Rain is pattering on the window wall by Alouette's side. The glass is cold, digging into her side, only shielded by the thin shirt she was wearing when the Revolution was attacked. In the distance, the lights of the faraway buildings flicker on and off intermittently as people go about their day, unaware of her terrible loss. Her father's words from a lifetime ago come back to her mind, but they sound so mocking that nausea comes over her.

Where there's light, there's life, and you'll never be alone.

Alouette has never felt so lonely before. To be alone in a group is worse than to be alone by yourself—it's the realisation that you don't matter. People don't care about your suffering unless they have a reason to. She's lost everything—they've lost everything—but life goes on in Northfair, either blissfully unaware or singing the Palace's praises. Is this truly the world her father lost everything to protect?

Had Daniel Ivenhart lost his mind? Was he too lost in his idealistic yet chimeric vision of the world to realise there was no hope for any of them?

Was Ezra right all along?

Alouette closes her eyes, hiding her face against her raised knees.

What have you done?

The question echoes in her mind, again and again and again. This is her fault. She brought a wolf among sheep; how could she ever think anything different would happen? People died, and it's all her fault. She thought she could play the game like everyone else around her, but she was so wrong. She should've never taken him to the Revolution. She should've never pushed for them to work together. She should've never hoped to use him.

She should've killed him when she had the chance.

How could she let him blindside her like this? She knew better than that—she knew exactly who he was every step of the way, and still she foolishly thought she could control him. As if he'd ever let himself be controlled.

He was never on her side. He stuck around out of convenience, because she made it so easy. And she knew, she knew, she knew. She's always known, even before they spoke their first words to each other. Even after. He's never made a secret of it.

Don't tell me you'd idolised me, Lark. So naïve, don't you know you'll only set yourself up for disappointment that way?

"Shit," she mutters, pressing her hands to her eyes to keep her tears from falling. She'd puke, if only she hadn't already done it three times since she was shoved in her room. She doesn't know how long it's been. Northfair has been drenched in rain since the night she arrived.

She can hardly breathe. She'd never thought he could betray her like this. She'd always unconsciously believed this type of betrayal was beyond him—that not even he could be this ruthless, this deranged. She was wrong, and everyone at home paid for it. Only because she thought of it like a game, only because she thought there would be a way out. There was no way out—there's never been. She made her choice when she decided not to press the trigger in front of the Palace last summer, and her debt has been rising since then. Saving the life of the most influential person in the country comes to no small cost, and the interest rate is just as unforgiving.

Funny how one wrong choice can send it all toppling down. How her decisions bring to more decisions, that ultimately can bring to disaster. How could she ever think the Palace and the Revolution could work together? No—how could she believe an Ivenhart and a Styles could create something new, together? Their legacy was screaming it in her face all this time—nothing but ruin awaited them. They're hardwired to annihilate each other. They cannot coexist.

The door opens.

Brooks leans against the frame, staring at her with curious blue eyes. It's not the first time she sees him—it is the first time she doesn't throw her cutlery at him in the moment he comes in the room. "Shower and get dressed, you're required somewhere."

"Fuck off."

He rolls his eyes and takes a single step forward. He's still way out of her reach, which is a surprisingly clever move on his part. Not that she'd hurt him. He's not the one she wants to get her hands on. "You stink."

Her head snaps up at him. Her fingers tighten around the fork hidden between her body and the window.

"Shower and get dressed, or I'm dragging you out of this room as you are." He looks her up and down. "You look like a cat that has fallen in the toilet and dried itself up wrong." He raises his hands in defence when she glares at him. "I'll be back in an hour. You'd better look decent by then."

He leaves the room. Alouette releases her grip on the fork, and it clatters to the ground. She doesn't want to stand up. She doesn't want to do anything but stay cuddled up in this spot on the floor forever, thinking about how stupid she's been. Harry must've had such a fun time playing with her—she made it so easy. She's been walking the path he set out for her all this time.

Haven't they all?

She gets up and enters the bathroom. She turns on the shower and steps under the water, but it's already annoyingly warm. She takes off her wet clothes and throws them on the floor.

What now?

