war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖝𝖑𝖎𝖛. A Triple Alliance
Reva
REVA HAS NEVER been this far south.
The Piedmont base is so thick with humidity she feels as if she could weaponize the air itself. Her bare arms prickle with the sensation of moisture, minuscule droplets too small to see dancing over her skin. She stretches a little, moving her fingers in tiny circles, stirring up the cloying warmth hanging over the balcony of the base headquarters.
Thunderheads chase across the horizon, trailing grey shadows of lashing rain out over the swamps. Lightning forks once or twice, and the distant rumble takes four or five seconds to reach them. The light breeze smells of fires doused by the passing rain, and smoke trials over near the main gate of the base. Last night, Baraka's own soldiers marched in through open gates before turning on all inside in a blitz of swift and strongarm, revealing exactly where their bought allegiances lie. With Chris. And with Reva.
The king of Norta lays his pale hands flat on the balcony railing, leaning forward an inch or two over the edge.
It isn't far to the ground. Just two stories. If Reva pushed him over the rail, he would live, albeit with a few broken bones. He squints, dark brow furrowed beneath a simple crown of iron and ruby. No cloak today. Too hot. Instead, he has his usual black uniform, unbuttoned at the throat, the fabric flapping in the slight, damp breeze. A sheen of sweat gleams on his neck. Not from the heat. A fire king would be far more comfortable than anyone else at these temperatures. The sweat isn't from exertion either. He took no part in the storming of the base. Neither did Reva, though both their nations provided Silver soldiers for Baraka's endeavor. They waited until it was clear, until victory was sure, before setting foot here.
Reva thinks Chris is nervous. Afraid. And enraged.
She wasn't here.
The blonde watches him quietly, waiting for him to speak. His throat works, bobbing between the open folds of his collar. He looks oddly vulnerable in spite of their triumph.
"How many escaped?" he asks without meeting her eyes. His gaze stays fixed on the storm.
Reva bites back a rush of annoyance. She's not some lieutenant, some officer's aide meant to stand and give figures. But she tells him what he wants, and she does it with a tight smile.
"One hundred into the swamps," she replies.
Chris plucks a single indigo bloom from the flower bed at his side. "And another two hundred dead." Not a question. He knows the death toll well enough.
