Page 12 of Where We Belong

“Majesty,” Nykholas clears his throat, “these were posted all over the city this morning. Identical reports have come in from the other territories. Apart from Cinder Cliffs. Scouts are monitoring the streets but have yet to find the source.”

He drops parchment after parchment around my end of the table, his rings glinting under the hanging lanterns. A flash of gold set in dark metal with a small falcon at the centre catches my eye. The parchment is dry and thick beneath my fingers. Out of habit, I bring it to my nose and inhale quickly. Ink, smoke, faint traces of spice. Nykholas smirks to himself for whatever reason as he thumps into a seat opposite me, leaning back lazily, one hand raking through his white hair. My jaw flexes, recalling the similarities between him and Kaed. Arrogant. Violent. Unreasonably attractive. It is no wonder they are so close. The room falls silent as we all read:

To the people of Sheyole,

We detain the King’s Captain and now his Princess.

Another failure from King Aeron.

He who claims foresight saw nothing. Again.

They have called us criminals, fools, conspirators. But now the proof bleeds through the cracks of his golden walls. King Aeron hid the Princess, our saviour, the key to our freedom in The Above while you toiled and starved in these barren lands. All to keep his throne, his court and his favour with the gods intact.

No more.

Her blood will open the way

These lands will not hold us any longer.

Cinder Cliffs must come forward and share the knowledge of the ritual that will set us free, the key to the gates, to equality and opportunity in The Above. Where the air is fresh and the land is plentiful. Where our children, our sisters and brothers will not be ripped to shreds by the monsters that hold us here. If any Cinder fae possess the truth of the ritual, speak it here, on these public parchments, and we will begin.

Freedom will be ours.

We will return to where we belong.

The King’s face darkens as he reads, his hand crumpling the parchment in a trembling fist as his other hand clenches the table.

“If they hurt her...” his voice is a broken whisper, “if they kill him—”

“Any responses to this nonsense?” I ask carefully to draw attention away from him.

“There are theories written on these ones.” Lili’s eyes dart across the page. “Peeling her skin off and making a salve out of the flesh. Smother it over the basin.” She flicks to another. “Cut off her hair with a ceremonial dagger and mix it with Checheen Bark.”

“They may not be able to murder her, but she could die accidentally if the rest are anything like this. At the very least, they will cause her a great deal of pain.” Nykholas idly traces his finger along the scar slashed across his lips, as he leans over Lili’s shoulder to read.

It is as if the rebels have lost their damned minds. No blade forged with ill intent, no poison brewed with malice, can end a royal life. Feye had seen to that. Anything that holds his essence cannot be destroyed on purpose. It was written into our blood long before any of those fools learned to sharpen a knife. But accidents. Recklessness. Desperation. Those are still dangerous.

“Prince,” he continues quietly, “to many, this isn’t nonsense. We are well aware of the disparity among our people, now more than ever.” He glances wearily at the King. “They sense a chance at a better life, and that kind of belief can set whole nations in motion. They have hope.”

“Then we shall turn their hope into fear,” I remark, ignoring his frown to glance at my uncle, whose mind is far from public sentiment. He stares through the table as if the answers are in the grain.

“These fools don’t understand what they’re meddling with.” He says, his golden bracelets clinking while he pinches the bridge of his nose, “They’re untrained, reckless children playing with fire in an oil-drenched temple. The Creed is clear as day; she must be a sacrifice. A sacrifice is willing. Kidnapping and experimentation will not suffice; she must choose it.” He slams his palm onto the table. Nykholas grunts in agreement, but there is not a single breath to be heard from anyone else. No doubt, some disagree, but they are unwilling to speak up. The Creed, as with all our ancient texts, has been up for debate since its conception.

I rub the parchment between my fingers, studying the thickness. “First, we must force contact with Cinder Cliffs. They are much too quiet.” They are known for their monopoly on knowledge. The finest universities in Sheyole, the grandest libraries. But with much knowledge comes pride. And covetousness. “Then, trace this parchment straight to the mill. The ink. Even the pins and glue used to post them. And, Uncle, I know you will not like this, but we need to counteract their narrative.”

“What do you suggest, Aiden?” He leans his head back on his chair, eyes closed.

“Though I disagree on principle — a sacrifice, by definition, is never truly willing. That is what makes it a sacrifice — it may serve us to present it so. By forcing her, they will never obtain freedom. Additionally, your niece could destroy the entire realm with her black flames if they provoke her. She is just as likely to destroy us as she is to save us.”

I lean forward, my cadence as practiced as the face I wear. “Assure the citizens you are invested in our freedom. That The Above means freedom for you too, for us all. The killings, abductions have drastically increased since she was taken. The Mer Army is out of control, and the rebels are at fault for that too.” A plan knits together in my mind, bringing a rush of strained excitement to my words. “We will act only when she is safely returned. If they proceed rashly, they risk our one chance at freedom, the gods’ favour and countless innocent lives. They are already grasping at straws by turning to the public; they cannot possibly—”

My hand lands on a pile of parchments. I snatch the top few and skim the frenzied scrawls. “One, sever her feet from her body, place them in the basin, and two…” I flip to another, ignoring my uncle’s sharp intake of breath, “have her walk around the basin seven times. We give them all something to hate. The rebels. Then show them it is taking away something they need. Freedom.”

“They will turn on each other again. Neighbour against neighbour. We cannot toy with emotions.” Theron says through gritted teeth. Nykholas frowns at the interruption but does not take his dark eyes off me.

“If you arrived at this meeting on time, you would have known that is the point,” I say firmly. “We must smoke those rebels out of their hole. If our citizens are focused on their fear, no matter how it manifests, they are not feeding them information. The Princess and your Captain are kept safe. Is that not what you want?”

“Perhaps we must first ask why Cinder Cliffs are remaining silent,” he spits, glaring at Tobian, who scrunches up his face but says nothing. “Besides, they are not puppets. They are your people—” Theron sneers. I do not like his tone, so I speak louder to drown it out.