I duck her first punch and strike back with a quick jab. “The past two years have been filled with nothing but violence, Dom. It’s my duty as your brother and your general to look out for you.” The title of general might not truly be earned, since my father refuses to let me fight on the front lines against the Uprising for fear of losing his heir, but I hold it over Dom anyway. Dom has been allowed to fight, though she focuses more on protecting Scota, directing her battalion of soldiers to act as guards when the fighting veers too close to innocent citizens, rather than launching any offensive action. If anything, she should be the one training me.
She aims for my ribs and, when I spin away, connects instead with the side of my head. “Don’t forget that you’re my prince, if you want to lord one more title over me.”
Shaking off her blow, I sweep my leg, catching her behind her ankles and knocking her to the ground for the first time this session. “I’ve always hated that one.” I offer her my hand, hauling her up. “And besides, once the Uprising accepts the monarchs’ terms of surrender, it will no longer be relevant.”
“Well, if Father has anything to say about it, we’ll be calling you president before too long.” She begins unwrapping her fists, signaling she’s done with torturing me for the day.
I grimace and begin doing the same. “How can I lead a united country when I don’t agree with its newfound principles?”
Dom levels me with an intense stare. “You cannot be serious, Callum.”
“I’m dead serious, Dominique.”
She rolls her eyes at me and sticks out her tongue.
We both toss our discarded wrappings to a nearby attendant and duck out of the ring our father had installed in one of the many unused ballrooms of the Scotan Castle. The Reid line has lived on these grounds and ruled over Scota for hundreds of years. If themonarchs do decide to surrender—which they most assuredly will—and give in to the demands of the violent rebels who have been wreaking havoc on the provinces of Avon for the past two years, we will likely be turning over all our land and holdings to the new government.
The new government that has yet to secure a leader or any semblance of rules or policies. The new government that the people are supposed to put their faith in without any kind of answers as to what happens next. The new government that is going to allow dangerous individuals free rein, with no regard for public safety.
I have tried to be sympathetic to the Uprising because overall, I don’t truly disagree with them. I’ve spent enough time on diplomatic missions in other provinces to know that life across Avon is only good for one group of people: the wealthy. While we here in Scota have made several reforms in recent years to redistribute wealth, it’s a process that takes time, and one our fellow provinces have chosen not to partake in.
But while I support reforms, it’s hard to accept that my family’s legacy will be a sacrifice on the altar. My father—and his before him, and his before him, dating back centuries—has led Scota with fairness and equality. Our citizens are well cared for, our Gifted population well managed, and if anything, Scota should be the example for the rest of Avon. Instead, my father, the current king, will be asked to hand over his leadership position to a group of people who are set on ignoring history.
There is a reason laws exist regulating the Gifted and their powers. Those laws have kept our citizens safe for over two hundred years. And now we’re expected to go back to the way things were, when the Gifted infiltrated the leadership councils of every monarch in Avon, exploiting their positions and using their powers to cause harm.
The Uprising might have what it takes to overthrow the monarchial system, but so far they have proven they have no business establishing a new system of their own design.
Dom and I stride down the long hallway from the ballroom toward the dining room. The gas lamps throw shadows on the walls, though barely any light shines in from the large windows as the early-evening sky is nothing but gray clouds. Scota’s perpetual gloomy weather is an apt reflection of my mood.
Our uncle Alex meets us in front of the towering walnut doors of the formal dining room, his nose wrinkling as he takes in our sweaty training clothes—simple linen tunics and cotton pants. He’s dressed in a smart three-piece suit, though I’m surprised he didn’t don a full tuxedo and tails. “Not going to bother to bathe before dinner?”
Dom rolls her eyes. “It’s just the four of us.”
Alex tugs on his lapels. “Doesn’t mean we can’t dress appropriately.”
I clap him on the back as a servant opens the heavy door for us. “It’s the end of times, Alex. Soon we will be fending for ourselves out on the streets, at the mercy of the Gifted. Who cares what we look like?”
Alex’s lips purse for half a second before he schools his face. “All the more reason to enjoy these last moments of civilized dining.”
Dom and I exchange a glance and don’t bother to hold in our laughter. Alex is my late mother’s younger brother, and only ten years older than me. He’s always been more like a brother than an uncle, though his taste for the finer things in life can be a bit exhausting.
Our father already waits for us, seated at the head of a table much longer than needed. In years past, the table has housed fifteen, twenty, thirty extra people for meals—leaders from otherprovinces, but more often citizens from every corner of Scota—but since the beginning of the Uprising, only the four of us frequent meals.
Servants still bustle around the room, filling our wineglasses and serving dishes, even though the grand parties have shrunk mightily.
I let my eyes wander around the room, drinking in the sight of it while I still can. The tall windows are framed by heavy gold brocade drapes. The furniture is all made of rich wood, the darkness offset by the cream fabric-covered walls. Portraits hang, covering almost every inch of available space, generations of Reids looking down at us while we eat.
I avert my eyes, as if these former leaders might somehow shame me from their gilded frames. Are the former rulers of Scota watching their carefully crafted legacy crumble to dust?
My father clears his throat and raises his crystal goblet, though I’m not sure what there could be to toast to. “To family,” he says simply.
We all echo his toast. I gulp red wine, letting the rich liquid swirl in my mouth before swallowing, enjoying the burn.
We eat in silence for several minutes. Unsurprisingly, it’s Dom who breaks it. “Was an agreement reached?”
She directs the question to our father, though I don’t believe any of us are hopeful we will receive much of an answer.
“Yes.” His response is resigned, making it clear he doesn’t want to discuss it further.
