Inside, the atmosphere sparks with tension and low murmurs of conversation sound from all sides. The tables are crowded with men and women packed tightly together, and where chairs are scarce, people have taken to standing in the pathways and against the walls. Some are even perched on the bar top, while Samus works feverishly around them to hand out mugs of ale.

I pull my spine up as straight as I can, squaring my shoulders and using them as leverage to clear a route toward the front of the room. I feel Will close behind me, his solid presence propelling me forward as I fight to ignore the hush that follows our progress.

Near the head of the tavern I spy Harry, his broad frame taking up the space of two men. I smile at him, relieved to see a friendly face among the skeptics. Wordlessly, he hands me a drink, which I accept gratefully, wrinkling my nose at the sour taste. The burning sensation in my throat helps to calm my nerves, somewhat.

Harry and Will help me clear a table and I step up to stand on top of it. Scanning the room, my legs quake slightly, for a brief moment having the clarity of mind to be amused that I'm nervous while standing a mere three feet above the ground.

From this vantage point, I can tell there is a clear divide down the centre of the room. One side of the bar looks to be mostly courtiers, a few of whom I recognize as Will's friends. They shift positions uncomfortably, clearly feeling out of place in the dingy setting. To the other side of the room and in greater proportion are the commoners, their faces hard and scuffed from a day of work.

Both groups shoot glances at their counterparts and mutter to their companions. Several pairs of eyes are trained on me, their expression questioning.

I swallow, scanning the room once more; my heart sinks when I fail to find Lara.

"Friends," I begin, my voice hoarse.

A few more people look up and I feel Will nudge my calf. I clear my throat and try again.

"Friends!" I say, louder this time.

The conversations die out as people turn one by one to look at me.

I lock my knees and imagine I am standing high above the City, about to make an exhilarating leap to the next roof.

"Many of you know me," I begin.

Someone lets out a whoop and there is a scattering of laughter.

I relax, somewhat. "I am one of you," I tell them. "I grew up here, my father worked alongside you in the quarry, my mother sewed your clothes and my brother served with you in the Wastelands. Your struggles are my struggles. Two hundred and nine years is too long to labour under a system that favours the rich and spits on the poor. I say the time has come to rise up, to usher in a new era!"

There are a few more whoops this time, but I notice the courtiers shooting sidelong glances at one another uncomfortably.

"People raised in the Commons are no different, no better or worse than anyone from the Court. We don't want power or gold, all we want is to be treated fairly." I look pointedly at Will's friends. "The courtiers here tonight are not our enemies; they are our friends and our supporters. I, for one, welcome them and commend them for their bravery."

Reluctant murmurs of agreement are followed by laughter when Harry gives one of the courtiers a too-enthusiastic slap on the back, causing the man to sputter and choke on his drink.

I wait for the din to die down before continuing. "So the question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"Spit it out, Runner!" a voice calls from the back.

"Rebellion!" I shout, to a cacophony of hollers from the crowd. "Courtiers and commoners, united together and fighting side by side, not in the Wastelands for a scrap of desert, but right here at home for our freedom!"

This time the cheers rise together in a roar, with mugs and fists pounding heavily on the table tops. I glance down at Will, who shoots me an encouraging smile.

"Death to the monarchy!" someone shouts out and the chant is picked up with enthusiasm.

Shit. This isn't the reaction I was hoping for. "Death is not the answer!" I try to yell over the unruly crowd, but my voice gets lost in the chaos.

"Friends, please!" I try again, feeling a well of panic build up inside of me.

The table rattles beneath my feet as Will climbs up next to me. He raises his fingers to his lips and blows a whistle so shrill I have to cover my ears.

The voices recede and I speak quickly before I lose them again. "We march on the Palace for equality, not for revenge! If we slaughter without thought, then we are no better than the King. This is our opportunity to lay the groundwork for a new, better city, a place where every citizen is given the same opportunities and freedom of choice! I ask you to take up swords and cut out the disease, not the cure! The Princess Megra wants us to have what I have just spoken of—all we need do is make room for her on the throne!"

