A beautiful sunrise is all we could've hoped for. There's a somber mood spreading through the group of rebels, not only those I've come to consider my best friends but those that are tagging along as spies, scouts, and the first line of defense in case something goes wrong. We all feel it; the longing to stay in Arego and fend off the king's attacks. Let him come to us.

I've thought about more than once. Live in fear. That's no way to experience what we've set forth to do, wait for the king to come at us rather than plant our boots firmly onto the ground and say 'no, you move.' The rebellion isn't that, it doesn't wait for attackers to come, for rebellion is all about striking what isn't theirs. The rebellion is falling out of line and not bothering to climb back into formation for there are better, more worthy things to do.

The rebellion steps first.

Over these months, I've come to terms with the fact that it would come to this. We'd have to leave Arego at some point, willingly, rather than have someone rip us from the streets. The king's men are coming too close—their spies are stopping at the edge of the village, only to have their heads split open by the sharp tip of an arrow. The king has men to spare and days to waste.

Even if we waited for him to strike first, he'd wait, too. He'd wait until we drove ourselves insane with impatience and the silent wonder when he would strike. Either he'd wait for us to crumble and kill each other, or he'd do it for us by sending his men to all corners of a village that never saw the attack coming. When we least expect it, we did. That is his plan, one way or the other. Either we leave now and face him, or he faces us later on.

So to say there's a somber mood spreading through the crowd is an understatement. Everyone spent their final night with their fellow rebels, either finding peace within a lover one last time as Renit and I had done or sharing stories of better times. It was the best example of peace before some of us head off to a battle we might not win.

Hugs are exchanged, brief kisses and promises for a safe return are hardly holding the weight of a single stare. We have to believe we won't see each other again. We have to believe the king is ready for us and has barricaded Silas behind a titanium cage.

We have to believe there is no crown prince to save.

The difference is what we have to do.

We have to try. We have to walk in that castle with our chins held high and get this done. We have to believe there is a chance a crown prince needs rescuing.

The last time I left Arego, truly left Arego, I never got to say goodbye. I didn't receive the chance to run my hands over the stone warming in the sunrise or stand in the doorway of my home and examine the inside one last time with a shaken sigh, whispering a silent goodbye and see you later. I didn't get to have an entire legion following me, promising I'd do great things in the coming days, and I definitely wasn't given the opportunity to feel the sting of farewell.

I stand on the outskirts of this village, my home, and squint in the sunlight rising over the distance in the east. Where we're headed. The morning is not chilled, the sunrise is pinks and purples splashed across grey, and the morning sounds are calling out. The birds chirping, the waves echoing off the cliff sides and crawling through the streets like a running child. They share their farewell, each brutal crash being a promise I'll come home.

Those waves carry over the last hint of Celestine. I visited her grave long before the sun rose, there wasn't any time to sleep, anyway. For an hour, I talked to her about what we planned to do, what was at stake, and the possibility of someone else, possibly me, being buried next to her within the next week or so.

My doubts are high. They always have been. How can we invade a castle without the king noticing? How can we rescue someone that would rather have our heads on stakes rather than our bodies? How are we supposed to...do this? It's an impossible mission, I said as such to Celestine, and her words echoed back. The waves carried them.

Silas wants you to save him. He can't tell you now, as you couldn't, but he wants to help. He wants someone to be his savior.

How her words were so simple and so promising. Celestine believed anything was possible if we tried hard enough to make it happen. Never once did she question whether being in the rebellion would work. Rather, the question on her mind was: How can we make this happen?

No one ever gave her an answer. I suppose the crown prince killing her was enough reason to stop searching for the proper riposte to that question. I still haven't found it. Like the rest of the rebellion, I've stopped searching for the right answer and have done something instead. No amount of planning, endless hours of the night with no sleep...none of that is worth it if this fails. We have a plan, but its craft is not as thorough as some might think it needs to be.

Not a single word or sense of Celestine's soul came from her grave this morning. I imagined her words carrying in the waves, but they weren't there. I imagined what she might say, but she never spoke. The grave was utterly empty, and I waited for some familiarity and gave up long before I should've. Bren came and said his farewells to her, too, never once looking at the heap of dirt next to his knee. Like her closest friends can attest, Celestine died too young. She died before she had the chance to live, to breathe, to understand what it might take to be an immortal, and what would happen if someone loved her more than she could stand.

Bren was supposed to be that person. He loved her in a way I couldn't understand, but he didn't reveal it to me until after she was dead. They'd shared kisses, embraces, and started loving each other once it became clear there was more than friendship in their bones. It was affection. And they didn't share it for fear of me not accepting. I wanted to rip Bren's head off for that thought alone. How could I not accept their relationship; their love?

