Alouette narrows her eyes. "Should I?"

Harry chuckles and looks away. She's so dramatic, so intense—through her, life moves in black and white. He's either a liar or her father a bastard, he supposes—she's always had issues with grasping the infinite shades of grey that make up the world. It's likely why she took it so badly when he took the Revolution down—she liked him, maybe even loved him, and so decided he should be pure, like an angel, because how else could she rationalise liking him? If she truly saw him for who he was, how could she excuse herself for falling for him all the same? And, certainly, she'd say he's wrong. She'd say she knew every step of the way, and that may be true, but there's a difference between knowing and understanding, and while she knows what he's like, he's not sure she's ever understood it, not truly.

Her feelings are careless, her world is too sharp. She lives between extremes, balancing on those edges like a tightrope walker, never knowing when she'll fall to her death. He's either evil or at the luminous centre of her existence. Is there someplace for him to exist in the middle, away from her light, with just his feet dipped in shadow? He wonders. He should like it there, away from her stifling expectations and her desperate need to be on the good side. Would she be able to go on if she knew the truth—if she knew sometimes bad people have good reasons for their actions and some princes are hiding the sharpest teeth?

I don't think anybody is inherently evil, she told him once, yet she doesn't act like it. How many things did she have to dismiss just to justify her position at his side to herself? She doesn't think anybody is inherently evil, yet she does believe herself to be on the good side—no matter what she does. It stands to reason that if she believes extreme good exists, then the existence of extreme evil should follow, for one cannot exist without the other. He's personally never been one for extremes. His world stands in the middle, because things in real life hardly are one thing or the other. Some of his actions aren't commendable, and that is true. But some of hers aren't either. He's never thought her perfect, not once, though he knows she's certainly better than him. Better in a supposed scale between good and evil, that is. One could argue excessive niceness can be dangerous when it isn't shared by the ones around. Her naïvety will be the end of her—not because she doesn't know how the world works, but because she refuses to understand it. In her world of black and white, she ends up missing the point a good half of the time.

And so, how could he tell her about her father—the very person she's put at the lightest extreme of her goodness scale? He'll only push her away. She doesn't want to hear the truth, because it's something she will not like. She's not used to the type of decisions a leader, like him, like her father, like Larson, has to make. She doesn't know that being in a position of extreme power means your moral record isn't clean. How could you have got there and survived otherwise?

Alouette scoffs and crosses her legs. "I'm waiting."

He's been silent for too long. So eager she is to have her world unmade.

Harry looks at the window, and the white barrier stares back at him. He can't remember the last time he had the windows blocked—he doesn't know if he ever has, in truth. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the darkness, the absence of his city. He's lived alongside Northfair all his life. It's the only witness of his cruelty, his restlessness, his desperation. He doesn't quite know what to do, now. He supposes it should be oddly poetic that such a strike has come against his being on the same day the windows were blocked out. He's withering, so dependent he is on Northfair's light. That should be right. As he was made for the only objective to rule it, having him perish alongside it is rightful retribution.

He can't take his eyes away from the closed window. It's already the fourth time his gaze drifts to it during this conversation—as if he somehow expects to find the light of his city just beyond it.

"Don't make me waste time," Alouette's voice comes. It's hard, tense. She'd hardly ever talked to him with such edge before, but it's all she seems to do as of late. Harry muses over her frame, in front of him. She's dressed simply—she doesn't care anymore, and he supposes that should be right, too. Her foot is tapping on the marble floor. What could he tell her that she'd accept? Accepting his truth would mean radically changing her view of the world. She could never do that. Human beings are creatures of habit that reject every truth that causes dissonance within themselves.

And where would he even start, anyway? From his betrayal—from the things he had to do? From the sting of his father's hand on his cheek?

He looks at the blocked window again—it's white.

White, like that wall. He can't call it the start of his end, because that moment happened when he was born. If it isn't the start of his end, though, it certainly is the moment he signed his fate.

So unaware was he. So hopeful—the foolish type of hope only someone that has never lived can feel. That was when he learnt his lesson—his father wasn't a monster among men; he was a product of their society. It's impossible to live righteously in a society built upon destruction.

