“Sire!”
Lightning strike me.
By the time I make it back to my chambers, Mayah is fast asleep.
“Why so glum, little brother?” Faramir’s needling voice grates at my nerves. It’d been an effort to leave Mayah asleep in bed thismorning. I’d debated waking her just to see her bleary blue eyes but decided against it.
She hasn’t slept in a bed in over a month—I won’t rob her of rest for my own selfish desires.
“Little brother,” Faramir croons, drawing out the words when I don’t answer. “What’s the matter? Marriage not all you’d hoped?”
“Shut up.”
The adviser droning on about city matters falters before realizing I’m not speaking to him. My father cuts us a warning glare like we’re misbehaving children.
My half-brother opens his mouth to spew more shit when Jeyzar enters. His face is grave, and even Faramir turns to listen.
“The Rebellion has attacked battalions stationed at the contested borders.”
“Ours?” Faramir asks, brow raised. “Or my sister-in-law’s?”
“Both. We’ve suffered significant casualties.”
“How?” my father demands. “They’re commons.Howare they wreaking so much havoc?”
Jeyzar doesn’t flinch. “They have more wielders than we expected—waterwielders, earthwielders, healers. And, sire, they are skilled in other forms of warfare. Their sharpshooters make easy targets of our soldiers with iron-coated arrows.”
My knuckles blanch white.
“They’ve also developed more advanced bombs, with wider blasting ranges.”
The room is silent with uneasy contemplation. Both Arbinj and Tundrayn’s war strategies center around wielders and their abilities. We’ve never bothered to train nonwielders beyond basic combat—they’ve been used as padding for the front lines, nothing more.
I’ve never agreed with the methods—but I never tried to change them either. Mayah’s earnest face flashes through mymind, the determined set of her jaw as she healed the dying boy in her lap. The tears dampening her cheeks as she spoke of her nonwielder friends.
A wave of guilt washes over my lungs at my inadequacy. At my apathy. I stopped caring about everything after Lev died.
No more.
I wish to be a man deserving of Mayah.
“Organize three battalions—wielders and nonwielders together.”
Wide, scandalized eyes stare back at me as though I suggested handing over our kingdom to the Rebellion on a silver platter.
“Our current strategy isn’t working. Perhaps it’s time for change. Start with three battalions—instruct Sulon to train them together. Find new strengths, different strategies.”
Faramir chuckles. “Mayah put you up to this, didn’t she? We’ve all seen she’s a bleeding heart for commons, but how did she convinceyou? Did she get on her knees—”
The words don’t leave his lips, not with my hand around his throat. He thrashes in my grip, fingers clawing at my forearm.
“You don’t learn, Faramir,” I growl, squeezing harder. No one in the room moves. Not the advisers, not my father, not the guards stationed by the door.
His pompous face turns red. Up here in the towering palace, there’s no earth for him to wield. He gasps for breath, eyes bulging as he slams his fists against me.
“Enough, Zevayr,” my father finally says, resigned. I don’t release my hold. “I said enough!”
I shove Faramir backwards. His chair flips over, and he lands hard on the ground, devolving into a fit of gasping coughs.
