Joanna Hathaway

It’s for those who burn unflinchingly with a loyalty forced into their veins from their first breath, a dangerous allegiance that can’t be ended or surrendered, not even for all the world, not even for peace

I wait for him to say more—what, I don’t know—but I wait. There’s always something like desperation when I’m standing a foot from him. Like maybe he’ll finally say the thing I need to
hear and life will make sense. Like maybe I’ll finally feel like his son.

Like maybe he’ll just pull out a gun and shoot me and get it over with.

But all he says

I resist the urge to wave a white flag and run out again

She thinks I’m better than them. She’s always thought that, earned or not, and it’s as unfair as Father’s threat, an expectation I can’t ever live up to.

His silent face holds all the fury of hell

Did you know one of the rebel militia units in Karkev asked to shake his hand after they surrendered? They were that impressed by his fight. God, it’s almost mythological.”

Dance with me,” I say.

It’s one of those times when I surprise even myself

She laughs freely, too close, thin blue fabric against my arms. I can feel the heat from her, the gentle curves. Her skin’s the colour of sun-washed sand, a softly scented warmth that I feel through my uniform, through my own skin and muscle and bone. I feel it everywhere. And I wonder what she thinks of me. She can’t know the truth. She wouldn’t look at me like this if she did. And I like the way she’s looking.

He gives that resistance-ruining grin again, and the next thing I know I’m climbing onto the wing

Her laughter echoes in the silent woods. It’s a fun game, making her laugh. It always sounds like an accident, like she meant to keep it in but couldn’t resist the opportunity, and that makes me feel funnier than I am