Then I remember it doesn't matter anymore.

No amount of questioning will bring her back.

I scan the group of rebels preparing themselves for departure. The remainder of them, the rebels remaining in Arego, watch with somber eyes. Some of the best scouts are departing, leaving our best archers, swordsmen, and chefs out to dry. Their inverted brows, their frowns, their gentle smiles of reassurance and pats on the arm, it holds no weight.

That reassurance slips through the cracks of a tattered knapsack and falls, falls with no end in sight. The names I've come to know—Renit, Binx, Bren, Tesha—they strap on whatever armor they can find and search for empty spots to place weapons on their bodies. The leather cuirass over my long-sleeved shirt, sleeves billowing at the wrists, is enough armor for me. Besides the leather vambraces and the sword strapped to my back, I carry light.

The holsters at my hips, strapped around my thighs and supported by two sheaths on my lower back hold more weapons than I'm used to carrying. Knives and daggers, all provided to me by those that were staying. They didn't need them; they said. I do. I'm invading the castle.

Renit is dressed similar, though his black tabard is simple and clean, buckled down the middle, and shares a resemblance to my style, the undershirt sleeves billowing to his wrists, also covered by vambraces of dark and shiny leather. We polished our armor last night when sleep didn't come—not after both of us finding completion, not after Renit's chills went away along with the rest of the symptoms from the crystal, and not before I visited Celestine's grave. It was a long night.

It makes me sick to think Arego is still standing while I'm not here. At the castle, those months I learned my power and fought Renit all the while, I didn't think much about it. I had, but it wasn't enough for me to believe there was anything left to save. Little did I know, Bren was here and he, along with an entire legion of mortal witches or humans or immortals looking for a change, were nestled within what's left of the village. I didn't believe it was possible to have my home here, yet as I stand here, ready to leave again, I wonder how I ever could.

How I never wondered, how I went through my life and believed the one place I knew...no longer held significance. I've changed since then, I've grown wiser and stronger, my power has soared leaps and bounds beyond what I expected, the world has changed. It's a new day in Esaria, words boomed by the king.

His day is not the same as ours. His day will shine with blood, ours will shine with victory. Bells will ring and no one will turn in horror when they hear them—knowing a death is quick to arrive. Guards will walk through the streets, the markets, asking how merchants are faring and whether a certain ware is on sale. They won't search for mortals to kill or immortals to kidnap and imprison.

We'll change the kingdom. It's what we're setting out to do. It's why Bren is at the front of the group, ordering his rebels in line as he offers one last nod in Alaric's direction. The commander watches my childhood friend longingly as if he wishes to say something that hasn't been spoken, but upon realizing I'm staring, his eyes drift to the floor of the grass we stand on.

He's staying. Not because he wanted to; Bren forced him to. It had taken hours, long stretches of shouting from either of them before Alaric finally backed down and allowed Bren to lead the mission. He wanted to show himself that he could do this without the looming presence of a commander watching his every move. In the back of my mind, I know that isn't true.

Bren wants to do this by himself, without Alaric, so he doesn't have to witness the commander sacrificing himself. That's how far their relationship has gone, they share commitment like father and son. By that account, Bren doesn't trust him.

Scouts and spies will report back if something goes wrong. That's the only way Alaric will know whether we're still alive. Watching from rooftops and remaining in the shadows of alleys while we do what we came to do, they'll remain untouched. If we die, if we're captured, they're not to interfere. Leave it as it be. Report back and move on.

Renit grips my shoulder tight to bring me back to reality. We're moving. We're leaving. The crowd gathering behind me blocks out my view to Arego but I crane my neck, seemingly able to twist my stare through the street and walk through in when I'm heading in the other direction. Through the stone and the wood and the bodies moving left and right, my eyes drift to the cliff sides and the faint lump of dirt that's hardly visible to make out.

I see all the way to Celestine's grave. She's there, and through no fault of my own, I'm leaving her behind. Rebels wave at me, promising to be safe, and Citlali and Dalis remain on the sidelines to watch it all. They nod at me as I pass and I stick out my hand in their direction, only to feel the slightest graze of their touch in return. They try to smile.

But who can smile when we know what lies on the other side of this journey? Who can smile when they know who might die?

Best-case scenario, we come back with the crown prince. Worst case...we don't come back at all. I'm dangerously close to toeing the line of worst and, through slumped shoulders and distraught stares into the unknown, I'm painfully aware that everyone else is feeling the same way.