WAR STORM (Red Queen 4// Alternate Version)

Chapter 37

Mare

Tyton's forehead presses against mine, a blessed warmth this chilled afternoon. I lean into him so dependently, that if he were to step to the side, I'd fall right on top of my face. His gloved hands grip my bare ones, and I squeeze tightly in return. 

The thought of him leaving, riding back to Norta, makes my throat close up. But he has to, per Davidson's orders. He'd make me leave too...if not for special circumstances. 

I hardly recognized my hometown when I laid eyes upon it. Or at least, I thought I'd feel a little triumphant in returning here. When last stepping foot on this soil, I was an anomaly. Living as a pawn in a game ruled by Silvers.

"I suppose I'll see you in Archeon soon," I murmur near his lips. "What exactly does Davidson intend for you to that is so urgent?"

"Preparations," he says, lowering his voice further from the polite quiet we've already established. "There's no point in us being here for Cal's victory lap. The Scarlet Guard and Montfort need to get into the city before the key players arrive to mess everything up. It won't be for awhile, but Davidson and Command already have the thought of sneaking in entire legions of soldiers. So it'll be peaceful. And anyways, I imagine that you'd like to visit your house alone."

I nod fiercely, glancing towards the dilapidated shacks and houses on poles that make up the stout skyline of the Stilts. "I would go, if not for where we are. You know, I haven't visited my home since my early days of faking royalty."

Tyton offers an encouraging smile. "You'll be perfectly fine, and we'll be reunited within the week. Then the real work begins. And if you get terribly bored, I'm sure you could join Evangeline and Maven in their transport."

Slapping his cheek halfheartedly, "Those two are a toxic combination. I'd pull out all my hair before we got to Archeon," I say. 

One of Davidson's men up ahead mounts his cycle and starts its engine, preceding a chorus of rumbling. 

Reluctantly, and letting out a rumble of my own, I rock onto my heels. "Go," I whisper. 

"I love you," he says, and I open my mouth, but he's turned around in an instant, walking towards an open cycle. 

Twenty transports are lined up along the main road leading into our river town, black as the night that will soon cloak the air. I know for certain that one holds Cal and Anabel, another holds Volo, and a third contains Iris and Bart. I try not look too hard at the others, most of which are piled to the brim with Sentinels and other High House warriors who were in the mood to gloat. But one in the middle of the fray is different than the rest. The rest are trimmed with red and orange flowers, courtesy of Greenwardens, and seals of various gibberish are painted onto the sides. The middle transport is jet black, but instead of colorful flowers, its windows are prison bars. 

In time, each of the cycles departs, kicking up dust in their wakes. Then they fade away off into the twilight, their helmets becoming specks against pink and blue. 

On the opposite end of the road, the street bleeds into avenues and alleys-and more dirt. Despite the hatred I own for this place, a crusher of dreams and freedom, I take a single step towards the Sentinels that so desperately guard the convoy. Just a single step. 

But then, scowling, and against all logic and sense, I enter into a steady walk. Plenty of men and women have stepped out of their transports, figuring that it'll be a while before Cal's soldiers secure the city. Some lean against their vehicles in weariness and others stretch their limps. 

In an earshot, I hear the crowds complaints behind the dozens of guards, all of which brandish some sort of threatening weapon. Off to a fantastic start, I see.