The Kingdom of Belmar

Chapter 33

I'm paralyzed. Unable to move forward, no chance in moving back. If I don't move soon, the vine will eventually give out, and it'll be over. I have to move.

Gritting my teeth, I swing an arm ahead of me, grasping at straws and leaves and anything my hands will close around. My first fistful holds true, strong and firm just as when i first leapt from the window. When I brought my other hand over, however, the vines from the wall rip from its roots, detaching from the bricks as does half of my body. I would've sunk farther down had I not clung on so stubbornly, petrified of what it might feel like to become one with the pavement.

Would I be a part of the garden I once enjoyed walking through? Buried under the gladioli and roses that litter the paths? As half of my body dangles helplessly from the wall, I can't help but smell the pollen in the air, mixing with blood as it swirls around me like some macabre perfume of war.

No. I will hold on, and I will make it to the balcony. The longer I stall, the looser my grip. One good swing and I'm there.

Rocking my legs back and forth, I kick off the wall with about as much grace as a dying gazelle, building the momentum in my body necessary to close the gap. Once I've garnered as much height as possible, it's just a matter of courage.

One...I swing forward, contorting my face in necessary focus.

Two...I swing backward, baring my teeth as I suck air through the gaps.

Three...I let go, launching myself through the air in a length greater than my own height. Just grab it. Just grab the awning and I'm alive. And I do.

My chest crashes into the concrete railing, knocking the wind from my lungs as I desperately hold onto the awning. It's taking everything in me not to peel backwards, but I make it. I prevail. I'm free from my prison but not yet free from everything I've overlooked.

This is the best chance to right those wrongs, though, as behind these patio doors is the throne room. And just my luck, the lights are on.

This isn't the moment to burst into a room, guns blazing, it's the moment to hang back and assess the situation while waiting for reinforcements, waiting for an opening. I hug my body to the wall, crouching behind pillars under the guise of the darkened night. There's too much to pay attention to tonight that isn't a lone girl that managed to sneak her way onto a patio, whoever's in the room should think so too.

Looking through the glass, scanning the room, my eyes widen at the sight. Rista is there, seated beside her son Tristen in the thrones meant for the King and Queen. Margarite's standing behind Rista's chair, saying something to her I can't quite make out. It doesn't matter, though, as Rista seems to be doing her damndest to ignore her. She's played her part, barred us from the resources that would have guaranteed ourselves victory, and now that we're in the midst of hellfire, Rista must know that there's nothing more that Margarite can do for her.

That doesn't stop her, however, from shamelessly trying to win her favor. It's a futile effort, really, like a game of chess. The queen has all the power, even over her own king. Her own son isn't worth more to her than herself, let alone one measly pawn.

There's a guard standing in the corner, and a lump settles in my throat when I see who it is. None other than my very own brother dearest, Garrison. The betrayal has had quite a bit of time to settle, harden and dry in place as a stone in my heart, and yet just looking at him standing there so dutifully, the anger reignites. Like a flame in my chest, it boils the blood in my veins.

I may not be the same Amalie he remembers, but he doesn't know that. How could Garrison protect the man that wishes his sister dead? How could he stand there, ready to cut me down if I were to get in his beloved's way? What is it about Tristen that is so amazing, he's willing to throw away his family?