Insurgence [h.s]

three

Rain is pattering on the window wall by Alouette's side. The glass is cold, digging into her side, only shielded by the thin shirt she was wearing when the Revolution was attacked. In the distance, the lights of the faraway buildings flicker on and off intermittently as people go about their day, unaware of her terrible loss. Her father's words from a lifetime ago come back to her mind, but they sound so mocking that nausea comes over her.

Where there's light, there's life, and you'll never be alone.

Alouette has never felt so lonely before. To be alone in a group is worse than to be alone by yourself—it's the realisation that you don't matter. People don't care about your suffering unless they have a reason to. She's lost everything—they've lost everything—but life goes on in Northfair, either blissfully unaware or singing the Palace's praises. Is this truly the world her father lost everything to protect?

Had Daniel Ivenhart lost his mind? Was he too lost in his idealistic yet chimeric vision of the world to realise there was no hope for any of them?

Was Ezra right all along?

Alouette closes her eyes, hiding her face against her raised knees.

What have you done?

The question echoes in her mind, again and again and again. This is her fault. She brought a wolf among sheep; how could she ever think anything different would happen? People died, and it's all her fault. She thought she could play the game like everyone else around her, but she was so wrong. She should've never taken him to the Revolution. She should've never pushed for them to work together. She should've never hoped to use him.

She should've killed him when she had the chance.

How could she let him blindside her like this? She knew better than that—she knew exactly who he was every step of the way, and still she foolishly thought she could control him. As if he'd ever let himself be controlled.

He was never on her side. He stuck around out of convenience, because she made it so easy. And she knew, she knew, she knew. She's always known, even before they spoke their first words to each other. Even after. He's never made a secret of it.

Don't tell me you'd idolised me, Lark. So naïve, don't you know you'll only set yourself up for disappointment that way?

"Shit," she mutters, pressing her hands to her eyes to keep her tears from falling. She'd puke, if only she hadn't already done it three times since she was shoved in her room. She doesn't know how long it's been. Northfair has been drenched in rain since the night she arrived.

She can hardly breathe. She'd never thought he could betray her like this. She'd always unconsciously believed this type of betrayal was beyond him—that not even he could be this ruthless, this deranged. She was wrong, and everyone at home paid for it. Only because she thought of it like a game, only because she thought there would be a way out. There was no way out—there's never been. She made her choice when she decided not to press the trigger in front of the Palace last summer, and her debt has been rising since then. Saving the life of the most influential person in the country comes to no small cost, and the interest rate is just as unforgiving.

Funny how one wrong choice can send it all toppling down. How her decisions bring to more decisions, that ultimately can bring to disaster. How could she ever think the Palace and the Revolution could work together? No—how could she believe an Ivenhart and a Styles could create something new, together? Their legacy was screaming it in her face all this time—nothing but ruin awaited them. They're hardwired to annihilate each other. They cannot coexist.

The door opens.

Brooks leans against the frame, staring at her with curious blue eyes. It's not the first time she sees him—it is the first time she doesn't throw her cutlery at him in the moment he comes in the room. "Shower and get dressed, you're required somewhere."