Hello everybody! If you're new here, I'm Natthefantastic, and I'm obsessed with Red Queen. After the devastating ending to King's Cage, I decided to take matters into my own hands, writing my first ever fanfiction, Bleeding Crown. Looking back now, I've decided my first story was inaccurate in some ways, and I want to make a more realistic version of the story. I will include Mare, Evangeline, and Iris's POV's in this story. For those of you who enjoyed Bleeding Crown, I hope you enjoy this one even more! Now that I'm a more experienced writer, I wish to mold this into a masterpiece. It means the world to me when you vote and comment on this story! Thanks!

"I've been broken too many times to break again"

Mare

We're going to let them kill each other. I remember my own thoughts while sitting in the dark room. My enemies have given me a bedchamber at the Ridge House, and it's disgusting in its own way. Plush, thick bedcovers, I rest upon; they're unnecessary when I have the relentless heat of the summertime clawing its way in through walls. A small bathroom lays in one of the corners, in a similar spot compared to my prison room at Whitefire; I can't help but wonder if the Samo's gave me this space as a cruel joke. I'd leave it if I had the capacity to do so, but it's been mere hours. I'll be honest. It's not only him I'm afraid of facing. Anyone at all. Even Cameron, who's never been very sentimental. Or smiling silver, who's relieved Tiberias has started his quest for the throne.

Tiberias. It pains and soothes me to use his true name. For one, it's a reminder of who he really is. Who he always has been. Secondly, it lets me forget who he was to me. So perhaps I shouldn't call him anything. Just him.

I chastise myself for the thought diving into my head, yet there's no point in denying it. If I had the choice, I'd choose to be back in my chambers at the palace, wrists wrapped in the manacles that rubbed them barren. No freedom whatsoever. But that's the idea; at least that way, I wouldn't have to select whether or not I should walk out the door. Still, is it all that different? It seems now I still reside in a cage; the form of imprisonment is simply much more complex.

New tears slip out, joining the ones that already formed a shallow pool on my cheeks. "It's okay," I whisper to none other than myself. "It's okay." It's pathetic I have to tell myself this, but no one else is here to comfort me. Kilorn and my family stayed behind at the Piedmont base when I went off to defend Corvium, and as far as I know, that's still where they reside. I'll be surprised if they get word of what's happened in less than a week. Or if anyone tells them at all. It may change everything for me, but the Scarlet Guard was always prepared for this day. Like the silvers will give into democracy so easily. They've been killing each other for power for hundreds of years. How they would react if reds wanted power. It'll be a bloodbath. So why would the Guard tell their own people? That will only create unnecessary tension. There's already far too much of that. One of their top sayings; no one knows more than what they must.

I've been sitting up straight-backed for what feels like hours, the tenseness never failing to continue to work over every part of my body. I roll out my neck in circles, then stretching out my legs, finally making an attempt to stand. Do one thing for yourself today, I tell myself. No matter how little it is.

Though I never make it. I collapse on the floor midway to the chair I was aiming for. I should've been asleep hours ago, yet I'm certain my weakness isn't from fatigue. A feeble whimper escapes from my mouth, a sound I'd be mortified of if anyone else had heard it. Next, my throat clenches up, leaving me gasping for air; teardrops stream more hastily than ever down my face until soundlessly sloshing to the marble floor. Sobs freely crash out of me now, with no restraint. I yearn to scream, so the entire kingdom can hear my agony, yet the last cord of dignity I have holds firm. So instead I remain on the icey plates of black, shiny marble, and containing what I wish to let out. Choking on my own breath as if it was water. The absolute epitome of misery.

It is only then, I truly perceive it. I have never hated a man so much. But moreso, I have never hated myself more. For being so foolish as to fall for a prince, groomed all his life for the throne. I shouldn't have ever reached into his pocket to pickpocket him, as that only let him reach into my heart. The heart is a sacred place, meant for only the purest of individuals to be given a place in. And then for years, I shook my head at the girls in the Stilts who would become entranced with one boy after another. Almost every last one ended with the same quivering lip and rapidly blinking eyes, racing back to their homes to apologize to their parents for sneaking out of their windows late at night, telling them over and over how silly they had been. Acting as if it were their decision to call the relationships off.

Now I lay here, making no attempt to cover my tears, and with a lip that quivers. Am I no better than the girls I once called foolish? Shivers rake through me, despite the summer's warmth; the estate of Rift is made up of a majority of metal, often making the ground as cold as snow. You deserve this, I confess to myself. I've earned nothing more than to suffer on this ice-cold platform, where teardrops may freeze if given long enough. However, maybe I need this. To purge the excessive heat I've become accustomed to. I once wished to burn. Now I want nothing more than to frost over.

