Keeper of the Lost Cities: Rebuild [COMPLETED]

Chapter Eleven - BIANA

Biana wished she were invisible. Being a Vanisher, that shouldn't have been so hard.

"Isn't she the Vacker who was obsessed with the Vacker Legacy?"

"She should disappear, like her traitor brother."

"Look at those scars—she must have made Vespera hurt her so it would look like she was on our side."

Biana had chosen a sleeveless dress the color of cinnacream; her pale arms were bare, her shoulder blades exposed. As well as the thin white scars that criss-crossed her body, scars she had nearly died for.

The elves were frightened. While Biana and her friends hadn't been able to forget the Neverseen, most people did.

Until a new rebel group appeared. Then they were reminded. Reminded of the terror, the hate, the bloodshed. All of those who were lost...

The elves had a right to be afraid. But not of her. She was not a traitor.

They would see that. She would show them.

So she lifted her chin and faced the whispers with dignity.

Traitors didn't walk with their heads held high.

Traitors didn't look the gossipers in the eyes.

Traitors didn't smile. Traitors were not unashamed.

Biana was unashamed. She was a Vacker, yes, part of a family that had made grave mistakes in the past. But her ancestors did not make her who she was. She made her who she was. And if she didn't want to be a traitor, then she didn't have to be. If she didn't want to be embarrassed, she didn't have to be. If she didn't want to be weak, she didn't have to be.

She was not weak. She was strong.

And she would show them.

Tuning out the accusations—it was so hard to think with all that chatter going on—she moved to the edge of the street, near the Seat of Eminence, in search of familiar faces. Her eyes almost immediately latched onto a mess of strawberry-blond hair sticking above everyone else's heads.

The unproductive side of her brain couldn't help but remember in impossible detail his lips on hers. She wondered if this was what a photographic memory was like. Except, in this case, she only remembered their "moments."

The crowd thinned around her as if she were a disease, though this time she paid little heed as her fiancé met her gaze. She smiled, hoping he would respond with his own dazzling grin. But he only walked over with a half-hearted, "Hey."

"Wow, I would've thought you would want to see me since, you know, we're in love," she teased, hoping that would garner at least a smirk.

He only sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "The Purities just marched, Biana."

She pulled her mouth into a frown, the effort harder than it should have been. It wasn't that she was deliriously happy—although she probably should have been, given she was engaged—she was just... used to smiling. The smiles fought the whispers. They fought the rumors.

You don't have to fight DEX, she reminded herself, forcing her shoulders to relax. She was distinctly aware of the people surging around them, going back to their work or homes. The paranoid side of her expected one to grab her, scream in her face, tell her how much she deserved to die.

Dex will protect me. She hooked her arm through his, the touch steadying her.

"You're not usually so pessimistic," she said. "We're all doing what we can to stop the Purities—legally. In the meantime, you can't worry yourself sick. We all have lives to live, too."