Chapter Text
Darrow
It has been a year since the Gala, nine months since the Lion’s Rain and my Triumph in Agea, six months since the Second Moon Lords Rebellion began, and three months since I last walked on Mars and felt her fertile soil beneath my feet. The Society is in chaos, torn by civil war. Gold kills Gold, while Grays and Obsidians are fed into the meat grinder of battle. Now dubbed the Solar War, it is the greatest conflict the system has ever known, far outshining the Conquering; and it is all by my hand. I smile.
My ‘father,’ Nero, sits on a throne-like chair at the head of the table in a smaller meeting room aboard the Invictus. Small only in comparison to his elaborate and flamboyant war room, it is still an intimate space, reserved for close allies and key leaders. I sit at his right hand. Further down the table, Lorn, Romulus, Agrippina, Victra, Fitchner, the Telamanuses, and a few others sit sombrely as a Logos drones on about the cost of our war effort. He speaks at the behest of Mustang, now Nero’s Quaestor, who sits across from me on his left, beautiful as ever, her cheeks still soft from pregnancy. She catches me staring. A faint smile curves her lips, and for a moment I feel her love, her warmth, her devotion.
The moment fades, tempered by the stark reality that we are at war. “That is all, Cybelus,” she says at last, her eyes returning to her datapad as the White bows deeply and withdraws. Around the table, the Golds relax, as though the man himself had been tension incarnate. No one likes to hear how much this war costs us, but they dislike the Core far more. The Core, now reduced to Mercury, Venus, and Luna, enjoyed early success after Roque and the Jackal’s betrayal at Deimos. But when the Dragon Armada arrived, one of three in the Rim, we slowly began driving them back.
Now the war is in full swing. We drift between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Luna is the prize, but Earth is the easier target. All we can wage is a war of attrition. The Rim’s ships are faster, my tactics aggressive, and our Martian fighters brutal; but the Sceptre Armada remains the greatest force the Society commands. The Martian Armada, drawn from the 6th Societal Fleet, Classis Libertas, and the remnants of the 5th Fleet, is joined by every Martian house and any sizable force from Ceres to Hildas Station in the Belt.
The 2nd Fleet, part of the Sceptre Armada, still holds its ground above Earth, but only barely. Its defence is strained on all fronts. Helium-3 grows scarce, bleeding the engines of both fleet and city shields. The Ash Lord has shifted his focus to the orbital space above his Grimmus strongholds of Africa, Europe, and parts of the Americas, leaving the rest of Earth exposed and vulnerable. Worse, the vassals of House Thorne whisper with unrest, their loyalty fraying as the war grinds on, in remembrance of the injustice allowed by the Sovereign at the Gala. Each thread pulled weakens the whole; soon Earth itself may be ripe for the picking. When that moment comes, it will not be banners and declarations that fall upon it, but an Iron Rain, and I will be the one to lead it.
Venus teeters on collapse. With Dido returned to the Core at her husband Romulus’s side, her birth house, House Saud, faces mounting threats to its rule from the Carthii, the Cerana, and a host of other Venusian houses. Their allies dwindle, and their grip on the planet slips away.
The Sword Armada locks with the Dust and Shadow Armadas of the Rim. Revus au Raa and the Moon Lords strike against Roque, who drives relentlessly for the Jovian moons, Ilium most of all.
And on every planet and moon, another war plays out. A silent one, deadlier for me than the fleets above. Fitchner has awakened every cell of the Sons of Ares in the Core, their mission simple: sabotage. In time, Octavia may look deeper. For now, the war consumes her. Perhaps she still believes it is Nero who wears the mask of Ares. If so, she knows nothing of her former friend. He would never aid or abet the lowColours, not even at the cost of his own life.
After a short discussion the meeting adjourns, and we rise, many departing to their ships. We may be an alliance, but trust is scarce. Mustang and I remain on the Augustan flagship, awaiting dinner with Nero.
