"What is this place?" Zelle asked when we were on the train. "Where we're going?"
"It's a place for people who don't want to participate in the war," I said, not knowing what else to call it. "It's a camp."
"In the City of Clouds?" She wrinkled her nose.
"That's right," I said, laughing at her expression.
"And there are savages there?"
"Why did you come, if you didn't want to be around savages?"
I cocked my head to the side and squinted at her. Her eyes looked greener than ever, clearer somehow. She looked away, out the window.
"Because you're going to rescue Gunnar," she said, her voice small. "And it's my fault he was taken from you. And if there's any chance he might be alive—" Her voice broke, the sound of guilt itself, but she quickly recovered and went on, "I've changed my mind. I've decided I don't want you to lose your soldier like I did mine."
"I forgive you," I said.
She looked at me then. "I don't know why you would."
...
It was dark by the time we reached camp. The guards let us through—the whole place was guarded now—and I could tell Zelle was nervous, but I had other things on my mind. I got her settled in one of the houses, and then asked to see Bjorn.
"Pretty sure he turned in, miss," one of the guards told me at his front door.
"Well, wake him up," I said. "And let me in."
They didn't argue, although they assessed me openly, picked me apart, their eyes full of suspicions. A lot of people were still uncertain of me, and there was a conflict in loyalty around here these days. There was still a great attachment to Bjorn, but at the same time, no one couldn't deny what I was—what I had done by bringing us all here.
Not that I cared about things like that. I was more than happy to let Bjorn take the lead, as long as he listened and didn't stand in my way.
It was long minutes before Bjorn came downstairs to find me sitting on his couch. A couch he couldn't have had if it weren't for me. The man—the whole camp—had been living in rough wilderness.
They wouldn't have come this far without me. Bjorn must have known that. It's the reason he hated me so much now.
"Olya," he said as he walked in, not looking me in the face.
He hadn't bothered to put a shirt on, and his thick chest was matted with coarse hairs, his cheek had the imprint from the pillow. There's something strikingly vulnerable about someone who is fresh out of bed, sleep clinging to their eyelids, but despite this Bjorn still managed to look arrogant as he shuffled across the floor to sit in the chair furthest from me. He sank into the leather with a tired sigh, then pinched his face into a false smile.
"I thought you'd be at home, with Wolfe," he said. "I thought he would have explained everything to your satisfaction."
"He didn't."
He huffed and looked away. "What's the problem?"
"I want to send Bastian to the City of Roses with a message."
"That can wait. We want to shut off their access to—"
"We want to shut off their access to the factories first, yes, I know. It was my plan, remember?"
He narrowed his eyes at me across the space dividing us. "I don't know why you've come here like this, Olya."
"Don't you?"
"You're pregnant," he emphasized. "You should be taking the time to care for yourself and this baby, instead of worrying yourself sick over a man that may or may not be dead."
"What I should be doing is not your concern."
He bristled visibly, and rubbed at his beard with his knuckle. "No. I suppose it isn't. But I won't let you put this camp at risk."
"Put it at risk? I'm the reason you're all safe."
"We could have achieved any of this without you."
I almost laughed at that. "Then why didn't you?"
"You're not the only Daughter of the King around, Olya," he raised his voice, his hand curling into a fist on the armrest, clenching and unclenching. "Fay is fertile, too. She has a child, too. She has the same abilities as you. She could have done everything you have."
"Then why didn't she?"
"You need to learn to control your emotions better than this!" he suddenly shouted. "I know you care about this man, but that's not the only thing that matters right now."
The baby started crying upstairs, shattering the night, and we both fell silent as we listened to the slow, tired footsteps of Fay getting out of bed and crossing the rooms above.
When the upstairs went quiet again, I rose to my feet and crossed the room towards him. He watched me closely, as though trying to decipher which one of us was the hunter and which one was the prey. There was something animalistic in both of us that always seemed to be at odds.
"Don't lecture me about my emotions, Bjorn. You can't even keep your voice down." I leaned close as I spoke, dropping my voice to a steady whisper. "We will shut down these factories. We've done without them before, or have you already forgotten? Have you already gotten used to the good life?"
His lip pulled back slightly, a flash of vampire teeth.
"And when Gunnar is returned to me, we would be glad to get out of your way."
