T here was no celebration among the Council once Max was formally given the title. Everyone understood how solemn of an event this was.
Congratulations and well wishes were murmured like condolences at a funeral. I gave Max a long, firm embrace, and he did not say a word.
Iya insisted that Max address the crowd that gathered outside the Palace. “They need to hear from you,” he said. “They need leadership.”
I thought Max might protest. But he drew himself up, looked out over the balcony to the people gathering beneath, and said, quietly, “Alright,” as if to himself.
Iya opened the glass doors leading to the balcony. Max approached them, but did not go through. He cast me an uncertain glance. “Should I be embarrassed by…” He gestured to himself, and his disheveled appearance. “All of this?”
“No,” I said. “Never. You got that way because you’ve been out there helping them.”
“Not alone.” His knuckles brushed my cheek. “Come out there with me.”
I started to shake my head, but he said, “You are my partner. I don’t care about traditions.”
I wanted to argue with him—this wasn’t my country, it wasn’t my place
—but how could I, when he was looking at me like that?
We walked out onto the balcony hand-in-hand, and as we crossed through the doors I stole a single look at him—just one glance. He was a mess, dirty, sweaty, bloody. I could feel his hand shaking around mine, which he clutched the way one clutched a life raft out at sea. But the sun
outlined his profile, and his chin was lifted, and his gaze strong and clear. He was beautiful. So different than the man I had discovered drunk in his garden so long ago. And yet…
He glanced at me and gave me a little, nervous smile. Left side first.
…And yet the same. In all the best ways.
He went to the rail and a hush fell over those below. He still did not relinquish my hand, so we stood side by side, equal before a sea of people who were not mine—before Ara. This country had saved me and damned me. Used me and freed me. When I first came here, I thought everything about it seemed so different from my homeland. But the way those below us looked at Max was the same way my people looked at me.
Perhaps people everywhere, in some ways, were the same. “I don’t know what to say,” Max said, beneath his breath.
I could have said, “It’s nothing.” Just sound strong yet relatable, proud yet humble, grand yet honest, hopeful yet realistic—all without seeming rehearsed. Simple, right?
Instead, I advised, “Just tell them the truth. What would you say to soldiers under your care who need encouragement?”
He swallowed, and I released his hand as he moved to the railing. “I’m not good with words,” he began.
Of course, that was his opening line.
“And perhaps that’s a blessing right now. We all have more pressing matters than this. By now, you’re all painfully aware of the challenge we face: an onslaught from an inhuman enemy. I could offer words of encouragement or promise victory. But I don’t make promises unless I’m certain I can keep them. The only promise I can make is that I will never lie to you.
“I understand how tragedy devours everything—hope, faith. Without hope, doing nothing seems the only worthwhile action. But doing nothing is a privilege not everyone has.”
His eyes met mine briefly. “She was right. And it pains me to say this, but we’ve lost the luxury of inaction. We face a force capable of tearing apart everything we know.
“I’ve fought in many wars, and perhaps I should speak of their glory or sacredness. But the truth is, I’ve hated them all. I’m convinced the world would be better without the bloodshed. And that’s why…””
He drew in a deep breath and let it out.
“That’s why I do not say it lightly when I ask you to fight with me. Not to destroy something, but to protect what we love. I’m asking you to fight for tomorrow. For those we lost yesterday and those we will lose in the morning. For those we lost in every war past. For those who deserved more.”
His voice had risen, his words growing stronger. He believed in this, in every word of it. And that fact alone meant more to me than any poetry ever could.
My eyes stung.
“I might be a fool for saying it,” he said. “But I believe we can be better than where we have been. I believe we can survive this, and survive it better, and give ourselves and our children a better version of ourselves. And that’s what we are fighting for, today. For a better, imperfect dawn after a long, imperfect night. I want to see that sunrise with you. Meet me there.”
Maybe in another life, one might have expected this speech to be met with a roar of applause. But instead, there was utter silence.
Uncertainty clenched in my chest as the seconds passed.
But then, in the crowd below, something sparked. The setting sun bounced off something shiny, bright enough that it took me a moment to discern what I was looking at. A group of young soldiers, gathered near the front of the pack, had raised their swords up above their heads.
Even from this distance, I could have sworn that Moth grinned as we met his eyes.
The others followed suit, a wave of glinting light cresting as the spectators raised their weapons—swords, axes, daggers. People raised brooms and hoes. They raised scarves and hats. Eyeglasses. And those who had nothing simply raised clenched fists to the sky.
No one cheered. No one shouted. But this—this swelling wave of silent, mournful solidarity—seemed more meaningful than any applause ever would.
I met Max’s eyes and raised Il’Sahaj, crimson butterflies unfurling from its blade and rising to the horizon.
And Max was the last to move. He looked out over the crowd, his throat bobbing. He raised his spear. The flames at its length matched the red of the sky, bright and true as a promise.
