The Selection of Prince Creed

STEVIE

-Sunday-

"We're going to dispatch the troops here," Creed says, tapping the pointer against the marked-up map on the board behind him. "It'll be a swift operation, no time for missteps. Each unit has their individual orders to go after one of the army bases." He rapidly draws out each route with the pointer.

"There will be back up troops, if necessary," he adds, "so that we don't lose any bases. We hit them swiftly and we hit them hard. The plan is to claim all the bases within a day. Then, we march on the capital." He draws the route from each of the bases, showing the path that will be taken, how the troops will enter from all sides and the capital will be surrounded.

We all know the plan isn't just to take the capital. It's to take down a certain man who lives in the heart of it, and end this war, once and for all.

"How do we know a battle won't break out?" one of the council members asks. "What if they fight back, and we cannot seize the bases? What then?"

"That won't happen," Creed says coolly. "We have inside intelligence that the bases are only sparsely manned at the moment. They're in between rotations. We send our units out rapid fire, and we don't give them a chance to signal for backup. We move fast, faster than they can respond."

"And what about Prince Sebastian?" someone asks.

"We think he's in the capital," Creed says, almost dismissively, and I recognize an attempt to change the subject when I see one. "We'll rescue him when we take the capital." He doesn't elaborate, and no one asks him to.

"We need full support of the council if we're going to move forward with this plan," Creed says.

And he gets it. Unanimously.

It's time this war ended.

-Wednesday-

I'm pacing in the parlor next to the council room, waiting for Sean to join me and feeling vaguely nauseated. No, more than vaguely. I feel as though pacing is the only thing keeping me from throwing up, from breaking down completely, from possibly losing my grip on reality. So I pace like a mad woman, back and forth, passing in and out of the rectangles of afternoon light cast from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I've never been in this parlor before, and I try to distract myself by taking it in, counting the things I can see, the things I can hear, the things I can smell. I'm trying to focus on everything, on anything, in hopes that it'll pull me back down to earth. I feel as though my tether has been cut loose, as though I'm drifting out into space, weightless, and I'm running out of air, and the world is blurring in my vision.

But I can't allow that. I can't allow myself to be cast out into the ether, to shatter in a dizzying haze. I can't. I won't.

The floor-to-ceiling windows. That's one thing I can see. And the light cast on the floor, with bans of shadow where the window beams are. The floors are a dark wood, and the walls a cream color. There's sheer, off-white curtains, gathered back. A desk. A chair. A sofa. Three bookcases, built into one of the walls. A coffee table. A painting of some fruit. A couple of sitting chairs, a book sitting on one of them.

I smell...wood, very lived-in, worn-down wood. Something vaguely floral. The faintest scent of grass, since two of the windows are open, leaving just the screens.

I hear birdsong in the distance, my constant footsteps, my breathing. And my heartbeat. First and foremost, I hear my heartbeat, thundering in my ears, making me feel dizzier, making my head feel oddly heavy.

I keep pacing. I can't stop. It's the only way I seem to be able to focus on anything, to keep myself from throwing up, or worse.

The Peace Talks felt like a mistake, were a mistake. I knew then that it would go wrong, and it did. And now...