Though I doubt it’ll do me any good surviving this if the enemy captures me. Torture, humiliation, and a slow death likely wait at their hands.

We burst through the front door. Inside, plumes of smoke and dust hover in the air.

At our backs a car screeches to a halt and car doors slam. They’re practically nipping at our heels.

I still have the guard’s gun, and I can’t help swinging around and firing off a shot. My bullet hits a Resistance fighter square in the chest.

Finally made one goddamn mark.

“Come on, my queen.” Hands are on me, dragging me back.

I rotate around and begin running again. “Where to?” I shout.

“Montes’s map room.”

“Is the king still alive?” I ask. I hate the way my pulse jumps when I ask the question. I’ve been trying to shove him out of my mind. Worrying can sabotage a soldier so quickly. In my experience, the harder you think about your fears, the likelier they are to manifest themselves.

“Aye,” one of them says.

Relief courses through me. I’ve gone from wanting the man to die in the worst possible way to fearing for his safety. I’m sure there’s some unhealthy explanation for this, but I am also far beyond caring. I’m a recovering monster that cares about another soulless creature.

Behind us I hear shouts, gunshots, and the sound of shattering objects. Anything that the king once held sacred is likely getting desecrated.

“There she is! I see the queen!” someone yells on the other end of the hall.

The soldiers tighten their guard around me. “Keep moving!” one of them shouts even as bullets begin to spray. “We’re almost there!” I sense rather than see the soldier at my back go down. The tight circle around me shifts to close the space.

We take a sharp turn and the firing stops. The silence is a welcome relief until I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of an object clattering against the floor behind us.

“Grenade!” I shout.

My men shove me to the ground. I split my lip at the impact, but I don’t register the pain before the grenade goes off. I feel the heat on my back, hear the yells and groans of the men who’ve taken the hit, breathe in the smoldering air.

My leg burns, but that’s it.

The Resistance soldiers are already moving—I can hear their footfalls—and most of the soldiers that surround me are still.

I can tell the men above me are dead. I roll their bloodied bodies off me. Something sharp lodges itself in my throat at their instantaneous decision to cover me; they surely knew they were sacrificing themselves.

“Anyone alive?” I shout.

“Aye,” comes a pained voice beside me. Someone else grunts.