WAR STORM (Red Queen 4// Alternate Version)

Chapter 39

~In the dark~

Jon saw the way in which the Whisper bent the board where this horrible game was played. He was the gamemaster. He was supposed to be in control. Not her.

But the seer hadn't anticipated, hadn't owned a notion of the happenstance the game had fallen because of. No. He had seen not one bit of it coming.

Something divine, he imagined, would have his hand in the game no more. The Gods were real, he was sure of that much. But to assume anything more would be foolish. If his ability was now faulty, untrustworthy... it did not matter. He was never leaving this purgatory.

There was not such an entity as days in this place. A day implied a sunrise and sunset, but there was no sun at all. And the chill that was brought with lack of sun seeped into his heart and soul, his eyes and bones.

For a while, he ventured to scream, when he realized he was alone and couldn't be hurt by anything other than his sanity. To drown out the voices that were coming from every direction, the voices of Silvers and Reds and Newbloods that would die now because he couldn't save them. 

Mare 

The expression written over Maven's face when Volo kicked him to the ground haunts me. 

He looked so exceptionally small up on that stage at his knees with the others shadowing over him. So exceptionally broken. 

After they dragged him off, I couldn't watch anymore. I didn't drop a match into the river as everybody else did-including Davidson. Just tucked it away into the pocket of my too-thin dress, and now it burns a hole. 

As Tyton and I reach Caesar's Square, I feel little more than disdain for the party that is a centuries-old tradition. But it's beautiful, and different, if anything. All of Maven's parties and dances were held inside in the various ballrooms Whitefire holds. There's something about this scene that's... intoxicating. 

Enormous fire pits constructed of bricks decorate the Square, chasing away December. Windweavers must still be lurking around too-there isn't so much as a draft in the wrong direction. Distant relatives of the Jacos House perform in the middle of the vast expanse, their seductive, melodic voices carrying throughout Caesar's Square without the need of microphones. As if the beats want to drive into my ears. Dancers and contortionists leap and spin in time with the Singers' tunes, their costumes gleaming in the firelight. Behind the scene, Whitefire smolders a welcoming yellow. On the other side, the bridge and the city blare brightly. It's as though the Gods attempt to crush the world with darkness and we're doing all we can to fight it. 

The people of Archeon and beyond gravitate to the Singers in hoards, enthralled by everything about them.

Tyton grins at me and I can't help but grin in return, clasping his hand in mine.

It doesn't take long for sweat to prickle at my pores, and the salt water drips down my exposed back. Between the king's fires and the ever-growing number of bodies... I glance downward at my own chest, modestly covered, but low enough to reveal two-thirds of Maven's brand. It's my back that's entirely exposed, from my neck to where my spine cuts off. Oddly enough, it doesn't bother me, knowing that everybody in the whole wide world may look at my marred skin, scathed by the clicker that Cal invented, that Maven wielded. 

Let them see it. Let them see the destruction they've caused. 

Servants tote around platters of wine and horderves, the girls wearing red paint on their lips. Not a one, however, is clad in a hideous red uniform like the one I wore during my stint as a servant here. They wear black and white, but even with the new colors, the fire illuminates their faces well enough to know that beneath the measly change, they're still Red.