“Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.” The queen’s voice carries throughout the banquet hall, vibrating in Maeve’s chest.

The quiet shuffle of fabrics ruffling together and the clink of crystal wine glasses almost drown out the Queen’s stern lecture. All faces turn to her, their low chatter hidden behind masks of diamonds and bright silks. Covering their snickers with gloved hands, their eyes gleam with greed and a quiet, throbbing distaste.

It makes Maeve sick—the food, gold, and money wasted on pleasure and meaningless joy. Her stomach churns at the vicious smells of sweets and champagne. She thinks of the slaves, starving and desperate for warmth, for life, and she can’t help but feel guilty. She remembers the hunger echoing inside her, making her whole body thin and fragile.

Maeve turns to the Queen, the anger and fear burning inside her, almost spewing out of her. Despite her blurring vision and aching stomach, she plasters on a fake smile.

Ammon leans over, his breath hot against Maeve’s ear. “Are you ready?”

“No,” she admits, and Ammon stifles a chuckle. “But I can’t turn back now.”

“None of us can.” His dark lips split into a small grin, one that would leave plenty of girls swooning.

She shifts on her feet, Ammon’s gentle stare burning into her skin. “Are you sure you’re willing to have his blood on your hands?”

Maeve’s eyes dart to General Hearst, his dull expression and rough uniform a contrast to the fair fabrics and ecstatic faces surrounding him.

“Yes.” Ammon sets his jaw, eyes burning with determination. “I need to do this.”

Maeve knows little to nothing about Ammon, only that he’s chosen to make a change, to save the ones who can’t save themselves. In a way, she admires him for giving up his comfortable and pleasurable life to conspire with lowlifes.

She nods, ignoring the unease settling in her bones. He tears himself from Maeve’s side, his eyes lingering on her a moment before turning away. She watches him leave, Ammon’s absence leaving her sweaty and nervous as ever.

“A refreshment, ma’am?” Quintin questions, appearing at Maeve’s side. The servant’s suit is dashing as ever on his freckled skin. He holds a platter of bubbles and champagne, the golden liquid splashing around.

Promptly, Maeve plucks a glass from his glistening silver dish. “How kind of you, sir.” She fakes a posh accent and gives him a knowing look.

Quintin winks before gently grabbing her hand and leading her through the sea of dresses and suits.

“What you and Ammon are doing tonight,” Quintin begins, “is what needs to be done if we want change.”

Maeve spares another glance at the war general. He hasn’t moved an inch, but now Ammon stands next to him, making small talk.

“We will not kneel,” she whispers the banned phrase, the fear of being heard not weighing on her.

Quintin places a hand over his heart before swinging the servant’s side door open for Maeve. “Strength through sacrifice.”

Nodding, Maeve slips through the doorway and dodges hurried waiters balancing plates on the palms of their hands. She reaches inside her handbag, fingers wrapping around the delicate crinkled paper, and analyzes Quintin’s hand-drawn map of the castle’s tangled corridors.

She’s never been good with directions, even when she was a child living in her hometown. Maeve knows she doesn’t have enough time to get lost; one wrong turn and she’ll run out of time.

Following each twist and turn of the map, checking and double-checking every corner, Maeve finds the castle’s corridors striking, the low crystal chandeliers lighting the ivory and gold halls in a warm glow. Each wall and windowsill is framed in elegant golden designs. Moonlight shimmers in through arched windows, spilling over the marble floors.

Resisting the urge to gawk at each breathtaking detail, Maeve keeps her focus on the map and the mission. Even as her eyes drift to the shadowed corners of the Queen’s courtroom, she presses forward, ignoring the nagging guilt in her chest.

She staggers to a stop, her stomach dancing with nerves. She knows she shouldn’t, yet her curiosity drags her toward the archway.

“Ammon’s gonna kill me,” Maeve giggles to herself as she drifts into the Queen’s Chambers.

As Maeve shifts into the courtroom, her breath catches in her throat. She expected poise and grandeur but nothing this extraordinary. It’s amazing, yet the glitter and gold disgust her.

Her heels echo across the grand marble floor, the sound distant compared to the vast room. Maeve gapes up at the towering white pillars, all engraved with Thalorn’s historic victories. Stories she heard as a child turn real under the chandelier’s flicker. Long shadows cast evil stone eyes on her.

Despite herself, Maeve can’t help but stare, amazed at it all. Even as her hands tremble and her insides twist with fear, she can’t bring herself to look away from the royal purple tapestries. Knights kneeling to the Queen are embroidered in golden strands.

The throne lurks in the center like an idol being worshiped. It’s a monument, a symbol of power and blood. The spears are like claws, jagged and unforgiving in the spine of the seat. Maeve can almost feel the weight of the Queen’s presence, even when she’s gone and it’s only Maeve.

Maeve swallows and takes a deep, hard breath. She needs to stay focused and fast before Ammon finishes his section of the mission. She ignores the pressure of the still shadows and haunting silence; she will not be afraid of the Queen or her courtroom.

Moving silently, Maeve sticks to the dark corners. Her fingers brush the Queen’s table. Neat piles of documents and papers scatter across the mahogany surface. Her eyes skim over them, looking for any possible information the rebellion could use.

Only one document stands out to her, and she painstakingly snatches it with trembling hands. It’s a parchment, marked with the royal seal. Maeve’s hand slicks with sweat and her heart pounds as she reads through it carefully. Realizing that the document reports military services and plans, she holds back a gasp as she reads detailed strategies for upcoming operations. With a disturbing twist in her stomach, she recognizes names— people from the rebellion and places she knows are important. Targets for the Queen to take over, to silence.

Maeve’s blood runs cold, and her stomach lurches in horror. The rebellion has only begun, a small flame flickering in the dark. They will start a forest fire and drown out the darkness, Ammon once told the growing group of rebels.

Her body scrambles, hands moving with urgency as she scoops up documents. She can hardly feel her legs as she shoves the papers under the piled fabrics of her dress.

She’s ready to sprint back to Ammon and Quintin, ramble to the two about her findings, until another paper catches her eye. It sits half-hidden under a map, and Maeve rips it free.

Operation Silence. Frantically, Maeve reads through the Queen’s plans to eliminate the rebellion. It lists ways to root out rebellion sympathizers and major rebellious powers.

Maeve’s pulse quickens as her body hums with distress. She slips the last paper into her handbag, breath hitched as she rushes back to the archway she entered through.

Archways and windows flash past her in a whimsical blur. Following the semi-familiar halls with the crumpled map in her hands, she sprints back to the banquet hall, her throat burning and body weak. She ignores the feeling of rough paper against her skin as she bursts through the servant’s side door.

She scans the crowd for Ammon and Quintin, breath heaving. With a jolt in her chest, she stumbles over to Ammon, who still stands close to the General. She comes from behind him as she places a shaking hand on his arm, seeking stability in his support.

“Honey,” she flashes him a panicked smile, hoping he’ll catch onto her little act. “I’m not feeling very well, would you mind if we left now?”

If Ammon is confused, he hides it well. “Yes, yes. Wait for me outside the banquet hall while I say goodbye to General Hearst.”

Maeve turns to General Hearst. “So sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Lady Constance, Count Ammon’s wife,” she lies, a sweat breaking over her brow.

“Have a servant fetch my coat, would you, sweetie?”

Maeve smiles and nods, patting his arm lightly before disappearing into the crowd. She spins around groups of men and women, still happily sipping away at their champagne. The Queen’s lecture has ended, and now she sits high above the crowd, smiling coyly at the audience, pretending to enjoy herself. Maeve wanders until she sees the flash of fiery red hair belonging to Quintin.

“Waiter,” Maeve calls to Quintin through the bodies of guests. “Waiter!”

Quintin stumbles before turning his head, a sense of relief slipping over his handsome features. “Yes, ma’am?”

Maeve suppresses the urge to sob to him about the documents, to let the words spill out of her and ramble until the whole courtroom can hear her. Instead, she grabs Quintin’s white collar and shrugs him closer to her.

“I have something you need to see,” Maeve’s voice

trembles and Quintin’s body tenses. “We need to leave. Now.”

Quintin wrenches his collar from Maeve’s fists and pretends to dust off the wrinkles. “Follow me, ma’am.”

Maeve holds onto Quintin’s shoulder, letting him lead her through the maze. He throws open a pair of ivory doors, nodding to the two guards stationed there before they leave. Slowly, the doors shudder closed and Maeve can feel the pressure of staying calm fall away from her.

She crouches, propping her hands up on her knees. “We need to wait for Ammon here.”

“What happened?” Quintin places a hand on her back. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Grimly, Maeve thinks of all the names she saw written down, the lives that would be lost.

“I might as well have.”

---

Sorry! This prompt is so unnecessarily long and confusing but I had a really fun time writing it.