Iris froze.
She was aware of only three things.
The high-pitched whine of bullets.
The way the soldiers in the lineup jerked and fell forward, crumpling face down on the bloody cobblestones.
And the way Roman stood and breathed, untouched by the gunfire. How he looked at her.
His eyes were wide, frantic. They burned with horror as he waited to see the blood bloom across her shirt and spill down her chest. For her to collapse with the others.
But Iris remained standing. Her lungs continued to fill with air; her heart continued to pump furiously within her.
She turned to stare at the man who had been prepared to shoot Roman. His face was concealed by a mask, and he still held the rifle, pointing it at her. But he had never shot.
“Get out of the way, miss!” he shouted.
“Put the gun down,” she said. Her legs were shaking from the run; sweat trickled through her hair. She was so relieved she had made it in time that she had to swallow down the acid in her throat. “You are about to shoot an innocent man.”
“These soldiers are not innocent.”
“I have proof.” Iris held up the letter. “Roman Kitt is the only reason why so many of Enva’s forces survived. He was secretly giving away Dacre’s plans and movements for weeks now. If not for him, none of us would be standing here, breathing, so I will tell you one more time. You have committed a terrible war crime by shooting these soldiers without a trial. And you need to lower your gun.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, weighed by shock. A tall man in a mask stepped forward to meet her. Only then was the last rifle lowered, and she sensed he must be important in some way to the Graveyard. Perhaps their leader.
He extended a gloved hand. Two flowers were pinned to his dark jacket—a white and red anemone. They struck a strange contrast with his arrogance, and Iris gritted her teeth. But she gave him the letter.
She watched as his eyes sped over the lines. When he was done reading, he met her gaze. He took in her ichor-stained clothes, which she was now very thankful for. The scratches on her face, the stray thorns in her hair. The bruises on her arms and the nail marks on her neck. All testaments of her journey below.
“Part of what she claims is true,” the man said to the crowd. “This letter is a warning about the Hawk Shire attack. Although I require more proof. How do I know the enigma of R. is this man? How do I know you didn’t type up this letter yourself to save him?”
Iris’s skin flushed with ire. She was opening her mouth to reply, but another voice beat her to the moment.
“I can speak on her behalf.”
The crowd parted to reveal Keegan. The stars pinned on her uniform shone in the fading light, and her face was stern. Her voice was powerful, and her stance was one that didn’t threaten but commanded respect. She carried no gun and held up her hands when the Graveyard swung their rifles toward her.
“I am unarmed,” she called. “I want a peaceful discussion, as do the soldiers in my brigade, some of whom call Oath home and are your fellow citizens who have been fighting in this war for months. People who have bled and gone hungry and have given up time with their families. They deserve to have a say in what happens to their home in the coming days, as well as to lend their voices to what happens to the soldiers who fought for Dacre, who—given the laws of the realm and the mere decency of humankind—should be taken as prisoners and treated humanely. So do as Iris Winnow politely asked of you. Lower your guns and let us engage in an intellectual, democratic discussion about what is moral as it is just, and how we are to move forward to begin healing from this.”
The Graveyard leader was displeased, but he handed the letter back to Iris before motioning for his followers to drop their weapons. As Enva’s soldiers moved forward through the crowd, breaking up the executions, Iris hurried to Roman.
He was on his knees, gasping.
She knelt before him, touching his pale face with her hand. He felt so cold, like he was carved from marble. Fear struck her heart when she saw the bloodstains on his sleeves, the wounds on his wrists. She didn’t know what had happened since the last time she had seen him, but she sensed that his story would tear through her like rusted steel.
“You’re safe, Kitt,” she whispered, drawing him into her embrace. She wanted to weep, feeling how he shook and wheezed for air. She caressed his hair. “You’re safe with me.”
He pressed his face to her neck. When he wept, she felt empty of words, like they had been scraped clean from her bones. There were only her hands, her arms, and her mouth, pressed to his hair.
And she wept with him.
If Roman was being honest, he didn’t remember much after that moment when Iris had come between him and death. The hours that followed were strange ones, slipping by like he was in a fever. He felt lost in a swirl of storm clouds and smoke, and while he could hear and see, he couldn’t take those moments into his memory.
But when he fully came to again, he found himself lying in a hospital bed, an intravenous needle in his hand.
He stared up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet bustle of nurses and doctors, the click of wheels, a whimper from two beds down. He was afraid to fully acknowledge where he was until a svelte older woman with short gray hair and brown eyes stopped at his bedside.
“How are we feeling, Mr. Kitt?”
“I’m not Mr. Kitt,” Roman ground out. But then he realized how rude he sounded, and he sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” the doctor said with a hint of a sad smile. “Do you want to tell me the history of your symptoms, starting when they began?”
Roman hesitated, his chest tightening when he remembered Avalon Bluff. But he let his hands relax at his sides, realizing that he was safe here. And he needed to open those old scars so they could heal.
He told the doctor everything. How long he had been feeling his symptoms, and what made them worse. How he had breathed in the gas at Avalon Bluff.