"The Princess is poison, just like the rest of them!" someone shouts out and I gasp as a heavy mug is hurled at the courtiers. It explodes against the wall, sending ale showering over their' fine clothes.

"The time for these old prejudices is over!" My shot glass is still clenched in my fist and I throw it across the room, scoring a direct hit with the perpetrator's forehead. I draw myself up to my full height as the room rings with laughter, and I take advantage of having recaptured their attention. "It is no longer us and them!" I yell, pointedly. "We are united! We are one! There will come a day when we are led by a fair and just queen! Join us!"

I'm losing them. I can hear some cheers while others chatter angrily; questions and shouts of protest fly across the room.

"What has the monarchy done for us? Why should we trust her?"

"Yer a bloody courtier sympathizer!"

"No more royals!"

I look at Will. He stands next to me on the table, hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Easy," I whisper under my breath.

"The monarchy is not our enemy!" His voice rings out, louder than mine. Gradually, the conversation dies down. "The enemy is here, inside of you! The enemy is your anger, your resentment, your prejudices. I agree that you've been treated unjustly, but this is your chance to make things right. Trust me when I say that the Runner is your most passionate advocate. Time and time again she has risked her life for this cause, and now she stands before you with an answer! Listen to what she has to say!"

"What do you know of it, rich boy?" a woman shouts, garnering barks of agreement.

"Anyone who doubts the Runner has no place in this rebellion and has no right to their place in the new order!" Marc has materialized out of the crowd from near the bar. His hair flops onto his forehead and he pushes it back impatiently. "She risked her life to save mine, and I would be willing to wager that there are few in this room who haven't been assisted by her in some way." There are a few reluctant grumbles and I feel my cheeks reddening. "Shame on any of you who would doubt her. If the Runner says the Princess should be queen, then I will draw my sword and fight for her place on the throne!"

I catch sight of several people making their way to the bar toward Marc and for a moment I stiffen, sure that they mean to hurt him. A woman leads the group and steps up next to him. She is tall and thin but her voice is strong.

"If it weren't for the Runner, we would still be rotting in the Palace gaol!" she cries out, and I relax when I recognize her as one of the commoners from the ball. "She is our hero and our hope!"

I swallow, tears pricking my vision at the woman's words.

"She delayed my brother's draft!" Harry's booming voice reverberates through the entire room. "I will follow the Runner!"

"My children would have starved if it weren't for her generosity! I follow the Runner!" another woman calls out.

Bit by bit, the sounds of assent drown out the naysayers. In some region of my mind, I know I am meant to speak, but the words are completely lost. My chest and throat are constricted so tightly that I can barely breathe. It takes every reserve of control I have to keep from staggering from my perch atop the table.

"My friends!" I finally manage, my voice breaking. "You know me. You knew my father, my brother, my mother. You know that they dreamed of this day, that they died for it. Know now that with every fibre of my being, I will fight for a city free of oppression. I have found a way, and I have found the person to lead us! Now, who is with me?"

Someone hands me a stein and I thrust it into the air, feeling my heart swell as dozens of tankards rise in unison.

"To the Queen!" I yell, my voice strong and sure.

"To the Queen!" The voices unite in such a crescendo that I am nearly knocked over. Together as one, we toast uncertainty and hope.

Several hours later, the bar has started to empty and my mind is spinning from a heady combination of the speech, the upcoming rebellion, the drink and frustration.

I hold my head in my hand and look at the piece of parchment in front of me. Will has marked a small tick for every person who has agreed to arm themselves and march with us to the Palace when the time is right. Despite the enthusiasm earlier, the number of marks on the page is depressingly low.

"I'm sorry, I really am." A burly man with a shaven head is sitting at the table across from us, twisting his handkerchief in his thick hands. "It's just that I have three little ones at home. If something were to happen to me, what would become of them?"

I sigh, exchanging a look with Will. "I understand, Marty. I've met your children. I don't want to take you away from them, but wouldn't they be proud of their papa for fighting for a better future for them?"

