Marry or Kill

20

E L I A S

My weary eyes flick to my black watch, its cold metal surface reflecting the dim light in the desolate room. It's past midnight already, the relentless hours stretching into an eternity.

My mother, frail and broken, has been in the infirmary for three days since The West mercilessly attacked. My father, in a calculated act of betrayal, intended for her to meet her death with an overdose of drugs coursing through her veins, and then abandoned.

I sag against the worn leather seat, my fatigue matched only by the weight of the burdens I now bear.

The relentless demands of leadership press upon me, a mantle thrust upon my unwilling shoulders in the wake of my father's departure. The North, once a realm of stability, now trembles under the uncertainty of my untested command.

Wincing, I lift myself from the cold, unforgiving chair. The wound on my side, a painful reminder of the recent skirmish, has been hastily bandaged. Yet, with every movement, a searing spike of pain jolts through me, a constant reminder of Cade's bullet.

I find myself desperately inching my hand toward my watch, fingers twisting and fiddling with the familiar object. It becomes a distraction, a feeble attempt to divert my thoughts from everything pressing down on me.

The nurse leaves, and nods at me, indicating that I can step in.

Pushing open the medical room doors, I step into the dimly lit corridor. The harsh, sterile scent of antiseptic assaults my senses, a cruel reminder of which my father condemned my mother.

I draw my weary eyes to my mother, her frail form lying on the sterile infirmary bed. Urgency is tethered in her gaze. There's nothing said between us as I immediately move to her side on the bed, the comfort of the bedsheets stroking her scarred skin.

I gently hold her, my arms wrapping around her delicate frame.

As I hold her, I inhale deeply, catching a whiff of a warm scent that I never had the chance to truly know. It's a fragrance that should be familiar, an essence that should have been a part of my upbringing.

In that tender moment, as I hold my mother close, I can't quite grasp my own emotions. I feel a sob rising, threatening to break through the tightly clenched walls of my throat.

I notice tears are running down her face. "He would come in every day," my mother's voice wavers, the weight of the memories etched across her face. She attempts to speak, but her words catch in her throat.

A thick swallow follows, and she can't bring herself to meet my gaze.

"And although I believe some of the stories to be untrue," she continues, her voice thick with emotion, "they were meant to rip at the very fabric of my sanity. To mentally destabilise me."

I shake my head against the nape of her neck. "I couldn't help you—I failed you."

"You did not fail me," she asserts with unwavering conviction, her gaze locking onto mine. The intensity of her gaze is staggering."In fact, you've done everything necessary to endure and persevere."

Her fingers, gentle yet purposeful, trace a path across the scars on my collarbone. Shock courses through me at the tender action—the scars my father gave me, messily carved across.

"We have yet to properly grieve, and there's something crucial I must share with you—something of utmost importance regarding Sol, her history," he gravely begins. "I'm deeply concerned for her well-being given our current predicament."

I furrow my brows, fixing my gaze on her. "Sol Ascott?"

"We deliberately avoided delving into her past, fearing it would pose a threat," she murmurs. "Sol came to us from The West as a young girl. Atticus's parents believed she was impeding the boy's development during that crucial phase, prompting us to take her in."

"Impeding his development?" I ask, my voice hinting at nothing but confusion. The words feel foreign on my tongue as I grapple with the implications of what she's trying to say.

Then it strikes me like a hammer.

Sol's origin is not from The North—it's from The West.

"Oh, god," I whisper, the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place with a gut-wrenching clarity.

My father, the architect of so much pain, wrongly imprisoned Sol's parents. It was a twisted plot, a desperate attempt to veer her away from The North and, in turn, a way for him to abandon the responsibility he held for her.

Then he set up the situation with Cade, allowing him in our governor circle then made Mina to be at fault in order to get us in the same place suited for execution.

The realisation strikes with a force that leaves me breathless.

I rise to my feet.

My mother densely swallows again. Memories, heavy and laden with regret, resurface in her mind.

"Atticus became intensely obsessed with her," she confesses, each word carrying the burden of a painful truth. "It wasn't an infatuation or love; rather, it was a dark and perilous attraction that drove him to do whatever it took to be with her at all times. Even abandoned his duties at the time."

She squeezes her eyes shut, as if shutting out the memories that threaten to engulf her.

"Before the alliance was shattered," she continues, her voice tinged with remorse, "The West offered us a sizable sum of money to take her to a household in The North so that Atticus wouldn't discover her."

That was before I killed him.

She finally looks up at me through her lashes, a gaze heavy with the weight of secrets long buried.

"When I found out, I swore to your father that I wouldn't let anyone know we were doing business like that with The West. It would allegedly harm our reputation," she says, her voice strained with the memory of the pact she had made. "However, it's obvious that there was a personal connection made between Evander and The West for them to begin this attack on us, and that was the real reason. They were looking forward to the chance."

The revelation lands like a punch, the pieces of a convoluted puzzle falling into place. A hidden alliance, oh God.

I rush up to the bed, urgency propelling me forward. Taking her hand in mine, I squeeze it, hopeful for answers. "What made my father do this?"

Her eyes, weary and burdened, meet mine. There's a hesitation, a moment where the weight of the truth seems almost too much to bear.

"Your father," she begins, her voice steady but laced with sorrow, "was driven by a desire for power, a thirst for dominance that blinded him to the consequences of his actions."

I drop her hand, finally recognising the answer. There was no particular reason except his own thirst for greed.

Suddenly the doors burst open, and urgency is etched across Noah's face.