of anything that had once made it beautiful. Because it had been beautiful, or at least useful. They had provided a scapegoat, a reason that my programs were failing. They aren’t Jenson’s loyalists, though. Those don’t exist. They also aren’t my greatest fans, but they have the decency not to shout about it during their very public protests. Now if only I could locate their headquarters…

Perhaps they are afraid of me, but maybe a part of them respects me too much to insult me to my face. Delusional, I know. Freedom of speech had flown out the window when Jenson took charge, and I see no sense in bringing it back. Some words are illegal and punishable by death. What good are rights when you can’t eat, when your flesh turns liquid from that horrible disease. Nobody has the gall to complain out loud, thankfully. Probably because it is illegal and punishable by death. A lot of things are punishable by death these days. I have no qualms about a bit of blood, but I am practically bathing in it by now. First, most members of Congress who had been stealing the money they were supposed to be putting into social programs. Then I executed 13 officers who had refused to join me in the days leading up to my coup, and killed their families too. The others were eager to join me after that.

All in all, 231 people had met their death at my command, and I’m sure I killed at least a thousand when I destroyed the power plant. Probably even more during the bombing. I am the villain, yes, but somebody has to be in this world that would fall apart without one. I’ll bear the burden, I’ll commit the sins, because somebody has too. And why pretend otherwise, a part of me enjoys the power. The darkness wrapped around me grows with every passing day, and I let it. I welcome it like an old friend. I have no regrets in this life, because every decision I make, cold and calculated as they might be, is for the benefit of my people. My land that shrinks with every inch the ocean grows. But it is slowing, the laws I created are doing their work in healing this world. Soon it will stabilize, soon we will be rid of the diseases and wars that plague us. But first, I’m going to have to spill some blood. Blood is not so beautiful as roses are, but it has its place in the circle of life we all choose to participate in. I destroy, yes, but I build things from the rubble more beautiful than anything that was or ever will be: A lasting peace, tranquility. Eventually. The way we would get there might be horrible, but every last drop of blood would be worth it in the end. The end of wrath, of greed, is nearing. They are nothing but love gone astray, easily reformed by the right person. And that person is me.

I glance across the clearing and see a face that is all too familiar. At the site of every tragedy is this snarling figure, cloaked and holding a scythe. The creature is strangely handsome, or he would be if his face were not contorted so. Contorted with emotions I can’t even name. Anger, sorrow, maybe. Unspeakable, crushing depression. He is the last thing any of us see, the arm that guides us underground to our graves. And if he’s here, that can only mean one thing.

Somebody is going to die tonight.

It wasn’t me, though, of that I was certain. As much as Death loves to toy with his victims, he is forbidden from revealing himself to them. He must rely on other omens if he is to frighten the damned souls. A black cat, a shattered mirror, a stormcloud that’s a little too dark. A starless sky, perhaps. The superstitious see it everywhere, fear their death with every unsteady breath. The funny thing about dying, is you could never see it coming. So someone was going to die tonight, and it wasn’t me. Fantastic. I wonder who it is.

And then I know. An arrow whistles past my ear, nearly taking out my eye.

“That is not a toy,” I say drily. There is no fear in my heart tonight, the outcome has already been determined, so why would there be? Death melted back into the shadows, as if startled by my words that had broken the quiet night. The archer stepped out of the trees where Death had been standing just a moment ago. My attacker, a slight woman with mousy brown hair tied into a loose bun, pulls out another arrow and aims it at my heart. As if she was unaware of my reputation, she shot it and it bounces off harmlessly, just as I knew it would. Her look of confusion is quickly replaced by anger, as she loses arrow after arrow at me. They all glance off of me, not drawing a single drop of my silver blood. Because my blood is not red. My veins pulse with liquid metal, fueling me. Protecting me. Making me a god. Or immortal, at least. My ancestors had struck a deal with a demon long ago, to protect themselves from assassinations. Now the only thing that frightens us is poison, and most of us will never taste it.

Now to deal with this idiotic girl. I flick a knife from my sleeve to my hand, the movement almost lazy, then stride over and slit her throat without a word. She tries to fight me off, but it is pointless. The reaper has already determined the outcome tonight. Death reappears, says some words over her, and she goes cold. Something about the passing from life to death being as necessary and good as day slipping into night. My Ancient Runes is rusty, but I’ve heard the words many times before. I repeated them in a muffled murmur, careful not to alert any other potential attackers. I’ve spilled enough blood today.

So why am I in the woods, by myself? Without a guard? Because I want to be, and because nobody can stop me. With the monarchy dismantled, I wasn’t someone worth protecting. As fun as it was to dress up and be the king, I honestly prefer this new style of government, imported from the New World across the sea. It had served the Malari people well, and it did the same for us. I was not just someone born to the right parents, I had been elected, been chosen to lead. Power means so much more when it is willingly bestowed. So now I am the prime minister, not the king, but I am still the most powerful man in Kilvan Sove, and I’m enjoying it thoroughly. Who knew that running a country could be so fun. If only we could do something about those damnable pirates. By the look of this girl, she was one. Which meant her captain couldn’t be far.

Logic and temptation war inside me for a moment. I am armed with a knife, and Death has already chosen tonight's victor. It’s me. But would I be able to take out an entire crew of pirates and capture their captain? That might be a stretch. Too much for one night. But I can do some scouting, and come back with reinforcements in the morning. Or this afternoon. It already is morning, I realize with a start. The sun is coming up, sending sprays of orange and gold across the night sky. The light reflects off the ocean, staining it a grisly shade of red. As confident as I was in my abilities to fight off these petty criminals, it would be best to lay low and gather whatever intelligence I could. I usually left such tasks to lesser men and women than myself, but I was tired of drafting legislation. It was boring, and I was a person built for adventure. It courses through me in every cell, in every drop of my iron blood. This was going to be fun.

Chapter 1

Lyla

I stare at myself in the mirror inspecting myself for cracks in my appearance. Finding none, I turn to the countertop and pick up a comb with a wicked, sharp tail. I use the tail to split my hair in half and begin carefully braiding each side. When they’re exactly how I want them, I twist the ends into a slick bun and fasten my hair in place with pins. The braided hairstyle coupled with my simple outfit, give me the appearance of an ordinary soldier. Military-issue camouflage pants, a black turtleneck, a black vest. Only the five scarlet stars emblazoned on my breast give away that I’m anything more than an ordinary engineer or foot soldier.

I dab a little bit of makeup and powder under my eyes, just enough to disguise the sleepless nights that have left their marks on my face. I switch on the curling iron and give definition to the few wisps of hair that have slipped free from my bun. Satisfied, I step out of the bathroom and walk towards the kitchen, where a simple but delicious meal awaits. Breakfast:. A green smoothie, orange juice, scrambled eggs and two deliciously crisp hash brown patties. At the palace, I know my sister is probably gorging herself on a meal that would make my weak stomach turn for days. Fresh pancakes, figs, enough whipped cream to fill a bucket. Sugar is expensive, but that hardly concerns her. Here, in the military compound I reside in, we keep our meals plain to avoid stomach upset and waste. I’ve grown used to the fare, and I actually prefer it over the rich meals I ate at the palace.

Once I’m done eating, I walk down the hallway and across a bridge suspended by cables into the meeting room for today. My five stars silently announce my rank, and many ordinary soldiers stop to salute me. I can’t pretend that a part of me doesn’t relish those little gestures, the kind of respect that I know I’ve truly earned myself. Much better than half-baked compliments from whatever diplomat was visiting that day. I let my sister, the queen, handle such matters. And she does. Brilliantly. My role is a much simpler one, really. All I do is decide the placement of our troops on the front lines of the endless wars we fight here in Crejin Sove. One day there are pirates on the coast, the next it's the upstart Kilvans, begging to be destroyed for some peculiar reason. I’ve met with their king before, and he seems a perfectly sane and amiable fellow, so who knows why he makes the choices he does.

When I reach the meeting room, I knock and take a step back to leave room for the door to swing open. General Leonard Stevens opens the door and welcomes me to where my advisors have gathered this morning.

“General Lyla Havensborough has arrived,” he announced. “Would you care to attend my presentation on the Kilvan front, Ma’am?” My proper title is Princess or Highness, but I prefer to be referred to as my military rank. I nod my assent, and he begins, sticking pins in the deerhide map we have on the wall. He drones on about the need to put a swift end to the fighting before it becomes a full-blown war, which is something we can all agree on. At the end, he thanks us for listening.

“In essence,” he adds, “I’m asking the esteemed General Havensborough permission to blow them up.” He winks at me in a most undignified manner and salutes to me.

“Blow them up? Is that the technical term for it?” I ask.

“No Ma’am. We call this technique the Accelerated Rate Firebombing technique. Or ARF for short.” He punctuates his point with an impression of a dog yapping.

“Very well,” I say. “Permission granted. Go forth and blow it up. Anything to avoid peace talks with that upstart King Damarion.” Kilvan Sove is an interesting little country, with plenty of scenic locales, but they truly needed to stand down before we bombed them to dust. I guess it was too late for that, actually. We were going to blow them up, and I could sense Leo’s eagerness to do so radiating from him. I sensed it from everyone, actually. We were tired of being bullied by a tiny little country in the mountains. Curse them and their advanced tanks and artillery. It made countering them very difficult, hence us resorting to a firebombing campaign. It certainly wasn’t my first choice. I knew that the image of their front lines being incinerated would join my long procession of nightmares tonight. Maybe playing the diplomat wouldn’t have been so bad, if only I had my sister’s charm and good looks.

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The next day, I forgot all about maintaining my polished appearance and dressed in an even more practical manner than I ordinarily did. A full military uniform and combat boots instead of sneakers. I wouldn't be going directly into the fray today, but I did need to present in order to write a report about our latest sophisticated technique, ARF. Well, the design of the bombs was sophisticated at least. It had taken our best and brightest to figure out how to put gunpowder in an aluminum shell. We had rigged the land between the trenches with mines too, to take out the tanks that might survive the bombing campaign. Now for the finest bit of technology we had, that the Kilvans had somehow never discovered in centuries of inhabiting a frozen wasteland: Planes.

We heard the planes before we saw them, as the one in front was pumping water vapor out to partially conceal them. You could still see them if you looked hard enough, but the Kilvans didn’t know about this particular bit of Crejin innovation. Their eyes were squarely on the lines of troops we had sent out as a decoy to disguise the true nature of this battle. It would be over before it began.

Hopefully.

If some engineer had somehow managed to fail at making pipe bombs, or worse, sabotaged them, then someone was getting fired. Or executed.

Who could tell these days, in the period between barbarism and modernity. The line blurred more often than I would have liked.

As I watched the planes float closer and closer to their target, I turned ideas over in my mind, trying to figure out how exactly to make my report reach the three page requirement. Bombs dropped. Lots of dead people. Nasty smell. Mission successful. That was nowhere near three pages. I supposed I would have to focus on trying to make it a story. I could pick out a face or two in the enemy lines and watch how they reacted to their impending doom. I chose two that I saw in the first row of enemy soldiers in white camouflage that were suited more for their mountainous home than the gentle meadows we were fighting on. The only peculiar thing I noted in the pair’s plain faces is the twin smiles they wore. In all my years of conducting war, I had never seen that expression on a soldier’s face. Determination, anger, confusion, those were the faces I was used to seeing on the battlefield. Nervous smiles perhaps, but never gleeful ones like those that face me from across the trenches. It’s as if they know something I don’t. As if they know… what?

A great roar sounds from above as the bellies of the planes open up and release their explosive cargo. Only they didn’t explode on impact with the ground. They just… sat there. Ah, I thought to myself. A timed explosion. They would wait for the enemy soldiers to decide they were harmless and attempt to cross the trenches and begin the battle. Then these seemingly unarmed bombs would go off. How could the engineers have messed up building a pipe bomb? Any terrorist in his basement can make a half-decent pipe bomb. Were my University trained engineers truly this incompetent, or had we been betrayed? The latter option was seeming more likely as the minutes stretched by and the bombs still hadn’t gone off. Even when the battleground was filled with enemy troops, they still didn’t detonate. And I realized that they probably never would. On a whim, I marched myself into the fray and picked one up. I was betting against the engineers on this one. If it really was a delayed detonation, the little bomb would probably blow off my hands. But it didn’t. I took out my multi-tool, cracked the top open and sniffed. It wasn’t gunpowder at all. My nostrils instantly recognized that scent. Cane sugar. We had been betrayed. And those who betrayed us had the nerve to waste God knows how much perfectly good cane sugar. It’s very expensive. They could have just used chalk, and it actually would have resembled gunpower more and doesn’t have a scent. They just wanted to sow chaos, whoever had betrayed us.

