Glass Sword

I almost take a third ration packet, as Cal hasn’t eaten since the Colonel locked him up, but one glance toward the back of the jet stills my hand. Cal stands alone, fiddling with an open panel, putting on a show of fixing something that isn’t broken. He quickly zips himself into one of the uniforms stored away on board: a black-and-silver flight suit. The tattered clothes of the arena and execution puddle at his feet. He looks more like himself, a prince of fire, a warrior born. If not for the distinctive walls of the Blackrun, I would think us back in a palace, dancing around each other like moths around a candle. There’s a badge emblazoned over his heart, a black-and-red emblem flanked by a pair of silver wings. Even from this distance, I recognize the dark points, twisted into the image of flame. The Burning Crown. That was his father’s, his grandfather’s, his birthright. Instead, the crown was taken in the worst way, paid for with his father’s blood and his brother’s soul. And as much as I hated the king, the throne, and all it stood for, I can’t help but feel sorry for Cal. He’s lost everything—an entire life, even if that life was wrong.

Cal feels my gaze and looks up from his busywork, still for a moment. Then his hand strays to the badge, tracing the outline of his stolen kingdom. In one sharp twist that makes me flinch, he rips it from the suit and tosses it away. Rage flickers in his eyes, deep beneath his calm exterior. Though he tries to hide it, his anger always bubbles to the surface, glinting between the cracks in his well-worn mask. I leave him to his fussing, knowing the inner workings of the jet can calm him better than anything I might say.

Shade shifts, giving me space next to him, and I plop down without much grace. Silence hangs over us like a dark cloud as we pass the canteen back and forth, sharing a very strange family dinner on the floor of a twice-stolen Blackrun.

“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” I whisper, hoping for some kind of absolution. Though he’s only a year older than me, I’ve always relied on Shade’s advice.

To my relief, he nods. “It was only a matter of time before they threw me in with you. The Colonel doesn’t know how to handle people like us. We scare him.”

“He’s not the only one,” I answer glumly, remembering the averted eyes and whispers of everyone I’ve encountered thus far. Even in the Hall of the Sun, where I was surrounded by impossible abilities, I was still different. And in Tuck, I was the lightning girl. Respected, recognized, and feared. “At least the others are normal.”

“Mom and Dad?”

I nod, wincing at the mention of them. “Gisa too, and the boys. They’re true Red so he can’t—he won’t do anything to them.” It sounds like a question.

Shade takes a thoughtful bite of his rations, a flaky, dry bar of compacted oats. It leaves crumbs all over him. “If they’d helped us, it’d be a different story. But they didn’t know anything about our escape, so I wouldn’t worry. Leaving the way we did”—his breath catches, as does mine—“it was better for them. Dad would’ve helped otherwise, Mom too. At least Bree and Tramy are loyal enough to the cause to escape any suspicion. Not to mention, neither of them is bright enough to pull something like this off.” He pauses, thoughtful. “I doubt even the Lakelanders would like throwing an old woman, a cripple, and little Gisa in a cell.”

“Good,” I reply, relieved ever so slightly. Feeling better, I brush the flakes of his ration bar off his shirt.

“I don’t like it when you call them normal,” he adds, catching my wrist. His voice is suddenly low. “There’s nothing wrong with us. We’re different, yes, but not wrong. And certainly not better.”

We are anything but normal, I want to tell him, but Shade’s stern words kill the thought. “You’re right, Shade,” I say with a nod, hoping he won’t see through my feeble lie. “You always are.”

He laughs and finishes his dinner in a massive bite. “Can I get that in writing?” He chuckles, releasing his grip on me. His smile is so familiar I begin to ache. I feign a smile, for his benefit, but Cal’s heavy steps quickly wipe it away.

He strides past us, stepping clean over Shade’s extended leg, his eyes fixed on the cockpit. “We should be in range soon,” he says to no one in particular, but it sends us into action.

Kilorn scrambles away from the cockpit, as if shooed away like a little boy. Cal ignores him completely. His focus is on the airjet, and nothing else. For now, at least, their animosity takes a backseat to the obstacles ahead.

“I’d buckle in,” Cal adds over his shoulder, catching my eye as he sinks into his own seat. He fastens his safety belts with detached precision, tightening each one with quick, hard tugs. At his side, Farley does the same, silently claiming my chair for the time being. Not that I mind. Watching the jet take off was terrifying—I can only imagine what landing looks like.

Shade is proud, but not stupid, and lets me help him to his feet. Kilorn takes Shade’s other side, and together we make quick work of getting him standing. Once he’s up, Shade maneuvers himself easily, getting buckled into his seat with a crutch under one arm. I take the seat next to him, with Kilorn on my other side. This time, my friend buckles himself in tightly, and grips his restraints in grim anticipation.

I focus on my own belts, feeling strangely safe when they tighten against me. You just strapped yourself to a hurtling piece of metal. It’s true, but, at least for the next few minutes, life and death depend solely on the pilot. I’m just along for the ride.

In the cockpit, Cal busies himself with a dozen switches and levers, preparing the jet for whatever comes next. He squints, averting his eyes from the sunset and its blaze of light. It sets his silhouette on fire, illuminating him with red-and-orange fingers that could be his own flames. I’m reminded of Naercey, the Bowl of Bones, even our Training matches, when Cal ceased to be a prince and became an inferno. Back then I was shocked, surprised every time he revealed his brutal self, but no longer. I can never forget what burns beneath his skin, the rage that fuels him, and how strong they both are.

Anyone can betray anyone, and Cal is no exception.

A touch at my ear makes me jump in my seat, jolting against my restraints. I turn to see Kilorn’s hand hanging in midair and his face quirked in an amused smile.

“You still have them,” he says, gesturing to my head.

Yes, Kilorn, I still have ears, I want to bite back. But then I realize what he’s talking about. Four stones, pink, red, deep purple, and green—my earrings. The first three are from my brothers, part of a single set split between Gisa and me. They were bittersweet gifts, given when they conscripted into the army and left our family, perhaps for good. The last one is from Kilorn, given on the edge of doom, before the Scarlet Guard attacked Archeon, before the betrayal that still haunts us all. The earrings were with me through everything, from Bree’s conscription to Maven’s treachery, and each stone feels heavy with memory.

Kilorn’s gaze lingers on the green earring, the one that matches his eyes. The sight of it softens him, wearing down the hard edge he’s gained over the last few months.

“Of course,” I reply. “These will be with me to my grave.”

“Let’s keep the grave talk to a minimum, especially at the moment,” Kilorn mutters, eyeing his restraints again.