At this very moment, I decide something for myself. I will protect my heart at all costs, and if that means transforming it into a frozen fortress, very well. Long blades of ice shall protrude, cutting anyone who dares to touch it. I once thought of him as a distraction. There were far more important things to deal with than a handsome boy. But then my ice crumpled, and I made an irrational decision. I won't be so brainless to make the same decision twice. The war deserves all of my focus, not any less.

Still, I weep. A wound as raw as mine couldn't be healed in a day, let alone hours. I don't lie down on my bed, anxious I'll break down once more, only worse. They gave me a large bed, just a big as the one I had while imprisoned. Much finer than the cot I shared with him at Notch, as well as the bed we shared in the Piedmont barracks. The mattress that I face now is too much for a single person. I recollect the day Evangeline led me to Maven's rooms. The tiny bed, meant for a boy. Perhaps that was one of the ways he tricked himself into believing he wasn't so alone. Pretending to be a child.

Children don't pretend to rid themselves of problems, they're simply unaware there was a problem to begin with. Too caught up in their own heads, filled with the silliest of imaginations. Far too pure, to understand that there is anything wrong with the world. I treasure nostalgia, though it's a bitch. It was a simpler time when I saw the world as transparent. No lying. No inequality. But when I came of age, I opened my eyes. I had to smuggle money to purchase a cast for my broken leg, despite the healers that roamed the marketplace each day. Another day, I ran ahead of my brothers to see what stood past the village. I saw magnificent crystal white homes, with the greenest of grass. Before, I had assumed everyone lived the same; powers or not. From there, I quickly learned that the society I lived in was far from perfect, continually a cloudy gray orb, where only the strongest could navigate. Where the weak would be crippled, never given good odds. Sent to fight in a pointless war, and to die in cold blood.

I cling to the small piece of comfort Davidson awarded me yesterday. If we win the war, the Guard would make certain nothing like this would ever happen again. Yet doubt still sticks to me like an extra limb as exhaustion tugs me towards the welcoming darkness my eyes have begun to see. I can only believe it will be a dreamless one.

I wake with cold wetness creating a thin layer of clammy sweat on my face. But I discern quickly that the sweat not only covers my face. Up and down my body, seemingly everywhere I shiver from the salty water trails. My hands shake for a purpose I do not understand and my toes prickle from a fear so deep I cannot remember what that is. Uneasiness crawls through my bones, into my every nerve, until the reaching my paled skin. Scratch marks from fingernails litter my arms, redness evident all over.

My breath quickens when I deduct what my dream had been regarding. It had begun as a pleasant memory, innocent in every way. Cal and I had been dancing in Summerton, my clumsiness gradually beginning to improve. Only this time, when his lips pressed to mind, I felt a sharp rip at my back. As his arms came away from mine, I noticed there had been a knife in his hand, covered in scarlet. When my fingers found the area in pain, my hand came away with a sickly syrupy liquid. Blood. Only then, my naive dream-self realized that he had stabbed me in the back. But it was no longer the flame that stood over me. Maven smirked at me, wearing a cape the same shade as the blade he possessed. In the other hand, he held gray manacles. The flame will always have a shadow and reversed. My nightmare questions how far apart the two entities really are.

"They are not the same," I speak to the floor. "Nothing alike," I say the words, nevertheless my voice sounds unconvincing. Cal is not the murderer. He is not the one who kept me locked away for six months, longer if given the chance. Yet he is the one who has broken promises, time and time again.

A soft knock taps at the door, jarring me from my train of thoughts and causing me to start. First clearing my throat, I say, "Who is it?" My voice still sounds pathetic.

"It's Farley." Her voice is tender, just as it had been in the alleyway yesterday. "Can I come in?" Though it's in the format of a question, I doubt she'll take no for an answer.

"Okay," I reply. Before she has the chance to enter, I heave myself into a wrought iron chair nearby. Wipe the tears from my face just as the door opens. Her face is a welcome sight, as it is a familiar one. It occurs to me that she was the last face I saw before I slammed the door to this room and drew the curtains shut.

After Davidson left us at Corvium, Farley did her best to comfort me while simultaneously dragging me to the plane that would take us here. She kept us away from prying eyes, taking every possible turn to avoid even a single person. And when we reached the tarmac, where hundreds of people stood, did she shoot a glare so intense it had the capability to strike fear into the hearts of Lakeland gods.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine." I don't dare to look into her eyes.

"I don't have to be a whisper to know that you're not. It's alright to be weak right now. You don't have to lie to me." Farley pulls up the seat adjacent to mine, making a shrill scraping sound.

