We•Will•Rise

Chapter Two

I'm outside in what felt like seconds, the chill of the wind biting at the thin fabric of my dress, clawing its way into my skin. But I don't feel it, I don't feel anything but the thrum of my heart and the pavement under my bare feet. The typical homeless that linger around the castle watch me as I dart past the gates, slipping between them just before the iron bars close.
I nearly faceplant, catching myself roughly with my hands and knees. The bite of the cobblestone burns through my skin as I turn to see the tail of my dress caught on one of the spears of iron. I yank at it, ripping the flimsy lace from the bar. The Sultans are behind me, shouting my name and for me not to move. I see their silhouettes against the light of the castle, and I waste no time getting to my feet and taking off again. One thing at least, they could never be as fast as me.
My face, I know, will be plastered on every post and building by morning. My father will be interrogated, but I know he has the sense to lie. He will say he never knew about my gift, he never knew I had been touched by the Gods. And he will be alive.
I take a sharp turn down one of the many alleyways, darkness enveloping me as the buildings' awnings hide the moonlight. And in turn, hide me.
I stop and rest against a stone building, taking ragged breaths that send ice down to my lungs. My feet hurt and my hands and knees burn from my fall, but I made an escape from the castle. I gave myself a fighting chance, and that's all I need.
I start to walk down the alley once I catch my breath, ignoring all of the sounds of animals scurrying away into the dark. I hear the Sultans somewhere distant, shouting to spread out to cover more ground. Fear keeps my heart in my throat, and I take a random turn down the alley, deeper into the dark. I hear rustles of people moving and grunting.
"Would you stop all that loud breathing? We're trynna sleep!" Someone shouts as something plops against my head. I wince, looking down to see an apple core at my feet. Disgusted and a little scared, I walk faster, taking another turn where I see more light, leading me into Alcur Street, the brick homes of the nobles. I wouldn't find help here, only more enemies.
I walk until my feet are numb, and the cold is so deep into my bones I feel like I'll never be warm again. I take myself to Thimmund Avenue, where my father's  parents used to live. They had been commoners, poor almost with little to no nice things. They had met me a few times, enough to where they would recognize me, but not know me. Not to mention no one knows enough about the Lord Commander's past to link my runaway to my grandparents.
I hesitate, wondering if it's worth the risk. But then again, what else could I do? Freeze to death or wander around aimlessly until I stumble into the wrong alleyway? I had to try, if it doesn't work I can make a run for it. How far could an ederly couple chase me anyway?
Finally building up the courage, I knock at their door. After a second, a light emits from the inside and the door opens, a young girl with a round face greeting me. She has to be about ten or eleven, with tousled blonde hair and light brown eyes. She yawns as she speaks. "Can I help you?"
"I, um," I look around past the open door, the little light highlighting an old looking couch and warm brown walls. "I'm looking for Mister and Miss Maltrov."
"Oh," she says, sounding sad suddenly. "They don't live here anymore. But I can go get my mom."
"No that's—"
"Isabel, I know you didn't just open that door," a throaty, femine voice calls from the darkness inside the home. I take a step back, nearly tripping over my own feet. A lady, a few years older than me and wearing a faded yellow nightslip, appears behind the little girl, her hair so blonde it's nearly silver, and grey eyes to match. She looks me up and down, taking in my tattered gown and bare feet. Her expression is almost one of pity, before it turns cold. She meets my gaze with steely eyes. "Who are you? What do you want?" Her words are like ice, and tinted with a Rimorian accent.
"I was looking for someone else, they used to live here." I say, starting to back away. "My apologies."
"The Maltrovs?" She asks with knitted brows, that look of pity coming back again. When I nod my head, her eyes tell me all I need to know. "Oh, darling, they passed a year ago."
"I—" The sound of men's voices cuts me off, voices that don't sound so far away. I feel my heart pick up in my chest hard enough that I'm sure she can see its indention through my ribs. "Again, my apologies, I should—"
"It's late. Would you like to come inside?" She surprises me by offering. I hesitate, but the voices are getting closer. I'm not sure if she hears them yet, but she will soon. I glance behind me, into the dark street I just came from and make a decision.
"Thank you," I say, stepping in as she opens the door wide enough for me to fit through. The young girl moves aside, letting out another yawn. The room is dark minus the lantern lit above the tattered couch, but I can still see the vague outline of a chair across from the sofa and a table of some sort in between them.
"Isabel, sweetheart, go back to bed. You have lessons in the morning." The woman brushes the young girl's messy hair back from her face. Isabel mumbles an okay and ambles down through a dark hallway. When she disappears, the woman faces me, that steely look returning to her eyes. "I only let you in because you knew the previous owners. Now, who are you?"
I hesitate again before deciding that knowing my name can't hurt. It would be all over the capital by the morning. "Alaya Maltrov. The Maltrovs are... uh, were... my grandparents."
This seems to unsettle her, as she fidgets in her seat. "I see... my husband is their grandson as well."
I try to keep the shock off of my face, but I fail. "I didn't know they have other children."
"Well, I believe they only have one." She watches me carefully as the words leave her mouth. I suddenly feel the urge to vomit. I have a brother? That can't be right. There's no way. Father would have told me. This night is leading up to me having a heart attack.
"As in," I swallow hard, "the Lord Commander?"
"As in the Lord Commander," she repeats, fidgeting in her seat again. "What did you say your name was again?"
Just as the last word leaves her mouth, the door opens. I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. With nowhere to run, I can only stare in fear as a tall man enters the home. The woman watches my reaction, but says nothing.