Alouette leans her forehead against the wall. She feels so lost. The fire of revenge burns deep inside her, but it's such a futile feeling. She can't win against him—she knows that, now. It isn't because he's more clever than she is, or because he has more resources than she does. It's in their souls, and now she's truly starting to believe he doesn't have one.

She could've never done to him what he's done to her. This is what sets them apart. He has no boundary. He'll never stop digging deeper and deeper. He'll destroy the world before he lets it destroy him.

What can you even do, now?

Alouette clenches her teeth and forces her brain to take control of her body. She rubs shampoo into her hair and soap over every curve and plane of her body, until the scent of freesia is strong enough to focus her attention elsewhere and banish her thoughts to the back of her mind.

She has to survive, first. She has to get her sister and get away, far enough that he'll never find them. Then, and only then, she'll think about what comes next. Discover which parts of her are broken beyond repair and how much she's willing to give up for the sake of revenge. If she wants to get revenge, at all. Her heart is so wounded that, maybe, she'd be okay hiding in some forgotten corner of the world for the rest of her life. Away from everything. Away from pain. Knowing when to give up isn't cowardice. Sometimes, it's self-preservation.

Alouette doesn't know if she wants to give up just yet, but the thought feels tempting. How many times can a flightless bird crash to the ground before realising it was never meant to leave it?

She steps out of the shower and dries her hair with a mixture of warm air from the hairdryer and towel rubs. Without looking at herself in the mirror, she goes back to the bedroom and opens her wardrobe. It's sick and twisted, she thinks, that he would send her back to her room. Like nothing happened, like the destruction he wrought on her home was inconsequential. She would've preferred to be locked in a cell.

Her suits wink at her from within her closet. She lets out a scream and rips them off their hangers, throws them to the ground. Stomps on them. Not satisfied, she grabs them and walks to the window. She tries to open it, but it's locked. She storms to the bathroom and tries the small window in the corner. This one is too small for anyone to get through, just a little beacon of highlighter-bright light into an otherwise dim room. It opens effortlessly, and she shoves the suits through the hole. They flutter in the thunderstorm for a moment before falling.

She goes back to the bedroom and takes the clothes she came to the Palace with weeks ago, the ones from the Revolution—a sweater and trousers, a pair of shoes. This little act of insubordination is all she has left.

She's back to sitting in her corner of the floor when the door opens again.

Brooks crosses his arms, staring down at her in silence for a long moment, as if he's deciding whether to complain about her attire or not. In the end, he rolls his eyes and says, "Get up. You're requested somewhere."

Alouette doesn't move. "Where?"

"Somewhere."

She pushes herself off the floor and walks up to him. When she's close enough, he tilts his head, looking at her curiously, like there's something about her that doesn't quite make sense to him. "What?" she hisses through her teeth. She has no patience for Palace guards pitying her.

Brooks shakes his head, and his hand closes around her arm. "Don't do anything dumb. It's not worth it," he says in a quiet murmur. Then he's dragging her out of the room, where they're flanked by Jayden. He's wearing his black uniform, and can't even look at her in the eyes.

Don't get killed.

Poison spreads through Alouette's veins. She should've known better.

Do you trust me, with my title, with my role, with hundreds of thousands of people at my disposal?

A shudder shakes her body. Jayden's hand stops an inch away from her arm. He clenches it in a fist and shoves it behind his back, as if he can't bear to touch her. She's glad he doesn't.

The corridors are unusually quiet, like they've been purposely emptied of people. Alouette supposes she should be glad they haven't chosen to make a spectacle of her. It wouldn't be beyond them—nothing is. When she closes her eyes, she can still see that dark gaze, cold as death.

It looks like I won't be the villain tonight, after all.

She squeezes her eyes shut, letting Brooks's grip on her tell her where to go. She stumbles into the lift, but he takes care to keep distance between them while keeping her upright, as if he fears she might attack him. Maybe the Palace would like that—for her to give them a reason to throw her in a cell deep in its bowels. Part of her would like that, too.

The doors close inches away from her nose. The dim light of the lift offers her little respite, with the two guards at her sides. She feels like a prisoner walking to the gallows.