"No. I can't afford weakness; I haven't had that privilege for a long time. And my enemies certainly won't accept that excuse when they have the opportunity to assassinate me. I've been doing fine, Farley." I question whether those words are more for myself or her. "It was a momentary lapse of strength. That's all."

My eyes meet Farley's, who stares right back skeptically. But then her frown turns into a near smile. "Then you're ready to face society again." My heart leaps up into my throat. I couldn't possibly. Farley must notice my expression because she rephrases her words. "Today is the first official meeting in favor of reuniting the rightful king of Norta with his crown." This sentence sounds so stiff and artificial; Farley probably took it directly from Anabel Lerolan.

"Farley..." I trail off, my mouth never quite finding the words to reject her. To face the Samos's and their entire court of silvers sounds impossible for a girl who's spent the last hours lying on a floor. Though Monfort and the Scarlet Guard are pledged allies to them, and while the silvers may believe them- they'll always be my enemies.

She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. I tried to be nice. The little lightning girl is a figurehead to this rebellion. Davidson and I agreed that we need you at this meeting. It'll make a statement that you aren't the smallest bit rattled. And it will shatter him to the bone. He'll be terrified of you. And isn't that what you desire?"

My head says yes, but my heart denies it. The love I had for him can't vanish over the course of a night. It's a crippled idea, but I feel the same for Cal as I once felt for Maven. That thin length of thread that refuses to snap, no matter how many facts are stacked against it. I yearn for Cal to come rushing back to me, apologizing at my boots. Yet my rational side is certain that will not happen. "Yes," I tell Farley. "I want them all to fear the little lightning girl." And perhaps she isn't so little anymore.

"Very good." Farley reaches for something that she had laid at the foot of her chair. She hands me a pair of sleek, dark brown boots, slim black pants, and a deep red, tight sleeved jacket. The same shade as the blood that flows through my veins. "Wear this."

Evangeline

My father sits at the head of the grand table, with his arms crossed smugly. His black eyes gleam with pride, as he's at last achieving the goal that has been blocked so many times. Elane offers the only comfort in this room full of selfish people, stroking her gloved hand up and down my back. No one can see her, not even me. Her father was invited to the meeting, but not Elane. It's a shock even I, the future queen of Norta was invited. When in reality, Father controls my every move. It's been like this since I was small, each and every moment dedicated to winning the Queenstrial.

Ptolemus perches on his chair, crosswise from Father. After Corvium, both he and Elane returned from the safehouse, after Rift being declared secure. With Scarlet Guard troops being positioned all throughout the hallways and on the exterior of our home, Queen Anabel and Father declared it safe for them to return. Yet Barrow has free-reign here, and I fear recent news that has been brought to light here will cause her to be unreasonable. To break the deal we made at Whitefire when I freed her. Hell, maybe she's foolish enough to kill Tiberias himself. That would solve this crisis.

Tiberias sits to my left, Queen Anabel on his other side. Though he's done well on hiding it, I see through his mask. He's exhausted and depressed. Grey rings his eyes and he laces his fingers together to prevent them from shaking. His choice has ruined my life, so the least I can do is become a permanent thorn in his side, a living reminder that the woman he rules next to will not be the one whom he loves. When I notice Anabel's attention is on my father, I scoot my chair closer to his. "You're beginning to look like your brother. The tired eyes, and the mask you're using to cover those emotions. But at least Mare's not here," I use her first name for once. "Her presence only made him worse. I wonder what his record was for hours going without sleep."

His eyes momentarily light up. Most likely pondering what question he could ask me about Mare's imprisonment. They often forget I was there to hear her screams. I forged her manacles myself. Instead, he merely responds with a single word, "Don't." It sounds more like a plea than a command. Just yesterday, I considered him a tragic puppy. And without Barrow, he's lost. Suddenly, he changes his mind. "What was the worst thing that he did to her?" He murmurs just inches away from my ear as if it's a precious secret.

I can't help but crinkle my brows at his inquest. Maven wronged the little lightning girl in so many ways over those six months, I couldn't tell him. He let Samson comb through her memories as if they were sand, and he coerced her into becoming his personal propaganda, to draw newbloods in. And I'm sure he did more, terrible things that I'm unaware of. So I give him the vaguest answer possible, which is guaranteed to madden him just as much as an actual explanation. "You're not part of her life anymore, and I don't believe she'd want me telling you such sacred information."

The only harbinger of his fury is when the room's temperature rises slightly. Though it was subtle, Tiberias's grandmother turns away from Father and begins speaking to him in a low voice. Almost as if she had been listening to our whispers all along. Anabel is a small woman, dare I say shorter than Barrow, yet she is formidable. Her tiny stature means next to nothing when I look at her eyes. Cunning, and as sharp as a steel blade. Clever enough to fool her own kin into trusting her motives; she will never go for a civilization where blood isn't a divider.