"You're up late," he begins, his voice hinting at an unfamiliar accent. He's not looking in our direction as he removes his coat and hat, "There are dozens of Sultan out right now. They stopped me on my way—" he finally turns to us after he hangs his hat and coat against the wall. Seeing me, he goes quiet for a moment. "Who is this?"
They both watch me expectantly. "Alaya Maltrov." My voice is barely a whisper, and for a second I don't think he heard me. But then he looks at the woman, and then back to me.
"Gods," he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. Hair much like my own. "I knew this day would come. Well, night I suppose."
"Wait, wait," I startle myself by speaking. "You knew I existed?"
"Of course I did. Grandmother and grandfather raved about you for a time when I first came to the capital to visit." He crosses his arms over a wide chest and just stares, watching me in curiosity. He looks to be in his thirties, not much older than the woman, whom I'm guessing is his wife. He has the same brown hair as Father and I, but dappled in grey, and the same broad frame and strong nose. I imagine he would look like the spitting image of Father when he was younger.
"You know, you have a whole army of Sultans out there looking for you." He jabs his thumb towards the door.
"I realize." I swallow hard. "I will leave if you would like, but I'd prefer to do it quietly."
"No need," he raises his hand, surprising me, "you're family. I won't toss you into the street. Unless of course they're looking for you because you're a murderer."
I let out a shaky laugh. Quite the opposite actually. But I can't say that, so instead I shake my head.
"Good. Well, I suppose we have some catching up to do. Darling," he turns to his wife who is still watching me with cold eyes, "can you put on some tea?"
"Of course," she says, though it sounds like she'd much rather stay and hear the conversation we're about to have.
He plops down on a leather chair that sits against the back wall, right next to the hallway. He gestures for me to sit as well. I look behind me at the worn couch and decide to perch on the edge of one of the torn cushions.
"Where to start?" He grumbles, massaging the bridge of his nose.
"Why do I not know you?" I ask first, making him look up with a raised eyebrow.
"Because my mother is part of our father's past that he'd much rather forget. See, they had me out of wedlock, that was a great shame to him with his stance in the Sultans. He didn't want word getting out so not many people knew about. . . well, me, and they still don't." He sighs, "My mother ended up taking me when I was just a boy and fled the capital, not really our father's fault, not that he did anything to try and find me. But my mother wasn't the most sane woman. Still I imagine he loved her at some time."
That would explain why he's never been mentioned. But why not tell me, his daughter? To keep the fact that I have a brother from me, well it's unfair. I think about what he said about his mom. "Wasn't?" Is all I ask. I'm curious as to how she's gotten that label from her son, or why she would run off in the first place, but I decide not to pry.
"She passed shortly before our grandparents."
"I'm sorry," I offer, "My mother passed during childbirth."
"Seems like Father had a tragic love life," He snorts a laugh. I narrow my eyes, slightly offended on his behalf. The man—my brother—catches this and waves me off with a flick of his hand. "Forgive me, I don't exactly have a soft spot in my heart for him. I've long doused that flame."
"He's a good man," I snap, trying to reign in my annoyance.
"I wouldn't know," He retorts, meeting me with a leveled stare. We stay quiet for a moment until the whistle of the teapot echoes through the room. The woman comes back in with two cups in her hand, placing both on the wooden table that is staged in the center of the room.
"Forgive my manners," he says, reaching over to grab a cup. "I'm Barron and this is Emilia."
I nod my head in response, eyeing the tea. The smell made my stomach growl, and with both of their eyes watching me expectantly, I grab for the cup. The first sip is hot enough to scald my tongue, but the flavor is delicious and minty.
"So do tell," Emilia begins, perching on the arm of the chair beside her husband. "Why are the Sultans looking for you?"
"They disagree with something I did." I word my reply carefully, giving information but not enough to get thrown out and have the Sultans flagged down. Most are afraid of and loathe the Immortals, out of fear or jealousy I am unsure. But our kind is all around not welcome among the mortals. Hiding what I am has always been a life or death situation, even from the people I care about like my grandparents or Leria, and especially Amari.
"What is that?" She prods further, making me swallow nervously.
"I'd prefer not to go into detail."
"Well," Barron says, standing from his chair. "we won't pressure you. But if you like to stay longer than a night, we need to know to properly keep you safe." His wife gives him a death stare, one that neither of us miss. "She is family, and as long as she doesn't harm our daughter or us, I will keep her safe. By tomorrow I'm sure it will all blow over."
I doubt that. But I will be gone by tomorrow. I will gratefully accept a warm place to sleep, but I won't keep this family in harm's way. If the Queen finds out, she will force this family's exile for hiding a wanted criminal—if you can call me that—no matter if they know the reason or not. And I will not be the cause of that. Especially not to family.
"I will grab you a warm blanket," Emilia says, surprising me. Her eyes still seem cold, as if she'd rather see me sleep outside like a dog than in here with her family. But her voice is oddly gentle.
A minute later she returns with a knitted blanket, made of some type of soft material. It felt nice against the scrapes on my knees and palms. She tells me goodnight and turns the lantern's fire out in the living room, shrouding me in darkness.
What I'm sure would be a pitiful sound forces its way into my throat, held there by sheer will. I refuse to cry, not for doing the right thing. My father is alive and so am I, what more could I ask for? I knew the risks when I did what I did, and I would not take that back. Without my father, my life would crumble. The Queen would send me off through some arranged marriage and wipe her hands clean of the Maltrovs. No, this way I decide my own fate. I will always decide my own fate.
With that thought, I turn on my side and pull the blanket over my head, closing my eyes and praying to the Primordial Gods for sleep to come.