Page 1 of This Cruel Fate

Chapter One

City of Atalia, Ris. 1011 years into human rule.

The waving of the white flag didn’t signal the end of the war to Xolia so much as it heralded the start of her new life. What once seemed inescapable, a barrage of bodies against another, ceased, a brief respite between revolution and governing. Her battered body understood the implication of the Risian Congressional Party’s surrender before her brain did. It sent her running through the confused and decimated enemy soldiers and scrambling over leveled buildings as she searched for her mentor, Silas, so they could forge their new government together.

Xolia slipped on a body that was too covered in mud and blood to tell what color their uniform was and by extension, which side of the war they were on. Whether it was the slate blue of the Risian armed forces or the black of her own side, the ragtag rebellion of variants who had just fought for their freedom—a freedom won.

Summer heat rolled through the demolished ten block radius. Structures of some buildings near the outskirts of the war zone remained, while everything in the middle of the radius was rubble. It created a bowl of suffering, a clear line between where things still looked okay, and a place where nothing could be okay ever again.

Sweat dripped down Xolia’s mud-stained face. With a huff, she ripped out her broken earpiece, the one thing that was supposed to keep her in contact with other variant leaders. There was no telling now how the siege on the Presidential Palace was faring or where Silas was.

Another variant, a gaping wound on his right arm, met Xolia’s intense glare. “You,” she barked at him. “Where’s Silas?” Blood poured down his uniform while the tendons, muscles, and skin slowly knitted themselves back together.

“I… I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth. Variants healed at an accelerated rate compared to humans, but it wasn’t painless. The gashes ran deep, muscle and bone exposed to the blinding sun.

While Xolia could sympathize with his pain, they had known what was expected of them after the fighting ended. There was no time to let the country of Ris falter without a strong governing body to rule them. There was no time to waste in the battleground before another party or group would try to swoop in and make their claim to the highest seat of power in the country. “Find him.”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” he said, dipping his chin deferentially. He clutched his arm to his chest and stumbled off in the haze of smoke and bodies. Beyond him, and beyond the worst of the wreckage, a pristine white van rolled to a stop. It was labeled with Freedom for ALL Risians in black block letters, and a dozen other vans pulled in right behind the first.

Men and women rushed from the vans, carrying medical equipment and handcuffs. Xolia nodded. Everything was going exactly as planned. They all wore identical pure white uniforms. The newcomers’ dress contrasted starkly with the rough chaos of everyone else, but it was all by design. Silas’s design. He had told Xolia that Peter Bellevue, and his small fringe political party, needed to be unscathed by the war. It would be easier for FAR to cement their political authority if they took on the role of a helping hand rather than of the aggressors in the violent rebellion that Silas had started.

With practiced precision, FAR personnel erected white tents around the perimeter of the leveled cityscape, all bearing the four-pointed-star-and-halo flag of FAR. If Atlas had survived the onslaught, which he most likely had, he should be at the tents, rounding up variants and soldiers alike, getting them food and water. While she wouldn’t be upset if Atlas was a casualty of war, she had seen him at various points, a force of wind and fire against bullets. He rained water and flung earth around him in an impenetrable vortex, tearing into enemy lines. There was a reason she and Atlas were held in equal esteem under Silas, and it wasn’t because they were likely to die in battle.

Thoughts of other survivors pulled her mind away from her objective. Whether her friends had survived. Whether Adonis and his team had managed to secure the Presidential Palace as property of FAR.

A shock of red hair on the ground dashed all other thoughts from Xolia’s mind. Silas’s hair was red. Red like the fire he commanded. Dropping to her knees she gripped the corpse’s limp shoulders. It wasn’t Silas’s lifeless eyes staring at her. Though, they were the eyes of a comrade. Blood seeped from the twin wounds in his head and chest.

Xolia fought to keep the relief at bay and instead focused on how this was someone who had fought for freedom. Someone who would now never get to see it. Gently, she laid his head back on the ground, sliding two fingers over his eyelids. Her gloved hands were covered in blood, but she tried to clean his face as best as she could. It was the least she could do to give his body some dignity.

She was still crouched over the body when someone grabbed her shoulder. Without a thought, she clutched at the wrist, whipping herself around and standing up. The offending hand only belonged to Marshall, the scrawny boy who was one of her oldest friends and under her direct command. “You’re alive,” she remarked as she released him from her grasp.

“Were you expecting me not to be?” he asked, mouth askew with a small and forced smile. He embodied everything she knew of seventeen-year-old boys, and while he showed more restraint than she would’ve preferred with his powers, she was still relieved to see him. So much so that she pulled him in for a hug. He was stiff against her at first before wrapping his arms around her. “The worst of it is over now.”

“If I expected you to die, I wouldn’t have kept you around all these years,” she said, pulling away. Although she was only seventeen herself, there had never been any question about her position directly under Silas’s leadership. “Have you seen Silas? I don’t want to see Peter without him.”

Marshall squared his shoulders. Xolia tensed, he wasn’t going to have anything good to say. “People saw him heading toward the tents already,” he admitted.

“What?” Xolia took a step back, as if distancing herself from him would distance herself from his words. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

Xolia bit the inside of her cheek, considering. There had to be a reason Silas went to FAR leadership without her. “Let’s go to Peter.”

With Xolia leading a half step in front of Marshall, they made their way towards the beckoning white tents. Around them, variants nursed a multitude of garish wounds, all slowly knitting themselves back together. She ignored the haggard and bitter faces of the enemy, their wounds open and festering. All she could do now was forge her path ahead, hoping that Silas and Peter were waiting for her.

Armed guards stood at the entrance of the largest tent. They let Xolia inside, but she paused at the opening when they directed Marshall to one of the smaller tents, citing his lack of rank. Xolia gave him a nod to listen and stepped inside the sweltering tent. A dozen men and women stood around a rectangular folding table, their voices melding together. With the others all dressed in the simple white uniforms, Xolia felt self-conscious in her state of dress. She wiped her blood-covered gloves on her legs, but it did little to help.

Peter, the older man at the head of the table, snapped his head up, finding Xolia. He smiled, small wrinkles forming at the corners of his warm, brown eyes. He held his hand up to the group, and everyone fell silent around him. One by one, all the other pairs of eyes turned to Xolia. A new round of murmurs broke out amongst FAR’s leadership. Of the group, she only recognized a few of the faces. General DuBois, who’d left President Gornne to start fighting with them almost six months ago, and Treasurer Davenport, who’d been sympathetic to their cause from the beginning.

Xolia paused. None of this was right.

Peter walked around the table until there was barely any space between him and Xolia. Before this, they had never communicated directly, everything went through Silas. “Xolia, I’ve been eager to meet you. We have much to talk about.” While his tone was light, his posture was just as still and rigid as Xolia’s.

“Where’s Silas?” she found herself asking while looking surreptitiously around for any signs of suspicious movement.

“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” he whispered.

Xolia’s stomach dropped. Is he okay? “What happened?”

---