As for myself, I used to care. For a long time, I'd sneer at my red servants; I wasn't even aware of the fact that they could've slipped poison into my drinks and gotten away with it. Make it look like a heart attack and flee. I simply thought they were too dense to ever challenge their superiors.

And then I met Mare Barrow, a girl who could invoke lightning storms without raising a finger. And how I hated her; she fell into our lives; literally. She had done nothing, and instantly she became betrothed to a prince. Meanwhile, I had spent the last ten years training tirelessly, for a crown that my mother and father tricked me into thinking I wanted. I'm compelled to send a vile sneer his way, but restraint holds me back.

When blood was spilled, and we discovered her true colors, my loathing for the girl increased to another level. I volunteered myself to murder her in the Bowl of Bones, throwing all cares for my own safety away. I knew the little lightning girl was dangerous, but a mad magnetron had to be worse. Or so I thought.

Months later, when she was dragged back to Archeon, I watched her more intently than ever. It brought me so much weariness, all those months of being inches from my blades, yet never having the permission to finish her off. So I used her to make for a distraction to Maven. As days stretched into weeks, and those to months, I watched her grow frail, those manacles depleting her just as water washes down a drain. Though the last few drops of water stayed with her; she could've found death if she had truly pined for it. Stabbed herself with China from one of those broken breakfast plates.

But she never did. And perhaps that's why I don't hold animosity to her anymore; though I don't like her either. Respect, you could call it. Not many people could endure spending six months at the hands of their enemies. When I say this, I may be a hypocrite. I sit here, in our grand home, surrounded by a myriad of souls who have been treated as lesser-thans for hundreds of years. It would be veiled, but perhaps the members of the Scarlet Guard are our foes, just hiding in plain sight, prowling for a crack in our armor.

I shake my head. How ludicrous of me to think such a thing. Reds may want a revolution, that I don't mind; but they wouldn't be so foolish to overpower silvers. It would be utter chaos.

I let myself slouch, the metal backing of the seat piercing into my back. At least Whitefire wasn't comprised of ninety- percent metal. Mother doesn't give me much time to complain to myself when her snake's head lands on my shoulder and collarbone. "Now, now. Don't slouch. It's unbecoming of a lady your station." The same words, as usual, they've become a recording, always said in the same monotone voice. Even she's gotten bored of them.

I resist the itch to roll my eyes. When I was small, I'd be spanked for doing so. "Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother." These words have also become a routine. The snake slithers off my collarbone, all the way down to my mother's feet. I stopped flinching at it's touch years ago.

Father and Anabel resumed their conversation some time ago, and only now do I pick up on Father's words when he raises his voice. "Where are General Davidson and that Farley girl? They had better not be late-" his powerful voice softens for once, as footsteps approach the boardroom. Not two sets, but three.

"General Farley would be preferable, thank you very much," the woman's voice is heard before she's seen. They come from the hallway behind Father, their figures ghosts of people from so far away; shadows. I distinguish the third character only seconds before her features become recognizable. And when the girl is only a shadow, I can practically see the electricity waiting to burst out of her skin.

Tiberias sees it too. His face turns sheet white in an instant, as he turns away from her, to stare out the window across from him. The little lightning girl earns a great deal of gapes from the rest of the table in her bloodish-colored jacket. Not a single one of them expected her here today, least of all Tiberias. He thought he was safe, and now he stalks her reflection in the darkened diamond glass windows. I do the same. Her expression is stone cold, and hands are laced behind her back. She doesn't bother to look at the awed expressions among her peers, her gaze locked on the empty chair on the opposite far side of the table. Or at least she pretends to. I solely wonder what emotions lie underneath that stone.

I glance back at Tiberias. Still pale; he has not an ounce of skill when hiding his emotions compared to his brother. Good. Let him shame himself, and look stupid in my Father's eyes. An eon ago, I actually wished to become this boy's queen. Today, there is nothing I could wish for less.

We watch Mare pull out her chair with one arm and sit down. The woman with short blonde hair who goes by Farley sits across from her, never taking her eyes off Barrow. "Look at her. Look at what you've done to her. You've turned her to ice. And the lightning girl will forever resent you for it. These next months will surely be tiresome for you."

General Davidson slides into the final empty seat at the opposite end of the table from Father, diagonally to Barrow."Shall we commence?" He says in a level voice. Yet I'm certain something else lurks behinds those words. Davidson stares at Tiberias, waiting for a reply.

Finally, Tiberias responds, looking to the general. "Yes."