Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    As usual, the whispers wake him from his sleep. They thread through the fallen soldiers and cracked ground in his dreams, wrenching the fire prince from the imaginative horror. Weak, they whisper, nightmares are for children afraid to confront their fears.

    A bump in the road rattles the transport abruptly, causing Maven’s eyes to flutter open. There are no more battles, fires no longer rage along trenches bordering enemy lines, and Maven’s body isn’t paralyzed as it was previously. Without changing his facade, he stretches minimally, sitting up enough to alert the two guards sitting opposite him he’s awake. They don’t need to know how easily his foolish fears get to him. However, neither gives him any notion they care other than a slight flicker of their eyes his way. 

    Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Maven ganders out the window nearest him. Instead of the glamorous structures and Silver-owned businesses passing by, towering trees with a vibrant green rustle in the wind, creating an aesthetic he finds surprisingly pleasing.

   “Where are we?” Maven asks without thinking of his posture or anything else his mother would scold him for. Being too enticed with the view, he barely glances over at the guards. 

   The guard closest to him shifts, his armor making an unpleasant sound against the seat cushion. “Five miles outside the military campsite, your Highness.” His voice is gruff yet quiet for a man of his size; more muscular than the other guard and Maven combined yet just less than a foot over the prince.

   The front. Of course. How could he possibly forget?

   A week ago, the subject had been brought up at the dinner table. One week ago. Maven exhales sharply. How the time flies.

   “You’re sending me to the barracks?” His voice was collected, though the slightest tremor rewarded him with a pointed look from Elara. Swallowing any morsels left in his mouth, Maven looked between his parents. “I feel it’s a bit,” he hesitated, “sudden.” 

   Elara had scoffed. “Sudden? You’ve been lacking in areas during training for the past month according to Lord Arven, I was assuming you saw this coming.” Daintily cutting a slice of meat with her silverware, she kept her eyes on her plate but her voice was cutting through his head. 

   But you didn’t. Always be prepared, darling. That way, no one can catch you off guard. You never know who could throw a wrench in your plans or poison your soup, you need to be able to plan for it.

   Cal, who’d been eating silently across from mother and son, spoke up. “Lord Arven judges on who he likes better, not upon skill as he should.”

   “I’m assuming that’s why you have perfect marks.” He bit at his brother, narrowing his eyes. It was time for him to stop fighting Maven’s battles. Cal frowned, looking a bit startled it was Maven who said something and not Elara.

   “Whatever the reason, I feel it’d be a good experience for the boy.” The king proclaimed, wine sloshing in his goblet. “Toughen him up. Like Cal here.” A drunken smile appeared on his face and he clapped Cal on the back causing him to nearly drop his fork. Maven clenched his own utensil, biting his tongue to keep from lashing out at his father. Another comparison to his perfect brother who achieved what he couldn’t hope to in his lifetime. Patience, was all his mother whispered. 

    Taking a sip from his glass, Maven was grateful for the pause. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. “When am I leaving?” He remained calm, eyes shifting calmly between Elara and Tiberias, not even bothering to look at Cal in fear of meeting a softened bronze. He had accepted his fate, he didn’t need any sympathy.

    Smiling proudly, Elara set down her knife. It was Maven’s imagination but the knife almost seemed to prod at him from where it laid, biting at him with it’s sharpened teeth and ripping at his flesh until there’s nothing left. Perhaps Maven would allow it to, even welcome it in fact.

    “As soon as all of your things are packed.”

    Thankfully, it’d taken him a week to finish up various tasks including training sessions and lessons before he could finish gathering necessary items for his trip. According to his mother, he’d be at the front for quite some time. Or at least until he can rid himself of weak habits that hold him back from being as good as Cal.

    The view outside the window becomes less beautiful as the transport turns right into a clearing where a few tents are scattered about in front of rows of smaller tents leading farther than the eye can see. Bigger tents located in front must be important ones like the dining hall and the general’s quarters. Possibly his quarters as well. It’s not as nice as he expected it to be, though it’s not terrible. 

    But the smell is. As soon as Maven is escorted out of his transport after it’s come to a stop, he tries to keep himself from gagging. Bile rises in his throat and he finds it difficult to keep a straight face as he walks towards a stout man waiting for him in front of the second largest tent in the clearing. His guards flank him and seem to think the same; their noses wrinkle at the same time Maven wishes he could.

    “Prince Maven.” The short man says once he’s close enough. For such a vertically challenged man, he’s incredibly loud. “Welcome to your new home. I’m-”

    “General Lerolan.” Maven interrupts. He smiles, showing his canines. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” General Lerolan gives away his surprise by an arch in his eyebrows. To the prince, it wasn’t much of a mystery considering the orange and red, Lerolan house colors, lining his uniform as well as the shining medals adorning his chest. The fact that he’s Silver is a dead giveaway.

    Forcing a chuckle, General Lerolan stares into Maven’s eyes with a cold smile. “You’re new, I get it. But don’t ever forget this warning I’m gonna give you. Don’t ever interrupt me or I’ll send you out with the first group for battle at the front lines.” As he speaks, he gets louder, and Maven inwardly cringes. He supposes his ears will have to become attuned to the volume sooner or later. The threat isn’t well delivered, at least compared to others Maven’s heard, but the sincerity of it is certainly there.

    Clenching his teeth, Maven’s smile falls slowly. “Understood. I will let my mother know at once I’m off to battle.” The indication is clear as day but General Lerolan merely laughs, shaking his head and crossing his arms. 

    “Boy, your mother ordered this type of punishment along with many more chores for you to do if you step outta line. Whine to her all you’d like, Blue, you aren’t getting outta any of this.”

    “Blue?” Maven questions, taken aback. His mother did what? Did she honestly think he’d be that much of a bother? Surprisingly though, the nickname startles him more.

    The guard to Maven’s right bites back a chuckle, disguising it as a cough. The fire prince scowls. General Lerolan gives him an amused smile then turns on his heel and calls over his shoulder for Maven to follow him, adding his new nickname. Feeling humiliated, he sulks after the general.

    An hour and a half later, Maven wants to tear his hair out which is horrific for him since he spends a lot of time caring for it. General Lerolan showed him around the camp, starting with both of the dining halls, which he called “mess halls”, and ending with the training grounds on the far end of the rows of tents. Each new place there was to show was followed with an introduction filled with loud barks from the general and snappy comebacks if Maven uttered a single word. 

    Clearly, General Lerolan doesn’t care about the prince or his feelings. Just his skills and capability, which he apparently thinks Maven lacks.

    Stopping outside the fenced area, General Lerolan turns dutifully towards Maven, sizing him up. “Oh yes, you’ll be visiting here often.” Maven’s about to retort something about his height when he starts to speak again. “These are the training grounds. First thing tomorrow morning, you’ll report here to get yourself into a group that works on your weaknesses to build them up. Fortunately for you, Blue, your momma requested your strengths be worked on as well as your weaknesses, so you’ll be part of our top class.”

    “I’m assuming I have no say in this.” Maven says with a locked jaw. He’s met with a smug smile. 

    “And as part of our top class, we have one rule you need to know before you start.” Leaning in a bit as if about to tell him a secret, he grasps his hands behind his back. “You drop before I tell you to, you’ll regret it, princeling. According to your mother, I have no limits with you so don’t hide behind her skirts any longer.” Straightening back up, he laughs and claps Maven on the shoulder. “I’ll have your guards show you to your room. It’s a long ways back so I suggest you hurry. Night’s a comin’.”

     Maven is escorted away by his own guards, who look as though they adore the short man, without a second to think of a response. Usually he’s the one with the quick retorts, the smart mouth. Was he outdone by a foul general, a Lerolan of all houses? 

     The walk back to his tent isn’t as brutal as General Lerolan claimed it would be and his tent’s nicer than the ones closer to the training grounds. Standing at the front of the row directly behind the general’s quarters, his tent looks magnificent compared to the ones behind it, standing at around three feet taller and ten feet bigger all around. Inside there’s not much, a bed with a pile of sheets folded at the end and a pillow, a desk in the corner, and a set of his own military clothes set neatly on a chair near his bed with giant boots that look extremely heavy standing next to the leg. It’s nothing in contrast to his room back home but it will have to do for now.

     His guards leave him when ordered to, rather rudely due to Maven’s sour mood, and he finds he’s happy to be alone for once. Ignoring his new garments and bed sheets, he sits on the edge of the mattress carefully, as though sitting on it will ruin it. Scanning the bland room, he exhales slowly. 

     The front is not the first place he would’ve chosen to leave his home for. In fact, it’s at the very bottom of that list. But he’ll have to accommodate if he wants to survive here and unfortunately, that means putting up with General Lerolan and his antics and possibly some unfriendly soldiers. His lungs suddenly feel like they’re being squeezed. Other soldiers. He’ll have to eat, train, and walk alongside other soldiers, Red and Silver alike, in order to be successful like Cal. 

      With a sigh, Maven discards his shoes and lies back on the bed. There’s one thing for certain. He’s not going to like it here. But if he’s going to change anything, one thing that he will not tolerate, he already knows what it is. He can make friends if he truly tries, he can put up with a blown out eardrum due to all the yelling, he can even survive the rough training he’ll endure come morning.

      But his nickname is not going to be Blue.

Chapter Text

   “ You call that a sprint? ” 

   Maven doesn’t even have the energy to wince, he’s panting so hard. Never has his body been in such a state before, sore all over with sweat streaking down his forehead and dripping into his eyes. He feels disgusting, like a dirty Red sent to work in the sun all day. Lord Arven had been merciful with training back home compared to General Lerolan’s warmups. 

   “I said,” General Lerolan marches closer to him, one eye squinting as the other nearly bulges out of his skull with anger, “ do you call that a sprint?! ” His hand tightens around the baton in warning. When he claimed he was going to push Maven beyond his limits, he wasn’t joking.

   Wiping his forehead, Maven shakes his head reluctantly. It’s bad enough all of the other soldiers watched his legs give out underneath him and faceplant in the dirt multiple times, it’s even worse now that they’re looking on as he’s being humiliated. “No.”

   “No what?”

   Although his throat burns, the prince raises his voice to a hoarse yell. “No, sir!” 

   Another signature smug smile splits the general’s face, as if he knows he’s breaking him. “That’s right, soldier. Three more laps.” With an internal groan, Maven picks up his feet and begins to sprint again around the training grounds. However, he’s stopped before he can get far. “Around the entire camp.” A few Silver soldiers nearest him, ones who snickered at his failures earlier, give him expressions of sympathy with their lips pressed tightly together and eyes darting from his. 

   “Sir?” He wishes he misheard. More than anything, he wishes he failed his mother and didn’t pay close enough attention. His heart drops when General Lerolan swings his hand, motioning for Maven to run in the direction of the opposite end of camp. 

   “You heard me, Blue. Three laps around the entire camp. Do it before dinner and you can have seconds.” Maven wants to smack the cruel smirk off of his face but he knows he doesn’t have the strength to do it. 

   Every inch of the blue-eyed prince wants to rebel, even the parts he can’t feel due to exhaustion. Physical rebellion is not the only way. Maven draws in a shaky breath and stands up straight. “Five.” The slight drop in the corners of the general’s mouth gives Maven the energy to continue. “Five laps before dinner and I get a third helping, and no training for me tomorrow.” It’s a wager Maven will have trouble winning but he has no intention to lose. The few soldiers nearest look between the prince and the general, eyes wide and curious to how the short man will respond.

   A heartbeat passes. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Blue.”

   “And,” Maven adds quickly, “you can’t call me Blue anymore.” How he despises that nickname. Sure, his eyes may be incredibly blue but it’s unnecessary and childish. He wants to get to you. It’s working, Maven. He shakes the whispers away.