***
We wait in a spacious room two levels below the meeting hall. It is tastefully appointed, stripped of the ostentation that marks much of the ship. From her place on the lounge sofa, Mustang reads The Path to the Vale, a curious collection of esoteric meditations I received from an unknown operative in the Rim. Slipped to Theodora by one of Romulus’ Pinks, I have yet to decide whether it is a warning or an overture of ally-ship.
“You still don’t approve?” Mustang muses, turning a tattered page with a sly smile tugging at her lips.
I glance at her and huff in mild frustration.
“It’s not that,” I reply. “I worry about its origin, and who sent it. Now, more than ever, I have a lot to lose. You, Pax, this life, our life…”
My words trail off as she closes the book and looks at me with unreadable eyes. She rises and crosses the room, placing a soft hand against my cheek.
“It’s not this that worries you,” she says, pausing. “It’s Roque.”
“And the Jackal,” I murmur.
“And the Jackal,” she echoes, a grimace twisting her lips. “Darrow, they do not know the truth. They cannot.”
I search her eyes, golden pools rich with conviction, and sigh.
“Why did he betray me? Why did both of them? And for what? The Sovereign’s favour, so he can cosy up to Quinn’s killer? By the Vale, they tried to have us killed at my Triumph!”
“I know, husband,” she says, caressing my cheek lovingly. I smile, still not used to that word on her lips.
“But all strings have been cut; Sevro made sure of that.”
While I recovered from the Lion’s Rain, Evey reached out to Ares and told him of Harmony’s erratic behaviour ever since she found out he was a Gold. Even though we did not know what she might do, we would not be safe if she was left with a free rein, so he sent Sevro to ‘fix’ the problem.
“You lost Roque on Luna,” she says, almost accusingly. Then, with a smile to ease the sting, she adds, “I told you to fix it, but the Reaper of Mars has no time for feelings.”
“As for Adrius, he was always so desperate for Father’s approval. He craved it like a Gray with a Zoladone addiction. So when he pushed you to be Father’s heir, it was probably just a ploy. You know him and his schemes.”
“But what if—” I begin, but a knock at the door stops me.
It opens and Niobe walks in, Pax cradled in her arms. She greets us warmly and hands Pax over to Mustang. His golden eyes twinkle as he gurgles with delight when I wag a playful finger before him. Whatever trace of Red he might have inherited from me, Mickey scoured away before birth. It was so slight he nearly missed it, but for his safety, I’m glad he did not.
“Time to supper,” I say, and together we leave the room and my fears behind.
***
In the great room of the Invictus, Nero, the rest of the Telamanuses, and Nero’s only surviving niece sit gathered around a vast mahogany banquet table. In a rare show of emotion, Nero smiles, most likely because of Pax, as he motions for us to join them. I take my seat at the other end of the table, Mustang at my side.
“How is my grandson?” he asks.
“The little lion cub is healthy and strong!” Niobe beams before I can answer, and Kavax laughs, turning to his wife.
“Little cub indeed! The boy will be a strong Peerless, just like his father,” he booms, winking at me.
I smile, though weakly, remembering my conversation with Mustang. The Telamanuses, like her, know that I am a Red. They took it well, caring little for bloodlines, only that Mustang was happy. Even cut off from Lykos and my family, these giant foxes keep the hearth of kinship alive in my heart.
Dinner begins, and slowly I feel my panic fade. I laugh, I eat, I drink. My eyes drift to the far end of the table where Nero sits engrossed in conversation with Thraxa. His third wife, now dead, betrayed him at the Triumph, and perhaps that loss and betrayal has made him value this little fellowship of ours. We do not dine together every day, but on the rare occasions we do, I glimpse a side of him I never thought existed.
Still, when I look at him, I remember Eo singing her song, Persephone’s song, how he listened dispassionately, and how, with only the flick of a wrist, he sentenced her to die.
A hand on mine draws me from the memory. It is my wife, his daughter, and I smile. For all the pain and hurt I carry, Virginia, Lionheart, Mustang, is there to fill the void.