Alicia can't find her will to move, the will to get out of bed and push through this horrible and consuming pain that has gripped her.

She stares at the dust that tracks a lazy path within the sun streaming through her window. The noise from the people outside reaches her through the glass, an aching reminder.

Life goes on, it always will.

Alicia Zalana was never meant to know the feeling of blood on her hands, her brothers went to fight a war so she wouldn't have to. But all flowers wilt eventually. She did what she had to so her family could begin doing what they wanted to. She thought she'd find peace after.

She was wrong.

The knock on her door has her eyes finally shifting from their observation of dust. She blinks, tightening her arms around herself, hand throbbing with the movement. The knock comes again, louder, Alicia wincing as the noise seems to pound against her skull.

"Alicia, get out of bed," comes the gravelly voice from the other side, thick with annoyance.

She manages a grumble in response, burying her face in the soft material of her blanket.

"Can I entice you from your room with the prospect of food?" he questions, sighing deeply.

Alicia swallows, lifting her head, her stomach letting out a pitiful whine. But it's not the idea of food that has her sitting up, bracing her hands on the sides of the mattress and swallowing the bile that rises in her throat, it's the fact that she needs to move, needs to breathe something other than the stale air of her room. She needs to see something other than her ruined reflection staring back at her. Alicia stands because she's already tired of being with herself and her own concoction of darkness.

"I'm coming," she murmurs, her muscles stiff as she pulls on her over-sized coat.

Struggling into her shoes, Alicia repeats a mantra in her head as she tries to shove down her overwhelming memories and emotions. She's not a princess, not a noble, and she's certainly not the Raven. She's just Alicia. Alicia, the girl with the wind in her hair and a smile upon her lips. The girl before the bodies, before the war. The girl that was starving but was still able to laugh and love. That is the girl that Alicia dresses as today, she can't see herself facing the day as anyone else.

Oliver taps impatiently on the other side of the door as Alicia cringes through the process of tying the laces of her boots. Her right hand is useless as she winds her crimson scarf around her neck and tucks the ends into her coat.

But as she straightens, eyes straying to her reflection, her hair half pinned and falling in messy strands around her face, she understands why she must come back to herself.

Kathryn, her pa, the queen, they all pushed her forward even when they perished. She has to continue marching because they can't.

"Patience isn't what I'm known for, Alicia."

Alicia glances away from her reflection as Oliver's voice reaches her, the huff of his breath managing to bring a small smile to her lips as she moves for the door, cradling her wounded hand to her middle. "Sorry," Alicia says quietly as she opens the door, facing Oliver and having to swallow as those sterling eyes quickly take her in. It's a brief look, one that takes in all of her before settling on her face and offering her a curt nod.

"How are you feeling?"

She opens her mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out, partly surprised that he'd even care to ask. "Life goes on," she manages before pressing her lips together, the split in her lip stinging. But pain is something she can deal with, she's endured it enough over the years.

"That it does," he replies and turns on his heel. Alicia follows him through the house, keeping her head up and shoulders back even as her body cries for her to lay down, to kneel and never stand again.

Oliver walks beside her through the main street of the Commons, a heavy presence at her elbow, one she couldn't ignore even if she tried.

Their conversation last night still has her gut twisting, remembering the way he clearly sees through her, through her guises and attempts at innocence. Each moment she's with him she's reminded of why he's the gun at Samantha's side, the man behind the plans, the executioner in her hierarchy. Princess Samantha can't have a kingdom without someone to do the dirty work.

They walk past a field bursting with crops and workers, fields she's ridden through on the horses, much to everyone's annoyance. A mill of creaking wood rises, water cutting through the Commons and curving towards the wall. An assortment of animals meander through the grass they walk through.

Alicia quickens her step to keep in time with Oliver, the bottoms of her trousers already muddying as they walk over rough paths.

"The town is self-sufficient, even before the Reaper's Curse," Oliver says from her side, drawing her gaze to him. The sun leaves stars in his eyes as he watches the thriving land around them. She's drawn to those eyes, a calming certainty within them that leaves her feeling both reassured and stronger. Those eyes perhaps had to empower hundreds of soldiers during the war. "We hardly had to build anything but the walls. It used to be a mining town before the mine dried up."

"What happened to the people?"

He turns those eyes on her, one brow quirked. "What happened to most people beyond the walls when the dead came."

Alicia glances down at her bandaged hand, far too aware of what happened to those beyond the capital. Kathryn was one of those people caught without such protection, a farmer living off the land.

