WAR STORM (Red Queen 4// Alternate Version)

Chapter 31

Mare

The days separating us from the war have corroded off, like a seawall's cement slowly being destroyed. When the seawall crumbles, there is nothing preventing a vicious sea from invading our city. 

I try my best to block those thoughts out, but it never works, and it doesn't work now. I've trained, I've eaten my rations, and I've stayed far from Diana Farley. Julian returned two weeks ago after Davidson requested he come and help. Sad as he is to be torn from his studies, he has a good effect on her. 

She won't be fighting, and the fact oddly comforts me. I don't care if she is the best asset we have. Farley is dangerous, a volatile bomb that could explode at a moment's notice. And any  of us could be standing around that bomb at the wrong time. 

The sound of metal hitting a wine glass sings throughout the room, and I'm tethered to reality once again. 

Everybody who hasn't yet been shipped off to Corvium has gathered in Bluewater's main ballroom, but the event isn't formal by any means. Though the Silvers think so. I wear a pair of black training trousers, a thin shirt, and brown boots, straight out of my last training session with Tyton.

And I stand alone. I need to be alone until the battle comes. I've told everyone this. I need to simmer alone in my toxic thoughts until Maven has given himself up. 

This place, as does everything else in this castle, reminds me of Whitefire. It's just a ballroom constructed from Red labor, studded in fine jewels. It's dimly lit by candles hanging from the ceiling and on tables scattered in the back half of the ballroom. 

The candles serve as a source of illumination. The floor is made of blue marble and the ceiling is a clear dome of glass that lets the moonlight in, and the walls in between are the same old walls, gold encrusted and such. 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say. Looking at the scenery physically, of course, it's beautiful. The people clothed in their gowns and robes are gorgeous, and the candles hit everything just right, creating enough light to see, but it also casts shadows. In those shadows are stories, Jon would say. And there is nothing beautiful about those stories. 

But the candles are a reminder. They are fire, and they were undoubtedly sparked to life by Tiberias. He's somewhere in here, probably up front near his grandmother, though I don't see him. Soon enough, if Maven hasn't pulled something, then Cal will be on the throne. Temporarily. 

Rosalyn stands in the front of the room on an erected platform, alongside Iris. They both wear navy blue uniforms, just like their soldiers. "The Lakelands and their Queen thank you for this last month, ladies and gentlemen, Reds and Silvers. It has been a sleepless whirlwind in these weeks after we agreed to Maven's proposition. But how could we not?" She asks, shaking her head and smiling. "This army has the Lakelanders, the good Calore brother, half of the Nortan Houses, the King of the Rift, Piedmont, Monfort, and the Scarlet Guard. Maven cannot, will not win against our forces." 

Volo walks up the stairs to Rosalyn and whispers something in her ear. She frowns and nods before taking Iris by the elbow to lead her off the stage. 

Though I've taken up residence at the end of the crowd, Volo's appearance is achingly obvious from here. He's worn a constant grimace since the day Laurentia died, carries too much metal around with him, and looks not vengeful, but bored. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, Reds and Silvers," he reiterates callously. "Who thought that we'd all be working together? Two countries divided for a hundred years and two colors of blood that have been at one another's throats for as long as we can remember? And who would've thought it's all because of an insane boy?"