I sat in the mess hall, scowling at the food on my plate.  Then at Will, who was forcing me to eat pieces of unripe fruit after I swore I couldn't keep the oatmeal down.

How could I eat?

I was sick to my stomach.  Sick of death and failure and nasty fruit. I slipped Richard another piece when Will wasn't looking, but even the dog spat it out, revolted.

Rover and Beckett sat across from one another on the wooden benches of the lodge, somber and heartbroken. It was clear Rover hadn't slept a wink, and judging by the mud on his shoes and the dirt on his hands, I suspected he must have buried Jaden. 

Bright, fierce, and loving Jaden. Buried in the earth, so far from her ceiling.

Beckett's eyes gleamed, red and swollen, and I wondered if Jaden had been something like a daughter to him. If he'd watched out for her over the years, and if her death had blackened the forest in his eyes.

Wordlessly, the older man offered Rover his flask—the only real sentiment he could provide to a man who'd lost his three best friends in one day.

Rover stared at the flask for a moment, recognizing the absurd time of day and likely considering what his subordinates would think. But then he swallowed back his emotions, steeling himself, and he accepted the drink with a tired, grateful nod.

I wanted to go over and hug him, but if I did, I'd probably reduce us both to tears. 

As I watched the two men mourn in silence, Mason approached our table with a scrutinizing look on his face. I glared at him when he stopped in front of me.

"What?" I muttered, annoyed by his silent command for attention.   

He scoffed, slapping a book down on the table. "Here."

"What is it?"                                                             

"It's a book."

"I see that. What's it for?"

To think I would have been forced to marry this wisenheimer.

He pursed his lips, glancing over at his brothers a table over.  Kenny was the youngest of the Prices—eleven, with white gold hair. The eldest, Brenden, was the spitting image of their father. He'd been training to take over as treasurer one day, and in Belgate, he was widely recognized as a charming, brilliant young man.

Whatever Mason saw in them made him stash his insults away, and I was a little disappointed.  I could have used a heated argument at the moment, someone to slap unconscious.

"To read?" he responded. "Or to just lug around in your pack all day since you seem to enjoy unnecessary physical labor."

My glare didn't falter. 

"Look, I bought it for you when we were in Holly last, okay?   Since I sort of...burned your other ones."  He shrugged.  "Cost me all my backgammon winnings, just so you know."

Stunned, I observed the book before me with renewed interest. It was an old copy, soft and malleable and weathered. Its corners were singed, the title blackened and illegible. Mason must have gone back for it when we'd returned to camp. He'd valued the book enough to salvage it from the flames.

I flipped it open, half expecting a For Dummies collector's item, but it was a real novel. And one I hadn't read before.

I looked up at him, incredulous.

"Fudge helped me pick," he explained, eyes dipping away in discomfort.  "He knew what we already had in stock back at Belgate.  Plus, the shop owner said this one has a hot-headed protagonist.  I thought you could relate."

"But...why?"

Why would he do this? What did this gesture symbolize?

An apology? An attempt to make amends?

A truce?

He blinked down at me for a beat, utterly lost. And then his face twisted up in embarrassment and confusion. "What?  What do you mean why?" Pink blotches appeared on his face and neck. "Patrons, just say thank you!"

I raised my brow, but his red, flustered expression managed to pull a weary grin from me.

"You're right. It doesn't matter," I said.  "Thank you, Mason."

He huffed, his lips twitching in exasperation, and it thawed something hard and brittle inside me. Something I never imagined could defrost.

We'd both lost our fathers to war. We'd both been dealt that blow.  And as we looked at each other now, I could see it—the grief, the pain, the pride. We both understood the sentiments we couldn't bear to say, and for the first time in my life, it felt as though we were fighting on the same side.

I clutched the book to my chest and smiled back at him. Embracing the sudden shift between us. Welcoming the aftershocks.

"Alex?" a female voice said from behind me.  "Can I speak to you?"

Oh no.

Not this. Anything but this.

Cautiously, I turned my head, and all pleasant feelings drained right back into the hole in my chest.

Ellen Price stood at the head of the table, cradling her arm in its sling. Her appearance was less haggard this morning, skin clear of dirt, blond hair pinned back out of her face.

I fought the impulse to run away.

I was not prepared to face a world without him. To face the permanence of his death. I didn't want to. But if I ever wanted to move forward, closure was inevitable.

Stiffly, I rose to my feet, and her damp eyes were vanadium bullets in my heart.

"Your father saved us," she said. When I didn't respond, she kept going—quickly, like I might bolt again.  "Patrons, he got so many of us out.  We were being followed, and he told us to run ahead, a large group of us.  He stayed behind to make sure we all evacuated.  When the boys and I made it to safety, I was told that Max and my husband had both been killed protecting the trailhead."

My breathing hurt now.  I wanted to escape this.

"I've never seen anyone so brave. He was so calm, so fearless.  I saw the soldier in him."

I bristled at that.

...Soldier?

Her eyes widened a sliver at my reaction.  "You didn't know."

At the lost look on my face, she pressed her lips together to contain her smile.

