The windows are as tall as two men, thick-framed and imposing. During Lows, sunlight streams through them and across the raw stone and steel of the stronghold’s floors. But the tide rose weeks ago and has lingered several feet above the highest cliff in the Northern Lands ever since. All that can be seen beyond the glass are the fish swimming by, disturbing the hazy blue patterns filtering inside, casting shadows over my bloodstained round table.
We haven’t seen the sun in nearly two months. The lamps embedded in the wall’s recesses provide the illumination we need, but the artificial light radiating from them is dim and makes my skin itch. When I was a child, a High this long was unheard of. Now it’s the norm.
And that is why commoners like me finally have a seat at the table. When every human life is at the mercy of the tides, power is the means to protect oneself and one’s own. In the Northern Lands, safety can only be found within the stronghold. It has flood-proof structures sealing the stone from the ingress of salt water and its corrosion: watertight gates and small domes, prediction instrumentation, deluge detection, air filtration, and energy storage apparatuses. The engineering soldiers of the military are the only ones who can guarantee the integrity and upkeep of these systems. We are all that stands between humans of the north and certain death, and our political rise is warranted.
The noble houses, however, are having trouble coming to terms with that. Their riches may be centuries old, but as the sea becomes more hostile, their financial power will continue to ebb.
When I became general, my first request to the Council of Elders was simple: to tax the Houses and use a reasonable portion of their wealth to fund the upkeep and renovations of the stronghold. The council refused me—unsurprising, considering that most of its members are noble-born. I was ready to take what my military engineers needed by force, but Ivar suggested we bide our time, and he was right. Months later, following a steep infrastructure decline, discontent among the commoners was at its peak. When we re-proposed our tax reform, the council had no choice but to do as we asked.
That’s when the Houses realized that their loss of relevance was unavoidable. Their responses ranged from reluctant acceptance to open animosity, but one by one, they had to acknowledge that the military was their only hope for survival, and eventually, they all submitted to the council’s decision and began cooperating with us.
All except for the oldest and most prosperous: House Larsen.
They know, just as well as I do, that what’s at stake is the future of the stronghold. What they want is to be in charge and not cede even an ounce of their privilege. What I want is to create a place where commoners have the same rights as the aristocracy. Their attempts at sabotaging me and my people to maintain the status quo have been brazen, but I’ve followed my brother’s advice and exercised restraint—not exactly my most shining quality. I told myself that Ivar knows how to exploit a situation to achieve the optimal outcome. His goal, like mine, is to reduce resource inequality within the population and to put a stop to centuries of unchecked greed. He once again told me to bide my time, and I once again agreed.
But I’m all out of fucking patience.
I turn away from the windows to find that the bodies have been dragged away. Feeling more grounded, I join Martia, Bastien, and Ivar at the table.
“All this blood will be a bitch to clean up,” Bastian says archly.
Martia’s eyebrow lifts. “Says the guy whose job is cleaning up.”
“I am the seneschal of the general. My job is to see to his household and its affairs, not to scrub blood and cerebral matter from the floors. Not to mention, the disposal of the bodies—”
“Quiet,” I say, which has Martia letting out a silent giggle and Bastian’s already-thin lips becoming invisible.
“Yes, feel free to keep the newly mated routine for your alone time,” Ivar adds. “Back to the matter at hand.”
“Which is only a matter because you won’t let me kill people,” I point out darkly.
“You are no longer a low-ranking engineer, Gabriel. The general of the military reports to the council, and his behavior must be beyond reproach. Which, I would like to remind you, is a good thing. Chaos and opacity would create room for dictatorship, which is exactly what nobles like Lord Larsen want. You said it yourself that as general you would protect systems of checks and balances that—”
“I’ve changed my fucking mind.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“And yet, I am going to fucking kill Lord Larsen, and you can’t stop me.” I shrug, and Ivar sighs.
“If you strike now, without proof, you will be perceived as an unstable and volatile general. Killing more people is not going to solve anything.”
I scoff. “Killing people is always going to solve something.”
“Said like a fucking Alpha. Societal mores are important—”
“Said like a fucking Omega.”
We exchange small amused smiles, almost against our will. “Gabriel, if you retaliate outside the law—”
“Then find me a legal way. Work your fucking magic. Advise me. Do your fucking job.”
“I have been. I’ve been considering strategically sound plans that won’t lead to the council censuring you and won’t alienate the public. But none of them are surefire, and you’re not going to like the one with the quickest time frame—”
“Do you think I like twiddling my thumbs while some piece of shit who’s never even touched a poly-welder kills my people? Out with it.”
My brother winces, clearly already regretting what he mentioned. But after a pained glance at the others, he uses the heel of his hand to clean a few bloody droplets from the holographic console at the center of the table. As the machine whirs to life, he asks, “Did you know that Lennart Larsen’s mating ceremony is taking place in two days?”
I did not, but I still nod. “We strike while they’re all gathered to celebrate and wipe out the whole House. Great idea.”
“For fuck’s sake—no.” Ivar massages his forehead. “Do you even know who Lennart is?”
“You know I don’t make room for that shit.” It’s not wholly true. I remember the names and faces of every person I’ve served with since the day I lied about my age and joined the engineering corps. But that was before my balls even dropped, which gave me little time to spend on anything that wasn’t learning how to repair the water-filtering systems—and to fend off a semiaquatic reptile three times my size while I did that. Being a soldier means cutting through problems with my sword. Weighing options, spinning webs, keeping track of family trees and contingencies and liabilities—that’s Ivar’s duty.
“Lennart is the third son of Lord and Lady Larsen.” He fusses with the controls and pulls up the holo projection of a young smiling man who is probably around my age but looks considerably younger. Light-brown hair. Sloped jaw. A curl falls on his wide forehead. “Fourth child overall.”
“Good-looking,” Bastian comments, which has Martia glaring at him—undoubtedly the desired outcome.
“He’s not the heir, is he?” I ask.
“No,” Ivar says. “Not even the spare. Lennart is a Beta.”
“I didn’t know the Larsens came in non-Alpha,” muses Bastian.
Martia snorts. “Moment of silence for what it must have been like, growing up in that House as a Beta.”