Page 84 of Wings of Destruction

“Momma, what would you do here? What would you want me to do?”

The necklace has nothing to tell me.

There aren’t any answers in the chain, or the pendant. It all comes down to me and my decision-making skills because no one is coming to save me. No one has the answers for me, for any of us.

It boils down to one thing—what I want to do, and who I want to be? How great is my need for revenge?

My loyalty to the crown? A joke.

Brash, imprudent, I take the pen and scrawl out a long message, the truth dotting every I and crossing each T.

I scribble until my wrist cramps and I have to shake it out to get rid of the ache. It’s more than a little stupid to pour my rage and anger into the paper. My scrawl is deep enough to leave grooves in the subsequent pages.

What will this accomplish?

“Absolutely nothing,” I mutter.

I scowl at my letter, my nostrils flaring in disgust. As good as it feels to get it out in the open, there is nothing here for me. A mad general and his pet king? What good does it do to write it?

My fingers pinch the corner of the page and I tear it out. I shove it in my pocket and push the tip of the pen to the paper.

My loyalty is to the person who inspires it, I start to write.

This is the lie they want, the one everyone wants. People crave the lies because they are palatable in the face of our personal fear, if ignorance is no longer an option.

This message answers the author’s questions and toes the line of a loyal subject, not a traitor.

It sickens me with every stroke of the pen. The ink is much lighter now, my scrawl not nearly as neat as it used to be. Almost like the pen knows every word it writes is garbage.

I’m close to throwing up by the time I finish the note. It will appease the reader and probably keep them happy and writing. The conversation will continue and they will hopefully be too distracted to worry about who is stealing their book and defacing the margins.

My skin crawls and my chest burns as I drag the note I’d crumpled out of my pocket.

I stare at both of them for a long moment, glancing back and forth. There’s a decision to make. One with the potent weight of change. One note will tell the author what they expect to hear, what everyone expects to hear.

The other brands me a traitor.

I know which one makes more sense to include.

Just like I know the consequences of leaving the first in place. The pendant is heavier now than it was before and digs grooves into my neck.

“Ether take me.” I crane my neck, my eyes blurring.

The war stole both of my parents from me and left me not only an orphan but alone. My sister is gone, too, and the future she might have had in our world stripped away. Living is worse. The responsibility of carrying their memories makes every new sunrise a burden rather than a blessing.

What should I do?

Finally, I put the truth back in the book and close it, gripping the pendant until my skin warps around it in a permanent indentation. I won’t betray my mother’s memory by bowing to their lies. Lying might get me down the road but it won’t help me to the finish line.

Lies won’t hold the blade against Roman Ryson’s throat.

Only truth has the power to make change and if it starts with me, with one voice rising up against the screams of the masses who buy the General’s justifications⁠—

I’ll be the monster, gladly growing fangs and claws and fur. Let them see what their cruelty breeds.

I push to my feet with my back curved from hours hunched over the book. And in the moonlight’s glow, my own crooked and misshapen shadow is a beast in the night.

A smile pries my lips apart.