Martyr

The Sociale should have known better. The people were not weak. They were never weak. Fear had made them passive. Rage is stronger than fear. Adres was a figure of hope, a glimmer of optimism piercing through the haze of Chancellor Elhossa's reign. The Darkened Forces left his body beaten and broken in the village square, a message meant for the revolution bubbling over in the hidden rooms of the the tired and disloyal.

Kavindra cast a hazy eye through the common room of the inn. Citizens from every district sat murmuring prayers and poems. Every arrow, spear, dagger, and sword was dipped in the poisonous juices of the Tolsi berry, guarded closely by the budding soldiers destined to wield them. There was no going back. At least not for everyone.

The eyes of the determined and fearful looked to Kavindra. She was the closest thing Andres had to a second in command, let alone a friend or sister. Andres was passion, Kavindra was power. Was power alone enough to lead these people behind the palace gates? To command them to end their lives for those who had died so many moons before? Their people. Her people. They'd spent months training in secret, pushing through the bitter winter into the fickle spring. She taught them all she knew, everything she'd learned as a refugee in the Wicked Wood. Her chest rose and sunk deeply. She knew her efforts were not enough to fix the fragments of two generations.

Kavindra broke from her thoughts, swigged the last bit of Andesian wine into her tightening throat and rose to her feet. Errol was nowhere to be found. So be it. He would have to catch up later.