   Now, the general isn’t happy. “Don’t push your luck. Six laps for the nickname to go away.” With a guffaw, he slaps his knee. “Hell, I’ll even call you “your highness” if you can run six laps before dinner.”

   It’s Maven’s turn to smile. “Deal.” 

   After one lap, Maven feels like his lungs are going to burst. His legs tremble violently and threaten to give out. Already, the sun is starting to set, signaling it’s an hour or so after noon. Five more hours until dinner. The first lap took a little over an hour, setting him back around ten minutes each lap. At this rate, he’ll be an hour late for dinner and likely receive nothing at all. Then it’s back to training again tomorrow morning. He feels a pang of something deep within him. A growing ball of nerves sends signals out to his body, ordering it to shake, tremble, and jolt as his breathing grows rapid and short. He’s not sure what’s happening but he knows he cannot let it take over.

   He collapses halfway through the second lap, his legs too weak to continue. With the brutal workouts all morning and the lack of food and water after a breakfast of eggs and toast, which Maven didn’t feel like eating most of, his body can’t handle any more activity. He’s breathing hard and fast, too hard and too fast. He’s wheezing, breaths coming too rapidly for him to handle. His new uniform already looks like the others, soaked in his own bodily fluids and stinking so terribly, Maven wants to cry at how dirty he’s become.

   “Keep going.” He mumbles to himself between pants, struggling to stand. “Keep going.” You can’t let him win.

   “Keep going.” Maven stumbles to his feet, blinking wildly and realizing he probably looks like a delirious fool right now.

   “Keep going.” Putting one foot in front of the other, he starts at a walk, then at a faster pace until he’s running.

   “Keep going.” His heart pounds against his chest and his muscles quiver.

    You’re doing it. Keep going. You’re almost halfway there.

   That’s when he trips over his own feet and falls on his face in the dirt, skidding on his hands and knees until flesh is scraped off of them. The panic within him rises once more and it’s even more difficult to breathe as he lays in the dirt outside of the lower Red’s tents just before the training grounds. He almost made it two full laps. 

   What a joke.

   “Are you okay?” A meek voice disrupts his anxiety attack. He manages to lift his face from the ground to see a short, plump blonde girl in a Red soldier’s uniform. It’s not as dirty as he currently is but through his haze, he honestly doesn’t care if this Red’s cleaner. 

   A choked gasp escapes his lips and he coughs into the dirt, swallowing deep breaths of air through his mouth. He means to make the girl go away, snap at her for even talking to him. He’s got a challenge to win and he can’t waste any more time lying down and panicking. But his arms don’t work. They feel like limp noodles and refuse to lift him fully off the ground. His legs won’t budge either. Instead of sounding regal and in power, he sounds like a dying fish scrambling for water. It sends the wrong message.

   Suddenly, the girl is next to him, shakily helping him off the ground. She touches his arms gently, as if she’s afraid to make contact with him any further. She knows what I am. She’s smart enough to be careful but not smart enough to keep her distance. 

   “You’re going to be okay. You’ve got to help me though.” She says as she attempts to pull him to his feet. He wants to yell at her, scold her. But he’s too tired and too anxious to care. With the two of them struggling, they make it back to her tent where he collapses on the ground with a grunt. The girl is lucky General Lerolan decided not to stick around and watch the prince suffer, otherwise she’d be beaten and he’d have to continue his laps.

   The girl hurries to the tent flap. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.” Then she leaves him alone without any remembrance on how to breathe correctly. As if I’m going anywhere. He thinks to himself as he tries to balance his breaths. Minutes that feel like hours pass by before Blondie is back. She carries a tin filled with water and a slice of bread, which he devours greedily once she gives it to him. “Slow down, you don’t want to choke.” He takes the water from her next and gulps it down, slower after she reminds him again.

   He feels more refreshed after nourishment but his panic stays, twisting and twirling in his gut, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Catching his breath, he realizes he’s able to see more clearly. Instead of the fuzzy form she once was, Blondie’s face becomes clearer and he sees she has a dull shade of blue surrounding her pupils, more grey than his own. Blonde hair that’s nearly white curls around her round face, framing it nicely in a rugged sort of look. Freckles dot her entire face and travel down her neck and shoulders, likely covering most of her skin in places covered by clothes as well. Healing scars streak through them, like lines connecting dots in the stars. They cover her wrists and most of her arms as well, leaving Maven to wonder how rough she truly has it. A smile would pin her as a beauty except a timid, quivering line is in its place like she’s frightened by simply sitting here with him.

   “Why-” he erupts into a coughing fit, his throat too parched to continue. She jumps to her feet and hurries out the door again, saying she’ll be back with more water. Her flushed face reveals her nervous state. As much as he hates to admit it, he can’t be that scary, can he? He is Silver and she is Red but with him in a state such as this, there’s no Red on Earth who wouldn’t take advantage of the situation.

   Blondie comes back to the tent, this trip having taken ten minutes longer than the last, and sports an ugly purple bruise on her forehead. It’s beginning to swell and she looks like she’s in pain, but says nothing of it. “Here, drink. I added some honey to it to soothe your throat.”

   When she brings the tin to his lips, he brushes her hand away weakly, shaking his head. He’s had time to catch his breath and go through another anxiety attack before she returned. The panic has retreated for the time being and he’s feeling his strength return slowly. “Why?” He utters.

   Blondie backs away after his refusal of the drink like he just hit her. Lowering her head, she sets the tin down and begins to pick at her fingernails, a habit Maven hopes he never acquires. “You were tired.” Her voice is barely above a whisper and it trembles slightly. 

   “Of course I was.” He snaps, feeling irritable. His voice sounds better but he still struggles to form sentences. “I was nearly worked to death. I’m exhausted.” She flinches and nods without another word. He leans his head back on her mattress behind him, sighing. “Thank you.” He can almost hear his mother scolding him, lecturing him on the fact Silvers must never thank Reds since it’s their job to serve their betters. But Blondie’s timid yet selfless actions amaze Maven, enough to coax those two words out of him.

   Apparently, she wasn’t expecting that either. Pale blue eyes flit to ice blue, searching for sarcasm or a hidden meaning. She relaxes when she finds neither. 

   He finds it odd. This Red girl is eighteen or older, since the minimum age requirement for conscription is eighteen, and yet she’s terrified of him, a twelve year old Silver who hasn’t mastered his abilities beyond a simple flame. He notes her eyes flickering to his flame-maker bracelets from time to time and assumes she thinks he’s as powerful as the rest of the Silver soldiers. That simple assumption should make him feel invincible, with unlimited power over her and all the Reds who think alike. But it just makes him pity her, a surprising emotion for a prince raised under Elara Merandus’ rules. 

   “That bruise. Did you receive it for taking water?” 

   She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it. She continues to pick at her fingernails. The scene is infuriating to watch.

   “I asked you a question.”

   Maven can almost see the panic rising within her, bubbling to the surface in fear of what might happen if she doesn’t answer. This time, she responds quickly. “Yes. But not for the water. For the honey. Reds aren’t allowed treats like that.” She swallows thickly. 

   “They let you go?” Usually, guards are trained to cut off a finger or a toe at the least for stolen items. 

   She shakes her head, hair swinging gently across her face. “I said it was for a Silver I was serving. A prince. They didn’t question any further.”

   His first instinct is to ask how she knew he’s the prince. Obviously, he’s Silver, but nowhere does it say on his being that he’s royalty, except for the bracelets indicating he’s a burner, though he wouldn’t expect a lowly Red such as her to understand the status of Silver houses.

   Seeing his expression, which he fails to mask, she stutters briefly. “I-I’m sorry, I know I lied. But I still got a punishment and I got you honey. Please don’t..” she trails off, avoiding his eyes as though he’s supposed to understand what she means. She doesn’t know he’s the prince. For some reason, Maven doesn’t feel obligated to tell her. Instead, he nods slowly, as if processing the information.

   He studies her carefully, starting with her fear-filled eyes and ending with her fingers still picking at one another. She shakes underneath his gaze and suddenly, the reality of the situation is so sudden and so obvious, it takes him a moment to grasp. She’s not scared of him because of his abilities. She’s scared of him because he’s male and he’s Silver, both qualities leading to one outcome: he can take what he wants. The cuts on her wrists and neck make sense. As does her refusal to touch him outside of helping him inside her tent. Her trembling body and fearful gaze. 

   She thinks he’s going to sexually assault her. As others have probably done to her in the past.

   For once, he’s honestly not sure how to respond. The thought offends him greatly. He’s twelve, has hardly started puberty yet; he doesn’t have time to think about things like that. Besides, if he were to want to, he’d want his first time to be with someone special. His mother always thought that was stupid, a foolish wish for a foolish child. No one loves one another like that, Maven. That’s the type of love you read about in fairytales and your fantasy books. Reality is diminishing and cruel.

   “I’m not that type of person.” Maven says, choosing his words carefully. “And you didn’t do anything wrong.” He admits. Blondie relaxes again, watching him carefully. He shifts, groaning as his muscles scream in pain. “I’ll take that water now, though. Honey sounds good.”

   She hands him the tin, less timidly this time. He drinks deeply from it and only has less than a quarter of it left when he notices her staring at him. Her eyes reflect want and need. Holding out the tin to her, he sniffs like he could care less. “I’m finished. Drink the rest.” She stares at him some more, her eyes widening. He shakes the cup enough for the mixture inside to slosh around. “Take it before I change my mind.” Wrapping her hands around the cup, Blondie nods her head in thanks and takes a sip.

   “I’m Maven.” He says. Why he’s conversing with a Red soldier in her tent is beyond him, but the hospitality is too good to pass up. Much better than lying in the dirt outside, stinking and miserable.

   Blondie looks up from the cup, the lack of a smile intriguing him to what she looks like with one. “I’m Gretchen. But my friends call me GG.”

   Gretchen helps Maven to his own tent later that evening when everyone is busy eating in the mess halls, including the general and most of the guards. It’s easy for them to sneak around the few patrols and soon Maven is resting in his own tent. He had offered to help with her injury, now a devastating green and blue but she declined politely, saying she had a medic friend who could treat it for her. “He’s Red, but he’s talented. I’ll be okay.”

   “Gretchen,” he stops her before she goes, careful not to grab her arm in fear of scaring her, “I appreciate it.” He can’t find it in himself to say any more but she seems to understand. 

   “Call me GG.” The words echo in his head long after she leaves to her own tent, protected by the darkness now setting over the camp.

   Unfortunately, he realizes he won’t be receiving dinner tonight and it’ll be back to training tomorrow morning. He’ll endure not only his muscles being too stiff to move but the embarrassing comments from General Lerolan in front of his fellow soldiers. However, his encounter with GG and the little time they spent together makes him forget about his rumbling stomach and aching body. He doesn’t come to the conclusion until he’s half-asleep, still stinking and wet from his own sweat, but it causes the corner of his mouth to quirk upwards.

   Maven Calore has a friend.

Chapter Text

   A Red servant entering the Silver dining hall catches the attention of many soldiers, including the guards patrolling near the tent’s entrance flap. The nearest one seizes the boy, grasping his arm tightly while the Red cries out in pain, trying to explain.

   Maven sits in the far corner, closest to the entrance. Always have a way out, don’t let yourself get cornered. Surprisingly, it was Cal who taught him that, not his mother. The incident is happening rather close to where he’s eating and he grimaces when the guard threatens to rip the servant’s arm off if he doesn’t go back to his own mess hall immediately. If it must be done, why so close to his eggs and bacon?

   “I-I have a message.” The Red says quickly, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a slip of paper. “From the general.” Searching wildly, the servant scans the room until his eyes fall on Maven and he points, almost accusingly. “For him.” Maven glances up at the scene, fork in his mouth, completely unaware for the first few moments what just happened.

