Richard
“A kiss for good luck?” I ask Snow, and she reaches for me and places her hand on top of mine.
“Please, be careful,” she tells me, her voice cracking.
“As careful as I can,” I promise her, even though I know this might be it for me. What I’m about to do might mean this is the last time I’m looking at Snow. And the last time I’ll taste her lips.
Leaning in, I close my eyes and crush my mouth against hers. By the time we break apart, there’s a sad smile on her face.
“Good luck,” she whispers, her eyes brimming with tears. God, I gotta get out of the car right now or I’ll be the one crying soon enough. Gritting my teeth, I look around the back of the van and give Derek and Lucien a nod as they hand me my backpack. They open the back doors for me and, placing a black handkerchief over my mouth and tying it behind my head, I step into the street.
The moment I’m out of the van, the first thing I notice is the scent of smoke in the air. And, even though it’s already past midnight, the streets are alive with raised voices. Fastening my jacket, I head down the alley where we parked the van, making my way toward the Main Square in the centre of the city.
Thousands of people have gathered there, protesting against Moira’s rule, and now it’s time to turn their anger into something more tangible. Right now they’re just an angry mob, despite the efforts of some well-intentioned rebels.
Apparently, Moira has ordered all power to be shut down in the Main Square; still, despite the absence of electricity, the glow of lit torches paints the ample square with a warm red. Chants of Mad Moira!, and Out with the Usurper!, echo in the air, and the atmosphere is so intense that I can almost reach out and touch it.
Most of the protesters are wearing masks, and I thank God for that. There’s no doubt in my mind that Moira is doing her best to identify everyone involved in these riots. And once she has their identities...Well, let’s just say Moira really enjoys the old times. There was always a rumor around the palace that she wanted to bring back public executions, but no one really took it seriously — I guess we were all fools back then.
Pushing my way through the protesters, I finally manage to emerge at the center, right at the foot at the statue of King Alphonse, St. Carlta’s founder. Towering over the mass of protesters surrounding them, he seems to be looking straight at the palace with a determined expression, the raised sword in his hand an omen of what’s to come.
“Alright, let’s get it done,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together. Placing the palm of my hands over the stone, I start climbing up King Alphonse’s statue, only stopping when I’m standing atop the massive stone block where he sits.
A few of the protesters surrounding the statue start clapping as they finally realize there’s someone atop the statue, and that’s when I take one hand behind my head and undo the knot on the handkerchief. Allowing it to fall at my feet, I then look down at the protesters. I know that some between them are Moira’s agents, relaying all kinds of information to her, and so I’ve just became an enemy of the state.
And I haven’t said a word yet.
Reaching for the backpack I brought, I take a megaphone from the inside and turn it on with a flick from my thumb.
“EVERYONE!” I start, and my voice echoes through the whole square. It takes a few seconds, but eventually all the chatter dies down, and I feel thousands of eyeballs on me. I’ve never been the kind of guy that enjoyed the spotlight, but this has to be done.
“I know you’re tired, I know you’re hungry,” I start, taking a deep breath to try and muster some confidence. Easier said than done. “And I also know you’re afraid. We all are. But we’re also angry.”
“Fucking right we are!” Someone in the middle of the crowd shouts, and dozens of people start shouting their agreement.
“Together we’ll put an end to this,” I continue. “Moira’s days as Queen will be over soon. The people have spoken, and she now has one of two choices to make — either she resigns, or the people will topple her!”
I don’t know if it’s my delivery or my words, but everyone’s losing it. People are shouting, whistling, and clapping their hands. The atmosphere has become ecstatic, and I can almost feel the electricity crackling in the air around me.
“TO THE PALACE! TO THE PALACE!” Some of them start chanting, but that’s when three armored vehicles stop close to edge of the square. They’re black and nondescript, and it’s pretty obvious they’re packed with the Queen’s men.
Around fifteen men climb out of the SUVs, wearing automatic rifles and tactical uniforms, and they’re looking straight at me. Some of the supporters start banging their fists against the SUVs, but they take a step back the moment some of these men brandish their rifles at them.
Pushing into the crowd, they manage to make their way toward the base of the statue. I remain there, ready to be sacrificed to the cause — I wasn’t sure if it’d come to this, but the people of St. Carlta need to see a public arrest like this. They need to understand we’re no longer living in a democracy.
That’s when I see him.
Flanked by the riflemen, there’s Prince Gladrell. Wearing one of these fancy tailored suits he always had a penchant for, he’s looking at me in such a way that I can tell he’s imagining my head on a spike. Fuck, I knew he was sleazy...But I never actually expected him to do the Queen’s dirty work like this.
“This is the end of the road for you,” he tells me with a grin, and I simply stare at him while his cronies push me down from the statue. Even when they handcuff me, I keep on looking straight at Gladrell.
“No, you’re the one running out of road, Prince,” I tell them as his henchmen drag me toward their SUVs, and I smile as I notice the terror in his eyes.
Yes, be afraid, Prince. Be very afraid.
We’re coming for the Queen.