The Reckless Reign (Book 3, The Culled Crown Series)

Chapter 58

The Needle's Edge.
Gazda, Erydia.
Monday morning - sometime between night and dawn.

I'd never walked the city before. The glimpses of it I'd had during the Culling had always been strange—too colorful, too alive, too everything Varos lacked. But as I walked Gazda, my hood drawn and a large bag of rolled newspapers slung over my shoulder, I realized that perhaps there weren't so many differences after all. Especially not now.

The city was in chaos.

Even with the curfews set by Caine and the influx of Erydian soldiers and the patrolling of the city guards, people were out in droves. Those who had watched the broadcast wanted answers—they wanted to know why their king had shot at their queen. They wanted to know more about the young woman who had died in the arena. They wanted to know more about Monroe Benson, the supposed leader of this rebellion.

No one glanced twice at us as we slipped through the darkened city streets, depositing papers on doorsteps and in metal paper stands on street corners. Once I'd given Jax the idea, he'd sprang into motion—mapping out drop-off locations and divvying out stacks and stacks of printed issues of The Hare. I'd pulled my friends from bed, answering their questions in hushed tones as we'd dressed for the cold night air.

We would be delivering the rebel newspaper to every drop-off location on Jaxon's list. And it was a large list. Every single place that would normally carry issues of The Oredison Oracle would now be stocked with The Hare. By morning, Gazda would know my story.

They would know Kai's story.

I hadn't even read his interview yet. I'd been so busy, so driven to help Jax do something to honor Harper and help the rebellion, that I hadn't even paused to wonder what he'd told the reporter.

I'd been honest in my telling of our story. I'd told Harper about how I was in love with Kai. I had poured my heart out to her and I'd been truthful as I'd explained how that love—that trust—had led me into a trap.

I wondered what he'd said about me.

Don't come back.

My hands were nearly numb as I reached into my bag and grabbed another stack of papers. I walked the line of white sandstone houses with their iron gates and crisp black front doors. Cohen walked a few feet behind me, tossing papers onto the other side of the street. The houses on either side of us were the same—all expensive, all imposing.

Even in the darkness of the night, I could tell they were pretty. Impractical in their design, with elaborate architecture. Not like the compact housing we'd passed by earlier.

"You know, this is where my mother grew up," Cohen's voice was quiet as we came to a stop at the corner of the street. I turned to look at him, noting the way his eyes scanned each house with its curtained windows and darkened front step. Those blue eyes turned to me. "I have an aunt on my mother's side that still owns the house, but I don't know which one it is. She—Mother never talked about her childhood. But I know that she lived here, in this neighborhood." His brow furrowed. "I can't imagine it. Can't picture her having a life outside of the palace."

I turned to look down the rows of grand houses, lit only by dim streetlights. Down the hill from us, the city sparkled—the sky above it was a mix of warm orange and black smoke. "It was probably nice growing up somewhere like this—the houses are pretty," I said. "And they're in the middle of the city."

Cohen nodded, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember. "Her father was a baker or a cook, I think. And he..." he paused. "I feel like I used to hear talk about him being cruel—I only met my aunts once and I was still pretty young then. My grandfather was already dead and I don't think any of them mourned him... They did talk about my grandmother some. My father told me once that she was bed bound and died from some sort of illness. That's pretty much all I can remember. I don't think it was a good childhood."