   Dropping the servant’s arm, the guard snatches the note from him and reads it. Maven furrows his eyebrows. If it’s supposedly for him, why should this idiotic guard get to see it first? Suddenly, the guard chuckles, his large body bouncing to the rhythm of his laughs, and he shakes his head. “Get outta here, Red. I’ll give it to him alright.” The servant, looking grateful, leaves briskly.

   “Oi, princeling,” still chuckling like he was told a good joke, the guard struts over and drops the paper in front of Maven, “General wants to see ya.” With a start, Maven realizes the guard is the second guard that flanked him during the general’s lecture, the one who laughed when he was humiliated. No wonder he finds the situation so funny.

   Eyeing the guard, Maven opens the note and reads, careful to linger on each and every word in case the guard is fucking with him.

    Blue. Office. Now. I have a friend waiting who really wants to see ya.

   General Lerolan’s scrawls are difficult to read but not impossible. He certainly doesn’t waste any time either. But the last part punctures a hole in his lung and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. A friend who really wants to see him. No matter how much he refuses to, all he can see in his mind is GG sitting in General Lerolan’s quarters, waiting for him to arrive so she can receive her punishment for interfering with his.

   Carefully, the prince stands, ignoring the steaming meal on his plate. He doesn’t say a word to the guard, just a nod, and leaves the dining hall. Once he’s exited, he rushes as fast as he can to the general’s quarters. Without knowing why, his heart begins to race and the panic residing in his gut starts to swirl and prowl, waiting to strike. 

   How can a simple Red girl make him feel this way? Because she’s your friend. His thoughts are beginning to merge with his mother’s, creating a frustrating game of “Who said that” in his head. However, this one appears to be his own.

   He’s so lost in thoughts of excuses to make when he arrives and sees GG with the general that he fails to brace for impact when he rounds a corner. A grunt comes from both of them as they collide. Maven feels a sharp pain and hears a crack that can’t lead to anything good as an elbow rams into his nose. Instantly, Silver spurts out of his nostrils and treks down his face, dribbling off of his chin. He stumbles back, as does his attacker. 

   “Holy crap, I am so sorry.” 

   Maven looks up and blinks hazily, peering at the person in front of him. A Red. Not a person, darling. Although Elara isn’t in his head at the moment, he still hears echoes of her words. The Red isn’t anything special. At most, he’s fourteen, and a few inches taller than Maven. A medic bag slings over his shoulder, covering little more than his sweaty tank top does, revealing a skinny brown body with a hint of growing muscle beneath the skin. Forest green eyes capture Maven’s attention, wide and worried, reflecting fear. He’s handsome, to say the least, with a nice jawline and full lips, but what Maven takes out of all the three seconds he’s staring is this: he wants to touch this guy’s hair. Chocolate brown curls protrude from his scalp, bouncing everytime the Red moves, like it’s begging the prince to run his fingers through it.

   With a flush, Maven comes to his senses. Nice jawline? Full lips? Wanting, no, needing to touch that hair? Such impure thoughts for a royal prince.

   A wave of pain crashes down on him and he inhales sharply, bringing a hand to his nose to feel the damage. The touch nauseates him so he lets his hand hover below to his chin to catch the droplets of blood.

   He’s too busy trying to replay what happened, he forgot to say something. At least let the Red know he’ll die for such actions. The Red speaks again, indistinctly, and Maven looks at him in confusion.

   “You’re bleeding. Fudge, you’re bleeding. Does it hurt? Do you need a medic? I’ll get a medic.” The Red scrambles around in one place, desperately trying to make things better. Maven, despite his pain, stares at the guy in disbelief. Not only does he ask stupid questions, he’s looking for a medic while he has a medical bag on his shoulder. Never has he come across anyone more oblivious than this Red.

   “Thomas, you’re a medic.” A voice sounds from behind the Red, Thomas. In an instant, all of Maven’s fears dissolve. GG steps closer, cautiously, fiddling with her fingers and looking at the scene with worry. “Don’t just stand there, do something.” She hisses, turning into someone new entirely around Thomas. She motions to the guards roaming camp, suggesting it’s not a good idea to leave a bleeding Silver with two unharmed Reds out in the open.

   Thomas glances at his bag. “Oh, yeah. Right.” A few beats pass before he turns to GG. No words are spoken but Maven sees the silent conversation happen between them. It’s a lot similar to his own conversations with his mother. 

   Thomas gives a slight nod in Maven’s direction, widening his eyes a bit and pressing his lips together. Translation: “He’s Silver. He’s bleeding. He’ll have us killed.”

   GG frowns, gestures to the guards with a frustrated look, then her eyes flit to Maven with a reassuring one. “They’ll kill us first. Besides, I know him. He won’t kill us.”

    “How can you know that?”

   “I just do.”

   “GG…”

   “Just trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

   Feeling more like an object being spoken about than a person, Maven finally says something, his voice sounding odd from the strain on his nose. But instead of proclaiming punishment or snapping at them, he says, “You guys aren’t very subtle, you know.” Both Reds turn to him, look at each other, then back at him. GG is the first to step forward.

   “We can get that healed. Thomas is a great medic, he can help.”

   With a scoff, Maven looks Thomas up and down. “He’s your “talented medic”? The one you talked about last night? The one who forgot he was a goddamn medic in the first place?” His own voice catches him off guard, full of authority and hurtful words. Like General Lerolan. His nausea worsens.

   Thomas stares at Maven guiltily. “I promise I’m better than I look. A lot of people tell me that.” 

   GG sighs. A few guards are getting closer so she pulls both of them into the closest place not crawling with patrols, an ammunition depot; a large shed on the outskirts of camp, just past the general’s quarters. She isn’t as shy or weary as she was previously. In fact, she doesn’t seem to have a problem manhandling both Thomas and Maven, rushing them and bringing them into the shed. The door closes with a solid thunk, unlike the measly flaps on the tents. 

   “We can’t be in here.” Maven states the obvious. He cannot believe what today has brought. First, this Thomas guy breaks his nose, makes him think sinful thoughts, and is so blindly stupid, he resembles Cal in a way that makes Maven sick. Then, GG ends up not being in danger after all and is helping him with his injury, but is nothing like the girl she was when she helped him. Even the bruise on her forehead is gone. It’s as if the previous night never happened. Finally, he’s in the last place he should be, especially since he’s on the bad side of the general already: a shed full of the camp’s ammunition. 

   Thomas gazes around at thousands of crates and weapons stacked around the three of them, whistling. “That’s a lot of ammo.” 

   “Thomas. Bag.” GG says, tugging at the medic supply kit hanging off of him.

   He seems to remember Maven’s nose and hurries to unzip it. “Right, sorry. I got distracted.” When he pulls out a few bandages and stitches, Maven can’t help but laugh. Thomas and GG look confused. “What?”

   Eyes flitting between them, Maven’s laugh dies. “You’re kidding, right?” Neither of them move a muscle, giving no indication they’re joking. “You’ve got an actual medic in this camp. It should be required. We are at war, after all.” Again, he isn’t given a response. “Are you seriously going to slap a bandage on my nose and call it good? I thought you said he was talented.” He directs that last sentence at GG who nods.

   “He is talented. But we can’t get a healer. They’ll want to know what happened.” As soon as she says it, Thomas elbows her, glaring. She lowers her eyes. “Which we’re hoping you don’t intend to tell the truth about.” Her newfound boldness is admirable to say the least but Maven’s not sure he likes this version of her. She makes him feel small and not at all as powerful as he had felt yesterday. His flame-maker bracelets have gone unnoticed today, not even Thomas has brought attention to them.

   Maven presses his lips into a line. Now his nose is starting to throb and he’s not happy with the amount of blood that’s pooling into the center of his palm. “Why shouldn’t I?” That gets their attention. Standing straighter with narrowed eyes, he glowers at them accusingly. “Tommy here isn’t qualified enough for my taste. Bring me to an actual healer and I’ll make sure your heads stay attached to your necks.”

   Thomas pales a little, his golden skin turning two shades lighter with a sickly tone to it. What a weakling. GG watches Maven carefully, eyes searching him for any hint of trickery. 

   “I’m a man of my word.”

   Nodding slowly, GG exhales sharply. “Okay. We’ll bring you to the medical tent. I think Terria is on the job.” She puts the supplies back into the bag and zips it up, handing it over to Thomas who takes it.

   On the contrary, Thomas’s skeptical. “ Will you lie?” His voice quivers gently. “I’m really sorry for hurting you, I didn’t mean it. I don’t mean any offense here, but how can we trust you?”

   “GG trusts me. Is that not enough for you?” His hesitation is enough. “I may be Silver but I’m not an asshole. It was a mistake.” Mother would punish me greatly for what I just said. Maven thinks then pushes aside the next wave of nausea. “Can you just take me to see Terria? I’m feeling dizzy.” In spite of all of his lessons, he can’t find it in himself to act like his mother or be as regal as his father or brother. He’s done so many things wrong and it’s not even noon on his second day at the barracks. He can’t even fulfill simple orders such as meeting the general in his quarters, which Maven will have to explain after his nose is healed. 

   Perhaps sending him to the front without Elara’s guidance was a bad idea. Now Maven desperately needs to find a toilet.

   Thomas’s green eyes fix on Maven’s blue, staring deep into his soul it seems. The prince is sure he looks awful; hair sticking out in weird directions from his restless sleep, a giant grey bruise forming on his face that’s slowly swelling and puffing up his features. But Thomas says nothing about his appearance. After an awkward minute, the medic agrees. “Yeah.” Maven’s even sure he hears a quiet thank you on the way out of the ammunition depot.

Chapter Text

   “Broken?” Thomas repeats quietly, gathering the nerve to meet a cold pair of blue eyes. He averts his attention to his feet where it remains. 

   Terria, the Silver Skonos healer, nods, the movement hardly visible. A thin line replaces her mouth and tight features add to her physical age. Her graying hair is tied up into a knot, frizzing out at the edges as she’s too busy to fix it. A Silver medic badge accompanies Skonos house colors on her uniform. If Maven squints, he can almost perceive Sara, Julian Jacos’s unspoken lover.

   “How was this injury acquired?” Terria asks. Such a sharp tongue for a frail figure. Thomas and GG share a look. GG’s standing closer to the medic tent flap, arms crossed and feet planted together in a mix of timid and defiant. Thomas’s closer to Maven, his damned hair distracting the prince, bouncing everytime the Red turns his head. Both are watching Maven carefully now, eyeing him outside of Terria’s view.

   Slipping his mask on as he was taught, he musters the best nonchalant look he can. “General Lerolan doesn’t seem to realize the intensity of his punishments.” Terria’s eyes flit to his. He shrugs. “I fell down during a drill I earned through his arrogance. Need I say more?” He scowls now, staring back at Terria until she turns her attention to his nose, one hand reaching up to touch it with great care. 

   Out of the corner of Maven’s eye, Thomas awards him with a soft smile, one that causes Maven’s cheeks to burn.

   “Am I hurting you?” Terria arches an eyebrow, swiping a hand gently across his cheeks to check for any minor bruising. “Or is it the heat?” The prince is about to swat her hand away and call her a fool. Not only are his innards turning into fluttering butterflies to fuel his embarrassment and her question causing everything to be worse, she should know better than anyone his cheeks don’t flush from heat. However, Terria has a sparkle in her eyes when she’s finished with his nose.

    Oh.

   “All better.” Tight features return along with a dutiful stance. “I made sure to ease your pain in other places as well, I hope that’s alright. Your muscles have had quite the workout lately.” Maven moves his arms, testing out the newfound strength. For the first time since he’s arrived here, he feels rejoiced and energized enough to withstand four of General Lerolan’s hardcore training sessions. 

    I have a friend waiting who really wants to see ya . 

