Page 47 of Immortal Longings
Calla takes a bite of the noodles. “Because you’re intent on winning.”
Instead of sitting opposite her at the table, Anton has decided to lean against the sink. He glances over at her, faintly bemused. “Does anyone play with the intent of losing?”
“I’m sure some do.” She chews slowly. Despite all her talk, she wouldn’t put it past Anton to drop a shard of glass into the food just for the laugh. “If they only want the money gained in the Daqun. Or fame—get their name in the public eye and the reels tracking their every move.”
But indeed, most play for the grand prize. Almost every previous victor has taken their money and built a life away from San-Er: some in the nearer provinces, some farther out. They’ll take their family or their closest loved ones, fund the resources and manpower to construct a house that rivals the vacation homes of councilmembers. There may not be running water or electricity or internet beyond San-Er’s wall, but there is space and sun and quiet. So long as they have the money to acquire food in bulk, to build a well, to hire people that will cook and clean and work—it makes for a gloriously luxurious life, a far cry from the fates of regular villagers out in the provinces.
“What’s in it for you?” Anton asks suddenly, turning the question on her. “I’d assume you’re playing under a false identity. Why risk San-Er finding out about its lost murderer princess?”
Calla shoots him a cool look, stabbing at the food. She remains quiet for a prolonged moment, letting the apartment draw into silence. Anton hadn’t lied; there really is screaming coming from upstairs.
“Would you believe me if I said the greater good?” she finally replies. It’s asclose to the truth as she can get. Wanting King Kasa dead is personal, yes, but this kingdom begs for him to be removed from the throne. Talin begs for change, the council eradicated and everything set ablaze, and though Calla wants to light the match just to see Kasa burn, it would be the fire that the kingdom needs.
She won’t hear of anything else.
“I believe you,” Anton answers easily.
Calla pushes the bowl away. She’s not hungry anymore. She wonders how many of these instant food packets are distributed across San-Er at alarmingly low prices, and still, people cannot afford them. Still, dead bodies rot in the corner of large buildings, unfound for weeks at a time until the smell draws the rats and the rats draw the dogs and the barking dogs finally draw a palace guard.
“Do you believe in the greater good?” Calla asks. Saving one beloved and saving the living, breathing mass of a city—do these not feel the same?
Anton scoffs. “Definitely not.”
Some other victors do. They try to use their money to lift people from debts, pay off bills, build schools. It never lasts long. The twin cities are hectic, dense, fast. People who are out of debt fall back in again. New buildings consume themselves from the inside out, robbed left and right by employees taking relentlessly from the central funds. Calla doesn’t remember it, but there was one victor who used the money to hire an army in the provinces, recruiting underpaid soldiers and untrained farmers willing to play pretend as mercenaries. He tried storming San-Er, hoping to take the city under siege and rule by coup, but it failed so spectacularly that the tale was later told at a palace dinner party over champagne.
There are more members of San-Er’s palace guard than there are soldiers in every army across Talin’s provinces. When the rebel victor stormed San-Er’s wall with his mercenaries, they didn’t even break through. The palace guard had them down in minutes.
Calla reaches for a fruit bag on the counter. Anton makes no move to tell heroff for rummaging around his apartment without permission, so she pulls out a peach and bites down on it.
Even if they had made it past the wall, a coup was impossible. Who can fight a battle in a place like this? These cities are built for quick assassinations, not war. The greatest defense against an attack on San-Er’s regime is the cityscape itself.
“You are a pest,” Anton remarks lightly.
Calla offers him the peach. He doesn’t take it back, letting her have it. Again, her gaze wanders to the dusty shrine.
“May I ask,” she begins, taking another bite, “what you liked so much about Otta Avia?”
Anton freezes. It seems she has taken him by surprise, and a small part of her relishes in the shock that stills his face. Each time she sees him, he wears someone new. His eyes change shape and his nose changes length, his hair alters long and short, his height moves up and down. Yet no matter the body, his same set of expressions remains, and Calla wants to make a game of collecting them. She has seen smug. She has seen eerily calm, a feigned indifference. They are not enough. Anton Makusa is hiding a lifetime’s worth of deceit under his skin, and she wants to pick him apart, see what lies beneath. She wants to see his fullest contempt. She wants to see rage.
“August told you.” His voice is forcibly level.
“I recognized her,” she corrects. “We were in acquaintance.”
“What did August say?” Anton asks anyway.
She watches the edge of his mouth, watches him hold down the snarl that wants to curl up.
“That she was a sociopath”—his fists have clenched—“and a lying, manipulative bitch of a half sister.”
Anton cannot contain his glower. A rush like no other floods Calla’s veins.
“He wouldn’t dare—”
“No, you’re right,” Calla cuts in, examining her nails. “Those aren’t his words at all. Those are mine.”
Anton raises his hand. Calla lifts her chin, daring it to land. He’s not close enough to hit her, but maybe he’ll lunge in. Maybe he’ll snap. The scream upstairs stretches long, one split second sprawling and sprawling.
That’s when a siren blares loud, halting Anton before he can move and drawing Calla’s attention to the window with a snap. Her eyes widen. There is no mistaking that high-pitched whine. She has heard it only once before—utterly deafening and so piercing that it’s painful to the ear.