So it looked like I would be fighting after all. Goody. I slung my rifle off my shoulder and began blowing the heads off of soldiers with all the aim I’d gained by training firearms since I was old enough to walk. It felt good and right to wipe the smirks off of the enemy soldier’s faces. They knew. Somehow the colossal failure of the simplest possible military technique had reached the front lines, had reached the ears of these ordinary soldiers. Did they not realize that they could still die today? That this would still be a battle, regardless of whether my side had the backup from the bomber planes that we thought we would have. And here I was, the highest ranking member of the Crejin military, as mortal as anyone else on the battlefield.

I hadn’t always been a five star general. Believe it or not, I actually worked my way up, despite my parentage and rank in the palace. I worked hard, and eventually became a five star general instead of a three star. It was really hard. But still, I knew what I was doing. I spent every waking moment reading and studying and shooting. I even learned how to use a sword, in case the age of barbarism reared its ugly head again. I polluted family game nights with my hunger for strategy, insisting that we play nothing but chess and Risk. I am very good at my job, and even better as a foot soldier. Which is why I’m still here to tell you this tale. I’m writing a book, and I guess if you’re reading this, I finished and published it. Welcome. You may call me Lyla. Or General Havensborough. Or Princess Lyla. Whatever suits you best, I don’t mind. This is my story. I hope it enthralls and entertains you, and I hope that you leave it behind knowing that I am indisputably the better choice for Queen than my inept sister. Please remember that when the 1724 general elections come around. Oh wait. It’s a monarchy. I guess I’ll have to wait for Lydia to kick it.

This story begins on a battlefield. The battlefield I was just telling you about, remember? The bombs are full of cane sugar, and lie useless on the ground. We were betrayed, by someone with no regard for their budget, since they made the unbelievably stupid choice to use cane sugar as their gunpowder substitute instead of chalk. I’m no economist, but whoever did that is an idiot. Almost as stupid as whoever didn’t do any final checks on their extremely simple bombs to ensure they were assembled correctly. Unless the quality control inspector had defected too… I don’t get it. What had those frozen bastards up north offered my soldiers that we didn’t supply ourselves? A noose? Because that’s what those fools were going to get, if I had anything to say on the matter. I wasn’t a barbarian, but high treason had to be punished. No sense in letting them languish in prison so they could conspire against their country a little more. They had done enough damage as it was. So the Kilvan king Damarion must have offered them protection if they defected, but what else? Money? Could it be that my most brilliant engineers who figured out how to make a pipe bomb all on their own could be bought for coin? If it was that simple, I would have been happy to offer them a raise. They needn’t commit high treason over that. So what else had they been offered? I was out of guesses, but we would find out soon enough when the traitors were interrogated and hanged.

The battle raged around me as I slipped into these thoughts. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out what could be so valuable that the traitors would risk their lives to win. When I had met King Damarion for the first time, I was struck by the gray pallor his brown skin had, how dull it was despite there being no possibility that he was malnourished. Perhaps he had some mysterious illness and was dying of it. Hopefully. Once I caught a glimpse of him drinking something that looked to be a potion, when I was spying on him. Yes, I admit it, I’ve played dirty too when it comes to war. But not this dirty. In order to pull off this move, the Iron King would have had to effectively bribe at least a dozen engineers and three quality inspectors, plus their general. My stomach lurched at that last addition. A general of the army of Kilvan Sove had defected to the enemy's side, whether openly or not. Who was it? Hopefully just a one star general, but anyone of such a rank had access to a lot of things. Dangerous things, like our tactics and formations. Secret things, like our espionage ring and clandestine weapons development. We needed something a little more clever than a pipe bomb that my elite team of engineers still couldn’t manage. They had clearly been sabotaged, but come on now. How do you manage to screw up a pipe bomb? Even me, someone with little aptitude for engineering, can do that much. But this is Crejin Sove, so somehow these “genius engineers'' had failed us. We managed to win the battle regardless. I made sure of it. And I lived to write a ten page report of the day’s events.

Chapter 2

Lydia

In the garden of my castle, there are dozens, hundreds of flower types. Silvery statues dot the premises, depicting my ancestors in their various heroic poses. I sit on the throne in the great hall, dressed in a golden gown with a matching crown on my brow. I long for my gardens, but I must focus. This meeting with King Damarion could determine if we were at war or not. So I smiled pleasantly and tried to hide the ache I could already feel from being indoors for so long. My loyal sister, the general of my army, had done the hard part for me, winning the first battle of what I hoped would not become a war, despite her bombs not going off. That was another matter entirely, the betrayal of those engineers and the pilots who flew those planes. Here, the task at hand was to come up with an amicable solution to this conflict, with the king who sat across from me, marking himself as my equal.

“In my mind,” the king said, “the solution is simple. Marry me, and this war will be over before it begins.” He waves his hand around vaguely. “You will have your treaty of course, but you will also have the benefit of a very powerful husband.” He watched me with falcon-sharp eyes, looking for any trace of expression on my face. I betray nothing on my face, only with my words. I made a point of scowling and being oppositional, mimicking the tendencies of my sister, Lyla.

“Are you sure you would not rather have my sister? She is much more… more strategically minded than I.”

“No,” Damarion says simply. “I don’t need strategy. I need a diplomat. I need you. Well, I want you at least.”

“Say I agree,” I start. “What’s in it for me?”

“Not being at war, for one. Access to our ports and trade connections. And all the benefits that come from a handsome husband. In return, I ask that you please stop trying to bomb my soldiers. It’s a very cowardly technique, really.”

“First, stop sabotaging my bombs. Cane sugar, really Damarion?” He had wasted precious stores of it, while also ruining three dozen perfectly good bombs. A tragedy. Luckily, Lyla had managed to win that first battle regardless, which had brought us here to the negotiating table.

“Of course I would stop sabotaging your military if we got married.”

“I’ll have to consult with my generals. If we can win this war without a marriage, I would much prefer that.” I say.

“You really despise my presence that much?” he says, putting his hand to his chest as if I’ve greatly insulted him. But there’s a slight smile playing on his lips. He knows I’m going to agree eventually. When the door to our right opened, as I knew it would, his face shifts to barely concealed shock. The woman who walks through the door… is me. Well, she’s my identical twin. But Damarion doesn’t know that I have one. She’s wearing a dazzling navy blue gown with silver stars bursting along the bodice. I wear something similar, only in crimson and gold. He is used to seeing a pleasant expression on our face, so my sister’s stormcloud glare must be especially jarring to him. Lyla would have to learn how to mimic the easy grins that pass often across my features, if we were to pull this ruse off. We’d done it before, for exams only one of us had studied for or practical jokes we played on our parents, but nothing like this. We were going to stop this war, investigate Damarion’s spy network, and gain some of our historical land back in one easy maneuver. All it took was Lyla and I swapping places, and doing it well. Why? Because as we had established, I was not the strategic one out of the two of us. I was here for parties and tea cakes, here to impress guests and keep the clergy and foreign ambassadors enamored by my hospitality. Not to hide in my room and play chess until I won every round.

“This must be the princess I’ve heard so much about. It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” Damarion says, flashing his bright white teeth at her. The expression resembled an animal baring its teeth more than a human smile. Lyla’s gaze hardened.

“Indeed,” she replies. “You may also refer to me as General Havensborough, if it suits you.”

“Does the general usually wear such extravagant dresses?” he asks. Lyla pursed her lips, and I answer for her.

“My sister tends to prefer a practical style most days, but she has made an exception hoping it would please Your Majesty.” I say.

“Very well. It is a pleasure,” he repeats himself, rising to shake her hand. He saw her as an equal in a way he did not see me. That much was very clear. I could picture the two of them hunched over a deerskin map, moving around pieces and putting together battle strategies. Perhaps they would, if given enough time. If she ever was safe enough to reveal her true identity, because surely such an action would reveal our little trick. If our two countries became allies in the way we were hoping. If we worked together to defeat our mutual enemies, the pirate clans at our northern border. Maybe, just maybe, we could begin using those ports again, and regain access to the New World. Maybe we didn’t need to, and access to Damarion’s ports would be enough for now. I knew, one way or another, this ruse was going to be worth it. It took everything in me not to let one of my frequent, sly, fox-like grins show on my face. Not yet. This was our chance to get everything we ever dreamed of, and it would happen soon. I had been hoping that Damarion would outright choose Lyla over me, but he had flatly refused to do so. Trickery it was, I supposed. The only distinguishing feature between my sister and I was a mole on her left cheek, which I had tattooed onto mine. Now we were truly identical, and nobody, certainly not Damarion, could tell us apart. I hoped that I had done a convincing job today acting like Lyla that he would not be startled when her mask inevitably slips.

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“Good job,” Lyla says breathlessly when we are alone in a war room. “Those acting classes really paid off. I almost believed you were miserable like me.” The problem was, she had also been her usual haughty self.

“I think it would have worked a little better if you had at least tried to smile,” I say, demonstrating in case she didn’t know how.

“No thank you,” she says, making a big show of glaring at me with dark gray eyes. My eyes. Our eyes. Only mine were a shade lighter and had the beginnings on crows feet from smiling so much. They reminded me that we were 35 and not getting any younger. We needed husbands to secure our titles and expand our diplomatic reach, as I frequently reminded Lyla. I knew she despised the idea, but perhaps Damarion would be a good match for her. Much better than him and I together, at least. She sighed dramatically.

“Do I really have to marry him?” she asks.

“Yes, of course you do. Well, I do. But he’ll never know it's you.” We’d been switching places ever since I got that mole tattooed on my cheek, and even the servants and tutors who have known us our entire lives failed to tell the difference. As long as we swapped expressions, we could morph as easily as silt melted away under the waves. Lyla stands up, moving the pins around, accounting for the alliance we had just made.

“We’ll have the pirates pinned on two sides now,” she says, grinning. “And the other two sides are the ocean. We’ve got them this time.” I wasn’t so sure, and I knew that pirates would have little difficulty escaping into the ocean, but I also knew better than to contradict the strategic mind of my sister. But now it was my turn. We had invited Damarion for dinner and to see the orchestra with me, so we might get to know each other better. That would be my time with him. But then, tomorrow night, when we went to see the opera, that would be all Lyla. I would tell her everything that happened on my night with him, then she would do the same tomorrow. We would play this game, swapping places night after night, until next week, when the wedding was scheduled. I had agreed, sending a letter with a courtier to Damarion’s guest suite, and he had replied instantly.

It occurred to me that perhaps he needed this alliance just as much as we did. If the rumors were true, Kilvan Sove was nearly bankrupt, losing ship after ship to the pirates that roamed their neighboring islands. From what I’d heard, it was nearly impossible to get any shipments to the New World, which meant no sugar, no milk, and no chicken eggs. Those species were all native to the other continent, and had trouble acclimating to the climate here. I was no geopolitics expert, but that was a recipe for disaster. King Damarion could only turn his nose away at these newly discovered delicacies for so long before it began to arouse suspicion.

So that must be why he was so desperate to find a wife here. And with me gone, “Lyla” would have free reign to become Queen and start planning a vicious military campaign against the pirates that crowded our northern border. She had something already in the works, I knew, but I would have to be the one to finish it off. So far, being diplomatically minded has won me prosperity for my country, but it couldn’t last. There was no negotiating with pirates. The war, the real one, would be long and bloody and probably end in failure yet again. But without it, we would forfeit any resource that came from the New World, and that was an unacceptable possibility. If we didn’t have a trade alliance with the nations of the other continent, we didn’t have anything, and we would fall into opulent obscurity just as the country at our southern border, Jihan Lo had. Despite having every advantage, access to two seas, being far from the pirate’s lost isles, and having a mountain range at their rear, they became complacent, over and over again. The monarchy would falter, some general would take over and declare himself king, and the cycle would restart every century like clockwork. So why was I marrying their crown prince? For his good looks, of course.