Marty runs a hand over his scalp. "I just can't take the risk. I'm sorry." He pats my hand apologetically as he stands. "Good luck."

As Marty shuffles away, I lift my tankard to my mouth and grimace when I find it empty. Next to me, Will sighs and shoves his chair back from the table.

"So," I say, casting a sideways glance at him.

"I guess that's everyone." He frowns at the parchment laid before us.

"A little underwhelming, is it not?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything, his eyes never leaving the paper.

"I just don't understand." I clench my fists. "They all want change, but no one is willing to fight for it."

"They're scared," he replies evenly.

"They should be scared." I slam my empty mug onto the table, causing Will to jump and a few of the stragglers to look up at us. "If we don't act soon, this Wasteland war will take away the last of our choices and there won't be enough of us left to stand up to the King."

"You aren't telling me anything I don't know." He sounds distracted.

I look up and follow his gaze to where Marc stands at the opposite end of the room, talking with a small group.

"He says he knows you," I say.

Will murmurs non-committally, "I'll get you a fresh drink."

I make to hand him my tankard, but he has already risen and is shouldering his way toward the bar. Exasperated, I put my empty mug down again and rest my aching head on my folded arms.

Why would they all come tonight? Why would they sing my praises and toast Meg if they weren't committed to this cause? It seems it is one thing to get everyone riled up and feeling self-righteous, but quite another to put a weapon in their hands and point them toward the Palace. At this rate, we'll be slaughtered before we even reach the front gate.

I lift my head. Marc has joined Will at the bar and they are talking to one another, their voices too low for me to hear. Marc's eyebrows are furrowed and Will's shoulders seem stooped forward defensively.

My vision blurs as another bout of nausea threatens me. I groan and shut my eyes, suddenly overcome with tiredness.

Eventually, I feel the chair next to me shift as Will's weight is lowered into it again.

"What was all that about?" I murmur into the folds of my arms.

"Nothing—just chatting. I think we had better get you back to the Palace, don't you?"

"No." I raise my head to look at him. "I already sent a message ahead to Vitrola. I told her that I'm staying with a friend in the City tonight."

"Is that what I am? A friend?"

"Who said I was talking about you?"

He stands and lifts me under the shoulders. I lean against him gratefully, breathing in his scent.

"It better be me," he grunts as we weave our way toward the door. "I'm not sure who else would put up with you."

As we pass the bar, I catch Marc's eye. His mouth is pressed into a tight line, but he nods cordially. Will pushes open the door of the tavern and we step out into the cool night air.

The walk to Will's flat helps to sober me up and I begin to feel less melancholic and more angry.

"Honestly, I don't know why we bother," I grumble. "What's the point, really? They won't lift a finger to help themselves."

"Most of them are just concerned about their families," Will replies. "There are people who are already receiving a pension from their sons, brothers and fathers dying in the Wastelands. If they throw that away, it's like their loved one died for nothing."

"Why are you standing up for them?" I ask, incredulously. "This whole thing was your idea."

He shrugs. "I guess I just understand their hesitation. We can't expect everyone to be as crazy as you."

"Maybe it's because I don't have a family." I scuff the toe of my boot on the dusty ground. "If you don't have anyone depending on you, then you don't have anything to lose."

Will stops abruptly. He grabs my shoulders and turns me roughly to face him.

"What?" I demand angrily, stumbling on the uneven ground.

I can only barely make out his features in the dim lamplight of the street. He arrests my eyes with his before placing his warm hands on my cheeks and kissing me soundly.

"I depend on you," he says, matter of factly. "If you were to be gone, it would matter. It would matter more than I can say. Do you understand that?"

I blink rapidly, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Don't you ever say that you have nothing to lose. I know I don't have any say over your mad stunts, but know that when you fall. I feel the impact. If you hurt, I hurt. Get it?"

I nod, wordlessly.

"Good." He takes my hand in his and we walk the rest of the way home in silence.