They get out of the lift too soon. The lights of the hallway nearly blind her.

This floor is empty too—not a word breaks the silence. All the doors are closed; Northfair blinks at the end of her path when they take a turn. They take another before they can reach it, and suddenly she's standing in front of the door to Harry's office. Evie's desk is empty.

Jayden takes a step forward and knocks on the heavy wooden surface. There's a moment of silence—just a moment. Then the door opens. Jackson welcomes them inside.

Brooks pulls Alouette into the room, and Jayden follows. Alouette has to blink quickly to adjust to the strong illumination in Harry's office. All the ceiling lights are on, bright enough to hurt her eyes, used to the darkness of her room. Rain pitter-patters against the window; the thunderclouds in the sky outside are so dark she can't tell what time it is. The glass reflects the contents of the room—Alouette, at the door, flanked by Jayden and Brooks; Jackson, in the right corner, just in front of the leather couch. Harry, leaning back against his desk, right in her line of sight. He's reading a report, but she knows he's perfectly aware of her presence. Her gaze travels over his frame, from the perfect knot of his tie to his shoes, refined, expensive leather. Anger mounts inside her. She's always thought herself a kind person, but right now she has no doubt she could do something. Her palms tingle.

He waves a hand, and Brooks lets go of Alouette and moves to stand in the other corner of the room. Jayden closes the door at their back and joins Jackson in silence. Harry keeps his eyes focused on the report a moment longer, and then closes it with a deliberately slow motion and puts it on the desk behind him. His gaze lifts to met hers. His palms rest on the edge of his desk, and he just stares at her. Alouette suddenly feels like she can't breathe.

"I do hope you don't expect me to apologise," he says in the end.

A supernova of rage explodes inside Alouette. "You..." She doesn't have words to express what she's feeling. She closes the distance between them in a few quick steps. "How—"

"I'd say the how is pretty clear, isn't it?"

She moves too fast for anyone in the room to stop her. One moment they're standing face to face, the other she's pinning Harry back with her bodyweight, the first object she could grab off the desk against his throat. "How could you?!" Her eyes blaze with fury. The sharp edge of her weapon bites into Harry's neck.

He raises an eyebrow, not bothered by his predicament. Alouette's hand clenches around the letter opener. A single drop of blood touches the white of his dress shirt.

The guards at the sides of the room step forward, ready to intervene, but Harry halts them with a raise of his hand.

"Don't worry." His eyes bore into Alouette's from above, and a sardonic smile curves his lips. "She won't do it."

The instinct to kill him strikes her suddenly, so frighteningly real that she almost drops the letter opener. In this moment, she has the certainty she has the strength to do it. Jackson would kill her, but she'd be taking Harry straight to hell with her.

But what would that fix?

It takes her a moment to connect her mind back to her body. She forces her fingers to unclasp. The letter opener clatters to the floor. She doesn't take her eyes off Harry, but she can nearly sense the collective sigh of relief that washes over the room.

"I despise you," she spits out, low enough for only Harry to hear. She wants to cut through him with her words, but the look in his eyes is untouchable, absent.

A half-smile touches his lips. "I only did what you let me." He leans down. "So whose fault is it? Mine, or yours?"

She swipes everything off the desk with a scream. Papers flutter; the glass shatters on the floor. Bourbon splatters on their clothes. Harry's eyes widen near imperceptibly, but the hint of emotion is gone as soon as it comes. Before she can think better of it, Alouette falls to the ground and closes her hand around the biggest shard of glass.

Something hard digs into the back of her head. Jackson's voice is cool as ice. "Put that down." Slowly, she turns her head. His eyes freeze her in place, cold like the depths of the ocean. His grip on his gun is stiff. There's no doubt in her he'll shoot.

"Put that down," Harry's voice echoes. But when she lifts her head to him, she discovers he isn't looking at her, but at Jackson. The look in his eyes is frightening.

"Sir," Jackson starts, but then he thinks better of it. He lowers his gun and retreats.

Harry watches him step back. Then, slowly, he crouches next to Alouette, his eyes level with hers. The green of his irises brings physical anguish to her. They're so close they could be the only people in the room.

