Anomaly ━━ Matt vs Chris Sturniolo¹

━━━━━ 𝖊𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊: KNEEL

𝖊𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊: KNEEL

DAYS PASS. At least, Maeve thinks they're days. She spends most of her time in dull blindness, subject to the sounder. It doesn't hurt so much anymore. Her jailers have perfected the so-called dosage, using it to keep her unconscious, but not in skull-splitting pain. Every time she comes out of it, her vision spotting to show men in white robes, they turn the dial, and the device clicks again. The insect burrows in her brain, clicking, always clicking. Sometimes, she feels pulled, but never enough to fully wake. Sometimes, she hears Chris' voice. Then the white prison turns to black and red, both colors too strong to stand.

This time when she comes around, nothing clicks. The world is too bright, and slightly blurry, but she doesn't fall back under. This time, she truly wakes up.

Her chains are clear, probably plastic or even diamondglass. They bind her wrists and ankles, too tight for comfort, but loose enough to allow circulation. The manacles are the worst part, sharp and grating against the sensitive flesh. Worn wounds, shallow from stinging, ooze blood. The red seems to bite in contrast to her pale shift dress, and no one bothers to wipe it away. Now that Chris can't hide what she is, he must show it for all the world, for whatever twisting scheme he has now. The chains clink, and she realizes she's in an armored transport, a moving one. This must be used for prisoners, because there are no windows, and the walls have rings. Her chains are hooked to no one, swaying slightly.

Across from her are the two men in white, both bald as eggs. They bear a striking resemblance to Instructor Salem. His brothers or cousins, most likely. That explains the stifling sensation and Maeve's difficulty breathing. These men are silencing her ability, holding her hostage in her own skin. Strange, that they need chains too. Without her lightning, she's just a seventeen-year-old girl ━ almost eighteen now. She can't help but smile in bitterness. She'll spend her birthday as a prisoner of her own volition. This time last year, she thought she'd be marching to the war front. Now, she's heading who knows where, locked into a rolling transport with two men who would very much like to kill her. Not much of an upgrade, she thinks.

And she guesses Chris was right. He warned her they would spend her next birthday together. It seems he is a man of his word.

"What day is it?" she asks, but neither responds. They don't even blink. Their focus on her, on silencing what she is, is perfect and unbreakable.

Outside, a strange, dull roar begins to grow. She can't place it, and doesn't want to waste energy trying. She's sure she'll find out soon enough.

She's not wrong. After a few more minutes, the transport eases to a stop, and the rear door is wrenched open. The roar is a crowd, an eager one. For a terrifying moment, Maeve wonders if she's being sent back to the Bowl of Bones, to the arena where Chris tried to have her and Matt killed. He must want to finish the job. Someone unlatches her chains, yanking her forward. She almost falls out of the transport, but one of the Salem silencers catches her at the last moment. Not out of kindness but necessity. She's supposed to look dangerous, like the lightning girl they've all been told about. No one cares about a weak prisoner. No one jeers at a sniveling coward, a scared little girl. They want to see a conquered brought lower, a living trophy. For that is what she is now.

She willingly stepped into this cage.

She always does.

Maeve's body quivers when she realizes where she is.

The Bridge of Archeon. Once, she watched it crumble and burn, but the symbol of power and strength has been rebuilt. And she's meant to walk across it, her feet cut and bare, her chains and captors close at hand. She stares at the ground, unable to look up. She doesn't want to see the faces of so many people, so many cameras. She can't let them see her break. That is what Chris wants, and she will never give it to him.

She thought it would be easy to put on a parade ━ after all, she's back in the same place it all began, where she spoke out about the Measures. She should be used to this by now. But this time, it's so much worse. The tremors of relief she felt in the forest clearing are gone now, giving way to dread. Every eye crawls over her, looking for the cracks in her famous face. They find many. She tries not to listen to their shouting, and for a few seconds, she succeeds. Then she realizes what most of them are saying, and the horrible things they hold up for her to see. Names and photographs ━ all the Silvers dead or missing. She had a hand in all their fates. They scream at her, throwing words more harmful than any object.

By the time she reaches the far end of the Bridge and the crowded Caesar's Square, the tears come too fast and too hard to stop. Everyone sees. With every step, her body tightens. She reaches for what she cannot have, for the ability that cannot save her. She can barely breathe, as if the noose is already tight around her neck.

There are many gathered on the steps of Whitefire Palace, eager to see her downfall. The nobles and generals are all in mourning black, this time for the queen. Valencia's own gown is hard to ignore, midnight spikes of crystal, glinting as she moves.

One person alone wears grey, the only color that suits him. Kol. Somehow, he stands with the rest of them and watches Maeve's approach. His eyes hold an apology she will never accept. I never should have let him go, she thinks, cursing herself.

Once, he said she would rise alone. Now she knows he was lying. For she has certainly fallen.

The front of the platform is empty, raised above all else. A good place for an execution, if Chris is so inclined. He sits there, waiting, seated on a throne Maeve doesn't recognize.

Her jailers pull her toward him, forcing her to approach the king. She wonders if he'll murder her in front of everyone, and paint the steps of his palace in her blood. She flinches as he stands. They face each other as betrothed people would, stark and alone before a crowd of faces. She remembers, all that time ago, when they stood like this as he asked for her hand in marriage. But this isn't a wedding. This could very well be Maeve's funeral, her ending.

Something glints in his grip. His father's sword? An executioner's blade? She feels shivering cold as he clamps something around her neck. A collar. Jeweled, gilded, sharp-edged, a beautiful thing of horrors. Her blurred tears make it hard to see, until she's sure of nothing but the black-armored king before her, and the brand scalding her collarbone.

There's a chain attached to the collar. A leash. Like a dog. He holds it firmly in his grip, and she expects him to drag her from the platform. Instead, he stands firm.

He tugs smartly, testing the chain in hand, making Maeve stumble toward him. The points of the collar dig in. She almost chokes.

"You put her body on display." His lips brush her ear as he forces the words through clenched teeth. Pain hums in his voice. "I'll do the same to you."

His expression is unreadable, but his meaning is clear. With one hand, he points at his feet. His fingers are even paler than she remembers.

Maeve does as he says.

She kneels.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
AH!! what an ending...

to anyone that has read this, i'm so so grateful for you and your support — whether that be just by reading, voting, or commenting, it all means the world to me. this book may be a flop, but idc bc it's my baby and the small amount of support it's given is more than enough. thank you thank you thank you

ALSO!!! SEQUEL!!! book two is called "fatality" and its published on my profile now. the first chapter should be out sometime this weekend, i think ❤️

i love you 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