And so, back to the wall—that wall.

Harry leans his head back against the side of the warehouse and counts the lines scratched on the opposite white wall. His cheek smarts where his father hit him. He doesn't need to check to know it's red, soon to bruise, and hates it. He hates that he would do it, he hates that he did it in front of others. That's why he escaped into the side street as soon as he was sent him outside—away from the guards, where he can be alone and close his eyes and feel the cool wind of March against his face. His father takes him out into the city so rarely, already—he shouldn't have angered him. Now he never will again.

His face flushes with embarrassment when he rethinks of the way he shouted at him in front of everyone—and what for? What for...? It hardly matters. It isn't the thing itself, it's the accuse of inadequacy that lies beneath it. He becomes enraged at him because he's not enough, and that's all there is to it. He's never been enough—no matter how hard, how desperately he tries. He's starting to think that, maybe, the issue isn't what he does or doesn't do—it's just him. His father doesn't like him, and that's why he hates everything he does. He wants a child, but he's never wanted him, and so he's had to pay the price of his disappointment all his life. There's nothing he could do that his father would agree with. There's no one he could be.

That's the thing with moments like these. They make him wonder why he's even living—in a distant, logical way. Is there a purpose? Something he should look forward to? He isn't certain. Is he even allowed to think this way?

Another cold breeze brushes through the side street, and Harry shudders in his thin dress shirt. He's underdressed—just his white shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers. He's forgotten his jacket in the car. That's right. That's why his father got mad—his jacket. He thought it an embarrassment to be seen with his only son when he was dressed so unceremoniously—that's why he kicked him out of the warehouse. He wasn't dressed for the occasion. He hit him first, though, and it shocked him because he'd never done it in front of others before. Not that any of the guards cared, of course.

But Harry did, because it was humiliating. His father wouldn't do any of that if he didn't believe him so be so insufficient, so disappointing. By doing that, he's denounced his faults to the entire world. It stings, deep inside, but he drowns the feeling, because he isn't allowed to do this—to resent him, to be enraged at him. He should be grateful—he's almost at the top of the world. He's been given a life in the fanciest place in the country and an enviable education. Yet, he can't help but feel that he doesn't have a future. When he thinks ahead, he can't see his own part in the world. Does that make him ungrateful?

Alouette clears her throat, yet another sign to start. The truth is complex, and he can't share it with her—not entirely. That wouldn't be right. He doesn't want her to know. The simple thought of her finding out about his past disturbs him deep inside—not because of the thing itself, but because of what it means. He isn't that person anymore—helpless, terrified. That isn't him, and because it isn't he doesn't want her to know, because this is what this sort of thing does—it turns people into victims, and he doesn't want to be perceived as one. He refuses to. He's worked so hard to distance himself from his past, and he has no intention to go back to it. He swore to himself he never would.

I won't belong to anyone ever again—and that includes his past, too. It will only belong to him, because he's the only one that can shelter it and see it for what it truly was. Keeping the secret is his revenge—it is thrilling to claim ownership over something he's never owned in the first place. Back then, his father did whatever he pleased, people talked, Kiara cried. They all acted like his present belonged to them, like it was for them to discuss in hushed whispers. Claiming it back for himself is his own form of retribution. Now, after all these years, he's the only one that still holds it on his tongue, never to see the light of day again. That person is no more, and his history doesn't exist for anyone but him.

He leans forward and takes the glass of wine from the coffee table, still full. His side aches dully as he leans back against the couch and takes a long sip. He shouldn't—it could mess with the painkillers—but it holds so little consequence, in truth. "I was waiting for my father outside a warehouse," he says, without giving himself time to rethink it. Something inside his chest jolts. He wasn't ready to start just yet—he simply did. "I was alone."

Alouette's eyes widen—she didn't expect him to start either. She'd got used to the silence—he can't blame her. It's such a tempting thing to get used to. "What then?" She sounds like she's holding her breath. She may not know if she should trust him intellectually, but her body already does. Her instinct has always been perceptive—it's such a shame she tries her best to stifle it.