"I don't suppose anyone survived then." It's a foolish thing to whisper, foolish to voice her hurt for lives she never knew and will never know. Oliver's stiffening at her side is a testament to that. He sees her weakness, he sees all of her like no one else has, and the way he studies her has her sinking her teeth into her cheek.

"The people here didn't deserve their fate," is all he says, the tone of his voice lowering further, a roughness to it that he first showed her at the tavern. As though some emotion in his chest has gripped him. Alicia looks at him, sees the tightening in his jaw before he looks away, and knows that this place—the Commons—isn't just another village swallowed by the Curse. Not to him anyway.

His home is evidence of that, because it is his. He kept all those photos displayed while Sasha had removed all the pictures of the previous occupants.

She doesn't get more time to dwell on such things as they step onto the porch of a home that's seen better days. White linen hangs on lines just before the porch, fluttering in an icy breeze.

He pushes through the screen door, beckoning her within, the scent of blood and medicinal supplies quick to invade her senses. There's a short hall, open doors on either side of them lining the walls that she peers into as they walk past. She spies beds and patients, rooms filled with linen and bottles, but it isn't until they reach the end of the hall that they come to a stop, the man that steps into their path stilling her heart with her steps.

Grayson halts, the man at his side frowning. Alicia chokes on her next breath as his blue eyes focus on her. His lip lifts in a snarl, and he takes a step forward, Alicia feeling the rage that surrounds him like an aura.

"Whore," he growls, spitting at her feet as Alicia winces. Oliver is quick to react, his hands sure as he grips Grayson's throat and slams him into the wall. Alicia stumbles back as Oliver leans in close to Grayson, the man's blue eyes bulging and face quickly reddening with the grip around his throat. Oliver's lips move, a low murmur that has Grayson's shackled hands trembling and his skin paling.

"Oliver," Alicia manages with a shaky breath, but he doesn't seem to hear her, his grip tightening, squeezing the life from Grayson. She reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, feeling his taut muscles beneath the white of his shirt. He breaks away from Grayson and steps back, watching with a disinterested gaze as the man falls to his knees, gasping for breath.

"I think it's time he was put beyond the walls," Oliver says, turning his gaze to the man who nods before hauling Grayson to his feet. Alicia doesn't watch him go, preferring to look at Oliver's eyes of strength and reassure herself that she's safe. "Let's get you to the doctor."

"What did you say to him?" Alicia dares to ask. The dread that had ignited in Grayson's eyes says enough about what Oliver whispered to him, but she wants to know.

"I told him exactly what I'll do to him and his uncle the next time I see them."

Alicia swallows but follows Oliver as he takes her to an ample back room that perhaps once would have been a dining room but is now taken up with seats and desks, a door at the back leading to the unknown.

"We make do with what we have," Oliver tells her, even as she continues to try and shake off Grayson's encounter, cradling her hand to her chest. "Alicia." She looks up at him to find his eyes on her, a crease between his brows. "He won't be bothering you anymore."

"Because he's being cast out," she answers, the words doing nothing to comfort her. Alicia has encountered the people he's cast out, almost died because of it. She can only hope she won't see Grayson again.

"Oliver," a woman greets, pushing through the door at the back of the room as she pulls a mask from her face. A young girl goes to her, offering her a bowl of water that she washes her hands in after tossing out her gloves. "Just the man I wanted to speak to."

"Yeong," Oliver greets, nodding his head. Alicia studies the doctor, noting her slanted eyes and olive skin.

"I've lost another two this morning," Yeong says as she steps closer to Oliver, glancing briefly at Alicia and offering her a strained smile. "I have some supplies but..." The doctor rubs at the corner of her eyes, creases forming around them. "Victims of the Ruga flu need to be somewhere warm and dry when they're at such a dire stage."

"And Muovea certainly isn't that," Alicia mutters, knowing what the Ruga flu does to someone after seeing Adrian suffer through it when they were just children in the slums. Only miracles saved his life, but he's always had a persistent cough since.

"We just don't have enough medicine to combat how many people are getting sick."

"We need another big score then," Oliver muses and the doctor nods her head.

"I don't want anyone to risk their lives."

"Don't worry about that," he says and clasps her hands in his. "Just worry about helping these people. And Alicia." He nods to her. "She was the one injured by Grayson."

"Right," Yeong mutters, wrinkling her nose and turning to Alicia. "I'll get you fixed up. Gods know that boy deserved the bullet I had to pull out of him." Alicia swallows the dryness in her mouth before she thanks her, following her to one of the tables. But Alicia glances back at the door that leads to the victims of the Ruga flu and can only think back on the amount of suffering Adrian went through as a child. No one should suffer like that. But what can she possibly do about it?