Page 14 of The First Spark
Holy Mother Azura,Uncle Jerran. She wasn’t alone. Someone else had made it out.
Those women were right—he would never stand for this.
He would make Carik pay.
Kalie’s stomach rumbled loudly, and she clenched her teeth against the stabbing pang of hunger. If she stayed here, it wouldn’t be long until Azura granted her wish and reunited her with Ariah. The thought of going back to Dali, dealing with Mother and her games, facing the retribution Carik had in store for daring to support his rival… The idea was exhausting, and she didn’t have the strength left in her to fight.
It would be so much easier to stay. Let Uncle Jerran handle it.
But they were the only ones left.
Mother was his niece, but she wouldn’t mourn Aunt Calida.Selene would shed tears for the cameras then snicker behind closed doors. She hadn’t spent cycles curled up in Uncle Jerran’s armchair, listening to him read stories from the classics. She hadn’t sat next to him in the church pew every week during her childhood. Selene didn’t care about Uncle Jerran, and neither did Mother. He had no sons, no daughters, no grandchildren—only her.
Twisting her bangle, Kalie gazed towards the distant spaceport.
She couldn’t leave him alone.
She couldn’t face what was waiting for her, either, but for Uncle Jerran, she might as well try.
Taking slow,measured breaths, Kalie adjusted the strap of her new purse and slid into the chair of a virtual ticket console. She glanced over her shoulder. The crowds surging behind her paid her no mind. Trembling, she placed her palm on the metal counter. A holoboard fizzled to life, and she tapped the start key.
A list of spacelines, flight times, shuttle capacities, and prices appeared over the small holoprojector. Planets she’d never heard of were listed down the right column.Pallurahad a nice ring to it, even if it was in Sector Seven. The nameDragomirsent a shiver down her spine. Some wretched Fringe world in Sector Eight, no doubt.
Dali, Dali…
She gave up at the hundredth row and typed in the first two letters. Only two. There probably weren’t that many people searching for flights to Dali, not with smoke still rising from the Olympian stadium. She couldn’t risk sending up a flare for Carik’s men to find her.
The pool of results narrowed to fifty-three. She scrolled through them, and her chest tightened as cancelled flights spilled into the next day. And the next. And the three after that. Five days, six days, seven… Kalie’s heart sank. Absolutely nothing. No flights from Ravaris IV to Dali, not even standard routes with multiple stops. Judging by the list, the entire region of Sector Five had cut off travel to Dali.
Kalie slumped over the counter, resting her forehead on her arms.
She just couldn’t win.
She’d managed to get credits, at least. Scanning her own ID chip at an ATM would’ve sent up a flare for Carik’s legionnaires, but the chip scramblers in her bangle identified her as Ariah. In the Federation’s records, Ariah Rivers was her illegitimate second cousin—no one of interest to Carik. She’d found new clothes, bought an auburn wig, and scrubbed her face until her cheeks were nearly raw.
All that, and it didn’t matter.
Maybe it was for the best that there were no flights to Dali. The Interplanetary Spaceport Commission was in Carik’s pocket, and she shuddered at the thought of coming face-to-face with one of his legionnaires. Not after…
Shoving the memories down, Kalie raised her heavy eyes to the list of flights. She exhaled slowly, collected her bag, and rose to her feet.
Maybe she could give Pallura a chance. If everyone was convinced she was dead, fading deep into Sector Seven would be easy. It felt fitting to become a ghost. With Ariah’s credits, she could slip into the darkness and leave this mess behind. Uncle Jerran didn’t really need her, and she didn’twantthe throne. Mother and Selene could win this one—they’d already won anyway.
Drawn towards the sunlight seeping through the glass doors, Kalie nearly missed the little newsstand. She stopped a few feet away. Hardly anyone read in print anymore, but it was one of Uncle Jerran’s odd little eccentricities. He’d always loved the crosswords. The ache in her chest propelled her forward, and she slipped a thin sheaf of paper from the stack.
Her eyes caught on the central image, a black and white snapshot of a crowded marble hall, and her breath seized.
Oh, gods.
She sagged against the wall and slid down, down, down, until she collapsed to the floor.
Under the domed ceiling of Azura’s Cathedral, two royal coffins were bathed in light. The one on the left was tiny. Too tiny. Kalie’sthroat swelled shut, and she closed her eyes, trying to hold back tears. A cool bead streamed down her cheek. Then another. She pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes and swallowed rapidly. Holy Mother Azura, ithurt, but she couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Swiping at her eyes, Kalie forced herself to face the article. It was printed in Galstan. Words jumped out from the dense lines of text, screaming at her—Duchissa Calida Amador, Pool’s election rally, drone strike, Heredem Lexani, Empress Ashé Hannover, Heredem Selene, planned coronation…
Kalie’s stomach gave a violent heave. She nearly tossed the paper aside, but her eyes caught on a smaller image, printed in the article below the caskets.
Vaguely, she recognized the man as one of Marcus’s allies. With his fist raised in the air, the senator’s face was a snapshot of rage. Even in the still image, the crowd around his stage looked volatile, and in bold letters, the article shouted:
