Burning Bridges (5 page)

I walked over to him and grabbed his shoulder, pul
ling him back from the dumpster and
ending his search for—no doubt—clothing or loose change.

“
Stop!
”
he yelled.
“
I can fix this.
”
He pulled away from me and continued to sift through the garbage.

I stepped back and watched him, my heart
breaking
a little more.
“
Milo, please, just stop and come home.
”
Milo was only
twelve
;
he was supposed to be living a normal life. Instead, we l
ived
in the aftermath of war,
surviving
off of what was left.

Milo let out a deafening screech and
glanced around the dark alley as the sun set
just behin
d the rambled buildings. Finally c
oming to a con
clusion, he slumped to the dirt-packed
ground in front of him and began to cry, heaving spasm after spasm.

I sat
next to him on the floor and pu
lled
him into my
chest
, shielding his hurt from the world
. I
didn
’
t cry
, but I felt the pain as much as h
e
did
.

“
I just want to fix this, Ayden,
”
he said through
sobs
.

“
Milo, you
’
re only
twelve
, this shouldn
’
t be your problem.
”

He lifted his head and looked at me
,
and I realized the
amount
of
maturity on his face when he said,
“
I have to do something. We need the money. Mom...mom can
’
t do much anymore.
”
H
is dark tresses stood out in odd
places
, and his eyes were burned bright from the tears
. He had a young
face—
many
years left ahead of him—
yet his determination to fix our broken family made him older beyond
comprehension
.

I pulled him back to
me and rested my chin on the to
p of his head.
T
he weight of
this
fallen world
seemed to rest
upon m
y
shoulders.
“
I
’
ll fix this,
Milo,
”
I said to him.
“
I can fix this.
I know what to do.
”

F I V E

Echo

T
here is no life outside of this H
aven. That is what my mother had
always led me to believe. The four walls that created the border between us and Old Haven was merely just that—a wall. She, as well as everyone else, pretended like there weren
’
t innocent human beings, children big and small, fighting for their lives as we sat idly by. I
’
d heard stories, but I
’
d never seen for myself the so
-
called dangers of
crossing the border.

Twenty years ago, Alwaenia had been one country under one name, unified in a state of peace. My father had worked with the King of Delentia—the reason why they were such good friends—but they hadn
’
t received their official titles yet. War was inconsequential and laws weren
’
t as strict as they were now.  Hunters and Warriors were
free
to do things most would
’
ve been afraid to do now. Though some still dared to challenge authority, now that this world was separated into the worst of both halves, they never made it past my father.

Segregation wasn
’
t always an issue. That is what
I
had led my
self to believe. Back when free
will was your own to govern, you weren
’
t judged if you wore the wrong gown or chastised because you weren
’
t standing in the correct posture. A Hunter was free to hold a Warrior
’
s hand—to kiss them, to hold them, and feel an obligation to do so. In fact, no one even claimed titles then. The meaning of
‘
one
’
had originated from
‘
two
’
, a concept that was so easily forgotten.

As I laid in bed, insomnia taking its toll on me, I stared at the poster on my wallpaper-clad wall, the face detaining me in a hold so mesmerizing. The lettering, though black and hard to see in the dim of dawn, seemed foul and stupid as I read them over and over. It was the same saying they
’
d brainwashed into my system since I was small, the saying I was forced to live by.

Two Havens, Two People!

Two Worlds, Two Wars!

Difference is essential.

Two of everything
, I thought to myself with disgust.

When Alwaenia
’
s first leader was proclaimed King Valentine, a Hunter who had grown up on the streets, many didn
’
t like it. Warriors claimed he was juvenile and ignorant, despite the fact his ideas for the country were genuine. Many times they had tried to have him impeached by accusing him of murder or even treachery, but no one believed them. King Valentine was a good man and he
’
d made a great
nation out of nothing. He was a gift from the gods, some believed. A gift signifying Alwaenia
’
s coming years of
prosperity
.

No later than two years did that all change.

The Warriors had assembled a conspiracy, one that was hidden so great not even Father saw it coming. On a day no different from any other, King Valentine was summoned to Siphon
’
s City to stop a tirade that had digressed into a massacre so vile not even the guards could stop it. The Hunters had started to see a shortag
e in their incomes at that time
and blamed the Warriors for thieving.
The
Warriors weren
’
t to blame, though
, I thought. The Hunters just didn
’
t know how to prioritize their money and squandered it all away. They accused the Warriors because they couldn
’
t accuse anyone else. The country had already found a deficit.

That
day, King Valentine was
murdered by three men
and
Warriors and Hunters were divided upon
lies and deceit.
Alwaenia
then became New and Old Haven. King Val was given the proper burial
in the only cemetery Siphon
’
s C
ity reserved for Royals, but
people
never really
got over
it
or
officially moved on.
Whether my father wanted to acknowledge it or not, revenge would
soon
be sought.

All we had to remember the King by was a poster that hung in every room, his face marred with a red
X
and words he wouldn
’
t have dared to speak branded on his forehead.

Two Havens, Two People.

A loud rap on the door broke me from my reverie and I turned over in bed to see who it was.
“
Echo, darling, are you up?
”
my mother called, entering the room with soft footsteps. She closed the door behind her and came to sit at the foot of the bed.

I didn
’
t move an inch; I barely even looked her in the face. Sleep had evaded me for the night and she was only making matters worse.
“
Not now, Mother. Can
’
t it wait till morning?
”

“
It
’
s quarter past seven, Echo. Do you plan to lie in bed all day?
”

I peered over my shoulder at her and sighed. Just behind her the sun was rising through the curtains, shedding light on a realization I wasn
’
t ready to face.
“
Does it really have to be today? Don
’
t you th—
”

“
Absolutely not,
”
she cut in. She pulled the blankets from over my body and threw them to the floor.
“
Time to get up, we have a long day ahead of us.
”

Not if I can help it
. I groaned audibly and sat up in bed, rolling my duvet and plush pillows to the opposite side. Though I craved the warmth and security of the bed that wouldn
’
t allow me rest, I knew I had to get up and get on with the day. If it wasn
’
t now, it was later, and later was time I didn
’
t want to spend trying on dresses for some
frivolous
ball.

“
Up and at
‘
em, Echo!
”
Mother
’
s voice rang in my ears. She went to the windows and slid apart the curtains, allowing the sun
’
s early rays to gleam right into my eyes. She turned to face me and shook her head with indifference. 
“
I suppose you didn
’
t get much sle
ep last night. I
’
m guessing this
is due to the excitement of the wedding, am I right?
”

I stood to my feet and stifled a yawn.
“
Yes, of course, Mother.
”
I made for my wardrobe across the large room and pulled a gown off its hanger.

Nothing fancy
, I thought, sifting through the closet to find my sandals.
I
’
m only going to try on about a gazillion dresses to wear for only one night
. 

I closed the wardrobe door, enclosing the other hundreds of dresses I had only worn for one occasion.

No, nothing fancy at all.

Mother threatened to drag me downstairs herself if I didn
’
t move faster, so I walked into my bathroom and closed the door behind me, immediately heading for the showers. I swallowed my pride, and within minutes, I was winding down the spiral staircase and strolling into the kitchen.

“
Decent,
”
was all Mother had to say. She stood by the door with her purse in hand.

I frowned, but didn
’
t allow her to see it.
‘
Decent
’
was my mother
’
s way of saying,
‘
you look horrible
’
.
“
Where
’
s Issy?
”
I asked,
raking my
fingers through my
still
damp hair. I grabbed a pear off the
counter
before sauntering out the door and into the overwhelming heat of Thediby.

Just as Mother was about to answer, a shrill—more like a squeal, really—came from behind me. I turned and was met with Isobeli
’
s outstretched arms and jubilant smile.
“
Echo!
”
she yelled. She flung her arms around
me in a tight, overwhelming
hug.
“
Gods have I missed you! Guess what I heard?
”

J
ust like Issy, always straight to the point.
“
I
’
ve missed you too, but—
”

“
Now is not the time for gossip, Isobeli,
”
Mother chided.
“
Perhaps another time?
”

Isobeli
’
s smile fell from her face instantly.
“
Why, of course, Auntie.
”
When Mother looked away, she made a face at her back.
             

“
Here is our ride now.
”
Mother watched as the
horse-drawn carriage
trotted down the path and stopped in front of the house.

“
It
’
s about the ball,
”
Issy whispered in my ear.

I gave her an odd look that meant I wasn
’
t interested, but when she took my ear again and whispered,
“
And the Prince,
”
she had my full attention.

“
What about the Prince? I—
”

“
Echo,
”
Mother called. She was already seated in the carriage, one of the servants holdin
g the door wide open with a forced
grin. I shook my head at Isobeli for her to let it go and climbed in after Mother. The carriage appeared small from the outside, but once you climbed in and were seated on the silk cushions of the seat, small wouldn
’
t even come to mind.

“
So, I thought we
’
d stop at
Madam Renaldi
’
s
first, and then we
’
d see if Juliette has finished your dress
for the wedding
,
”
my mother said, crossing her glove-clad hands in her lap. She seemed so busy with staring out the window that she didn
’
t even notice the look of disgust that passed on my face. Isobeli would have seen it
too if she wasn
’
t so focused on
her feet. She was quiet, which was particularly odd for her.

“
Sounds like a plan,
”
I said. For the rest of the ride, the three of us were relatively quiet. Issy would hum to herself every now and then while Mother applied and re-applied her strawberry-scented lipstick. When staring at the townspeople outside the window got boring, I resulted in daydreaming.

             
Thoughts of what the world probably used to be before King Val was murdered flittered into my mind. Speaking about them, looking at them, or even talking to them was forbidden now when years ago that was the norm. As if words could kill you! It was ridiculous; I mean, they were people just like us.

Weren
’
t they?

Almost immediately, my mind shifted to thoughts of the boy named Ayden. His face was forever engraved into my memory—the way his lips turned
up
into a scowl
when he
’
d
looked at me or the way his eyes shone like two rare
amethyst
gems. His form and entire demeanor spoke volumes of aggression and pain. The way his eyes had watched me was fierce, yet so empty. They were eyes of a wounded heart, I knew, eyes that hid secrets not meant to be told.