   That’s right. 

   Counting out the math in his head, Maven stands from the cot. It’s been at least a half hour since his run in with Thomas and GG, so he got the letter from the general around forty-five minutes ago. He’s already in for a greeting of glares and unnecessary yelling. Unfortunately, whoever’s here to see him will experience it as well.

   Stopping himself before he thanks Terria, he simply gives her a nod. “I feel great. But I must be going.” His mother has reminded him various times: workers should not be thanked by a prince, not even healers, because it is their job to heal. Why give gratitude to a person simply doing their job? Terria bows her head in a formal way, too formal for Maven’s liking, especially when Thomas and GG are standing not even five feet away.

   Maven turns to leave for the general’s quarters and nearly faceplants into Thomas for the second time today. Thomas, being two inches taller, looks down at Maven with the same soft smile as before, as if teasing him. 

   “You’re in my way.” The prince means for his voice to sound regal. Much to his dismay, the words are hushed into a whisper, making the situation more awkward than it already is. Thomas opens his mouth, probably to say something witty now that Maven’s apparently his friend, then stops himself as he sees Terria still standing next to the cot with her hands on her hips and an eyebrow arched. The Red clears his throat, apologizing under his breath, and moves out of the way. GG fights a smile.

   Just as Maven gets around the corner, he hears Terria’s sharp tongue return along with strict orders to Thomas, whom she calls “boy”, and the footsteps of soldier boots scurrying away from the medic tent.

   “Blue.” General Lerolan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and chuckling humorlessly. “Blue, Blue, Blue.”

    I’ve been here for five minutes and the only thing he’s said is Blue. Someone kill me now. Maven’s almost entirely sure that atrocious thought will be plucked from the depths of his mind sooner or later. His mother could possibly get a good laugh out of it though he doesn’t dare form that into a full thought. Instead, it dissipates, leaving him to wonder what he was even thinking about. It’s the way he gets rid of all things Elara shouldn’t have knowledge of. Unfortunately, it’s incredibly difficult and gives him headaches and memory issues.

   Standing up to his full height, which isn’t even two inches over Maven, General Lerolan struts over to him, still shaking his head. “I sent you a note, didn’t I? Did you receive it or not?”

   “I did.” Maven’s given a cold, hard glare. “I did, sir .” 

   Satisfied, the general dips his head. “When I send you a note, soldier, you obey the words written on it.” Every word uttered is spoken infuriatingly slow, as if Maven’s a child in a classroom working on his alphabet. “Am I clear?” 

   “Crystal, sir.” 

   “Really? Because, last time I checked, you made me wait forty-five goddamn minutes for your presence and you’re not even presentable.” His voice gets louder with every word. Maven struggles to keep his composure instead of checking to make sure his ears aren’t bleeding. “Where’s your full uniform? I don’t see a jacket next time I see you, I’ll staple it on you permanently!” Jabbing a finger into Maven’s chest, he snarls. “You’re lucky your visitor is behind that flap, otherwise I’d really let you have it.” 

   Maven can’t help but think, What were you doing before? “Apologies, general. I ran into some trouble and broke my nose. Te- a Skonos healer had to--”

   “ Do I look like I give a shit ?” 

   Maven swallows, not out of fear but out of frustration. “No, sir.” He lifts his chin and keeps his eyes straightforward as he was taught in training.

   “I’m going to let you have some time with your visitor, but afterwards you owe me some laps.” Suddenly, Maven feels as though he has been shot in the gut. “You completed two if my source is correct. You owe me four more before you can eat again. And this time, no help from any Red rats.” Maven pales. So he does know about GG. 

   But who’s his source?

   “Do you understand, Blue?”

   Watching himself so he doesn’t quiver, Maven nods. “Yes, sir.”

   “Good. Now get outta here. He’s waiting for you.” Waving a hand towards the tent flap leading to a connected tent, General Lerolan retreats to his desk where a pile of papers sits, waiting to be viewed. Maven doesn’t feel the least bit sorry for him.

   Feeling more like a kicked dog than anything, Maven sulkily leaves the general’s quarters and enters the joined tent. It’s a smaller one yet it still manages to fit a couch, chairs, and even a table in the center, all made of wood with cushions and cloths to soften them. A glass of wine sits untouched in the center of the table and a person sits on the couch facing away from Maven, the back of his head giving the prince everything he needs to know about his visitor.

   “Cal.”

   The elder Calore prince turns to face his brother, a bright smile lighting his face. “Mave.” Looking him up and down, Cal nods. “You look good. Strong.”

   A muscle twitches in the corner of Maven’s mouth. “I’ve been here two days. I saw you less than a week ago. What are you doing here?” Cal’s smile drops slightly, his posture stooping just a bit. Maven can’t help but feel bad. 

   “I figured it’d be nice to see a familiar face. At least, that’s what I desired most when I was up here. Besides, General Lerolan can be a lot...I’m sure you already know.” Cal gestures sheepishly to the tent flap, suggesting he heard more than he should’ve.

   Huffing, Maven moves closer to the furniture arrangement, arms crossed. “He won’t stop calling me Blue.” Although he sounds childish, like a kid crying to his mother over a broken toy, it makes him feel more at home. Cal’s always been the one he can say these things to. Elara simply wouldn’t have it.

   Cal’s famous crooked smile returns and he cracks a laugh. “Wouldn’t expect any less from him. He actually misheard my name when I told him to call me Cal.” He sighs. “He never did stop calling me Kale.” Maven snorts, letting himself open up a bit. Around Cal, it’s a lot easier to be himself, not his mother’s or anyone else’s creation. It causes an ache deep in his heart.

   “How’re things at home?” Maven asks after a moment of silence, shifting in his place near one of the chairs.

   Cal shrugs. His expression gives away more than he intends to. “Normal.”

   “So...nothing’s changed.” Maven expected this, though he doesn’t want to admit it scars more than just his pride. “Figures.”

   His brother’s eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I meant. Nothing new has happened. Other than I don’t feel so dumb during lessons anymore.” He offers Maven a smile who gives a faint one back. There’s an incredibly awkward silence that fills the tent afterwards, only fueling the tension. 

   Cal coughs. He gestures to the seat across him. Maven sits. 

   “Anyways, how’s training going? Any better than the kind back at home?”

    How can someone be this frustratingly awkward? “It’s more physical than ability training. A bit more difficult but I can manage.”

   “Ah.” Cal fiddles with his fingers, face as easy to read as a picture book. He’s searching for something, anything, to talk about. Why did you come to visit if all you wanted to do was say hi? Send me a letter, moron. Maybe I’ll even take the time of day to read it.

   Maven’s about to suggest he finish his laps before sundown tonight, indicating he’d rather be anywhere but here, when Cal opens his mouth again. “Have you made any friends?”

   Images of GG and Thomas flash through his head. “What am I, four? I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to get stronger. Or in father’s words, be more like you.” The sentence slices like a knife. 

   Cal frowns. “I just figured this would be the place for that. A lot of close friends of mine met me up here. And it’d be nice to hear you have some people to talk to here. War can get lonely, but it can also do things to your head. Friends can be of use during those times, don’t you think?”

   He’s right, Maven hates to admit that. The younger prince knows all too well what happens when you’re inside your head for too long. 

   Forcing a smile, Maven stands. “Yeah. I’ve met a few people, if that makes you feel better.” He’s clearly ready to leave but Cal acts as if he’d never moved.

   Leaning forward, his brother looks at him with a proud look. “Who? Are they nice?” Even at 14, Cal manages to treat him like he’s five. Like he’s somehow as experienced as a parent.

   Maven grits his teeth but never drops the smile. “Just a soldier. And a medic. Sure, I guess they’re nice.”

   “A medic? Did you get hurt?”

   “No.” Maven lies through his teeth. “Just passed him between duties.”

   “And the soldier?”

   “She’s nice.” Immediately after he says it, he wishes he could take it back.

   “She?”

   Scowling, Maven rolls his eyes. “Can I not make friends with a girl without being interested?”

   Cal holds up his hands in defense and shakes his head. “No, no. I didn’t say that. Just curious.” But a knowing smile stays on his face, long enough where Maven flushes.

   “It’s not like that. Never going to happen. She’s just a friend.” A tiny voice in the back of his head speaks up. GG might just be a friend. What about- Maven tells himself to shut up. There’s no way. 

   “Alright, alright.” Cal leans back against the couch, arms crossed. Looking like a true king, as always. “Had to make sure.”

   Growing increasingly irritated, Maven begins to leave, inching towards the exit flap. “Thanks for visiting, brother, but please don’t show up unexpectedly unless it’s an emergency. I can handle myself.” He cuts Cal off before he can say anything. “I’ve got some laps to finish. Tell mother hello for me.”

   “Mave-” Maven leaves the tent before Cal finishes getting up. 

   The exit spits him out at the start of the array of tents, leaving him a long way to go before he reaches the training grounds. Perhaps he should jog there and get half of his third lap knocked out. He’s mentally preparing himself for the exhaustion he’s about to endure yet again when he rounds the corner of a tent and runs into something solid.

   “Woah, we’ve got to stop running into each other like this.” 

   One upwards glance and Maven’s stomach flutters. Curly, fluffy hair, green eyes, beautiful golden skin, and a smile the sun itself envies. It’s official, Maven hates Thomas.

   Standing upright, Maven sniffs. “Or you could be more careful of where you stand.” The comeback is weak but, in all honesty, he can’t think straight right now.

   “Wait! Mave, I need to-” 

   Everything seems to move in slow motion. Cal jogs around the corner, eyes training in on Maven then moving to Thomas. Thomas opens his mouth to say something then closes it once he sees Cal, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. Unlike Maven, Cal is very well known around the barracks. 

   It must’ve just occurred to Thomas that his future king’s running towards them because he takes a weary step back and fights to keep his stature. He nearly drops the roll of bandages he was busy rolling up. “That’s…” 

   “Yeah.” Is all Maven can think to say.

   Cal stops next to Maven. “I needed to give you something. It’s rude to walk out on people, you know.” He looks to Thomas who pales. For some reason, Maven’s heart thunders in his chest, as if Thomas were a secret he’d been caught with. “Who’s this?”

Chapter Text

   It shouldn’t be a big deal. To Cal, Thomas is a Red who happens to know who Maven is. No connection between them, no stolen glances, no scandalous thoughts passing through Maven’s head.

   In that moment, however, Maven felt the air squeeze out of his lungs. Thomas is his secret, his guilty pleasure. Woah. Where did that come from?

   “Nobody,” Maven says quickly while smoothly turning his brother away from Thomas, “what were you going to give me?” Making slow but sure progress, the Calore siblings were inching back towards the tent, away from Thomas, away from everything Maven wished he could forget about and move on with his life.

   Maven catches a glimpse of Thomas frowning as he steers Cal away. He picks up the unraveled roll of bandages and watches them round the corner, a confused yet curious look on his face.

   Cal remains stubborn all the way back to the tent, even after Maven changed the subject multiple times. “Was that the medic you were talking about?”

   “No.”

   “Yes, he was. Why couldn’t I say hi?”

   “Stop.”

   “You’re finally making friends and I’m not allowed to meet them?”

   “He’s not my friend, Cal. Leave it alone.”

   “But-“

   “Were you going to give me something or not?”

   Sighing, Cal shrugs Maven’s hand off his arm and digs in his pocket, retrieving a crisp envelope with silver writing written neatly on the front. Mother’s handwriting. No one else cares quite as much about penmanship than Elara Merandus. Which might explain Maven’s hatred of it considering the hours he spent perfecting his own so he’d please his mother. “She asked me to give this to you.”

   “She gave it to you?” He didn’t intend to say it so harshly. 

   Cal winces but regains his composure. “She did. She said she didn’t trust anyone else.”