He shook his head. "You think once it's all said and done, that your mother is going to sit happily on her throne back there in her big city of roses, all the while knowing we have full control of the factories? You think she's just going to let that happeb?"
"Is that what you're worried about? Revealing ourselves?" I asked. "She won't come after us."
"You can't know that," he said. "She still has control of the majority of the troops. She could send them to bomb us at any moment."
"Bjorn," I said patiently, "to do that would be to destroy her only source of goods. I chose this place for a reason. We're safe here."
He grumbled, the sound emanating from deep in his chest, like a grumpy bear.
He must have known I was right.
"We have control of the factories. She won't have a choice but to accept things as they are." I straightened up and gazed down at him in the semi-darkness. "And if you get Gunnar back to me, you won't have to see me again. That's a promise."
I knew that's what he wanted.
He paused, as though considering, sharp green eyes narrowed at my face. Then he said, "I look forward to it."
I laughed at that, before walking out of the room and out the front door, without so much as a backward glance or a goodbye.
The man was entertaining, if nothing else.
"Where have you been?" Zelle came out of the shadows when I arrived home.
"Have you been waiting?" I teased, walking back up the stairs towards her.
"It's just that it's strange, being here."
"Of course," I said, "Sorry. I'm here now."
She smiled, and I wanted to pat her on the head, like a child or a pet. There were times when I wished I could have been sweet like Zelle. It seemed so much easier, to be a good person. Instead of this in-between thing that I was, caught between the beast I'd been all my life—the beast that rose up from deep within me, whenever I went head to head with Bjorn—and the human I'd become and was still becoming. The human who loved Zelle, who loved Gunnar, who would one day soon have to learn to be a mother.
Every day, the baby inside me moved a little, kicked, reminding me of what was to come. Once again, I would have to change, even more than I had changed before, and I wasn't sure it could be done.
...
Bastian's house was unkept and cold. He didn't like to live close to the others, so he'd picked one of the houses that was further out. Because of this, it still hadn't been properly restored. We'd warned him it might take a while, but he preferred it this way. He'd been the same back at the old camp, separating himself from the pack, an old man retreating into isolation, perhaps preparing himself for what awaited him next: death.
The house showed signs of animals, but Bastian was not unlike an animal himself, sitting on the floor, unshaved and unclean, arms crossed over his chest. His body looked soft and sagging, like a pillow folded over in the middle.
There wasn't even a shred of the old king left. I wondered if he was mentally ill, if the fall of his empire had broken him in some unfixable way. It seemed like it.
Or maybe he'd always been like this and we just hadn't known. Maybe our government had all been a puppet act for longer than we'd realized.
"Why do you have to send me?" Bastian cried. "I won't do it. They'll kill me."
"No, they won't," I said.
"You can't know that." He shook his head for a long time, back and forth, as though stuck like that, his greasy hair flopping like a wet mop on his head.
"I do know it," I said. "Because they need you to return any messages to us."
"No!" He stuck out his lip, like a sulky child. "I won't do it."
"Bastian, be reasonable, please."
"He is being reasonable," Bjorn spoke up from where he was standing in the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
I shot him a disapproving look, since he wasn't being helpful in the slightest. He just splayed his hands out, as if to say, what?
"Olya," Zelle piped up next, soft and uncertain. "Perhaps it's best if we leave the old man alone."
I sighed. She had a point. Bastian was worse than when I'd seen him last. He was only half with us. It would be one thing to send a fallen king as your messenger, but to send a senseless man was too much of a risk. There was no guarantee he wouldn't just run off and get himself killed, or simply get lost.
"You're right," I said, squaring my shoulders as I made up my mind. "I'll go myself."
Both Zelle and Bjorn exclaimed in surprise, while Bastian simply traced his dirty fingernail over the old floorboards, apparently uninterested.
"You can't," Zelle whispered, horrified.
"There's no way in hell I'm letting you do that," Bjorn shouted.
Bastian startled and stared with frightened eyes at the bearded savage.
"There's no other choice," I said. "Besides, I would never ask someone to do something I'm not willing to do myself."
It was the truth. Besides, I knew no one would harm me. No one would dare, not while I was clearly pregnant—clearly a Daughter
"They won't let you come back," Bjorn said.