"Your father won the Tournament when he was your age," she said. "He blew the other trainees out of the park."

I must have looked like I was about to pass out, because she reached for my shoulder to steady me.  Her hand was so delicate against my arm. Feminine and beautiful, even with her chipped and dirty nails.

"He was a fighter at heart, your father.  But right before boot camp, your grandfather died, and Max chose to stay and tend to your ranch. That land meant the world to his father." She raised her brow. "Of course, it also helped that Max had fallen in love with your mother. If there was any incentive to stay in Belgate, she was it."

The truth had my mind spinning a million miles per hour.  Dad had almost gone to war? He'd had aspirations beyond Belgate?

Why had he never said anything?

"He saved us all, Alex.  Know that."

I nodded awkwardly and excused myself, the revelation slamming around in my skull. 

My father had wanted to make a difference once in his life too. He hadn't always been the rancher down Bellevue Road.  He'd been willing to die for his people. He'd been brave and honorable, and perhaps even rash like his daughter. 

But then he'd fallen in love. He'd started a family.  He'd given his life to his children and their futures. 

And we'd turned our backs on him.

I finally made it outside, glad for a fully functional ankle again. A limp would have just been too pitiful at this point.

On the deck overlooking camp, I watched the different factions commingling, fraternizing, and mourning as one. Siren's subordinates, identifiable by their red cloaks, were busy at work, tending to wounds and relating news to refugees. Meanwhile, soldiers wandered about camp, looking for something to do or someone to aid, visibly impressed by Siren's settlement.

Among the crowd, I recognized a few familiar faces: Chinger and a few other trainees from my cohort; Leith, my music teacher; Mia, a classmate of mine; and a big handful of weeds.

All people my father had died for.

Siren and her followers must have taken to finding the refugees along the Southern Ridge and sheltering them here. I would have to thank her for that—for reaching my people when Ells couldn't, for saving lives when I'd been too busy playing soldier.

My hands curled around the balustrade, the splintered wood digging into my gloves and pricking my fingertips.

How had I allowed myself to bask in obliviousness after everything I'd seen and endured in Belgate? I'd watched my home burn to ashes. I'd watched my father wander off into the heart of a falling city. And I'd pushed it all down by stacking one distraction on top of the other until I could no longer see the horizon. I'd experienced life on the surface, but I'd still dunked my head back in the river to drown out the noise.

Then one day, my distractions were suddenly gone, and nothing was left to hold down the lid of Pandora's box.  So reality had crawled out to remind me of the cursed life I led.

Will appeared beside me like a loyal shadow, far enough away to give me the space I needed, but close enough to offer comfort. He glanced at me sideways, asking his silent question, and I gave him a watery smile in return.

I'm good.

He stood with me for a while in companionable silence, and I didn't know how to properly express my gratitude. Although, a part of me recognized that I'd never have to; Will already knew how much it meant to me.

Someone cleared his throat behind us, ending our short moment of peace and kicking the clock forward once again. Burying my vexation, I turned around.

An older man stood in the doorway, and something about his gray beard and sideburns was oddly familiar. I was still trying to draw the connection when Will swore and jerked sideways, as if to flee. In a speedy blur, the man shot forward and slapped the Rhean across the face with the back of his hand.

I stared at them, too flabbergasted to process what I'd just seen.

"Asa.  I must be crazy.  Because I certainly remember making a plan to meet in Averly should the army invade.  Did I hallucinate that agreement?"

Will raised his hands in defense. "Harmon—"         

"No. No, I didn't. But instead of joining me like we agreed, you joined the federates! Enlighten me; how was I supposed to fulfill my duty fifty miles away, you insolent, inconsiderate brat?"

"I didn't—"                      

Incensed, the man grabbed Will by the collar and pushed him up against the deck railing.

I was too stunned—too intrigued—to draw my knife.

"I'm never leaving your side again, boy. Not when you sleep. Not when you piss." He had an accent I hadn't heard before, like the tip of his tongue was stuck to the back of his throat.  "Your judgement clearly can't be trusted." 

I looked between them—Will's annoyed countenance, and the bearded man's furious concern. 

Then it hit me: this stranger was Will's fake father, the one back in Belgate. Will had referred to him as a trusted guard.

The man registered my appalled expression and bowed his head at me.  "Harmon, the princes' servant."

"How many times do I have to tell you you're not my servant anymore?  And I'm not a prince," Will sighed, rubbing the red mark on his cheek.  "How did you even find me?"

"I figured you'd left on your own, like the naïve clown you are, and that you'd eventually fall back on Siren, so I sought her out first.  Too predictable, running back to your woodland elves."

"Alright. Okay. I should have tried to contact you. Now set me down," Will muttered, and his guard consented.  Will brushed out the folds in his shirt aggressively.

"From now on, you'll never again leave my sight," Harmon declared.

"Never," Will repeated. "Seems a bit extreme."

"I swore to your mother I would watch over you," the man reasoned, not the least bit apologetic for slapping the Rhean heir.

"I don't think she meant it in a literal sense."

"With all these spirits walking about, I'd rather be safe than sorry."