    She means she didn’t trust anyone else not to read it. Maven thinks, his heart sinking. The letter must be incredibly important. “Thank you.” Gingerly, he takes the letter, careful not to crease the paper. “I’ll write to her soon.”

   “What’s his name?”

   “Out.” 

   “What?”

   “Out, Cal. I won’t say it again.” 

   “This isn’t your tent.”

   “It isn’t yours either.”

   The brothers stare each other down, blue and bronze battling in a silent war. Maven, surprisingly, breaks first. “Fine, I’ll leave. I should finish my laps anyway. Goodbye, brother, thank you for visiting. Please don’t again.”

   “Maven-“

   “Safe travels home.” He calls over his shoulder as he makes yet another dramatic exit. Hope your transport falls in a ditch. He thinks rather guiltily.

   The prince makes a pit stop at his own tent first, placing the letter delicately on the sorry excuse of a desk they decided to give him. He stares at it, as though waiting for it to speak in his mother’s voice. He wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Fortunately, it does not speak. The piece of folded paper sits and haunts Maven, begging him to burn it and forget his mother sent him anything. Perhaps it would be for the best.

   Though she would punish him ruthlessly for ignoring her.

   Maven blinks. This is the first time he’s spent more than a day away from his mother’s side. Any more than 24 hours apart and Maven either had a mental breakdown or Elara heard him think something he shouldn’t. He was secretly elated to be away from her and her constant nagging, though the separation made him nervous. Could she still hear his thoughts? Probably. Would she visit next time he had an impure thought or simply bide her time until he returned home? She would have months of knowledge to make him writhe and plead for mercy.

   He shudders. The sun casts a soothing orange on the outside of his tent, lighting up the inside with a warm glow. To anyone else, it’s perceived as beautiful, but to Maven, it’s a reminder. Four more laps to complete before he can eat. Dinner begins in two hours and he hasn’t started running yet.

   “I’ll read it later.” He says out loud, partly in case his mother’s listening. “Soon.” 

   As the sun continues to sink behind hills in the distance, the temperature drops degree by degree. If the day wasn’t hot and sticky enough, the night was only a bit cooler but sticky all the same. Maven, being a burner, has no problem adjusting his internal body temperature to create a comfortable experience for himself. Running isn’t a problem for him until his body starts to heat out of his control and his lungs refuse to breathe any longer. This happens halfway through his first lap and he curses under his breath.

   “Three and a half more.” He mutters to himself. “Just three and a half more.” 

    You couldn’t even finish two before. How will you finish four?

    He can’t tell if that’s his own consciousness speaking or if it’s his mother, which honestly scares him more than anything. Lately, it’s been getting harder to tell.

   “Shut up.” He mumbles. He’s panting now and his entire body feels like it’s on fire. How much further had he gone? Pausing long enough to catch his breath and look back, he wants to smack himself. One lap done. Three more to go. How much more pathetic can he get?

   Maven runs again. His feet pound against the ground until it’s the only thing he hears along with his own heartbeat.

    Ba-dum.

   He passes the dining hall where a few higher ranked Silvers have gathered, eager to get their meals early, like always. I should be there right now. By the time I’m done, I’ll be eating with the reds.

    Ba-dum.

   A few of the Silvers stare as he runs by. Their blank faces twist into cruel smiles and their eyes glint with amusement. He’s fucking entertainment for them. Maven wishes he could show them exactly what he’s capable of doing, not just ability-wise, but status-wise.

    Ba-dum.

   His lungs are on fire. His muscles shake. Sweat sticks to every square inch of skin and trickles into places Maven would rather not like to think about. Even his hair plasters to his forehead. 

    Ba-dum.

   Two and a half laps done. One and a half to go. He probably looks like shit. Smells like it as well.

    Ba-dum.

   Maven gets a crazy thought. Maybe he’ll eat with Thomas. GG too. They can sit together and laugh while GG makes jokes at Maven’s expense and Thomas makes a fool of himself sticking carrots up his nose. Maven snorts despite wanting to die.

   Maybe he wouldn’t mind sitting with them.

    Ba-dum.

   His last lap is the most eventful. He passes the dining hall, starting his fourth and final lap. Groups of Red soldiers, medics, and servants are milling about, scurrying back and forth between one another and chatting, though their eyes dart all around them and their bodies are hunched, as if ready to run if necessary. The mess hall doors open suddenly and the swarm of Reds bustle inside. The Silver dining hall next door is nearly empty, though a few stragglers are still eating inside. Maven’s options are limited. Eat alone or eat with Thomas and GG, if they were in that crowd. 

   Maven’s not sure what to choose. He’s not sure he has the option of eating with Reds.

   He keeps going, focusing on the browning grass, the dirt flying up from his shoes, the cool night air keeping him from passing out from heat stroke. Anything but the strength sapping from him with every step.

   “You don’t look so good, Blue.” An all too familiar voice penetrates his ears and suddenly he has the urge to collapse right then and there. He whips his head to the right in time to see General Lerolan grinning at him even as he moves further and further away. The guy seems to be enjoying Maven’s suffering, which isn’t surprising at all, but makes the prince angry and more determined than ever. It ignites a fire within him and he pushes on, passing the final half mark on his journey. How he made it this far without doubling over and retching whatever food is left in his stomach, he has no clue.

   Long story short, Maven promptly falls on his face as soon as he finishes his fourth and final lap. The sun has fallen completely and the mosquitoes have come out to enjoy human flesh. Maven’s too exhausted to slap them away, he just lets them bite and bite until he feels his entire being will be covered with ugly gray welts tomorrow. For a terrifying five minutes, he can’t breathe and his body won’t respond to his brain’s commands. He feels sluggish and dead in general. Maybe dying wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.

   “Dude, get up!” 

   Maven makes a sound like a wounded animal, muffled by the dirt pressing against his mouth.

   “If the general comes back and sees you like this, you’re due for more laps tomorrow. I guarantee it. Do you know how many soldiers I’ve seen get the same punishment? He’s toying with you.”

    Don’t you think I know that? Maven wants to spit at the intruder. I’ll deal with the punishment later. Let me die first.

   “Oh fudge, oh fudge, he’s gonna be back soon.” 

   Maven really wants to die now. He knows only one person with the innocence to say fudge instead of fuck. The prince struggles to lift himself off the ground, his arms shaking violently. He coughs into the dirt and spits some from his mouth. “Go away.” He says, his voice hoarse.

   Thomas frowns, eyebrows knit together in worry. “What if I don’t?”

   “Then I’ll tell the general what you’re doing, helping me, and you’ll be lynched. Or shot. Or sent to the front lines in the trenches. Your choice.”

   “No, you won’t.” Thomas says the words with such confidence, Maven almost feels sorry for him. Until he realizes he might be right. Of course, Maven will claim to do such a thing but it never actually occurred to him if he’ll follow through or not. He supposes that has to do with his status as a prince: no one dares question orders from a Calore.

   With a defeated sigh, Maven’s arms give out and he grunts as he hits the ground. “No, I won’t.”

   “Come on, he’ll be back soon. Let’s go, Blue.” Thomas helps him off the ground only to have Maven give him a death glare.

   “Don’t ever call me Blue.”

   The medic nods slowly, eyes wide. “Right...okay.” He thinks for a moment, eyes scanning the area as he helps the prince hobble towards any close safe place. “What about pretty boy? Princeling? O’ mighty one?”

   Maven’s not sure he heard Thomas correctly but, in his state, he snickers. “You’re stupid.” He says blatantly.

   “Why thank you. I get that a lot.”

   The two stumble into the Red dining hall. It’s empty; dinner must be over. Maven’s stomach twists in agony, growling angrily at him. He was too slow and he missed the only chance at food he had today. No food was spared, not unexpected.

   “The General never comes in here, we can wait until he has his nightly meeting with….” Thomas trails off, seating Maven on the closest bench, “...never mind.”

   Maven excels at lying and especially at keeping secrets. His mother is known for that type of thing so, naturally, the trait passed to him. On the contrary, Thomas is the worst secret-keeper/liar in the world. Instantly, Maven has to resist the urge to snort. But he says nothing, like he didn’t hear anything. 

   “Do you need water?” Thomas brushes stray hairs from his face. Maven watches the curls bounce back into their natural state.

    No, Thomas, I don’t need water. I didn’t just run four laps around the entire fucking barrack and collapse on the ground. Of course I need water!

   Maven nods, shakily wiping some sweat from his head, sweeping his hair back in the process. “Yeah.” He coughs hoarsely. “That’d be nice.” Thomas dashes off to a nearby pipe where a rusted nozzle sits on top. When turned, the pipe shudders and spills an unsanitary color of water into the drain below. Thomas, having grabbed an isolated cup from a nearby table, fills it to the brim and brings it back over to Maven who stares at it. “What is this?”

   “Water?”

   Maven now stares at the medic with a horrified look. “Water.” He repeats uneasily.

   Thomas plops down onto a seat opposite of him, looking a bit irritated. It surprises Maven; Thomas isn’t the angry type, not even close. “Yeah, water. Sorry us Reds can’t have pure, clean water like you.”

   Guilt gnaws at Maven. As much as he wanted to puke from the sight of such an unclean liquid, it’d be better to suffer through a sip than be a prick. He takes a small sip and nearly chokes. Thomas raises a single eyebrow but the corner of his mouth quirks upwards. 

   “Tasty?”

   “Shut up.”

   Maven discards the cup, setting it on the table next to him. That water shall never be touched again.

   “Oh, and that might not have been my spare cup so let’s just hope you don’t end up with a disease or something from Big Larry or Marty.” Maven must’ve given the correct reaction because Thomas threw his head back and laughed. “I’m so kidding, Big Larry always smashes his cup over his head and Marty never drinks anything.”

   “So it’s yours.”

   “Probably.”

   Maven makes a face purely for Thomas’s satisfaction. It draws another chuckle from the medic but quickly fades. 

   “I know I wasn’t supposed to help you. General Lerolan was clear on that.” He begins to fiddle with a ring Maven never noticed before on his right hand. It’s worn out and rusted but speckles of precious metal shines through. Thomas twists it around and around his ring finger, chewing on the inside of his lip. A nervous habit, like how Maven bites his fingernails. Suddenly, the prince feels a connection to Thomas.

   Maven studies Thomas’s face. His usual golden skin has dulled due to the lack of sun and increase in rain and clouds for the past few days. Strands of hair stick out in various directions, indicating more than one restless sleeps. Even his eyes, the bright forest green they once shone, are now a dark mossy hazel. He looks worn and Maven wonders if he was sent to help the healers with soldiers who’ve stumbled back to base with life threatening injuries. It happens more often than anyone would like but the Lakelanders are ruthless in battle.

   “He doesn’t need to know.” Maven finds himself saying, all while staring at the rhythmic twists of Thomas’s fingers. His eyes flit up to meet the other’s for a brief second. “Besides, I kind of owe you one.”

   Thomas pauses his twisting. “What do you mean? Wasn’t I the one who broke your nose?”

   “Yes, don’t think you’re completely off the hook for that yet. What I meant was, you didn’t insist on speaking with my….with the prince.”

   “Oh,” his eyes dart to the ground and his fingers start fumbling with the piece of jewelry again, “right. What was he doing here? Not that I care or should even ask.” He says the last part quickly.

   Now is the time Maven should come clean. Tell Thomas exactly who he is and who Cal is to him. Let him choose to either be terrified or intrigued, Maven couldn’t care less. 

   But a small voice in the pit of his gut tells him he would care.

   “For inspection.” Maven finally says. He’s glad he didn’t wearing his fire-making bracelets for the run. Technically, he’s supposed to keep them on at all times but, lately, they haven’t been of use. He figured it wouldn’t be a big deal if he left them off once. Relief floods his body yet a wave of guilt follows. “The prince came down here for inspection and I was to show him around. We’re...close friends.”

