“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
He left her there, alone with her empty bowl and the first true sense of belonging she’d felt in weeks.
Surprising herself, Alina thought she might actually survive this place.
The council room, also called the war room, felt hewn from the heart of the mountain, the stone walls sweating moisture no matter how many torches burned in their brackets. By the time Alina arrived, the place was already full of twenty or so rebels gathered in clusters around the large battered table, all of thembent over maps or talking in undertones that never rose above the crackle of pitchwood.
Now that she was actually in the room and not hiding behind the door, she had time to take it all in. The room was shaped like an oval, with the big table in the center. Every surface was littered with parchment, clay markers, and cups of weak beer. On the far side, Kael and Tamsin conferred with Elara, their heads close together. The witch’s pale hair caught every flicker of torchlight. Marcus held court at one end, rolling a marble between his fingers and laughing at something the messenger boy said.
Eyes turned her way, some curious, some wary, one or two openly hostile. Alina recognized the wariness of people who’d been betrayed too many times to trust the new face, no matter how clean her boots or how careful her smile. They had every right to hate her, in Alina’s mind. The safehouse still haunted her. But then again, she had as much right to be here as the rest of them; Kael had invited her to discuss strategy for the approaching raid. So, she crossed the room, shoulders back, and made for the center table.
Marcus intercepted her en route, holding out a pouch of dried fruit. “Carbs before strategy,” he said, and she took a handful, chewing to steady her nerves.
“You love your dried fruits, don’t you?” She smiled at him.
He chuckled. “Got me there, Princess.”
Approaching the table, she let her eyes sweep over the large map that was pinned down. It was hand-drawn, annotated in three different inks and at least two hands. Marcus pointed at a jagged line marked as the north pass, that led to a village named Willowcreek. “That has been our supply route up until shortly. It has run dry, unfortunately.”
"Why?" Alina was half afraid to ask.
Marcus looked at her with what appeared to be sympathy. "The village had a visit from your father's troops."
Alina remained silent. No words would do this justice.
Tamsin joined them and nodded, her expression grave. “We need to establish another route. But it will take time.”
Marcus snorted. “That’s time we don’t have. People are already half-starved as is. And now, with the King’s men crawling around everywhere we can’t risk lifting sheep again.”
“I say we go for the Crown’s supply train,” Tamsin suggested. “We know the route, the day, and the time. They’ve changed schedules, they won’t be expecting us.”
From the far end of the table, Maven Thornheart spoke up: “Assuming, of course, the King’s men don’t have a mole in this very room.” His voice was quiet, but it cut through the other conversations like a blade.
They turned to look at Alina.
What? She kept her face still, though her heart thudded in her chest. She met Maven’s gaze, searching for malice but seeing only a cold, scholarly kind of suspicion.
Maven stood, the movement as deliberate as a judge rising to pass sentence. “I’d like to hear from the Princess herself,” he said, each syllable laced with contempt. “How she proposes to keep us safe from the man who raised her to hunt our kind.” Oh dear. After the safehouse, she’d understand if people hated her. Being actually openly confronted with it was a different story.
Maven didn’t bother to look at Kael or Marcus. He was speaking directly to the room, and to Alina, and to some silent tribunal only he could see. The other rebels reacted with a ripple of shifting weight and sidelong glances: a woman in a patched green cloak sucked her teeth as bearded, middle-aged twins leaned inwith matching expressions of hungry anticipation. Even Tamsin, who rarely let her mask crack, snapped to attention as if scenting blood in the air.
Kael’s jaw went rigid, the muscle ticking along his jawline, but he didn’t intervene. Not yet. He watched Alina instead, and in his eyes she saw something less like doubt and more like a dare. Prove them wrong, it said, or at least put up a hell of a fight.
Marcus’s hands stilled on the tabletop, fingers splaying unconsciously to form a barrier between her and Maven’s words. He looked at Alina, then at Kael, then at Maven, and for a moment she thought he might actually step in with some kind of joke or broad-shouldered intimidation. But he didn’t. He just waited, letting her stand on her own.
Elara’s smile flickered, faint as the shadow of a falling leaf. She tilted her head, studying Alina as if she were a glass of rare vintage wine, curious to see if she would settle or shatter. The witch’s violet eyes glinted in the torchlight, as unreadable as ever.
A hush fell. Alina swallowed. For an instant, she was back in Lord Rowan’s study, being pressed for answers to hypothetical diplomatic questions, judged for every word and half-sentence, her outward calm as much protection as the knowledge she presented. The image steadied her. This was nothing new to her—in fact, it was the opposite. She was trained in this. She could do this.
Alina drew a breath. “My father hates the Gifted. He would do anything to erase them, even if it meant burning half the kingdom. He raised me to believe his lies.” She let the words settle, then continued: “But I am not my father. I always felt that something in my world was unreal, that something was off, I just did not know what it was. I want nothing to do with his war.” The very second that she spoke, she knew it to be true.
Maven’s lips curled. “You expect us to believe you, just like that? You were brought here against your will, were you not?”
She looked around the table, at the callused hands and scarred faces, at the lives that had been torn and mended by a thousand little betrayals. “I don’t expect anything,” she said simply. “But I’m here. I’m willing to help, however you’ll let me.”
“And when push comes to shove, you will fight against your old life, against your family, against your father? Forgive me, Princess,” he said, spitting out her title like it was an insult, “I find that hard to believe. There has never come anything good from your kind. We should send you back in a bag, that would at least send the right message!”
“That’s enough!” Kael snapped, putting a hand on Alina’s shoulder. “She’s proven herself worthy of our trust,” he said, voice flat and final. “Anyone who disagrees can take it up with me.”
