The Claimed: A Clash of Copper and Gold

Chapter 33: Brave

One Year Later

Sunlight basked me in warmth, a welcome counterpart to the brisk morning breeze tugging my tunic. A symphony of birds chirped greetings, and small animals rustled the grass as they chased each other. However, Finny and I stood as motionless as the tombstone before us.

Here lies King Karoo, beloved leader of Najila.

The carving in the marbled stone eternalized two lies. Whatever charred remains survived the fire did not lie beneath this tombstone, and across most of Najila, he had never been beloved. My father had proven a mediocre king and a blundering parent.

When Epsa's tombstone joined Izra's, Legion members and inspired peasants packed the Rakim hero memorial center. At King Karoo's ceremony, a handful of traveling Foojans and a spattering of chiefs and representatives spotted the field. Now carefully-tended flowers blossomed in brilliant colors around the tombstones of Epsa and Izra not far from us, while only a platter of charred and misshapen cinnamon cake crisps decorated the grass in front of my father's tomb.

After minutes of silence, Finny began to fidget beside me.

"I don't think he is actually going to eat those crisps."

"No, I guess not."

"Maybe we should help."

"We probably should."

Finny and I crouched and grabbed a single crisp. I popped the entire crisp into my mouth, crunched down — and stopped. Beside me, Finny grimaced and pressed her palm over her mouth. Then she met my eye and dropped her hand to flash a bright stuffed-cheeked smile.

We resumed chewing for a few more seconds. Then in unison, we spat masticated mounds into our palms.

I swished saliva around my mouth in an effort to expel the salty bitterness. "Alright, next time we should follow the recipe more closely. Or enlist help from Aunt Mitzy."

Finny gargled spit and hawked it up into her hand. "Or we should stick to fighting."

I dropped down to discard the mutilated crisp and wiped my hand in the grass. "Everyone should know how to cook, Finny, though I admit you are alarmingly good at fighting. Despite your inept trainers."

Finny dumped the remains of her own crisp and wiped her hand on her trousers. "Inept? Na. I heard my two trainers held the middle of the colosseum and took out half the Rakim army last year."

I rolled my eyes. "It couldn't have been half."

"I bet it was more. I hope I get to save the nation like that someday."

"Finny, Queen Trebalda named you her heir so you can one day lead the nation, not save it. The sword is your last resort."

"Don't worry," said Finny. "I still prefer my fists."

A startled laugh spilled from me. When I managed to tamp it down, I shoved her shoulder. She staggered two steps to the side and threw a few haphazard fists my way before I managed to trap her hands in mine. Then her body stilled, and her gaze locked on the tombstone once more. 

I released one hand and held just the closer one. Her fingers felt warm, sticky, and rough.

Then Finny said, "Do you think Mother would be proud of me?"

Unwilling tears pricked my eyes as I squeezed her hand. "I know she would be, Finny. You may look more like Father, but you have Mother's strength."

"Well, I don't really want to be like either of them."

I furrowed my brow and studied Finny, but she remained dry-eyed and motionless. "You don't? Why not?"