Harry's eyes meet hers from across the glass table. "Then he came."

He can still see him, with his grey-brown beard and round glasses and long dark green coat, walking towards him with the self-assurance only a passer-by could muster. But he was not passing by.

He stops a little distance away from him, just in the corner of his vision. "Hey," he says, and Harry ignores him, because why wouldn't he? He's a stranger in the street and Harry is his father's son. He must be mistaken. Yet he repeats, "Hey!"

Harry looks up with a frown.

"Yes, you," the man continues, taking a step towards him. Harry jolts back, and the man raises his hands. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you."

Harry narrows his eyes. He doesn't move as the man approaches, though he gets ready to bolt in case of danger. "What do you want?"

The man motions towards his face. "That's a nasty bruise you've got there. Got into a fight?"

Harry scoffs and looks away. "Mind your business."

The man chuckles. "Maybe I am." He leans against the opposite wall and cleans his glasses on his shirt. "Was that your father? A nasty piece of work, he is."

Harry jolts back, and his back hits the wall. Does he know? "Who are you?" he gasps out.

The man smiles, putting on his glasses again. "I'm Daniel Ivenhart," he says, "and you're the little prince of Northfair."

"I'm not a prince," Harry sneers, because it's so much easier than having to deal with the fact that this man knows who he is even though his father has kept his identity a secret. No one outside of the Palace would ever recognise him—no one, but him.

Ivenhart shrugs. "Call it what you want, but it really amounts to the same thing, don't you think?" When Harry doesn't reply, he cocks his head and stares at him. "Doesn't it bother you?" he asks. "Your dad, treating you like that? I bet it gets exhausting after a while."

"What do you want?" Harry bites out.

"You know, funny that you should ask. I've been thinking a lot of things lately." He pulls out a cigarette and protects it from the wind with a cupped hand as he lights it.

"Those things kill," Harry comments as he watches Ivenhart bring it to his mouth.

"Then I'll let it kill me," Ivenhart replied with yet another shrug. He breathes out smoke and nods towards him. "Don't you want to know what I've been thinking?"

"What did he want?" Alouette. The quick gasp in her voice, poorly hidden fear.

"What have you been thinking?" Harry forces himself to ask in turn.

"A deal." He's surprised by how daunting his voice sounds, echoing within his rooms. They've always been scarcely decorated, yet they've never felt quite as empty as they do now. In front of him, Alouette is still as a block of ice, pain and longing on her face, as if she doesn't want to know but can't make herself turn away.

Ivenhart smiles. "I've been thinking, what if something were to happen to your father? What would happen then?"

Harry frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it," he insists. "You're his only child."

Harry flinches, but he tries to hide it. Ivenhart pretends not to see.

"The way I see it, if your father were to disappear, you would be next in line to the throne of Northfair, little prince."

Harry balks. "What are you going on about?!"

Ivenhart laughs. "Come on. Don't tell me you've never thought about it before. It's funny, isn't it? He dislikes you so much, and yet you're set to take everything away from him. You're the future of this country, whether he likes it or not." He lets out a happy sigh. "And you will take everything from him. You will indeed."

"I'm not a murderer," Harry spits out, even though the words sound partly false. Partly—not people. Never people. He supposed he should be glad his father has decided to grant him this small mercy.

"You don't have to be. It isn't fashionable for a new ruler to stain his hands directly," Ivenhart replies. "You have something a lot of people want, little prince."

"Stop calling me that."

He shrugs. "Forgive me, I don't even know your name—my spies couldn't get that far, I fear. Should I call you Styles junior?"

Harry flinches. "Just talk," he lets out.

Ivenhart takes another drag from his cigarette and gives him an ironic stare. "As I was saying, you have something a lot of people want—you have access. That's all I want from you—get my men inside the upper floors of the Palace, and we'll take care of the rest."

"I'm not going to side with the Revolution," Harry hisses out, and Ivenhart claps his hands.

"Ha! So you know who I am, after all. I was starting to get worried for a minute there. Thankfully I wasn't wasting my time. It's been remarkably hard to track you down. It's like you don't exist."

