Finn pulled her bowl closer, peering at it with mock horror. “They serve this to prisoners, you know. No offense.” He scooped a spoonful, swallowed theatrically, and made a face that would have gotten a laugh out of her, once. “Word on the stone is you’ve been busy. I’d ask what you did to be so popular, but I don’t want to get implicated.”
She almost wished he’d stop talking, but at the same time the silence was so much worse.
She looked past his shoulder to where a knot of rebels stared openly, lips curled in a sneer. She could have called them out, could have stood and made some grand speech about loyalty, but what would be the point? Nobody here wanted a speech. They wanted blood. Or, at the very least, for her to finally take the hint and disappear.
She gathered her things, ready to leave. She had to get out of here before she started to cry again. She would not give them that satisfaction.
Finn’s hand shot out, covering hers. His grip was surprisingly warm, the skin rough from work and life outdoors. “You know,” he said, voice softening, “not everyone buys what Maven is selling. Some of us still have brains in our heads.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Alina muttered. “They’ll believe it if they want to.” She tried to tug her hand away, but Finn only squeezed harder, just for a second.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said. “Let them talk. They’ll get bored eventually. They always do.”
Alina wrenched her hand back, nearly knocking the bowl onto the floor. “You don’t want to be seen with me,” she said with resignation. “You’ll just make things worse for yourself.”
Finn’s smile faltered. “Too late for that, princess. I already have a reputation for bad decisions.” He winked, grin widening, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, I’d rather sit with the condemned than the cowards.”
A flicker of warmth tried to ignite inside her, but she crushed it. She could not afford hope, not now. All she could do was survive.
“Thank you, Finn.” She stood up, bench screeching, and this time Finn let her go.
The walk to the door felt like crossing a firing line. As she passed, rebels scooted back from their benches, creating a subtle but unmistakable gulf of empty air. Someone in the back actually spat on the floor, just loud enough for her to hear it.
She walked faster.
The corridor outside the mess hall was blessedly empty, but the reprieve didn’t last. As she rounded the first bend, voices echoed ahead—angry and sharp, edged with the certainty of people who knew they were right.
“…telling you, Kael is blinded by her. He won’t see reason until we’re all dead.”
“He’s kept us alive this long. If you think you can do better, why don’t you lead?”
A short, bitter laugh. “I might if he keeps up with this. She’s a liability. A real one. You heard what happened at the raid.”
There was a thump, as if someone slammed a fist against the wall.
“I don’t want to die just because he can’t keep it in his pants,” the voice hissed. “She’s not worth it.”
The voices faded, replaced by the hard slap of boots moving away.
Alina stood frozen, her breath caught between her ribs. The world had shrunk down to that one sentence, echoing, hollowing her out.
There was a small alcove, and she was glad for it because it let her hide for a moment. She pressed into it, waiting until her legs stopped trembling. She didn’t know how long she stood there, just that by the time she moved again, her hands were numb, and the stone had pressed a rough brand into the flesh of her shoulder.
She pressed her back to the wall, eyes closed, and tried not to think about how easy it was for the world to hate you.
She was so, so tired.
The war room reeked of lamp oil, fear, and the overripe scent of men who’d run out of patience.
Kael gripped the edge of the map table; his knuckles blanched to the color of bone. Around him, his lieutenants jostled for space, each one staking out a patch of wood with elbows and sharp voices, as if physical proximity could tilt the outcome of the day’s debate in their favor. The great table itself was a battle scar, riddled with knife marks, blotched with spilled ink, and patched over where hot wax had eaten through to the grain. Every square inch told a story, and every story led to the same conclusion: they were losing, bit by bit, to an enemy who never seemed to run out of men or will.
Alina stood among them, feeling like a ghost. She said nothing and nobody said anything to her. Kael didn’t even look at her. She was sick to her stomach. She should just go, leave, never come back but she was rooted to the spot.
Marcus hovered closest to Kael, his battered hand planted on the map right over the blue markers that signified the latest supply lines. “You need to make a statement,” Marcus growled. “If you let this”—he flailed the hand in a vague gesture, meant to encompass both the rumors and the people spreading them—”go on, you’re telling every man and woman in the Caves that you’ve lost control. That you’re not the Kael Stormborne we signed up to follow.”
Seraphina snorted from her place by the chimney, her arms folded tight over her chest. “He should do nothing of the kind. Public accusations give the rumors teeth. We keep it quiet, cut out the rot, and move on. You think half these people care who said what, so long as they get to eat tomorrow?”
Of course, Seraphina wouldn’t want the rumors to die.