The doctor listened and recorded it all down on her clipboard, but then she placed her stethoscope on his bare chest and asked him to breathe. Roman did as she requested, anxious to look at her face. When she drew back, her expression was inscrutable, but there was a hint of sorrow in her voice.
“I would like to take an X-ray of your chest,” she began, “but I can tell you what I believe it is, due to the dozens of patients I’ve already seen and treated today for conditions identical to yours.”
“Tell me honestly, Doctor,” Roman said.
“Your lungs have scar tissue, which was created by the gas you were exposed to. The scarring makes it difficult for you to breathe, as you described, and it has also created stress on your heart. There’s no surgery or medicine that will fully treat this condition, but there are things you can do to help ease your symptoms when they worsen. Most of all, you will need to make adjustments in the days ahead, to ensure you are taking care of both your lungs and heart. Otherwise, this condition can be fatal, leading to cardiac arrest or making you susceptible to consumption.”
Roman was silent.
“Do you have any other questions?” she asked gently. “If not, I’ll send one of the nurses over to start your first breathing treatment and to administer some medicine.”
“Yes,” Roman said as he stared into the distance, at the white walls and faint blue curtains, dividing patients from each other. “When can I leave?”
“When you’ve been cleared, both by me and by the new chancellor.”
“The new chancellor?”
“Yes. She’s requested that all of Dacre’s soldiers be held either in the prison, or in the hospital if they need medical attention.”
Roman swallowed his panic. “I’m not a soldier.”
“I know.” The doctor squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t let this worry you. Focus on your recovery, so that I can discharge you soon. Your family is also keen to see you. We can’t admit visitors due to the circumstances, but your mum and Iris are both thinking of you and are eager to have you back.”
The doctor moved on to the next patient.
But Roman’s heart quickened, pounding until his breath wheezed. He wanted to go home; he wanted to be with Iris. And yet how long would he be here, cloistered in the hospital?
Chilled, he laid his palm over his breast. Over the hollow ache of his heart.
It was noon and humid, like summer had devoured the last weeks of spring. Iris paused to wipe the sweat from her face. The muscles in her arms and back were sore from all the hours she had spent moving rubble aside, but she wouldn’t stop. Not until they had recovered all the people who had died and were still buried beneath stone and brick. Not until they had rescued all the survivors, although as the days continued to progress, the chance of finding people still alive was greatly diminished.
Iris didn’t dwell on this fact, though, for one simple reason. It had been three days since the bombing, and she still hadn’t found Forest.
He’s fine, she thought as she pushed herself to work harder, scraping through piles of crushed rock until her fingernails broke.
But it wasn’t just the fact that her brother hadn’t appeared yet. Two days ago, the hospital had refused to let her visit Roman. The last time she had seen him, he had been lying on a gurney, surrounded by nurses who were rushing him into the infirmary. She had held his hand until she was forced to relinquish him, uncertain whether he had felt her touch or heard her voice.
Iris raked her fingers through her damp hair. She let her anger fuel her as she continued carrying bricks and twisted pipes and broken window frames to the wagon bed. Again and again, until Helena brought a canteen of water.
“You need to take a break, kid,” she said, looking Iris over with a worried gleam in her eyes. “Why don’t you collect names for a little while?”
Iris drank the water. She wiped her mouth and said, “No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”
She left Helena gazing after her, and worked for another hour. Then another. Any time someone called for assistance, she lunged to join them, wondering if they had located Forest and Sarah, trapped beneath the debris, waiting to be drawn up to freedom.
Whenever a body was found, it was gently carried to an appointed spot in the street, to be identified. Helena would record the names of the deceased to print in the next day’s paper, for while many buildings in downtown had been demolished, both the Tribune and the print factory had survived. And the paper was the best way to circulate news as Oath sought to find balance again. The city was struggling for many things it had taken for granted, like electricity and clean water, hot meals, and making sure the hospitals had everything they needed to treat the wounded.
The Inkridden Tribune was helping people who had been separated find each other. Or at the very worst, have closure for their losses.
Dusk had fallen when Iris chose to finish the day on a southern street she had never seen before. It had been badly bombed; only a few of the houses were still standing. She was carefully picking through the rubble when she heard one of the men, farther down the street, shout for assistance.
Iris couldn’t explain why it chilled her. Why her dust-streaked hands, raw and scored with a hundred scratches, began to quiver.
But she ran to where the man was kneeling on a small hill of debris. She was careful as she knelt beside him, peering down at what he had found.
It was Forest and Sarah.
Iris stared at them as if they were strangers, unable to fathom what she was seeing. Her brother, bruised almost beyond recognition. He had shielded Sarah with his body, but it hadn’t been enough. The heap of rubble had killed them both, hands entwined.
They would never breathe again. They would never laugh and argue and grow old together.
Little Flower.
Iris turned away and slid down the pile.
She took two steps and then fell to her knees.
It felt like she was drowning. Like she was swallowing mouthfuls of water, and everything was burning. She gasped before she doubled over, holding her hands to her sides because if she didn’t, her ribs would splinter.
Iris was vaguely aware of the people around her, holding her up. Helping her stand. Helena and Attie and Tobias, coming into focus.
But in her mind, she was far away.
She was broken by what could have been. By what now would never be.