"And what's it to you?" I snapped at him. "It's what you want, isn't it? To have me out of your way?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" His eyes flashed in anger. "You don't even know what's going on over there since they've locked down the city. No one does anymore. And what are you going to do, if Gunnar isn't even alive? You would've sacrificed yourself for nothing."
Sacrifice. I hated that damn word. It tasted like acid on my tongue.
"It wouldn't be a sacrifice. I'm the one person who can easily make it in and out of there alive, and it'll be worth the risk. To me, anyway."
"Oh, hell!" Bjorn threw his hands up. "You really are a woman in love. You're talking complete nonsense."
"Do you want me to stay that badly?" I threw back at him.
"Yes," he bit out through his sharp teeth. "Of course, I want you to stay. I want my camp back, but I want you to stay."
I shook my head at him and laughed. "You're just like him," I said, jabbing my thumb in Bastian's direction.
The old king looked petrified by our dispute, eyes darting back and forth between us, wincing as though our shouting physically hurt.
Bjorn just frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"You want all the Daughters of the King to yourself," I clarified.
I'd meant it as an insult, but Bjorn just looked proud.
"I'll go," a small voice interrupted.
I turned towards the sound. Zelle was standing back, her presence momentarily forgotten in the midst of our argument.
"What?" I spat.
She shrugged. "I'll go. To the City of Roses. It's my fault you're in this mess anyway. So, I'll go."
I laughed outright, only this time it was a bitter sound. "Not a chance in hell, my girl."
She just shrugged again, lowering her head, her green eyes disappearing beneath thick lashes. Soft and demure, as always.
I should have known she'd volunteer. Sacrifice must be her favorite word. Probably tasted like the tears of angels on her tongue.
She was an angel herself, my Zelle.
I lowered my voice this time, as a warning. Just one word. "No."
"It was just an idea."
"It's a terrible one," I said, and then I stormed out.
...
It was late in the night when I heard them. Sleep clung to me, my mind unable to connect reality to the things I was hearing. A shuffling, a creaking, muffled voices.
Then I realized what was happening, and my eyes flew open.
No, I thought.
I leapt out of bed, flew down the hall and down the stairs, but I was too late.
The door was wide open, a chill wind blowing in. Bjorn was standing there in the dark with a flashlight in his hand, throwing a pool of light at his feet. He turned to look at me when he heard my steps on the stairs, but his face didn't move—he showed no emotion, no reaction.
"Stop!" I cried, my feet padding fast across the floorboards, all the way out the door and into the night without shoes on, little rocks and grass sticking to my soles.
She was already gone. There was nothing to find but darkness.
I spun back around to face Bjorn. "How dare you," I spat into his face.
"She wanted to go," he said, like it wasn't a big deal—like it was only natural. "I'd rather her than you."
I nearly started sobbing. A lump was stuck deep in my throat, threatening to shatter through the surface. "How many went with her? You better not have sent her alone."
"Two others." He was so infuriatingly calm, I wanted to strangle him. "They'll make sure she gets there safely, don't worry."
This time, I actually started crying, right there in my night dress, the breeze blowing the hem around my ankles, my large belly stretching the fabric. I pressed my hands to feel for the baby, trying to summon some strength.
"I think she's a good candidate," Bjorn went on. "Your mother knows her already, and I'm sure this will secure the deliverance of the message."
I barely heard a word.
"Shhh, don't cry." Bjorn reached out, putting warm hand on my shoulder, pulling me closer. "Love makes us all stupid."
"It does," I croaked, feeling hollow as I cried shamelessly out on the lawn.
I'd lost her for good, hadn't it? She wouldn't come back. I could feel it
"Go on inside," Bjorn was saying now, his body very warm. It was warm because it was suddenly very close, his arms around me, his hands brushing onto my chilled skin. The shoulders, the arms, the belly. "You should go back to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."
I shoved him away. "Don't touch me."
I turned to go back inside, alone. He didn't argue—didn't follow as I shut the door and made my way up the stairs, a well-known emptiness coming to reclaim me. I crawled into bed, feeling heavy and tired. My eyes closed before my head hit the pillow, and I thought to myself, to feel is to be strong. My mother's reluctance to feel was her cowardice, and I suppose I didn't blame her, but I wasn't like her in this one respect. I was stronger.
I laid there all night and I felt.