   Thomas nods slowly. “Is Mave your nickname then?”

   Cursing internally, he forces a wane smile. “Only for him, although I’d rather him not say it at all. Only my friends get to call me that without being strangled. I don’t do nicknames. Especially not one like Blue, either.”

   A laugh escapes the medic’s mouth. “I can tell. I’ll tell ya what. Since we’re both friends with GG, that technically makes you my friend. And since we’re friends, I’ll call you Mave.”

   Maven should be irritated or even angry now that another person calls him that insufferable name. But all he can hang onto is the word Thomas used. Friend. GG used that word too. It’s much too foreign for Maven’s liking since the only time he used it was to pass off an acquaintance as something more for political (or social) reasons. The more “friends” he makes, the more popular he’ll be in the long run. However, the way Thomas said it was enough to strike a chord in Maven, enough to make it mean something for the first time.

   “Don’t make it a casual thing. Once in a while, that’s all I’ll give you, Tommy.”

   “It’s Thomas.” He grins.

   “I thought we were on friend basis. You call me Mave so I’m allowed to call you Tommy.”

   “That wasn’t the agreement.”

   He’s playing with him. It’s almost enough to cause Maven to crack a smile. Almost.

   “I honestly didn’t think you’d do it.” General Lerolan sizes Maven up, one brown eye bulging out further than the other. The prince was told to meet him before training today to give a report on his lap progress.

   “It was difficult, sir.” Maven responds, his voice monotone. He’s learned from the few days he’s been here. Number one rule: don’t piss off the General.

   General Lerolan grunts. “Of course it was, I created the punishment. Now, join the others for ability training.” He lazily gestures to a group of Silver soldiers huddled on the far end of the training fields.

   “Sir?”

   “You heard me, Blue. Ability training. Time to see what your spoiled ass is truly made of.” This must be his least favorite way to train due to the scowl on his face and squinted eyes at a clipboard full of names and empty score brackets in his grubby hands. “Hope you’re at least as good as your brother.”

   He had to throw that last part in. Every inch of Maven’s rebellious side kicks in yet he manages to retain his composure. “I’m sure you’ll find I can outdo him in many ways.” He says through his teeth as he fakes a smile.

   General Lerolan squints up at him and snorts. “Whatever, kid. Go join the rest.”

    Kid. That’s a new one. If anyone spoke like that to him back home, they’d be facing punishment. This isn’t home, though, and it’s all Maven can do to not say anything and walk over to join the others.

   As he’s walking through the muddy fields, he spots another group of people, smaller and more huddled together. At first, they look like Red soldiers, which doesn’t make sense. Reds aren’t powerful like Silvers are. Then, Maven realizes, there are medic bags slung over shoulders or sitting by the feet of its owner. A tall boy with mesmerizing brown hair stands in the back, twisting a ring around his finger.

   Why.

   Maven continues briskly past them, keeping his eyes on the group of Silvers. If fate is real, it’s certainly going against Maven’s wishes for fun. Today is the first day he shows off his abilities to the camp, which means he’s got to impress the General as well as frighten everyone else. He needs to look powerful. It’s a bit difficult to do so when he doesn’t want Thomas to know who he is. He supposes this moment was to come no matter what, it proves hard to keep a secret like that, but the fact doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Maven’s flamemaker bracelets bump against his wrists, reminding him what’s to come when he tries to take his mind off of it.

   “Look...” 

   Maven turns his head. The nearest cluster of Silver soldiers stand six feet from him and are obviously trying to be inconspicuous. There are two short girls as well as a guy bigger than Cal. Unfortunately, it’s the guy who’s glancing at Maven. He can’t be older than 18 and no younger than 16, but, for a twelve-year-old, the age technicality doesn’t matter. Maven’s smart enough to know a fight he can’t win and whatever situation he finds himself in against this guy, he’d be slaughtered.

   Raising an eyebrow, Maven meets his eyes. The guy frowns and leans down to whisper to one of the girls, who flashes a look Maven's way before giggling.

   “Alright, soldiers! Line up!” General Lerolan breaks the unspoken tension and everyone except the Red medics scramble to line up between two red flags stationed parallel to one another. Maven’s sandwiched between the beefy dude and a girl not much shorter. Although he hasn’t fully hit his growth spurt yet, Maven feels downright small compared to them. General Lerolan continues, stopping right in front of the girl. “We’re ability training today, which basically means..show me what you’ve got! I don’t care if you cause an avalanche or burn every blade of grass on this field,” he glances at Maven for a split of a second then walks down the row, “I want you to give me your all. The only rules are don’t kill anyone and if anyone so much as moves a hair on my head, you’re next lesson will be how long you can last in battle against me.” He waggles his fingers in the air; a warning. “There are healers in case anyone absolutely needs them, but don’t get too hurt because all of our real healers are busy and don’t have time to listen to your whining.”

   A few of the Red healers shuffle in their spots at the word “real” but say nothing. Maven forces himself to keep his eyes on the General. He can feel a pair of eyes burning into his and he’s not sure he’ll be able to focus if he tries to see who it is.

   “Your enemies are whoever you choose, so long as they’re still up and fighting. Once a soldier is on the ground and unable to get up, you will leave them be. Is that understood?”

   A chorus of voices sound out. “Yes, sir!”

   General Lerolan nods, clicking his tongue and taking the clipboard out from his armpit and tapping the pencil hidden in the clip on the paper. “I’ll be taking notes and scoring each of you accordingly. There is a midline. Recieve a score under that and you don’t eat until you try again tomorrow. Get above that and your prize will depend on your number. Highest scorer has the honor of a full day off tomorrow with one benefit of their choosing, whatever it may be.” That stirs interest in everyone; bright eyes gleam with determination and stances flinch slightly in their excitement. Maven can’t help but feel a buzz of adrenaline as well. He could demand a better tent than the General’s, guaranteed food of his choice every day, or even the ability to visit home for a few days once in a while. 

   That’s when he makes the mistake of looking at Thomas. 

   He doesn’t seem to notice the silver bracelets circling Maven’s wrists yet, but he does look curiously at the prince, as if he’s trying to decode what’s going on in his head. When their eyes meet, Thomas gives a little nod with a tight-lipped smile. 

    Or I could ask for better treatment for Reds.

   Maven mentally slaps himself. What the hell is he thinking? Equality between Reds and Silvers. His mother would have a heart attack. But she’s not here. She could be in his head at any time, yet Maven’s strangely not worried about that.

   “You have five minutes to practice, position yourselves, or team up. I don’t care as long as I can still see you.”

   The line disperses and Maven’s left on his lonesome while the others all start talking to one another, forming alliances and teams. Now Maven’s starting to understand why making friends with Reds wasn’t a good decision. The guy from before teams up with the two shorter girls and the taller one. Unnervingly, they all look in Maven’s direction before jogging off.

   It’s official. Maven’s a target. He’s going to die.

   General Lerolan stands with his legs spread, arm crossed. He surveys the grounds, smirking once as he sees Maven by himself in the corner, then checks his wrist. Maven’s not sure there’s even a watch on there.

   “I lied, I gave you two minutes. Five seems too much when most of you will fall immediately.” He chuckles to himself. “You’re free to battle.”

   All hell broke loose.

Chapter Text

   Naturally, the smaller, weaker soldiers are picked off first, beginning with a young Laris boy not much older than Maven, who’s proved to have no handle over his abilities. A team comprised of two strongarms and a swift attack ruthlessly, swarming like predator on prey. The Laris boy cries out in pain. When the pack moves on hungrily, the poor kid is left whimpering over his legs, which have been snapped clean in half to ensure he won’t get back up.

   General Lerolan frowns at the scene, the only indication he’s upset by it. “Make sure injuries are ones that can be healed within a few weeks, we can’t waste too many fighting men,” he announces boredly. Gesturing towards the Laris boy, he points to two wide-eyed healers near the front of their group. “You two, over there.”

   Scampering across the field, the Red medics make it to the injured Silver with only a few glances their way and begin to bandage his legs. Maven can’t blame them for being skittish. The entire area is a field full of bloodthirsty Silvers desperate to let loose with their abilities; Reds would make magnificent targets if this weren’t a training exercise.

   Maven stands in the leftmost corner, palms open at the ready. Nobody has advanced towards him yet, which he takes as a good sign as well as a bad one. Perhaps being saved for last isn’t the best thing to feel prideful about.

   Amongst the chaos, despite the screams of terror and grunts of force, the prince hears nothing but the roar of adrenaline in his veins and the pounding of his heart. Stressful situations such as this are put upon soldiers for a reason; this is what a real battle looks like. Spurts of gleaming blood squirting onto the field, internal organs visible through deep tears through flesh, guttural yells of triumph and utter horror. General Lerolan knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s preparing his men for the reality of war, pushing them past their limits and testing who can handle it and who cannot.

    I can handle it.

   However, being mentally strong is not the only trait the general is looking for. In order to work his way to the top, Maven needs to prove himself brave as well as showing he can march his way forward to take what’s his. 

    A real soldier would prevail.

   Scouring his options, the prince zeroes in on greenwarden huddling close to her group who’s currently taking down an army of stoneskins, or at least trying to. The girl isn’t helping, maybe because she doesn’t know how or she isn’t comfortable yet with her abilities as her friends are. Whatever the case, she’s vulnerable, helpless without the aid of her team.

   Maven’s first target.

   Running a brief plan through his head, Maven advances. Mother’s first rule to performing a well-thought out plan: be quick. 

   “No enemy will wait for you to think, dear, they’ll simply strike you down,” she had taught him, “a skillful and intelligent warrior will always have a plan in mind, no matter how short the span of thinking was. It’s the trait of only the best, which is why I expect to see it in you, Maven.”

   As the prince gets closer to his target, the greenwarden circles her team, causing a flaw in his plan. He can’t take the course of action if she’s too far away for him to reach. Gritting his teeth, Maven side steps, meeting her halfway around the other side of the battle raging between them. When she nearly runs into him, she yelps, throwing her hands in the air. A pathetic coil of grass grows around his feet, stopping him only momentarily as he pauses to easily step out of it. She winces, probably both embarrassed and scared, however her fear grows as Maven finally allows his bracelets to spark, creating tendrils of orange and yellow flames that lick up to his elbows.

   He refuses to turn around toward the medic group or even search for a certain someone kneeling amongst the wounded. He doesn’t want to know what Thomas thinks of him and his lying tongue.

   The greenwarden girl backs away, attempting another failed hold on his ankles to make him trip. Instead, she trips on her own feet, collapsing onto a green patch of grass behind her. Maven takes the opportunity and aims a blast of fire toward her, the heat searing the girl’s face and singes her light brown hair. She yelps, earning a mouthful of dry air, which she chokes on along with a few dying embers. Hacking, she tries for a third time to attack him, wrapping the lusher grass around his wrists. To take off my bracelets. He realizes too late for his liking. Twisting his arms, Maven rips the ropes of grass as easily as Cal would a thick book much to the girl’s dismay. She awaits the blow, sporting large, green eyes; eyes that aren’t quite as mesmerizing as Thomas’s. 

   He bites back the urge to apologize for what he’s about to do. It’s a training exercise, it’s not like you’re killing her, idiot. Don’t be spineless. Yet he wavers for a split second. What if this happens on the battlefield and I can’t find it in myself to kill a Lakelander soldier? I’ll die immediately because I was too soft to burn an enemy. The rage fueled by these thoughts are what bring him to the edge. Drilling the girl with intense waves of heat, Maven downs his first soldier, wearing a mask of hunger as one should when winning a fight. Her screams are drowned by the sizzle of flesh.