I jest. While Prince Yamar is very handsome, it is his lands that I lust for. Lands unmarked by the reign of the pirate king, which had not seen a war for fifty years. This was the best time possible to make an alliance there, and put a stop to the endless cyclical wars. But I dared not invite him to the palace yet, not until the matter of Lyla’s marriage was settled. Now that we each had a pairing, I could put my brilliant sister to work on her true calling: Spying. She had been doing it since we were children, acting naive, sneaking up to the doors of the war rooms and listening with her left ear pressed to the door. She was a natural at it, and eventually the generals gave up and started allowing her in meetings. They taught her chess and other strategy games, gave her books to read, and made sure she had every opportunity to nurture her skills. When she turned thirteen, they granted her a place at their table. Now, she sits at its head. Now, she would be taking on the greatest task anyone had ever asked of her. She needed to infiltrate the Kilvan military and figure out who the spies were, all without getting caught and without revealing herself. There was no one else I trusted to be up to the task.

Chapter 3

“Lydia”

The charades opened that night with an opera. I had been practicing easy smiles and laughter, the expressions in endless conflict with my nature. If I wasn’t scowling and glaring, was I even Lyla? Of course not, not anymore. We had switched places, our highest profile ruse yet. As I sat next to Damarion in the theater, I noted that his ghostly complexion had returned to its natural bronze color. The last time I had seen him was a year ago, and he’d looked half dead. A sickly part of me had wished he would die, but then who would help us fight the pirates? His brother? That bumbling fool wouldn’t know strategy if it walked up to him, introduced itself, and slapped him in the face. No, we needed Damarion alive. Unfortunately.

He looked at me with a faraway look in his eyes. Us elves were immune to the glamor that the performers used, but a human like Damarion was utterly vulnerable to it. Interesting. That was an exploitable weakness, should we ever need one. I was passable at best at glamors, but I could conjure a simple one should the need ever arise. When it ends, he turns to me and smiles, looking drunk despite not a drop of wine touching his tongue. Really? The glamor wasn’t even that powerful. I had barely felt it, even with no defensive charms. It was meant to keep attention on the actors, nothing more.

The next night, the real Lydia, armed with the finer points of our discussion last night, took my place. They attended an orchestra, and connected well from what she shared with me. He was head over heels with us, oblivious to the tricks we played on him. Anytime he got suspicious, a simple glamor did the trick. Another opera and two  state dinners later, I woke on the day that we were to be married. I found a jade dress hanging in my bathroom, the traditional wedding color in Crejin Sove. The color suited our greenish skin, and represented the nature we held so dear. I swiped some waxy balm the servants had left on my lips. It tasted like sweetened mint. Then I went about dabbing powder and rouge on my face, thickening my lashes, and finally swiping on a cherry red lipstick. Two emeralds hung from my pointed ears, and the look was complete. I was not myself anymore. I was fully and completely Lyla. And I would have to keep up that ruse for the rest of my life. Such fun.

When I’m done getting ready, a servant girl helps me pull the dress on and lace up the back. I was unnerved by how exposed my bare arms and back felt, open to the elements in a way they rarely were. Even the knee-length black dresses I normally wore for state dinners didn’t make me feel so vulnerable. I was still in control then. I still had accolades pinned to my sash at state dinners, reminding everyone around me that I answered to no one. Except perhaps Lydia. But most often she trusted me to handle matters of state on my own, weighing in only on rare occasions. She technically outranked me, but I appreciated the freedom I experienced under her reign.

I pull on high heels that I spent the last month learning to walk in, and then I’m ready. I had breakfast brought to me, the simple fare provided by the nearby base. Just how I liked it. I couldn’t stand the rich, creamy food the real Lydia preferred, but I choked it down in public. Like I would have to tonight, at dinner. In the space of a few short hours, I would be married, and I would never get my real name back. But if that was the price I had to pay for my country's security, I was grateful that we could avoid bloodshed. At least until our war against the pirates was won. It should be simple enough with the help of Damarion’s kingdom, but still I worry. Pirates are not generally known for upholding treaties, so that left us exactly one option. We would have to destroy their kind completely. Men, women, and children. I didn’t savor the idea, but if that was what it took to achieve peace, so be it. I would bear the blame for the bloodshed myself, and their faces would join my nightmares like everyone else.

But all that would have to wait. First, it was time for my wedding. Smile, Lyla, I could hear my sister telling me as if she were really there. I forced a closed-lip smile, hoping I looked shy but excited, rather than slightly pained. I practice in the mirror until I hear the noon bells ring out, then I eat the lunch the servants brought me. A turkey sandwich and potato chips, my favorite. My afternoon was spent reading the list of etiquette rules married women were expected to follow, which included all sorts of ridiculous things, like curtsying in a specific way. I’d been informed that Kilvan Sove was much more lax on such things. Women were expected to act just in the way that men did, even permitted to wear pants. Only female soldiers and farmers in Crejin Sove did so, but apparently that was the standard dress for bureaucrats over there as well.

When I felt confident in my abilities to play the lady, I stepped out onto my porch for some fresh air. It was Lydia’s routine to take a stroll around the gardens around this time, so I did that. The spring air was pleasant against my skin, and the garden was bursting with flowers. Pale blue forget-me-nots, daffodils, even rose bushes sparkled in the midday sun. They released a saccharine scent in the air, a heavy perfume that brought tears to my eyes. I would need to retouch the mascara on my lashes later. I picked a few white roses and strands of baby breath, weaving a flower crown from them as I walked. The real crown I would be wearing was a slim thing, gold filigree encrusted with opals and emeralds. It was beautiful, but the flower crown I’d created was charming in its own way.

Eventually, the six o’clock bells rang as the sky began to darken. It was time. I walked over to the palace and went back to my chambers to touch up my makeup and hair before arriving at the dining hall. The private dining room we were eating in tonight was a beautiful place, with windows and skylights dotted around it. The wooden wall panels were carved with flowers and creatures from our mythology. Elves, high fae, tricksters, goblins. And in the center, a regal king with pointed ears. Each carving was inlaid with mother of pearl, giving the impression that the figures were glowing. The dining table itself was covered in sculpted vines, shining in the candlelight. I was the last to arrive, and my guests stood and bowed or curtsied.

“Rise, rise,” I told them jovially. “Today is a day for celebrating.” They were all smiles and laughters, and I did my best to stretch my lips the way they did, but the movement still felt foreign to me. With a start, I realized that Damarion was either already drunk, or under a glamor. Had he tried to back out of the wedding? One look at the wine glass in his hand told me everything I needed to know.

“How are you already in your cups?” I hiss indignantly.

“That is not for you to question, wife. Now laugh as if I’ve just said something hilarious.” I force a dry chuckle, and he glares at me. “That’s the best you can do?” I smile and laugh a little louder, remembering who I was supposed to be.

“You’re too funny, Your Majesty,” I say, breathless from how hard I’m pretending to laugh. He nods, satisfied.

“Good,” is all he says. “There’s my Lydia.” Now I’m really laughing. He really is a fool, at least when it comes to women. His political acumen was just fine, honed by years of being a pupil to the best tutors in the world. Just like me. Maybe we would make a good pair. If I ever felt safe enough to reveal my own prowess, which would likely never happen. Lydia and I would have to switch back at some point before the war. We planned to send each other frequent letters in Jihani to prevent them from being intercepted. After asking Damarion a hundred times in a hundred different ways, and raiding his guest chambers here, we were nearly certain that he didn’t speak it. There was no reason to, so far north. He only knew Crejin, Kilvani, and the rough dialect of the pirates. He was passable at Ancient Runes. For my part, Lydia and I both knew three languages and were fluent in Ancient Runes. I was working on a fourth, but it was slow, grueling work.

When the overly rich dinner was finished, the ceremony began. I walked, slow and dramatic, to the altar, decked out in my stunning green gown and gemstones. Damarion wore his own traditional wedding color, stark white. The color brought out the unnatural white of his teeth. I reach the altar, recite the words the priest supplied me, and watch as Damarion does the same, speaking clearly despite the alcohol he’d consumed. Perhaps he gave drunken speeches very often, because I would not have known had I not seen it for myself. The priest gives a long speech of his own, speaking of love and the beauty of matrimony. He laments the fact that he may never experience it for himself.

“The groom may now kiss the bride,” he finally finishes. Damarion pulls my face towards his with a gloved hand and presses our lips together. They feel unnaturally hot even with the cooling balm on my lips. They taste metallic, like blood. Except I couldn’t see any blood. Slowly, finally, the pieces fit together in my mind. Iron. The only thing that could burn an elf like that. What did he do, drink the stuff? It was plausible. I’d heard rumors. That day a year ago, when he’d looked sick. Anemic. Perhaps his supply had been coming up dry. Who was to say. All I knew was that I would never be able to touch my new husband, never hold his bare hand. The realization filled me with sorrow, an emotion that didn’t come to me often.

When I’m back in my chambers after the wedding, I begin to remove the rouge and lipstick from my face. I hear the door handle turn, and Damarion stumbles in, angry and still a little drunk. He reaches me in three quick strides.

“Hello, Lyla,” he murmurs.

“I’m Lydia,” I reply. The lie comes easily after repeating it so often, but there’s still a stabbing pain in my chest. The high fae cannot lie at all, but elves can, for a price.

His lips brush against my ear, raising blisters on the exposed skin. I can smell the liquor on his breath.

“I don’t think so,” he breathes. “Your mole.” He cradles my cheek in his gloved hand and rubs the mole with his thumb. “It’s flat. Like a tattoo.” I reach for a lie, but come up empty. A variation on the truth would have to do.

“It is a tattoo. A beauty mark. Fashion,” I reply smoothly. “But Lyla’s is too. I can prove it.” I move towards my desk and shuffle around, pulling out a photo of us when we were younger. Her mole had been carefully blotted out of the image. “See,” I say. Another stab of pain. I bite my cheek to keep from crying out.

Damarion steps back, drawing himself up to his full height. He can’t seem to pick an eye to focus on. If he means to frighten me, it’s working.

“All right,” he says finally. “But if I find out you’re lying to me, there will be consequences. No one is above the law, certainly not you. This isn’t an exam you don’t want to take or a speech you don’t want to give. This is life or death. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very clear, Your Majesty,” I reply, because what else could I say? I dip into a deep curtsy. “Is there anything else you require of me tonight?” I ask. Sex was obviously out of the question, as even a simple kiss had burned my lips.

He shakes his head, looking disgruntled.

“Go get that ear checked out. Then get out of my sight.” I take the hint and walk downstairs to the doctor, thinking of a lie as I go.

“A servant gave me an earring that contained iron by mistake,” I tell the man. He looks startled, as though I’ve just described an assassination attempt, but says nothing. It isn’t his place. He applies that same minty salve on it, then sends me on my way. I let out the breath I was holding, coming out ragged and thin. Only now do I realize how close I had been to getting caught. Just two lies and a photo away. But I am a married woman now. Things are falling into place, bit by bit.

Chapter 4

Cameron

The Captain of the Blue Maiden is in his early thirties, tall, covered in scars, and very cross with me. I can’t imagine why. All I did was attack his fleet and kill 27 of his men. I’d lost five of my own, and the other 40 were executed, their heads unceremoniously removed from their bodies and dumped in the sea. Even the thought of it turned my stomach. I had only escaped that fate by being rich and ransomable. I hope they never find out just how low our coffers were running. My brother Damarion insisted on spending all our money on social programs, leaving our navy and army ten years behind where they should be. Hence why we had suffered this very embarrassing loss. But perhaps there was a silver lining. There always was. Right now, it was easy to see what it was. I was on the most notorious pirate ship in all the Lost Isles, perfectly positioned to do some snooping.

“A prince, eh?” the captain says, sounding excited.

