war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖎. Throne of Frozen Flames
Maeve
MAEVE RISES to her feet when he lets her.
The chain jerks her up, pulling on the thorned collar at her throat. Its points dig in, not enough to draw blood ━ not yet. But she's already bleeding from the wrists. Slow wounds, worn from days of unconscious captivity in rough, ripping manacles. The color stains her white sleeves dark crimson and bright scarlet, fading from old blood to new in a testament to her ordeal. To show Chris' court how much she's suffered already.
He stands over her, his expression unreadable. The tips of his father's crown make him seem taller, as if the iron is growing out of his skull. It gleams, each point a curling flame of black metal shot with bronze and silver. Maeve focuses on the bitterly familiar thing so she doesn't have to look in his eyes. He draws her in anyway, tugging on another chain she can't see. Only feel.
One pale hand circles her wounded wrist, somehow gentle. In spite of herself, her eyes snap to his face, unable to stay away. His smile is anything but kind. Slim and sharp as a razor, biting at Maeve with every tooth. And his eyes are worst of all. Matt's eyes, Nick's eyes, Cedric's eyes, Astraea's eyes. Once she thought them cold, made of living ice. Now she knows better. The hottest fires burn blue, and Chris' eyes are no exception.
The shadow of the flame. He is certainly ablaze, but darkness eats at his edges. Bruise-like splotches of black and blue surround eyes bloodshot with silver veins. He has not slept. He's thinner than Maeve remembers, leaner, crueler. His hair, as dark as his soul, has reached his ears, curling at the ends, and his cheeks are still smooth. Sometimes she forgets how young he is. How young they both are. Only teenagers. Beneath her dress, the C brand on her collarbone stings.
Chris turns quickly, Maeve's chain tight in his fist, forcing her to move with him. A moon circling a planet.
"Bear witness to this prisoner, this victory," he says, squaring his shoulders to the vast audience before them. Three hundred Silvers, at the very least, nobles and civilians, guards and officers. Maeve is painfully aware of the Sentinels at the edge of her vision, their fiery robes a constant reminder of her quickly shrinking cage. Her Salem guards are never out of sight either, their white uniforms blinding, their silencing ability suffocating. She might choke on the pressure of their presence.
The king's voice echoes across the opulent stretches of Caesar's Square, reverberating through a crowd that responds in kind. There must be microphones and speakers somewhere, to carry Chris' bitter words throughout the city, and no doubt the rest of the country.
"Here is the leader of the Scarlet Guard, Maeve Deuveux." In spite of her predicament, she almost snorts. Leader. Astraea's death has not stopped his lies. "A murderer, a terrorist, a great enemy to our kingdom. And now she kneels before us, bare to her blood."
