Page 99 of Wings of Destruction

At the palace?

“Speaking to the king?” I ask out loud.

Astrid shrugs a muscled shoulder high and stomps ahead of me toward the glass doors leading outside. The handle gives a squeal of protest when she pulls it. “No one has really spoken to the king. If your father did so, it was managed in secret. All reports claim the king is isolated in his chambers. No one goes in or out.”

The heat from before dissipates into a wave of sickly queasiness. The night air gusts against my overheated skin and I push the sensation away, planting myself against the wall for a moment. This deep in the shadows, we’ll hopefully be unnoticed until the others join us.

Whatever my father is doing there, I guarantee it’s nothing good. Just as I guarantee the king is not as isolated as the stories claim.

“We’ll have to keep our ears open and see if anything changes,” I say in a sharp undertone.

“Clearly.” Astrid rolls up her sleeves. “I’m already taking care of it.”

Her attention latches on something over my shoulder. Out of the shadows ringing the edge of the pavilion come two students, first years. Their outlines sharpen the closer they get.

Astrid’s potential resistance fighters.

It’s smarter to meet with them here rather than going into the tunnels. If they know about the caverns, before we’ve judged their trustworthiness, we’ll never get off the ground.

But my father and the King…

I’ve known the two of them are working together for some time, but the extent of their relationship has never been particularly plain. How much of my father’s movements has the king sanctioned? How many of them are done right under the monarch’s nose?

Roman Ryson has plans for King Lochlain, I guarantee it, to use the child monarch to catapult his own rise to power.

The king may not remain in his position for long. The sooner we all brace for change and impact, the more likely we’ll be to survive the transition without too many scars.

Twenty-One

Morgan

Kieran’s face is bloody.

I see his phantom in front of me, his eyes widening as I thrust the sword into his gut. This is what he gets for his special treatment. Better yet, this is how I justify the use of his private gym.

By maiming him in my mind repeatedly.

Or perhaps I need someone else to be angry with instead of the constant berating I’ve done of myself. I lay awake in my bunk last night staring at the sagging rungs of the mattress overhead and wondering how much lower I will have to sink before I get it.

Before the reality of the situation really sinks in with such irreversible persistence I can’t pretend anymore.

My sapphire is gone.

And Druella, the cow, is sleeping soundly across the room.

Milkin even moved her and Daisy to bunks closer to the bathroom like they get some kind of special treat for being forced to put up with me.

Tonight, instead of pretending to sleep, I’d gone to work out. It helps exhaust me until even worrying is too difficult. Until I’m not myself but I’m a different creature, one made up of flesh and spite.

I hate this gym, though.

Falling asleep in the attached locker room only deepens the feeling. The fragments of my heart are all in agreement. The decadence of the private space grates on my nerves even though it serves a purpose.

Why does Kieran get the special treatment? Because of his father? Because of the blood running in his veins? His status shouldn’t make him any better or worse than anyone else. Nobility have gotten away with literal murder for far too long because their coins and their reputations do the talking for them instead of their character.

The system is backwards and warped.

The King, rather than standing up for the people who need him the most, is a silent supporter of the General.