“Yes, sir. My brother would be more than happy to pay whatever ransom you require,” I say smoothly. “However, I do believe I outrank you, and treating your superior this way is quite poor form-” A sharp slap sends me sprawling on the deck before I can finish what was sure to be my best speech yet, equal parts lengthy and eloquent. These outlaws truly had no manners. This was no way to treat a very wealthy and important prince. But laughing now would probably not end well, so I save it for when I’m alone that night. After three days on the Blue Maiden, my enemies have been lulled into a false sense of security. The bumbling fool I played so well was clearly no threat to them. Or was I? Convincing everyone that I was a poor student and a worse strategist was my proudest accomplishment. Even my parents were convinced that I was an idiot, and there was even speculation that I was a bastard.  None of it was true, of course. I read books and wrote essays until every candle in Kilvan Sove burnt out. I speak seven languages, have memorized 62 sonnets, and I play the flute. My pride means nothing compared to the unadulterated joy of being a secret genius. Thus far, I had only made a name for myself as an alcoholic and a womanizer. Both were a little more accurate than I would have liked, but they were part of the character I played, the charming bastard of Kilvan Sove.

The fun was just starting, though. From a hidden pocket in my jacket, I pulled out what looked like a pen. It even wrote. But when I screwed the top half off, a thin blade glinted in the lantern light. I used it to slice through the rope that bound my wrists together, then got to work on picking the brass lock. It was surprisingly simple compared to the ones I practiced on. This was going to be easy.

With phase one of my very carefully thought out plan complete, I glance down the hallways before walking towards the captain’s office in quick, quiet strides. The lush carpet under my feet muffled the sound of my approaching footsteps, and I silently thanked the ridiculous taste of the legendary Captain Williams. He was an idiot, or maybe he was pretending like me. Either way, I could tell within seconds of meeting him that the true power of the Lost Isles did not reside in his greasy hands. That alone was valuable intel for our cause, but I intended to find much more tonight. Then, all I had to do was wait for Damarion to pay Williams and get the hell out of here. Simple enough.

The office door is locked, just as I expected it would be. I slip out the slim metal lockpicks I had brought and get to work. This lock is considerably more complicated, but I had come prepared. Within minutes, I was turning the handle and stepping into a neat, organized office. The room carried the pleasant scent of incense and parchment, a lantern still lit in the corner. The captain’s log sat open on the desk, with the latest entry drying slowly. My eyes skimmed over the text quickly, and I listened for footprints as I memorized the words. Most of it was him gloating about how rich he was about to be, and I flipped the page, disappointed. A lot of it was written in neat Ancient Runes, better calligraphy than I myself could manage. Luckily it was one of the many languages I knew, and I read it easily. Most of it was ledgers for the ship’s finances. Food, black tar, all the things required to keep a ship running.

The real gold was the sections in Jihani. There were letters addressed to someone named the Falcon. A moniker, I assumed. Perhaps the Falcon was the person causing all this ruckus. I skimmed the pages, probing for any information I could find on who this man was, but I came up frustratingly empty.

Then I came to a page much different than the others, written in sweaty, rushed penmanship. At the bottom of the page, I found a set of coordinates. I committed them to memory instantly, and wrote them in the little notebook I carried for good measure. This was worth being captured. Even as my stomach roared in protest from hunger, I grinned from ear to ear. We have a location now, hopefully the right one. The rest of the letter made it very clear that this was the place where the Falcon lived. A little nameless island off the northern coast.

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When I finally make it to shore and into the arms of my wailing mother, I immediately request an audience with my brother, to share what I had gleaned. His eyes grow wide with shock, and I know I have won his admiration this time.

“And how did you happen upon this information?” Damarion demands.

“By looking through the captain’s log. He might as well have told me himself,” I say with my typical smirk. “It was easy.”

“If you say so. So, what do you plan to do with this information?”

“I was hoping you or that lovely bride of yours had some ideas. I am but an informant,” I say, dipping into a mock bow. “I leave military strategy to greater minds than mine.”

“So literally anyone else?” he asks.

“I believe I could outsmart a chimpanzee if the need arose, Your Majesty.”

“Enough jokes. I’m assigning you to lead a force to invade the Lost Isles. I’ll come up with the battle plans, just follow my instructions. And no funny business this time. If you lose another 45 men, I’m stripping you of your title.”

“Respectfully, that was not my fault. If we had more funding-”

“I’m not cutting healthcare, or the retirement accounts,” Damarion hisses. “Don’t ask me again. Besides, we have plenty of money now from our new alliance. You’ll get your ships. Now get down to the war room and talk to your generals.” God, it was fun pretending to be stupid. I never have to do any work, it all falls right into my lap.

But my generals know better. In this war room, my easy smiles vanish, replaced by grim determination. My voice even changes, becoming flat and monotone. I’m all business here. And I never drink with a battle coming up, as fun as it might be. Now is when the real work begins.

After three hours of back and forth, my generals and I have the beginnings of a fantastic plan. It was three-pronged, starting with gathering intel. Once we had a better idea of what we were up against, we could work out the finer details.

“You could always pretend to be captured again,” General Mehmet suggests glibly.

“I think it starts to get suspicious if I do it too often,” I reply. “But very well. I am willing to sacrifice for the good of my country, just as any of you would.”

“But we wouldn’t be worth much of a ransom, so the pirates would just kill us,” General Eliza replies.

“Which is why it has to be me again. Lovely.” I did not relish the idea of starving on a pirate ship again, but sacrifices must be made sometimes for the greater good. And I was usually the one to do it. I gave my sweat, tears, and far too many drops of my royal blood to my country.

And so the cycle repeats itself. Another weak invasion, executed crewman (though I’m careful to only hire 44), and a pissed off captain. Such fun. Another captain’s office, this one much messier, another few secrets to glean, another rush of adrenaline as I found far more than I had the first time. I discover an entire network of spies, and my eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets as I scan through a list of their names. Three of my top generals grace the list. Shit! No wonder our campaigns had gone poorly for so long. That was our trick, how we had beat the Crejin century after century. It was a dirty play, but a useful one. There is little honor to be concerned with when it comes to warfare, I often found.

As I’m silently cursing out General Mehmet and the two others on my list, I hear a gun cocking, feel the barrel pressed against the hair I’d just styled. These pirates truly had no manners.

“Well, well, well,” a voice drawls out behind me. “What do we have here? A spy in our midst?”

“I could say the same about you,” I retort, and instantly regret it when the side of the pistol slams into my cheek. That was going to leave an ugly mark. But I wore bruises like medals, proof that I was not a pampered prince. At least not as much as people thought. My main concern had been my hair just now. I really needed to sort my priorities out. But first I needed to figure out how to get out of this unfortunate situation alive. I had charm and a ridiculously small knife, but neither seemed useful right now.

A hand lashed out and grabbed my arm, half-dragging me to another room. This one I hadn’t seen before, but the blood crusted on the floor suggested it was an interrogation room. Uh oh. This would be a great time to have a bigger knife. With my free arm, I ran my hand along another hidden pocket and felt the cyanide pill I always carried with me, reassuring under my fingers. Would I have time to take it? Would I, even if I had the chance.

Of course not. The sallow look of dead bodies would ruin my complexion, but at least I wouldn’t be around to see it. No. I needed another way off this ship, hopefully one that didn’t involve any bleeding or cyanide.

The captain set his gun down on the table, with a thud.

“I’m going to make this very simple,” he said. “Tell me who sent you here, or I’ll shoot your hand.” I thought with horror about how hideous I would look and how impossible it would be to get the blood out of my perfect curls. I took a shaky breath in.

“I’d rather not,” I say, praying that I knew what I was doing. I estimated that I had about ten seconds before the captain made good on his threat. I flicked the little knife I carried out of my sleeve and into my hand, leaping across the table. Before the captain could even flinch, blood spurted from the neat incision I’d made at his jugular. Blood ran red and sticky, getting all over the floor. I avoided the worst of the spatter, but some had gotten on my shirt, hopelessly staining the white linen. Oh well, at least I killed the guy and he hadn’t screamed. I carefully snuck onto the deck of the ship, and spotted an island in the dark. Thank God. I slipped into a rowboat and made my way to shore.

I lived off of the fruit and fresh springwater for a few days, plotting my grand return. Among my resources was a tiny rowboat, an even smaller knife, and exactly nothing else. My only option seemed to be stealing a bigger ship. By myself. In the middle of enemy territory. This day kept getting better and better.

Chapter 5

“Lyla”

I rub the stiff fabric of the army fatigues Lyla usually wore, frowning. It was strange to be wearing pants at all, much less a uniform like this. Despite being fully covered, I felt naked, exposed. I’m living at the base now. The food is terrible here, I don’t know how Lyla stands it. She sticks to a rigid routine, including a workout that leaves me sweating buckets. I grow used to passing soldiers saluting to me, and even begin to enjoy it a little. The gesture of respect feels more genuine somehow than the bows and curtsies I usually receive. Like they admire me, and aren’t just putting on a show. For all I know about the art of hostessing, I am utterly hopeless at being a general. I listen more than I speak in the war room, praying that no one can pick up on just how inept I am. I want my dresses back.

I can’t believe this is the rest of my life.

Lyla, the real one, must be just as uncomfortable in her own predicament. She’d begged me to come up with a different plan, but there was none. Get the alliance. Destroy the pirates together. Open up the northern trade routes. There was no other way to get the results I was looking for. As my father was fond of saying before his passing, it was our duty and distinct pleasure as leaders to sacrifice for our people, as much as was necessary. As much as we could give. It was an incredible burden, but what else could we do?

I realize that I haven’t heard a word of what General Stevens has said.

“Cut the bullshit,” I say, in a feeble imitation of Lyla’s foul mouth. “Summarize your presentation in five minutes or less.” And so he did. After corresponding with Prince Cameron, we had all sorts of intel to work with. Even my untrained eye could see that we had our work cut out for us. These pirates were wily, and we would be fighting them on two fronts: The ocean and the jungle. My father had spent his entire career trying to rid us of them, but we had something he didn’t. The help of Kilvan Sove. That was worth more than either of us had realized, and might be the key to our shared success. If only he’d been alive to see it. Unfortunately, we had lost contact with Cameron four days ago.

So the strategizing began without him. I chimed in occasionally, mostly to ask questions Lyla should have known the answers too. None of my generals dare question me, though. They patiently explained their tactics to me, until I’m up to speed. Then they start coming up with new ideas, weaving them together like a tapestry unfolding before my very eyes. My eyes floated across the faces before me, wondering which one was the traitor Lyla spoke of.

When this dreadful meeting is finally over, I retire to my rooms and crack open a dusty tome. I wipe the fine powder off, revealing a faded gold title: War For Absolute Beginners. That was me! I really should have paid more attention when my tutors tried to impress this information on me. But what use was all that when I could be learning the language of diplomacy, learning to ride the fine line between bribery and threats. I have been most successful in that arena, presiding over the longest era of peace Crejin Sove had ever seen. Until now.

Now I was planning a war, plotting to destroy an enemy as old as the earth itself. I never imagined we would have to ally ourselves with humans, much less the Iron King himself, but here we are. The enemy of my enemy and all. I wonder, what was going to happen when the pirates were destroyed, when every war had been fought and won to the bloody end. Then could we live in peace? Could we develop civilian technology instead of weapons, write literature instead of execution orders? It was a dream worth fighting for, day after blood-stained day.

The book turned out to be just boring as it seemed, but I finally finished it right as my candle burnt out. I looked up, satisfied, and went to bed. The next day was more of the same, and the one after that. Finally, it came time for the Jihani prince to visit. At last, the chance to dress up and slide back into my old habits. I couldn’t risk wearing my usual ridiculously poofy dresses, so I settled for one of Lyla’s plain crimson dresses that only fell to my knees. I added a sash full of my sister’s accolades, most of which were purely ceremonial, a pair of black heels, simple jewelry, and a tiara. Just in case Prince Yamar forgot that I, too, was born of noble blood.

He came the next night, bearing chests of jewels to bestow on me. I delighted in them silently, knowing that to wear them would reveal my identity to all. My own people would probably laugh at our little trick, just as they did when Lyla took tests for me, but I would be putting her in mortal danger. She was close enough to a noose as it was, and I didn’t dare endanger her further. So I bit back girlish squeals of joy and nodded staidly.