   Pulling back before her wounds and trauma become unhealable, Maven lets his flames die. The greenwarden’s nose, cheeks and forehead are charred, nearly blackened. Maven finds no joy in the evaporating tears running down her face.

   Her friends seem to notice she went missing and their eyes land on her form lying on the ground, a ring of burned grass surrounding her. Unfortunately, their battle against the stoneskins was still happening and their distraction earns them failure. One after the other gets thrown down and soon the entire team is out of the exercise. Maven smartly moves on, knowing he won’t stand against stoneskins for long on his own, no matter how hot his flames may be. 

   Since he doesn’t retreat too far away, he notices a tall healer heading toward the fallen. His eyes are wide and they stare at the injured greenwarden in awe and horror. A pair of forest green eyes flit up to Maven’s and hold his blue ones, now covered in an icy glare.

   For once, Thomas does not smile.

   Guilt like never before wreaks havoc inside of the prince, threatening to take him down. He forces himself to avert his eyes to look for his next victim. Prevail, win, please. Do what it takes to survive. He supposes that includes betraying those you consider friends.

   As he searches the playing grounds, Maven spots bodies scattering the grass, many with healers tending to groups of up to ten at a time. A surprising number of soldiers are already out, leaving only the strongest and smartest. 

    When it comes down to intelligence and strength, what will triumph?  

   A memory of a particular First Friday comes to mind, when his mother predicted a match between a strongarm and a nymph against one another. “The nymph has great power, though only if he understands how to use it wisely. If he cannot maneuver around the strongarm and make smart decisions, he will automatically fail to the stronger’s brutal force,” she had surmised.

   “But couldn’t he simply drown her? It’s obvious what the course of action should be considering no human can breathe water,” the prince retorted, watching in interest as the nymph and the strongarm danced around one another to the tune of a roaring crowd.

   Elara Merandus laughed as though he were a silly child, which to her he was. “Watch.”

   The nymph tried just as Maven predicted, wrapping an impressive sphere of water around the strongarm’s head, encasing him in the unbreathable environment. Maven expected the match to end quickly after that. But his mother was right. The strongarm broke free by catching the nymph's shirt hem when he got too close. Gripping him tightly, she threw him with such force against the nearest wall, Maven winced as the crack of his nose echoed through the endless cheering.

   “Intelligence only wins if you know how to use it, be mindful of that. That is why only the strongest of mind can win despite being the weakest of the body.”

   Maven furrows his brows, returning to reality. He knows exactly what he needs to do. 

   The two full teams left are teams of four, one made up of swifts and silks, the other with the people eyeing him up previous to the battle. Neither looks inviting yet Maven knows he must prove his worth by attacking one of them. 

   Or both.

   Keeping a careful watch out for any lone fighters, Maven skirts around the edges of the field, drawing no attention to himself. Luckily, he only crosses paths with one other person, who happens to have hidden the entire time. Maven easily trips the guy and chars enough skin for it to be too painful to get back up. Afterwards, he delves into the background once more, guilt gnawing at him. Becoming one with the shadows is never difficult for the second born prince of Norta. The teams have now understood they’re the only groups with all of their members present and accounted for and now they square off, speed and agility against what appears to be strength and invisibility, courtesy of the girls who Maven recognizes as Haven twins. The fourth member of the latter team does not show off her ability as the others do, biding her time. A determined expression remains plastered on her face.

   As the prince assumed, the sides began to battle one another, whirling and attacking like cats and dogs, claws and teeth out at the ready. 

   General Lerolan yawns from his place on the sidelines, checking his nonexistent watch once again. Apparently, he hasn’t seen anything worth his time so far. Maven’s hatred for the man increases tenfold. Although he participated in hurting someone else, he wishes he hadn’t. General Lerolan differs from Maven in many ways but revelling in other people’s pain is the main way.

   The teams continue to fight it out until each only has two members left; the stoneskin guy and the mysterious girl versus a buff swift and a dainty silk. Maven’s plan falls into place almost too perfectly. He knows he predicted the mysterious girl’s ability correctly when she closes her eyes. A rather heavy chunk of Earth lifts from the ground, dirt crumbling off of it in waves. Opening her eyes, the cold grey of them blaze and the chunk barrels towards the swift and silk, nearly rolling them over. Without letting up, she hoists another one into the air to chuck at them, then another, and another. In no time, the swift and silk fall to the telky, who crosses her arms in victory.

   Then comes the tricky part; Maven’s time to make his move. Predicting the results of battle was his first step and he guessed well. Now is his time for action where, if he fails, he’ll never forget it.

   Trekking the outskirts of the field so he’s behind the winners without them noticing, Maven takes cover behind a pile of rubble, most likely made by a mishap with a greenwarden. Readying his flames, the prince inhales and exhales. I can do this.

   The stoneskin and the telky are within his reach from his hiding spot, merely a few feet away. They nod at one another as if telepathically congratulating each other. However, the telky curls her lips back in a malicious smile and her hand twitches at her side. The stoneskin understands last minute and is too late to duck. A loud whack sounds as he’s hit in the head by a sharp rock, specially placed where only the telky could find it in case of situations like this.

   “There’s only one winner,” she shrugs. She’s not apologizing.

   Maven’s second prediction was right again and pride blooms in his chest as well as a hint of anxiety as he prepares his fire.

    Now.

   The telky is alone and aware of only the few lone fighters amongst the fallen, meaning one thing; Maven has the advantage. Rolling out from behind the rubble, the prince launches himself at her while she’s turned away and places both hands on either side of her head. If there’s one way to stop a telky, it’s to force them to lose control over their ability. In other words, mess with their head. 

   Maven’s much too good at that in more ways than one though he doesn’t have time for words.

   She struggles under his grip, more surprised than anything. Anybody would be if a short, twelve year old boy comes up and grabs their head. Easing heat through his palms, Maven increases the temperature around her skull. At first, it should be a warm, tingling feeling, then begin to hurt. It’s a careful process not to explode her brain and it isn’t helping the way she’s thrashing about. Eventually, the heat becomes too much for her to bear and her central nervous system goes haywire. Confusedly, the telky loses control over her senses as well as her ability to process information. It’s a simple trick, basically just heat stroke amplified by ten. He pushes it a little further until she loses her balance and tumbles to the ground, passing out almost instantly.

    I’m sorry.

   The lone survivors, only a mere three left, shuffle on their feet when he glances up. They want to attack, Maven can sense it, but watching someone almost melt a brain sends warning signals in even the stupidest of minds. Allowing a trail of blue fire, Maven’s favorite, to weave around his forearm and settle on his shoulder, he sends a glare of authority out to the rest. He’s powerful and he wants everybody to know it. After taking down the supposed leader ability-wise, he’s taken her place. 

   He’s won, whether the others know it or not.

   Maven should’ve checked to make sure the telky was completely out before turning his back on her since the next thing he knew, a sharp pain erupts in the back of his head and he succumbs to the darkness.

   It isn’t often Maven dreams. As of the past few years, he’s gotten used to nothing but black space shrouding his mind. Unbothered by the lack of silly fantasies, he relaxes in his head, feeling as though he’s floating. If he could call it a dream, he would, since it’s the only place he can go to get peace and quiet.

   But something new happens. For the first time in a long time, Maven finds himself in the midst of war. Shadows dance around him, feeding off of the bursts of anxiety every scream and squelch of organs spike through him. They grin evilly and howl with glee as the prince runs, sprinting past body after body, each face becoming more recognizable than the last. The first he sees is the servant who posed as his caretaker for a few weeks when he was young and his mother was out of the country. He doesn’t remember much about her other than she introduced him to fun board games, including chess, which she pulled out of Cal’s room when he wasn’t looking. The last he heard of her was when she was executed as he looked on from his seat next to his family. He still doesn’t know what she did to deserve it but he certainly remembers being devastated. 

   The second face is more familiar. General Lerolan barks at him through bloody teeth. “You couldn’t do it, Blue. Gotta say, I thought you would be more like your brother, Kale.” Maven keeps going, refusing to acknowledge the head lying on the ground without a body.

   Another face, another harsh reality spoken through their lips. One after the other, they pass by; his father, Evangeline Samos with her nasty attitude and prideful personality, Gretchen, the telky with a sinister smile, Cal. Maven slows at Cal’s, eyes shining as he watches his brother retch on the ground then reach out to him.

   “Mave….save me…” when Maven tries to grab his hand, Cal pulls it away, laughing suddenly, “you actually thought I’d trust you? You’re worthless, not even capable of the throne or a real family. Colors, you ruin everything.” His bronze eyes blaze and his smile is blinding.

   Throat closing up, Maven realizes he can’t speak, so he runs away, eyes stinging. Lastly, he comes across the end of the trail he’s on where two people stand on either side of a glowing chest. Elara Merandus and Thomas stand opposite of one another, their heads tilted toward him in a welcoming manner.

   “You’ve made it,” his mother exclaims, giving him a warm smile; something he’s never seen before. It’s a motherly smile, one Maven’s always wanted yet never achieved. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be late. We can spend time together now, real time.” She gestures to the chest. He realizes her clothes are plain, not thought out. She looks timeless and happy. “Choose me.”

   Thomas grins that stupid grin of his. “Come on, Mavey, wouldn’t you rather spend your days with me? GG can be there too. We can run away from all of this, all of the war and the fighting. You don’t have to be the prince of Norta, you can be my prince.” An outstretched hand begs him to take it. “Choose me.”

   Looking at both of them, Maven blinks. For once in his life, he isn’t sure what to choose. Both sound tempting; a life spent alongside a loving and caring mother, one who will look upon him with pride, or a possible future free of responsibility and an endless supply of nearly everything he could want. 

   Thomas and his mother say the words again and again until they’re chanting them, begging him, pushing him, pleading with him to choose. Maven takes a step back. 

   “Choose me, Mavey.”

   “Come now, darling, I’m your mother, choose me.”

   “No,” his voice wavers, “I don’t want to.”

   “But you must,” they answer together in a deeper, scratchier voice, and suddenly, the prince falls into darkness. 

   Blinking wearily, Maven jolts, sitting up abruptly as though struck by lightning. Startled gasps come from healers and nearby patients. “I don’t want to,” he says again, testing his voice.

   “Well, you kind of have to, you could die of infection if I don’t stitch this up,” a voice to his right says. Thomas has one hand placed gingerly on Maven’s forearm while the other works on sticking a thin needle through his skin to patch up a deep cut etched into the muscle.

   It takes the prince a moment to gather his bearings. “Can’t a real healer do it?” He meant for it to come off as “I don’t want a scar” but Thomas takes it as a harsh remark. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he removes the needle, leaving the cut half-sewn up.

   “Of course, your highness , I figured I’d try and help. I apologize.”

   Maven winces. “Thomas-”

   “May I help you with something else or shall I fetch only the finest of house Skonos’s healers for you?” He won’t meet Maven’s eyes.

   Whispering, he stares at the Red medic. “I could kill you for that.” Doesn’t he know who he’s addressing? Why is he acting so rude if he knows Maven’s title?

   Thomas stands, clutching the thread and needle in one hand and grabbing a bloodied cloth with the other. “I know.” 

   The sound of his footsteps padding away is the most depressing noise Maven’s ever heard.

Chapter Text

   In summary, General Lerolan, for the first time, is proud of Maven. So much, in fact, he stops calling him that horrid nickname out of spite but out of pride.

   “Blue! See you healed just fine,” the stout man chuckles, slapping Maven on his wounded arm. The prince winces and grits his teeth tightly.

   A few Red medics in the tent glance over but know better than to say anything. Smartly, the area clears out in the next minute as if they all suddenly had important tasks to complete immediately. Maven eyes the last one who leaves, a young man scurrying out the tent entrance. He reminds Maven of Thomas and it takes everything to wrench his mind away from the subject.