Her hand tightens around her weapon, ignoring the bite of pain. "They should've left you to die," she hisses out.

The corner of his lips turns up for a second, a joyless smile. Harry's hand touches hers, and she nearly jolts out of her skin. Still, he doesn't let go. He grabs her wrist and lifts her hand so the sharpest edge of the shard of glass is against his throat. The only thing standing between him and death is a flick of her arm. Alouette's frame is carved in ice.

Harry's eyes flicker, unreadable in the bright white lights of his office. In the distance, a thunder breaks the silence. "We've been here once before, haven't we?" he murmurs. It's low, something like a confession, worryingly light. "This is your chance. Do it."

Her eyes widen. She doesn't move.

"Kill me."

She's breathing so fast she might faint.

It would be so easy.

But it wouldn't bring the Revolution back. It wouldn't tell her where her sister is. There's too much she could still lose. The glass bites into her hand when she grips it harder. What would it solve?

A faint smile grazes his lips. He lets go of her hand, and it falls between them, opening to let the shard clatter to the floor. He takes a tissue embroidered with his initials out of his pocket and closes her hand around it. Dark red seeps through the white fabric slowly. She hadn't even noticed she was bleeding.

He stands up.

After a moment's hesitation, Jayden comes up behind Alouette and helps her up.

"You've made your choice," Harry tells her. Her head is spinning a little; she can't tell if it's the little she's eaten lately, the shock of the moment, or the wound in her hand. "So its consequences are yours, too. Don't resent me because of what you couldn't do, later on."

She blinks quickly. She doesn't know what he's talking about—she doesn't want to think about it. Instead, she focuses on what she can fix. "Tell me where you're keeping Amina."

Harry tenses up. She's too attuned to his body to miss it.

Her eyes snap up to his. "Where is Amina?" She's never sounded so threatening before. She knows he doesn't miss it. "Answer me! Where the hell—"

Harry steps away from her. "I'm not certain."

Alouette moves towards him, but Jayden grabs her shoulder to stop her. "What did you do to my sister?!" Her breath picks up. Her eyes widen. Her voice breaks. "Did you—"

"I did not kill your sister," he bites back, oddly defensive.

"Then where the fuck is she?!"

Harry sends a glance to Jackson, and he steps forward, putting his gun back into the holster at his side. "Bryce was sent to retrieve her before the attack, but she was not in her room. All our guards were made aware, but our search turned up empty. We have reasons to believe she was not in the headquarters at the time of the attack."

"What?!" Alouette lets out a dry laugh. "That makes no sense. You expect me to believe that?!"

"We're fairly certain she was never taken to her rooms in the first place," Harry says. "Currently, she's missing."

Alouette's head spins so violently she nearly falls to the ground. "Missing?" Her breath chokes on the word. Nausea strikes her so hard she nearly pukes in the middle of Harry's office. "I need to go—you need to let me... I need to find—"

Harry's eyes freeze her in place. "You're not going anywhere."

"I need to find my sister!"

"We're already taking care of it."

"As if!" Alouette realises she's just shouted only when her voice rings through the room. "You need to let me go! I can find her!"

"Alouette—"

She pushes Harry away with a hand; dark red stains his dress shirt where she touched him. "You can't do this! I have to—"

His stare is sharp. "Go back to your rooms. We'll take care of this."

She balks. "You expect me to go back to my room when my sister is missing?!"

Harry's eyes narrow, and he reaches out with a hand to steady her when she stumbles back. "You don't have much of a choice, do you?"

"Are you kidding me?!" She swats his hand away. "What the hell is wrong with you?! You really think I can sit by without doing nothing?? I'm not like you—" Her vision swims. She's dropped Harry's tissue, and blood is trickling down her wrist. "You fucking—"

He takes a step towards her. "Alouette, stop."

She shoves him away. "No! You can't do this! You need to let me go! I need to find her, you don't understand! I can't just—" Her scream dies out. Her ears are ringing, sound muffling and muffling. Spots swim in her vision. Suddenly, she doesn't feel so steady on her feet.

The world tips to one side, teeters, and goes black.