“My thanks for these gifts, Yamar,” I say stiffly. He nods, matching my unenthusiastic attitude.

“You are most welcome, my betrothed.” I felt color rise unbidden to my face as he spoke. Why not admit it, he was attractive. Bronze skin, black hair slicked back, perfectly straight teeth. “I will shower you with jewels upon our marriage.” Good. When this ruse was over and I could go back to normal, I would have a loving husband and more jewels than I could fit in my room. And peace, more valuable than any sapphire or emerald, and just as beautiful. I would sell every jewel and dress in my closet for even just a shadow of it. If I could guarantee the safety and prosperity of my people, I would even give my own life. It would be an easy choice. The easiest one I’ve ever made. If only it were that simple. No, this peace would be won through months of painstaking, bloody war. Hopefully there would be something left when all the smoke cleared. I pray that I survive this ordeal to go back to my old life, with my betrothed and a newfound tranquility.

I realize that I’ve just been staring at Yamar. Blushing furiously, I say the most ridiculous thing possible.

“I would like that. A lot,” I say. Thankfully, the eight o’clock bells rang out and it was time for dinner. Yet another fancy dinner in the dining room. Such fun. I would never turn down a good meal with good company. This was shaping up to be one of the best evenings I’d had in a while, and not a dusty book in sight. Not that I had anything against books, but my taste did not usually include military tactics. That was entirely Lyla’s domain, and she did it well. As the dinner dragged on, I made polite conversation with my future husband, pleased that he was just as intelligent and cultured as my intel had said he would be. And God, was he handsome. Tall, muscular, with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. The first time I elicited a laugh out of him, it sounded like music to my ears. Like poetry melted into liquid sound. I haven’t felt this much joy in months, years.

He almost made the next day, filled with even more meetings and books to read, bearable. Even just the thought of him had the power to warm my cheeks, and I flushed every time he so much as looked at me. I had always been a hopeless romantic, and here was a fairytale come to life before me. The queen, the handsome prince, betrayal, trickery, a war with pirates. It all seemed too good to be true. Except for the betrayal and pirates, both were rather unfortunate side effects of a good story. But I hope my tale enthralls you, reader. I hope it sucks you in like a vicious tornado and spits you out forever changed by the words on these pages. That is the hope of every author, after all.

And so the masquerade of twins began, with sleight of hand and a wardrobe change. It was that easy to convince everyone that I really was Lyla, as long as I kept a scowl on my face and haughty authority in my voice. The hard part would be pretending that I had even a drop of my sister’s acumen when it came to being a general. I could wear the uniform and read the books, but I would never be half the general she was. Good thing my subordinates were sworn to secrecy, bound by honor and vows to serve and protect me. And if they did falter, I could always have them executed. Such was at the discretion of their leader and princess, the one and only Lyla Havensborough. At least one general had already betrayed me, or Lyla, and I was determined to find out who.

The true purpose of all these meetings was to watch my generals carefully, watch their faces, their reactions. That was my gift, reading people. After days of this, I still had nothing. Whoever it was knew better than to let surprise cross their features in my presence. That left intercepting their mail and figuring out if anyone was sending letters to Damarion, or worse, the pirates. Messing with the post was highly illegal, but nobody told the queen what she could or could not do. Sometimes I felt so powerful it was almost like being drunk. That was when I knew to pull myself back from the darkest, knowing that the dullest spark burns the longest. It was best to spread my power thin, to use it sparingly, yet often enough to remind people that I had it. That I could do whatever I wanted, including invading their privacy. I found letters to family, and a few confessions of love, but nothing worth my time. Perhaps the letters had stopped, since there was now open communication between our armies. Still, though, the traitor had to be made into an example.

The fact that someone could infiltrate our ranks so seamlessly was disturbing enough, but that they had not been caught yet was even worse. Who could it be? Sly Yolanda? Charming Stevens? Someone else?

Then a thought occurred to me. Besides the five generals in our war room, there was someone else. A small man by the name of Theodore, who kept meeting minutes and recorded our conversations in careful penmanship. Perhaps he was the traitor. That would be quite embarrassing, to find that the mole had been a common secretary rather than a great general. I almost hoped it was him, but I knew it wasn’t. He had no reason to, nothing to gain from the betrayal. So who did? Who was growing rich off of the bits of information he or she sold to our enemies? I was almost certain that we had been betrayed for money, what else could seduce a general to give away his secrets?

Yolanda drones on about supply lines, which should be quite manageable since we were working through Kilvan Sove this time. The only thing we had to be careful about was making sure they weren’t destroyed by the pirates, or sabotaged like the bombs had been.

“Question,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be better to have our soldiers live off the land, rather than having our supply lines become a target?”

“We thought of that,” she replies bluntly. “Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said?” As much as I appreciated her honesty, that was too far.

“You will not speak to me that way,” I say quietly, letting my voice drop dangerously low. She flinches, I note with some satisfaction.

“I apologize.” She goes on to explain all the reasons a supply line is the superior choice, and the meeting comes to a close. I read another book, let my drooping eyes close, and repeat this miserable day over and over for the next two weeks. That’s when a mysterious letter arrives, wrapped in a blood-red ribbon. With a start, I realized it was soaked in blood.

To whoever has the most money,

I have your Prince Cameron in my custody. It’ll cost 30,000 coins and a full surrender before you get him back. If we can agree to get along, I might consider opening up the northern trading routes. For a price. As long as you promise not to wage war against our fair nation, I see no reason we shouldn’t be the best of friends.

Warm regards,

The Falcon

Even dried, the iron in the blood sends blisters blooming across my finger tips. I shriek and drop the letter. My hands are shaking. 30,000 gold ones. That was a hefty price. I cared not for the fate of Prince Cameron, but I didn’t trust him not to spill all of our secrets. So we had no choice but to rescue him. I say rescue, because I had no intention of paying a ransom. It was time for the real Lyla’s skills to shine. This will make a great story someday, I’m sure. For now it’s just terrifying.

Chapter 6

Damarion

My little brother had been captured by pirates for the third time this month. Unbelievable. This was starting to get expensive. I was going to have to cut my precious healthcare program if his nonsense continued. Lydia and I suited up, and I was floored by just how lovely she looked in black camouflage and combat boots. Of course she’d looked good in dresses, but now she looked confident. Like herself. Maybe there was another side to this woman, my beautiful, mysterious wife. Smiles usually came easily to her, but now she’s gritting her teeth against the icy wind, glancing occasionally at the tracker we’d had implanted in my brother's skin. He’d protested, of course, but I was getting really sick of losing track of him. The little bit of metal was in his leg, where it would hopefully be hidden by his pant leg.

“Six clicks east,” Lydia informed me. She readied the grappling hooks we were going to use to scale the side of the massive ship that loomed on the horizon. It was the dead of night, and the crew slept, except for a single man at the helm. Deftly, I cocked my gun and sent a bullet right into his skull. He crumpled to the ground, and I gave Lydia the signal. We climbed and heaved ourselves over the side, coming face to face with Cameron. He had somehow escaped the brig and was holding a little penknife, waving it in our faces as if I wasn’t holding a gun.

“Cameron,” I groan. “Can I rescue you? Just once?”

“Brother!” he says cheerfully. “And this must be your wife.” He winks, his usual ridiculous self. But I don’t miss how hollow his cheeks looked from his days in captivity, starved and kept away from the sun.

“That’s right,” I practically snarled. “My wife.” It was silly to be angry at that of all things, but the words are out before I can stop myself.

“Of course,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I hope I didn’t offend the lovely Lydia.” I could have slapped him, but it looked like someone had already done that for me. An ugly green mark graced his otherwise perfect face. There was a festering wound on his arm. That was probably where the blood on the ribbon had come from. Gross. These pirates needed a lesson or two in etiquette if they wanted to be a proper country. Which they would not be, now that their leverage was smirking on the deck not ten paces from me.

“Well?” he says. “Let’s go. That guard won’t stay knocked out forever.”

“How the hell-”

“Easy. Baseball bat. Pirates aren’t very good at their jobs, all you have to do is outsmart them. Or just hit them. That’s less clever, though.”

“If only you would apply yourself a little more,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

“I figured out who the Falcon was,” he says, grinning. “She interrogated me herself. Badly. I made up some random bullshit, and she believed me. I love pirates. Can’t wait to execute that bitch and her friends. Should be fun. Now can we leave?”

“Yes. Climb down the rope, get in the boat.” I didn’t need to tell him twice. Lydia had been so quiet all this time, I almost forgot she was there. Somehow she’s even made her footsteps silent as she slides down the rope with all the grace of a dancer. Cameron loudly regales us with all the details he gleaned from his time in captivity, including the Falcon’s real name and a list of spies in our midst.

“Three generals!” Lydia shouts uncharacteristically. Cameron nods grimly.

“And one of yours too. Some guy named Stevens.”

“Damn it!” she hissed. “I’ll slit his throat myself!” I’ve never seen my wife quite this angry. It was terrifying to behold, and I hoped I would never be the object of her vitriol.

We make it back to the mainland silently, the only sounds are the whip of wind in our sail and the crash of the waves against the beach. In the early dawn, three people make their solemn walk to the gallows, now three bodies hanging from nooses. I order the bodies to be drawn up on the wall of the nearby army base, as an example for anyone else stupid enough to follow in their footsteps. The new generals are younger, but every bit as sharp and hungry for glory. I have them vetted extensively, and find no trace of pirate on them.

The next day, Cameron enters the throne room unceremoniously, white gauze wrapped around the wound on his arm.

“Brother!” he says, bowing dramatically. “I have more intel!” He spends the next five minutes telling me exactly what the Falcon looks like, right down to the shape of her red eyebrows.

“Very impressive,” I admit, but he’s not done. Cameron launches into a detailed explanation of how the base he was first held in was laid out. He was blindfolded, but still managed to keep track of every twist and turn, and could tell whether they were near windows by the smell of sea salt. He managed to produce a decent map, although he didn’t know what orientation it should be. It was better than I could have imagined. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as we thought, but he needed to stop flirting with my wife before I killed him.

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The worst part about waging war was the price tag. Thankfully, with the funding we received from Crejin Sove, I could keep my social programs chugging along. I could have my cake and eat it too. For now, my priority was making sure that there weren’t any more traitors in my military. A quick search turned up thirteen more, all lower level officers. To the noose they went. Idiots. If you’re going to inform on your king, at least do a better job hiding it. The other 6 I wouldn’t have found, except for the list that Cameron had provided. 22 traitors in all, hanging from the wall. The bodies were beginning to rot, so I had them cut down and buried in unmarked graves. No one would remember them, but I think I had made my point well enough by now. Betray me, get executed. Simple enough.

The pieces of our plan fell into place one by one. Unfortunately, it hinges on the information provided by one Prince Cameron, who I normally wouldn’t trust to make dinner. He was clever in a wily, fox-like sort of way, but utterly hopeless when it came to warfare. However, he had one thing I didn’t. An understanding of how pirates think, probably because their patterns matched his own so well. In another life, he would have made an excellent thief.

Every time I think Cameron is done telling me about the pirates, he comes up with more. It’s almost like he got captured on purpose to get information. Was that what he’d done? Crazy son of a bitch. It seemed like something he would do. Either way, he was a wealth of information, most importantly the true leader of the pirates.

Suddenly I hear footsteps and shouts. Someone informs me that the pirates are attacking, only a few miles from the palace and capital city.

“Assemble my generals,” I yell. “Meeting in five minutes.” I had something to do first

I run to Cameron’s chambers, knock on the door. He answers, his eyes bloodshot like he had been drinking. Is he serious? There could not be a worse time for my brother to be drunk. But he’s lucid enough to be speaking clearly. He could probably still give a rousing speech blackout drunk.

“Hello, Damarion,” he hiccups. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you drunk?” I ask.

“I’ve been drinking, I’m not drunk.” Sure.

“I came here to have a very serious discussion about your behavior, and you’ve been drinking.”

“Battle’s not for two weeks, Your Majesty.”