   It’s only been a few days since Thomas attended to him and he hasn’t come near his cot since, avoiding him as though Maven were Death itself. Being the stubborn person he is, Maven’s refused to so much as look at the medic, enticing more unneeded tension. GG’s visited him once and the prince assumes she spoke with Thomas since she stopped coming around as well.

   “I’m still a bit sore,” Maven responds, carefully pulling back his arm portrayed as a stretch. “Is there somewhere I need to be?”

   Resting his hands on his hips, General Lerolan shakes his head. “Not at the moment, can’t I stop it to check on my favorite soldier?”

    Favorite soldier?

   Maven nearly snorts. He spent way too long attempting to impress, achieve, and make something of himself and all he had to do to gain attention was go through an intense, dangerous game of “Last Man Standing '' and nearly blow the brains out of a telkie. Simple. He internally rolls his eyes.

   “Right,” Maven stands, “if I’m obligated, I’d like to retire to my tent for now until dinner this evening.” Though it’s first light, he does not plan on speaking with anyone while the sun is still up.

   General Lerolan nods respectively, something Maven didn’t think it was possible for him to do. “Of course, take all the time you need, Blue, we’ll save an extra large plate for ya.”

   Completely out of character for him; it startles Maven greatly and he can’t help but stare incredulously at the man. The general finds this amusing and chortles.

   “I never thought I’d like you either but you’ve grown on me, kid.” Inhaling sharply through his nose, he snorts and nods. “If you keep up what you did a few days ago, maybe you’ll stay my favorite.” General Lerolan elbows him in a friendly manner. “Now, go rest up. You’ll need it for the next training session.”

   Maven’s too appalled to say anything in return. Instead, he parts his lips slightly and nods, walking out of the tent before he says anything stupid to ruin the reputation his mother cleverly molded for him.

   Fresh morning air hits him alongside a nice breeze. The weather is strangely beautiful today considering ever since Maven arrived at the front, it’s been muddy and disgusting outside. Now, a sunset consisting of bright shaded colors ignites the world in a fiery display of pinks and purples. It contrasts Maven’s mood, however, and he finds himself dragging his feet and becoming deep in thought on his way back to his quarters. 

   Soldiers run in and out of his view, scampering to their assigned places, while servants struggle to maintain their stations as orders are unfairly changed at the last minute and overwhelming duties pile their plates. Maven walks past a poor girl cowering beneath the gaze of a senior officer demanding she clean up the mess he just made after stupidly tripping over his own feet and dropping what he was carrying. The prince hardly glances up, not wanting to get involved, yet the idea of leaving her in that situation leaves an awful taste in his mouth.

    Since when have I cared?

   A reply comes to mind instantly. Thomas and GG.

   “Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself and reaches a hand up to run his fingers through messy black locks. He hasn’t had a chance to brush it since before the training game though it hasn’t been the first thing on his mind, which is odd. Appearance is everything in politics followed by intelligence and popularity.

   As soon as he’s able to see his tent, Maven notices unwelcome guests parading around the entrance. They’re identical boys, both peering curiously into his “room” as if there were an interesting game happening inside.

   “Hey,” he calls out, knitting his eyebrows together, “what do you think you’re doing?” He means to sound authoritative, though of course it’s interpreted as more of a startled yell coming from a stupid boy.

   The twins whip their heads to stare at him, brown eyes wide, then promptly scatter in different directions. 

   “Hey!” Maven rushes over to where they were moments ago and turns to peer in both directions. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of either. Copying them, he peers through the tent flap to make sure nothing is happening inside. After seeing nothing, he frowns and searches lamely for the twins again, already knowing he’ll find no trace.

   Whoever they are, they were hoping to find something and anxiety settles in his chest at the mere thought of those creeps finding anything personal.

    Report them.

   It makes him sound like a child tattling. However, he’d easily get away with telling General Lerolan and, considering how the twins are Red, they’d never bother him again. Instead, their heads would have identical expressions of horror as they sit at the bottom of a basket.

   Maven convinces himself to put it off as he retires to his tent. They’re children, no older than ten. I’ll give them this escape, the next one will be their last.

   Weak, Elara warns.

   Speaking of his mother, the letter still sits on his desktop. It beckons although Maven tries hard to walk past without acknowledging it. It’s gone untouched for nearly a week now and the fading anxiety returns with a vengeance. Of course, he could write back claiming he’d been busy for the past week though she’s too stubborn to understand. According to Elara, if your mother writes to you, you write back immediately even if you’re on the brink of death.

   Maven heaves a sigh and sits in front of the letter. A few beats pass as he stares at it. 

    Why am I afraid?

   Because you have something to hide.

   A fist squeezes his heart, milking him of blood and air. 

    Fuck.

   Ignoring the tremble in his fingers, Maven picks up the letter gingerly, ignoring the letter opener on his desk to pry his mother’s emblem off with his fingers. Reading her words is the hardest since every sentence replays in his head as though she’s speaking to him now. The message is written in her usual scrawl and unsigned; she expects him to know.

Maven,

I expect a letter containing your outstanding progress within the next few days of this letter’s arrival. General Lerolan has not given a report back to me yet so I assume he’s sending one with your reply. 

Remember, dear, you’re to achieve all that you can and more while at the front. You know exactly what I mean. Don’t forget to show those wretched Reds and insignificant Silvers who’s in charge and who you will grow up to be.

Don’t disappoint me. 

   She doesn’t bother to ask him how it’s been going or what trials he’s faced so far. Of course she wouldn’t, she doesn’t care as long as he’s progressing. The purpose of this letter wasn’t to check up on him, it was to remind him of his duties. 

    She must know I’m wavering. Typical.

   Maven grabs the nearest paper, dips a stray quill in ink, and hesitates before starting, writing in the cursive letters Lady Blonos forced him to memorize before he was moved to training with Cal. He hates that woman but her teaching style certainly works.

    Dear Mother

    Overthinking his decision already, he crumples the paper and tosses it to the side. Pulling out another parchment, he takes a deep breath. Don’t sound suspicious. Write as you usually would.

    Mother

    Not formal enough.

    Elara Merandus

    She’d murder him for referring to her by her full name. As she’s taught him before, it’s “Mother” not “Mom”, not “Elara”, never “Mommy” or “Momma”. “Mother” was the only name that fit in her mind so he constantly obliged, even as a toddler.

   Dear Mother

    It’s the exact same as his first attempt and he curses himself for overcomplicating things.

   Tasks are going well, as are duties. I’ve already excelled in battle

   He pauses. He didn’t win, which is what she wants to hear, he got second place. That telkie made sure of his loss and he grits his teeth at the thought. Discarding the paper, he grabs another, rewriting the initial greeting.

   General Lerolan has certainly given me difficult tasks over the past few weeks but I’ve excelled to the point of being addressed as I should. I’ve gained the respect I deserve from Reds and Silvers alike. 

   I greatly appreciate word from you and I look forward to your next letter.

    Rereading it, Maven drops his head in his hands, putting the quill in its ink. “She’s going to know,” he groans out loud. Elara Merandus is many things but she is not stupid, especially when it comes to her own son.

  Ripping the paper, the prince decides to write after some rest, perhaps a bit of sleep will benefit his thought process. Unfortunately, Maven lays on his cot for the next two hours, staring at the ceiling above him. A tight fist has closed around his chest, causing him to unconsciously ignore any feelings of drowsiness. 

   By the time he sits up out of pure frustration, the world outside is dark and the sound of soldiers plodding off to their nightly routines has faded. The prince runs a hand through his hair. It’s curlier now, the boyish curls his Mother hates. He no longer has accessibility to the tools to flatten his hair so he pushes past the thought without hesitation. 

   He’s certainly exhausted after recovering in a medical tent by his lonesome for the past few days. GG visited him once, even then she looked suspicious of him. She knows, I’m sure of it . A wave of guilt washes over him, then another. Then a third. Why he pretended to be anything less than what he is astounds him. Elara would degrade him for such behavior and, worst of all, his newfound friends discovered he’s exactly like every other Silver out there, no matter how hard he tried to convince them he’s not. 

   Maven rubs his eyes harshly and drags his fingers down his face. Since when did socializing become so difficult for him? Since when did he care about how other people felt, especially Red rats? He knows the answer, he’s admitted it to himself not even three hours ago. Thomas and GG. His first real friends. 

    Nothing more than the lowliest of creatures.

   Maven glances at his mother’s letter, which teases him from his desk. Without a thought, Maven swings his legs off of his cot, grabs his red and black decorated jacket and heads out into the night. He isn’t sure where he’s going, all he knows is he needs to be far away from that letter and far away from any thoughts of Thomas, GG, or the horribly disgusting situation he has found himself in. 

   It isn’t until he looks up a while later from the clumpy dirt and shadowed grass that he realizes he’s in front of the ammunition depot. Heaving a sigh, more of relief than anything, Maven lugs the large double doors open and closes them with a solid thunk. Last time he was in here, the only other time, he’d been in a lot of pain, silver blood dripping from his nose. Last time, Thomas was in here too, freaking out. Maven almost smiles at the memory. Almost.

   Near the back of the shed, Maven finds a decent spot to sit, on top of a rather comfortable box covered in a stack of blankets. He hadn’t noticed it the first time, but a hole in the ceiling shines into the depot. If he lays just beneath it, he can see the stars, even a bit of the moon. It’s peaceful. 

   Maven nearly falls asleep beneath the stars, his anxiety slowly drifting away, when the doors to the ammunition depot open with a loud clang and hushed whispering. The raven-haired prince startles and rolls off his makeshift bed onto a dirty floor. He hits his back on the wood and the air rushes out of his lungs. 

   “What are we going to do? General Lerolan has us by the necks.” GG. Maven sucks in a painful breath.

   A different voice appears, however, Maven is sure it’s two voices in one. Two people saying the same thing in eerie sync. “You two went soft. That’s not our problem.”

   “Of course it’s your problem.” Maven wants to leave. Thomas, GG, and two others are in the depot. “It’s all of our problem. I didn’t know Maven was…” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “...that powerful.” Maven wonders what he wants to say, what he held himself back from saying.

   “He's the prince of Norta. He’s the one we’re supposed to keep an eye on. We fail, we die. Maven finds out, we die.”

   “Then what are we supposed to do?”

   “Don’t let him find out. And don’t fail.”

   Silence. Then Thomas speaks up. “So we talk to him again.” There is a tremor in his voice. 

Anxiety. Is Thomas scared of him? “Be whatever he wants us to be. Friends, servants, enemies,” there is hesitation, “...whatever.”

   GG sighs. “Just until we’re in the clear. Lerolan is going to grant us what we asked for if we do this for him.”

   “Why can’t he just do it?” The identical voices ask.

   “Because he can’t watch Maven at all times. He needs eyes. Besides, I think keeping watch of him is easy compared to what we could be doing.” A silent understanding passes between the group. “We are in this together. Maven isn’t a bad person anyway, he’s just…raised differently. Let’s just do our job and we’ll be rewarded in turn.”

   There are shuffles as the group moves around a bit. With annoyance, Maven realizes they’re getting comfortable. 

   “Anyway, did you hear about Melody?”

   “The little girl with the red hair?”

   “Yeah. Apparently, she’s one of those newbloods. Has powers similar to the Haven house. I think they’re going to hang her.”

   They continue talking. But Maven isn’t listening. All he can do is lay there, not moving a muscle, and hoping they leave before they’ve discovered he’d heard everything.

   If there are gods, they are in his favor. After a seemingly long time to Maven, they wrap up their gossip and agree they should head back to their cots before anyone realizes they’re missing. A thud indicates the double doors have closed and the prince is alone.

   Alone with his thoughts and with an undeniable feeling of anger.