"Haven't you heard me?" Harry snaps, "I said I'm not joining your stupid revolt."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. But take this." Ivenhart steps closer to him, and Harry inadvertently shifts away from him. He likes to think he's pretty tall for his age, but Ivenhart still towers over him. He slips a piece of paper into his hand. "In case you change your mind."

"I cannot contact you. My father will know."

Ivenhart gives him yet another shrug. "You're a smart young man. I'm sure you'll find a way." Harry makes to move back, but Ivenhart grabs his arm. "You make your own future," he tells him, fast and quietly. "If you need a way out, create one. I know you're understanding me."

Harry wrenches himself out of his grasp. "I don't know what you mean." He turns and walks back towards the car quickly.

When he dares to look back, Ivenhart is gone.

"And then?" Alouette asks. She's sounding faint.

Harry looks at the wine glass in his hands—it's still mostly full. "I said yes."

"Why?"

He gives her a light shrug. Why? That's an exceptional question. Because I was tired of my father. Because I wanted retribution. Because I wanted to see an empire fall. "I wanted what was mine," he says. Awful ends follow awful beginnings.

Alouette grabs the bottle and pours wine into her glass. She downs it in one quick gulp, then she fills it and drinks it dry again, steeling herself. "What next?"

Harry chuckles and looks away. What next? Everything is next. But how could he ever dare say it? "I did everything he told me to for months," he says, and that's all she needs to know. There's no need to tell her about the weapons smuggled, about the spying in his father's office that landed him with a broken arm when he got caught loitering around, or... or—

"And?" Alouette's sharp voice points true north, and he finds his way back through his thoughts.

"And then one of his spies was caught," he says. "I tried to contact him for weeks, but he'd disappeared and gone into hiding, like he always did when things got complicated. He never risked his own skin, have you ever noticed? It was always others that took the fall."

"That—" she starts, but she doesn't continue, because she doesn't know. She doesn't know who her father is or what he used to do, because he's never shown her. Because he knew he was wrong, he knew it was low, and didn't want to face her disappointment. It's peculiar that she should realise it now, Harry thinks. She'll probably refuse to—it's easier that way. Challenging the past means challenging the future, too.

"And then another got caught," Harry continues, "and still there was no word from him. He left like a coward." His hand clenches the armrest of the couch; his knuckles turn white. "Do you want to know what happened next?"

Alouette doesn't say a word, but she doesn't need to. He knows the answer already—she doesn't. She truly, truly doesn't. Yet, she can't stand to leave.

"Everyone got caught," he says. "His eight spies in the Palace—all of them." He looks away. He can't look at her in the face. "For a week, I tried all I could to contact him, but he ignored me. He let them take the fall, without even attempting to rescue them. My father suspected me, too." Something inside him jolts, like it did that decade ago. His memories of the past are fragmented, but that one he remembers perfectly. It's the only one he's never allowed himself to forget. This is your world and the people within it. This is your ideals vanishing.

"And?" Alouette breathes out. The tension and fear in her voice tell him she already knows the kind of thing he'll say.

His gaze is fixed on the window when he speaks. Its whiteness reminds him of the wall. "He made me kill them all to prove my loyalty to him." His breath quickens, but only for an instant. "And then he killed his secretary, too."

He's told her once before, on the roof of her Revolution. I tried to lead a revolt once. This is how reckless revolutions end—they don't fix anything, they simply lead to the reestablishment of the same order. There is no way out.

She gasps.

He lets out a cold laugh. "So, Alouette? Am I a liar?"

Her mouth opens, but before she says a word a ring breaks the silence. For an instant they sit there, staring at each other, shock on Alouette's face. Are you scared of the night sky yet, little bird?

Then, the ring echoes again.

Harry forces himself up ignoring the tightening of his body and walks to the other side of the room. He leans against the wall and presses the button. "What is it?"

Evie's voice sounds from the other side. "That boy they brought has waken up. He's asking questions."

Harry turns around. He doesn't even manage to meet Alouette's eyes before she stands and runs out of the room.

I hope you liked this chapter x
Miki