“The battle is happening right now, actually. The pirates launched some kind of surprise attack.”

“What a shame. Not sure how that concerns me. Maybe if we actually invested in a modern navy-”

“For the last time,” I hiss, having explained this to him many times. “An army that is sick and elderly might as well be no army at all. You have to build a society from the ground up.”

“Why worry about healthcare when we can barely feed the people these days,” he retorts. That hit a little too close to the mark. We had always relied on trade, as the mountainous soil made for poor farming. But these pirates blocked off all the sea routes.

“Why do you think I married the Crejin queen? We trade with them now. I have not been idle,” I reply. Cameron’s voice becomes soft all the sudden.

“It’s not enough. It never will be. The only choice is to break up the pirate blockade.”

“I guess you’re getting your wish,” I snap at him. “Now get changed, drink some coffee, and report down to the war room as soon as you’re sober enough.” There were some chimpanzees to outsmart, if his reports on the intelligence of the average pirate were to be believed. He disappears into his room. I peer inside, and see a sheet of parchment with a lengthy letter drying on it. The remnants of more parchment are in the empty fireplace. Curious. A drunken love letter, perhaps? One he was desperately revising, making it his best work yet. As if women didn’t fall into his lap already. Was he in love?

I shake myself from these thoughts. As fun as it is to fantasize about who could possibly have won Cameron’s heart, there are more important matters at hand. Cameron comes back, scowling as he notices me looking at his desk.

“I believe you have a war to get to, brother,” he says.

“You do too, idiot. Get down to the meeting rooms. First door on the left, in case you get lost. Go outsmart a chimpanzee. That is your specialty, after all.” These pirates are stupid enough for him to deal with alone, I think. That isn’t saying much, though. Before this pirate queen had united them, they were nothing but a thorn in our side, one that had long since shed its rose and with it anything that made them useful. Not even the most desperate of bumble bees would dare to go near it. My heart is beating to the rhythm of the bombs I can hear even within the confines of the palace. The pirates were far too close for comfort. They have managed to strike at the heart of my kingdom. Somehow.

I'm really not sure why the police are so angry at me. It's not like I hurt anyone. Much. My only crime is being devilishly handsome and trusting my partner in crime. So much for loyalty, Jessica. She had been livid when I'd had that affair, but she really wasn't one to criticize. I slip into the door to my apartment and take the elevator to the second floor. What were the police going to do, follow me onto my private property? Without a warrant? That would be unbelievably stupid. It would invalidate any evidence the obtained, as it would've been done so illegally.

Besides being incredibly clever and currently being chased by the Washington DC police, I was also a domestic terrorist. I can't imagine why they would call me that. All I did was bomb the White House. It's not like there were many people in there, I planned it that way. I was making a statement, not trying to get anyone killed. I had failed however, and there were two people's blood on my hand. And the president's cat, but I hate cats. One scratched me as a child, plus I'm allergic. That's plenty reason to hate the filthy creatures.

Enough talk about me, as fabulous as I am. There is a bigger problem at hand. The police are nearly on me. And there's a cat in here. My worst fear. It's all I can do not to shriek. Damn it. Jail is starting to look like a viable option. Time to get out of here. I don't want to test the private property thing. I drop out of the room through the second story window, rolling as I hit the ground. I duck into the car my getaway driver, who did not betray me, Jessica, has parked across the street. Some

"What are you waiting for?" I shout. "Drive!" And he does, going well above the speed limit, which the police also did. Hypocrites. Add speeding to my list of crimes, I guess. With the city behind me, I head to a farmhouse in the country to lay low for a while. I had no desire to receive the death penalty. A man as remarkable as me should never be defeated in such a humiliating manner. Caught by city police. What a pathetic way to end a movement. And why pretend otherwise, I don't have any legitimate criticisms to levy, but I had made up plenty in case the media asked. I desperately hope they would. Attention is my drug, and it's as potent as any other. For now, I have to lay low. I hate it here.

I've seen everything there is to see in my city, or so I thought. The one thing I haven't seen is what it looks like when it all goes dark. The power had gone out, and soon the bombs begin to drop. I'm pretty sure this is the start of a war. This is how it begins, every time. A light in the dark, and the world goes silent but for the explosions, the sound of buildings so well engineered crumbling to the ground.

They're calling it the bombing of Wall Street. How creative.

You ask what the colors are in this beautiful mess, and here is my answer. Besides that sickening black, the colors are the colors of fall. Shades of orange, yellow and red. Nothing but these, and not even the sky is blue anymore, not even the sea. There is too much smoke in the air. I suppose I should add gray to the list. But not blue, and not green. Everything in New York City is dead. I can't go outside yet, the smoke is too heavy. I can't go outside yet, my heart is not ready.

I thought I knew the woman I married. We had been friends first, since childhood even, and one night after a few too many shots, she finally confessed her feelings. I was too much of a coward to do it myself, so we spent years unhappy, each too afraid to tell the truth. Did that make me a liar? Was every word I said to her before that night untrue? I think the answer might be yes, but I hate to think of myself that way.

Which brings me back to the present. We had gotten married two years ago, in the forest. Alone. We signed the paperwork and gathered the necessary witnesses in the courthouse. It is a lovely building, but Jennifer's heart belongs to the woods by her old house almost as much as it belongs to me. I hold the beating thing in my hand, still surprised that she had so eagerly given it to me. If that isn't trust, I don't know what is.

And yet, some things still surprise me. In the dim candlelight, I catch glimpses of her ice-blue eyes turning red. She sunburns easily, and almost never goes out except at night. I put it down to the lighting, to her fair skin and Scandinavian heritage. I don't know what she is, but I know I love her. Every odd thing about her. And if someday it comes to pass that she loses control of herself, I will love her from beyond the grave. I will love her pearly white ghost and she will love mine somehow, some way. I truly believe that. She will come back to her senses, of that I am sure. And in her embrace I know I will find something to give my heart to. And if she doesn't love me anymore, I will still have her translucent heart to hold.

So if that day comes to pass, and she sucks the blood from me, at least it will be for her that I bleed. What better way to end my life, then sacrificing it all for my beautiful wife. I can't imagine a better fate, then being the thing she needs for her life to be sustained. Isn't that what it is? Isn't that trust, devotion, love. If that isn't what it means to hold someone's heart and let them hold yours, I don't quite know the meaning of that perfect word, except that people use it to describe this feeling. I would do anything and everything to hold on to her, even when we both have forsaken this flawed earth, lovely as it may be. That is the meaning, as far as I'm concerned. And I hope she loves me like she loves the forest and the sea.

Chapter One (His Daughter: POV of Andrew Iberi)

In the cold, dark rooms of the hospital, I can only see what’s become of my daughter by dim candlelight. I don’t want to think about what she would look like fully illuminated. Her chest still rises and falls to the beat of the bombs that fall around us, but barely. The power has been out for three days now in New Seattle, ever since the war began, since my predecessor Nicholas Jenson had taken over. The thing about relying on a single nuclear plant instead of a dozen small ones, is that it only takes one wayward engineer. One determined saboteur and the whole system collapsed. So here I am, faced with a decision no father should ever have to make. It’s an easy one though. The backup generators had kicked in almost immediately, so the nurses were able to get her on life support. Her skin was covered in burns so dark they were nearly black, the rest of her as red as the blood that leaked from every orifice, staining the bandages. I guess she was a necessary sacrifice, but I can’t help but wonder if this is what my predecessors felt, watching what they had done to Hiroshima and Nagisaki. If this was what a small firebombing campaign could do, I don’t want to know what could happen if another nuclear war broke out, how mottled the victims would look. But to know that I caused all of what my daughter and countless others had suffered is the worst pain imaginable. And I’ve known far more than my share of pain.

Of course, I’d seen the victims of firebombing before in my time in the service, but only in photos. And as realistic as that virtual reality was, it did little to prepare me for the stench of burning flesh, disturbingly similar to a barbecue. It might be enough for me to swear off meat for the rest of my life.

“Don’t you dare look away,” my commanding officer had said, with the voice of someone who was used to being listened to and obeyed. “If you can’t stand to watch, you have no business being an officer. How can you inflict suffering if you won’t even observe it?” And I had heeded his words, watching the destruction, hearing those screams without flinching. Did that make me a monster? Perhaps, but the evil that wormed its way inside me was made, not born. It has been trained into me since I was a child. If that makes me the villain, then so be it. There is no story if nobody plays that part. And I played it so well. It came to me as naturally as altruism came to better men than I.

I allow myself a moment to gently press Josephine’s eyes closed, whispering a goodbye to my dead daughter that I know she can’t hear. And then I pull the plug, without hesitation or remorse, because there was no good that could come out of pointless suffering. Because for all the darkness that wraps around my heart, I am never one for pain without reason, without excuse. I would happily go through it myself if it made me stronger, but that was a reason in it of itself. I feel content in the knowledge that nothing could ever hurt my daughter again. I watch her heart stutter to a stop, feeling almost nothing for the girl that I frankly never knew well enough to care for her.

I was beginning to regret starting this war. Almost.

And just like that, I’m out of time to mourn. I’m whisked into dozens of back-to-back meetings. Strategy sessions, we like to call it. We stick pins into deerskin maps, like children playing some kind of twisted board game. It was a cold thing, representing hundreds of young men ready to throw their lives and their souls away with red dots. As red as their blood would be, sacrifices to the greater goal. It was easier to think of them this way, as pawns instead of people. Think too long about their faces and their families back home and you lose direction, lose focus. After the UN had collapsed, governments became free to use any manner of torture, chemical or biological weapons, or even nuclear weapons. Some used all four, which I thought was rather crude. Asia didn’t exist anymore, for all intents and purposes. Any and all treaties went out the window when life became about survival rather than pleasure. Now that the polar ice caps had melted, swallowing entire islands, releasing plague after plague that we are just now managing to get under control through antibiotics and vaccines. Just as smallpox ravaged the Native Americans, our bodies are unprepared to fend off these ancient plagues. The worst of them is called Icarus-103, for the year it was released and for the way it seems to melt away your flesh. It was a grisly sight, eerily similar to what I saw happen to my daughter who got a little too close to a bomb.

If you’re reading this, feeling guilty that you couldn’t stop climate change, don’t be. Past 2040, it was already too late. There was truly nothing to be done.

New Seattle is at the edge of what is now the West Coast, a place that used to be mountainous and has gotten much closer to sea level. There is still protection offered by the mountains, and by the gnarled oaks and pines that now grow easily in the altered climate, but less. Much less. If we thought climate change would be bad, it was nothing compared to this. And so quickly too. The human population has shrunk to a little over two billion, ravaged both by war and disease. But enough about the world, about war. Let’s discuss a more pleasant subject: Me.

After graduating with a political science degree and a minor in economics, I was a shoe-in for Yale. Law school was tough, but nothing compared to the rigors of military life. I quickly climbed the ranks to become the Secretary of Defense. And defend America I did. By staging a wildly successful coup. I had the military and the people on my side, and we were all sick of Nicholas Jenson anyway. He’d started as president, but was practically a dictator, thanks to Unitary Executive Theory which somehow managed to gain popularity even among scholars. Something about giving the president more power during times of war. We weren’t at war with anything but Icarus and the ocean, but whatever the Supreme Court said went at that time. The federal courts and state governments had been dismantled by now, which would have had Washington rolling in his grave. Every decision came out of the capital, so no one was surprised when Jenson formally declared himself a king.

So yes, I am a traitor and a liar and unbelievably clever. I’m also wanted in 37 countries, but that’s unrelated. Mustard gas doesn’t win you any friends, I guess. I also played a part in dismantling the UN, not that they had any power to begin with. But is it really a crime to take power from a brutal and repressive dictator? At least I have fashion sense instead of wearing a black suit every day. Sometimes he even had the audacity to wear a uniform, despite not spending a day in boot camp. It was part of his strong man persona, as if the man could even grow a beard. He was weak. I am not. He is dead, and I survived all of this. End of story. I’d also slitted Veronica Lewis’s throat, but that was more of a personal vendetta. The Secretary of Education’s worst sin was wearing too much perfume and being unbearably irritating, but that was enough to me.

“There is no country if it cannot defend itself.” My personal motto which I had tattooed across my forearm, only slightly smaller than my daughter’s name. I would have to get the latter lasered off. I can’t be strong if I flinch looking at my own arm. Already I am starting to forget what she looked like in life, and all I can see is the burnt out mess my recklessness had made her.

So yes, I was a populist dictator, but at least I was popular. I didn’t have to be violent, because I brought security and food and vaccines to my country. I do everything for my people, I pour out my sweat, blood, and tears for them, and I do it gladly. I would do it all again, everything, even when it cost me my only child. I didn’t mean for her to be the sacrificial lamb to my war, but the loss was an acceptable one. How could I bomb other children and then weep for my own?

And it was my war. I’m going to let you all in on a very dangerous secret. But before I do, please remember what I do to people who betray me. I might not prefer senseless violence, but I am more than willing to dole it out if the need ever arises. Just keep that in mind, alright? Nobody can ever find out what I’ve done. Your head and mine depend on this secret remaining a secret.

Alright, enough preamble. It was I who orchestrated the beginning of this war, as I alluded to before. I paid the engineer to sabotage that plant, to take the fall for it and spend the rest of his life in prison. That’s right. And I had ordered the very bombs that took the life of my daughter. I would do it again, over and over until this “rebellion” had been stomped out. Why? It’s a show of strength, of course. But the unfortunate thing was, there really is a rebellion brewing, and they are more than happy to take credit for this bombing. They call themselves the Sons and Daughters of Liberty, and they have amassed in the South, just as the old separatists had. Originally, they had been nothing more than a thorn in my side, one that had long shed its rose, devoid of anything that had once made it beautiful. Because it had been beautiful, or at least useful. They had provided a scapegoat, a reason that my programs were failing. They aren’t Jenson’s loyalists, though. Those don’t exist. They also aren’t my greatest fans, but they have the decency not to shout about it during their very public protests.

Perhaps they are afraid of me, but maybe a part of them respects me too much to insult me to my face. Delusional, I know. Freedom of speech had flown out the window when Jenson took charge, and I see no sense in bringing it back. Some words were illegal and punishable by death. What good are rights when you can’t eat, when your flesh turns liquid from that horrible disease. Nobody has the gall to complain out loud, thankfully. Probably because it is illegal and punishable by death. A lot of things are punishable by death these days. I have no qualms about a bit of blood, but I was practically bathing in it by now. First, most members of Congress who had been stealing the money they were supposed to be putting into social programs. Then I executed 13 officers who had refused to join me in the days leading up to my coup, and killed their families too. The others were eager to join me after that.

All in all, 231 people had met their death at my command, and I’m sure I killed at least a thousand when I destroyed the power plant. Probably even more during the bombing. I am the villain, yes, but somebody has to be in this world that would fall apart without one. I’ll bear the burden, I’ll commit the sins, because somebody has too. And why pretend otherwise, a part of me enjoys the power. The darkness wrapped around me grows with every passing day, and I let it. I welcome it like an old friend. I have no regrets in this life, because every decision I make, cold and calculated as they might be, is for the benefit of my people. My land that shrinks with every inch the ocean grows. But it is slowing, the laws I created healing this land. Soon it will stabilize, soon we will be rid of the diseases and wars that plague us. But first, I’m going to have to spill some blood. Blood is not so beautiful as roses are, but it has its place in the circle of life we all choose to participate in.

Chapter Two (The Sun Will Rise Again: POV of Lucy Oliver)

When news of the bombing first reached us from the North, I couldn’t believe our luck. Iberi had staged some kind of terrorist attack and let us take the credit for it. All of it was quite the performance, and I’m sure the angel of death had the time of his life on that day. Here in Carolina, it’s all we can do not to celebrate in the streets. Most everyone here hates Iberi just as we hated Nicholas Jenson. But this is a different kind of hate, a more personal one. If Jenson was an actor pretending to be a dictator, Andrew Iberi really was one. Even though he was popular enough in the North, enough that most people followed him willingly, he is a cold man. An evil man, even. I don't know how a person can become so twisted, what sort of pain can cause that, and I don’t intend to find out.

Since the headquarters of the Sons and Daughters of Liberty is located underground, any light or joy we can muster is well worth it. And there was joy aplenty today. But before I can share the news with anyone else, I notice something strange. Everyone in the milieu is wearing massive gas masks. My hand instinctively goes to my belt, but comes back empty. All the sudden, a sickly sweet smell fills the air, stinging as it enters my nostrils. My eyes start to grow heavy, and I hit the ground hard.

I wake up on the floor, a sharp pain in the back of my head where I fell. Captain Lewis is standing over me, who has since shed his mask. His lips are twisted in a smirk that turns into a dazzling smile.

“Good morning!” he says cheerfully.

“What are you playing at, Lewis?” I say, glaring up at him. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet.

“Testing you, of course. You failed miserably.” He’s still smiling. “How many times do I have to tell you to carry your gas mask with you at all times?” He chastises me as if he’s speaking to a child who’s been misbehaving. “Now, what if that had been Iberi? You would be dead or taken hostage. Probably dead to be frank, you aren’t worth much.”

“I’m a Senator,” I say, scoffing. “And gas masks ruin my outfit.”

“You were. Did you know there’s a bounty on your head? Everyone’s calling you a traitor. Only 2 thousand dollars, though.” He doesn’t sound impressed. Apparently that isn’t much to him. “I’m half-tempted to take you out myself.” Or maybe not. He laughs when I look at him with horror. “Kidding! I don’t kill for two thousand dollars. But you really do need to be more careful. If I were to break into this fortress, the first thing I would do would be pumping gas through the air conditioning.”

“That’s stupid. I would just kill everyone.”

“You and what army, ‘Senator’? It's better to keep enemies alive.” He laughs again, and I hate myself for enjoying it. The sound reminds me of a time when I didn’t despise him, and that line of thinking never led to a good place. If Hailey could hear my thoughts, she would be livid that I’m still not over him after everything he’d done. Hell, he had just drugged me as a “test”. But I’m not sure where Hailey is right now, or even if she’s still alive. A lot of senators had been put to death for their financial crimes. But she’s not corrupt like that. Not that I know of, at least. And I know everything there is to know about her.

I retire to my rooms and try to pull myself together before heading down to yet another meeting. As the only person in the rebellion against Iberi who knew how the old democracy had worked inside and out, I am a part of almost every strategy session. I shed my wrinkled dress and replace it with a white undershirt and a navy blazer and skirt. I wear this outfit almost every day, and it has become a sort of uniform. I like the consistency, enjoy having the same polished appearance. I try not to let flickers of emotion cross my face, but nobody is that strong. All I can do is maintain my composure even when I want to murder my fellow rebels. They are quite insufferable, Lewis more than most. The thought of shooting him had occurred to me multiple times, but I’m not sure how I would get my hands on a gun. I am a diplomat first and foremost, and I firmly remind myself of that truth as I examine myself in the mirror, searching for cracks in my appearance. There aren’t any. There never are. Because those would be a liability, a weakness I can hardly afford.

I appear in the meeting room, and everyone goes silent. Then Lewis is clearing his throat.

“Former Senator Lucy Oliver,” he introduces me. Then he salutes, but the gesture feels more like mockery rather than respect. The other officers follow suit. Only two generals are with us, the only two that don’t have any family to threaten. The others we call cowards, but I know I would make the same choice if I had children or a husband. I never managed to achieve either, but at least I had my ambition, my power. That was plenty enough to sustain me.

“What was so urgent that we’re having a meeting so late?” The hours had ticked by since I had gotten ready, and it was now nearing midnight. Perfection takes time, and I will never settle for any less. Half-ass something in this line of work, and people die. A million-dollar fleet of planes goes up in smoke. Soldiers get captured and give up all your secrets. There is simply no room for error. It isn’t a choice or a personality flaw, it’s born from necessity.

“We have a mission,” General Trunden says in his baritone voice that cuts through the room.

“We need you to help us break into the Senate building. No one else knows the escape routes built into it, the secret tunnels.” Those were how I had escaped Iberi in the first place. I wasn’t corrupt, but I know he would have been more than happy to hang me on some trumped up charges. I was his biggest critic before his coup. I hate war and everything that vile man stands for, yet here I am leading one. Funny how life turns out.

“Oh, that’s clever,” I say, smiling. And I mean it too, as much as I hate to give credit to Jacob Lewis. Because it is his idea, of that I was certain. It’s written all over his face, unmistakable pride. He’s practically glowing. He always was the crafty one between us.

“But first,” Lewis says. “We need to know whether the ‘president’ knows about them.”

“He doesn’t. Or I would be dead right now with the others.” They had blindly trusted the system, believing they would be safe with American values and the abolition of the death penalty. How foolish, how wrong they were. I almost wish I could possess their naivety. But I knew better then and I know better now.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by Lewis’s wide grin. His face is handsome in a boyish sort of way, especially when he smiles like that. Not that it stops him from being an unbearable ass. But I had loved him once, hadn’t I? I still haven’t quite pieced together why I would do such a thing, why I would betray myself so. A pacifist, who fell for a soldier who kills as easily as he breathes. How ironic.

“I can draw you a map,” I say. “But only if you let me into the mission.”

“Absolutely not!” at least five voices say in unison. But the commander in charge of training me, who is so rarely loquacious, speaks up.

“She’s not a bad shot at all,” Johnson admits grudgingly. “Fast learner, that one.” And then he goes silent again, his typical self. An argument breaks out and it’s impossible to tell what anyone is saying. Then Lewis bangs his fists against the table.

“Shut up and listen!” he shouts, and they do. “Under no circumstances is she going into combat!” There he went again, being an asshole. I shoot him a withering glare.

“I’m not a child, Lewis.” This time I can’t keep the anger from my voice. “And it’s more like spying than a battle.”

“It’s still dangerous,” the other general, Lyla Crow, says. Her voice softens. “However, Oliver is the only person who can get us through those tunnels. A map isn’t good enough, and you all know it.”

“What’s the goal of this mission in the first place?” I ask.

“Spying, like you said. I want to figure out what our noble president is thinking. What he's up to. Something is about to happen. He didn’t fake a terrorist attack and blame us for nothing.” He doesn’t put president in air quotes this time, it’s implied at this point.

“He needed a reason to destroy us, once and for all,” Johnson says.

“But he doesn’t know where our base is…” I say, trailing off. “Oh no. Shit!” We had been allied with three generals originally, but General Yarrow had gone missing last month on a mission. We have no idea where she went, but we suspect she had been captured by the opposing forces.

“No way,” Crow says firmly. “I knew her. She had a cyanide pill, and she took it. She’s dead. She can’t tell anyone anything.”

“You don’t know that,” is all Lewis says.

“I’m certain, and I outrank you by far, Captain.” She’s practically hissing the words.

“You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment,”  I say, not bothering to make my voice gentle. I am barely capable of it these days. “The only way to be certain is to break into Iberi’s office in the Senate building. I’m coming.” I say the last words as firmly as I can muster. Lewis balks, but doesn’t say anything. Good. He so rarely has anything valuable to contribute. Except for this plan, which I must grudgingly admit is brilliant.

We spend the next few hours carefully planning how this is going to go down, every detail accounted for. There is a back up plan for the black up plan. I’d get a gun, and I will have to resist pulling the trigger in Lewis’s direction. Or in his face, perhaps. I’d love to wipe that smirk off of his face. But unfortunately, I do need him alive. He is my personal guard on this mission, after all. So it would have to wait, then.

I’m joking of course. What he had done to me doesn’t quite sentence him to such a gruesome death. I’m merely blowing off steam, since I so rarely get to do so out loud. I had been wearing a mask since my first election, mayor of New Seattle when I was 22. I was quite the rising star, so I had to keep my traitorous thoughts to myself. I saw flaws everywhere, even in the old democracy, but back then I still believed they could be resolved peacefully. And maybe they could have, before our lovely and democratically elected president had seized power. I won’t pretend that I didn’t enjoy the thrill of making other people's decisions for them, but I kept the demon inside me on a leash. She only wormed her way into my ear on occasion, and those few instances had taught me swiftly not to trust her.

So here I am, Senator turned soldier, ready to give my blood, sweat, and tears for my country. And I pray I wouldn’t have to. I prefer my blood inside my body, thank you very much. But I probably don’t have a choice. War is a bloody affair, any way you slice it. All I could hope for is that it wouldn't be mine. A wish so unlikely to be fulfilled.

“All Will Rise According to Their Merit”. The motto of Crejivan Sove was emblazoned on just about every door in the country, including that of the drab prison cell I was sitting in. For some reason. I could feel the life pulsing from the copper door, the locks on the window. My connection to the lesser metals was not quite strong enough for me to Manipulate them, but I still felt them calling to me. As the sole Ironblood of this generation, my powers were entirely unique to me. No one else in the country could do what I could with metal. The metal was me, so much that touching my skin caused burns to appear on Elves, as if they had touched actual metal. It was impossible for anyone to cut or burn my skin, and I could only succumb to sickness or old age. Maybe suffocation.

Or starvation, which seemed to be the governor’s chosen method for getting me to give up the person who had provided me the security clearance I needed to put my plan into action. She was also the reason I was here in this cell, the likes of which would give any interior designer a heart attack. So I had absolutely no qualms about telling him who it was, but I wanted to do it on my own terms. Why? Because it was funnier that way. Imagine the look on his face when he checks my cell and finds me gone, and a note telling him exactly what he wanted to know. When he found out who it was. I couldn't help the smirk that crossed my face. My only regret was that I would not be around to see it.

And, if the watch I’d been given told the truth, my exit plan should be coming around any minute. The copper hands sung against my wrist. The only way I can explain it is that it felt the way that lilacs smell. When I finally heard footsteps down the hallway, it was all I could do not to call out to him. I heard a click and the door swung open. Daniel was holding a bundle of clothes and a pair of boots that I could already tell were the wrong size.

“I know, I know. They’re all I could find!” he said pleadingly. I glared at him, but took

them from his hands anyway. “There’s a bathroom a couple cells down,” he said. “I’m sure you need to use it anyway.” That I did. I slipped into the bathroom, relieved myself, and changed, leaving the disgustingly orange clothes behind. When I’m in charge, no one will have to suffer this indignity, I thought. It was worse than starving, if I was being completely honest, which I always was.

No, really. I was a type of Elf, so I had to twist my words in such a way that they were technically honest in order to fool people. I was practiced in the art, but still quite jealous of humans and their filthy, lying mouths. They had no idea how easy they had it. Since Elves were perceived as more trustworthy, which was hardly a reality, they tended to be elected to the Senate and as governors more often. And since human interests and those of my fellow Elves so rarely aligned, all sorts of problems had sprung up. Which was part of why I had done what I’d done. Was it bloody? Yes, I was practically bathing in the stuff. But I didn’t regret it for a second. There were other issues, of course, like the fact that the Senate seats were apportioned by region and not by population, but that was secondary. My point was that systematic flaws existed that could not be undone internally. They required someone like me, with both the understanding of the bureaucracy and the nerve to do something drastic and a bit melodramatic about it. Being functionally immortal helped.

In another lifetime, a few centuries ago, my status as Ironblood would have made me the queen of Kilvan Sove, which merged into Crejin Sove after the war. The same war that eventually created the lovely democracy which we all enjoyed. However, it had quickly become corrupt, almost worse than the monarchy that preceded it. Almost. At least now we had some power over who wrote our laws and dictated our lives, but the inequality between Elves and humans in the Senate was staggering. I should know, having been a Senator and all. It wasn’t just that the Elves had a better reputation, they were also wealthier and more powerful, with all the resources that being the nobility class in the former Crejin Sove had won them.

I step out of the bathroom in the ill-fitting boots and army fatigues, greeted again by the familiar face of my lover and co-conspirator: Captain Daniel John Lewis of the 72nd company of the Crejivan Sove army. After glancing up and down the hallway, he took my hand in his. He was a human, so his only complaint was that my hand was too cold, which he voiced now. Like always.

“I can’t help that yours feels like a furnace,” I snapped back. But I smiled, a rarity for me. Unlike his, which came as often as the sun rising in the east. Mine were more like the full moon, rare yet radiant nonetheless. And only possible when I had him to reflect off of. The frequency of his smiles did nothing to diminish their beauty. I fell in love with him more every time I saw the white of his teeth against his tan skin, the skin around his eyes folding in that perfect way they had.

We stopped back at the cell, and he pulled out a pad of paper and wrote a name on it in his meticulous handwriting. Jessica Blake. A three-star general who would be going to the noose for me. The same fate she had tried to sentence me to when she had betrayed me, so I hardly felt guilty.

“Did you bring the orange?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I forgot. Be back in ten minutes.” Those ten minutes felt like years as I paced the cell and waited for him to return. An orange might seem like an odd choice for a starving person, but it was necessary. The only side effect of my abilities was that I struggled to absorb vitamins, so I had to watch my diet. It had only been a couple of days and I could already feel the effects. My mind had gone fuzzy, and spots were even starting to crowd my vision.

Daniel came back with the orange, and I peeled it open eagerly. I chewed on the peel too in order to extract as many nutrients as I could from it. I was used to the bitter taste after all these years, and it hardly bothered me at all. When I was done, Daniel stepped into my cell, placing his hands around my waist. He pulled me in for a deep kiss, the taste of black tea mingling with the citrus. It was a bit odd, but I didn’t hate it. His lips were soft, and I tried my best to memorize the feel of them against mine. It might be a while before I could see him again.

“How do I know where to find you?” I asked. In response, he slipped a note into my breast pocket.

“Trust me, you’ll know love,” he murmured against my ear. His breath against the exposed skin sent my heart racing. And just like that, he was gone, melted into the shadows. He had been a spy before climbing the ranks in the army, and it showed in his nearly silent footsteps, the way he seemed to disappear into nothing. I’d heard his footsteps earlier because he’d wanted me to, wanted me to know that he was on his way.

Finally, I let myself give in to the insisting murmur of the iron that was tight around my chest. I could feel its brethren all over the building, but I had to be touching iron to Manipulate it. I stripped off the shirt I’d just put on and pressd my hand to the metal underwire of my bra. The other one I’d had was made of copper, sadly. Governor Blake wasn’t that stupid. There was iron in my gun too, but I needed it to work, after all.

The iron ripped through the fabric and flicked into my other hand. If copper felt the way that lilacs smell, then iron carried the sharp, sickly sweet scent of blood. I got to work, fashioning the strips of metal into slim lockpicks. Not quite what I had practiced with, but good enough. For some reason, my father had insisted on teaching me lockpicking and a whole host of other seemingly random skills. Wilderness survival, mostly. It was as if he knew he was raising a revolutionary. It must have been the full moon, because I smiled again. I slid the picks into the copper lock of the window, working them into place for about twenty minutes before it popped open. I wasn’t great at lockpicking, but just fast enough. I didn’t have much time, though. Guards could come by at any minute.

My cell was on the first floor, not that it mattered much. Daniel could have easily nicked me a rope, too. But it certainly made my escape simpler. The prison was surrounded by dense pine trees, which would have to serve as my cover as I fled the complex. I pulled out the note and smiled again reading his handwriting. He never half-assed anything, did he? His handwriting was perfect. How different we truly were. If only I had been more careful, trusted a little less easily…

Meet me at our place, the note said. And I knew instantly where he was talking about. The place where we'd had our first kiss a few years ago. We had been friends since childhood, but I’d always had a crush on him. I was scared to say anything, but one night we were staring at the stars in a field and I’d had a little too much to drink… and it had just come out. He confessed that he’d felt the same, and that was when our friendship officially came to an end. I couldn’t have been happier about that, which I never imagined myself saying before. It blossomed into something new, the buds opening like the sakura blossoms and the tulips around us.

But I’m digressing, aren’t I? Here, in this filthy prison cell, there was only one thing I needed to achieve, and every second counted. There was simply no time for reminiscing or fantasizing about seeing him again. I opened the window carefully, wincing as the glass shrieked loud enough to wake up every guard within a mile radius. Cursing the shoes Daniel had found for me, I jump out and begin running. Once I’m past the tree line, I relax my pace. There was no wall or fence or guards. It was just an ordinary prison, not maximum security. The inmates here were mostly thieves or debtors.

It seemed that yet again, the governor had underestimated me. Idiot. As if I couldn’t accomplish anything without iron? Well, I had needed iron but only for one little part of my plan! Things would have been simpler if Daniel could have gotten his hands on a key, but the guards probably wouldn’t have given him one, and it would have been suspicious to ask. It was one thing for a captain to inspect their prison, but quite another for him to have access to the whole place. And he was mostly supposed to be checking that their bank statements were in order, anyway. Our other contact had gotten him assigned to the job. Hopefully he was still with us, at least he had been last I checked. It was hard to trust with Jessica’s betrayal still fresh in my mind.

It was going to be three days to that field, counting the time it would take to cover my tracks. I once again silently thanked my father for his bizarre parenting style that I was just now starting to understand, and trudged on. Every step was agony as I felt blisters blooming and bursting on my feet, but I did my best to continue, occasionally opting to walk barefoot. I couldn’t be killed, sure, but blisters were still on the table, it seemed. I had never bothered to test the limits of my power, and apparently they didn’t go quite as far as I thought. Still though, the iron in my blood staved off the worst of it. I’m sure it would have been much worse for a human, and they probably wouldn’t be able to manage three days of this. My feet wept silver tears as the blisters popped against my boots.

When I finally reached the field, I saw a tent and a figure illuminated by a campfire. Daniel. Hearing my heavy tread, he turns, one of his easy smiles crossing his features, crinkling his eyes. He was going to get wrinkles, doing that so often. Oh, well. We couldn’t be beautiful forever. I was sure he would be though, even at death’s door.

For the first time, he noticed the grimace on my face, and his smile vanished instantly, replaced by concern.

“This is my fault, isn’t it,” he groaned.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, which wasn’t technically a lie.

“Here, sit down,” Daniel said, pulling out a first aid kid. He gently pulled off my boots, trying not to push on the blisters, but I cried out anyway.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said. “Ok, I’ll need to clean these out or they’ll get infected. Should be like fifteen seconds tops, I’ll try to be quick. Are you going to be ok?”

“Shut up and do it already,” I gritted out. He does, and it’s the worst pain I’ve felt in my pampered life. So much for being immortal. It was ridiculous that I still had to deal with blisters of all things. But we still had a job to do. This was not the end of my plan, only a setback that had quickly been remedied. Our plan would be much more difficult without Blake, but it was hardly impossible. I don’t even know what that word means, I just hear lesser people than I use it as an excuse. It might as well be a synonym for weak, as far as I was concerned. And I was anything but weak.

“Daniel, my love?” I said. “How about some food?” There was only so long a person could survive on berries and roots, especially since I had already been starving when this week had begun. I wasn’t about to waste bullets on game, or give myself away by building a fire. Only now were we far enough from the prison to risk it.

“That, I can help with,” he said with a grin, gesturing towards the fire. I had been so focused on him that I hadn’t noticed the rabbit hovering over it on a spit. “But first,” he said, disappearing into the tent for a moment. “I got you something.” He was holding a pair of boots that I discovered were exactly my size when I tried them.

“God, I love you,” I said, pulling him into a kiss. He broke it far sooner than I would have liked, mumbling something about dinner. Asshole.

After eating, he unfolds a map and we get right back to strategizing. We had quite a few people with us, but only a couple were in high levels of government. It had been three, but you already know what happened there. Filthy traitor, I thought to myself. I won’t pretend that I didn’t take pleasure in the thought of her hanging for her crimes. The governor's own sister, nonetheless. How delicious. As long as I wasn’t destined to join her, that is.

Dear Eliza,

It has been a week since the accident. For all my talk of being a genius, I seem to have pricked myself with a needle. Ridiculous way to die, I know. Can anyone say that they've felt this, that they've felt their life come to a close in an instant? Every antidote is just a small dose of poison, a variation of it. What do you think happens when you miscalculate it, even by a little? The very thing that was meant to save us all could become our undoing.

I'm going to turn green soon.

- John