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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𝖝𝖝𝖝𝖛𝖎𝖎𝖎. What Montfort Allows
Valencia
THE AIR IS STRANGE. Thin. Oddly clean, as if removed from the rest of the world.
Valencia smells it around the edges of her iron, her silver, her chrome. And of course the metallic tang of the jets, their engines still hot from the journey. The feel of them is overpowering, even after long hours cramped in a Brekker carrier. So many plates and pipes and screws. On the flight, Valencia spent longer than she cares to admit counting rivets and tracing metal seams. If she tore there, or there, she could send Matt or Annabel or anyone she wished plummeting to their death. Even herself. She had to sit near a Clair lord for much of the trip, and his snores rivaled thunder. Jumping out of a jet almost seemed like a better choice.
Despite the time of year, the air is colder than she expected, and goosebumps rise beneath the sheer silk draped around her shoulders. She took care to a dress as a princess should, even though now she suffers the chill for it. This is her first state visit, both as a representative of the Rift and as the future queen of Norta. If that cursed future comes to pass, she must look the part, impressive and formidable from head to toe. She has to be prepared. She's well beyond the bounds of the world she understands. She inhales again, sucking down an oddly shallow breath. Even breathing here is unfamiliar.
It isn't late enough for sunset, but the mountains are so tall, and already the light wanes. Long shadows race across the landing field cut deep into the valley. Valencia feels as if she could touch the sky. Run her jeweled claws across the clouds and make the sky bleed red starlight. Instead, she keeps her hands at her sides, her many rings and bracelets hidden beneath the folds of her skirt and sleeves. Decoration only. Pretty, useless, silent things. Just like her parents want her to be.
At the far edge of the jet runway, the land drops away in a cliff. The carved edges of the mountainsides frame the horizon like a window. Matt stands silhouetted, looking eastward, where evening falls in shades of hazy purple. The mountain range casts shadows of its own, and all the world seem to fade in a darkness of Montfort's making.
Matt isn't alone. His uncle, the infinitely odd Anderson lord, stands at his side. He jots something in a notebook, moving with the excited, nervous energy of a tiny bird. Two guards, one in Roloson colors, orange and red, and the other in Brekker yellow, flank them from a respectful distance. The exiled prince stares out, still but for the wind in his scarlet cape. Reversing his house colors was a smart decision, to distance himself from everything Chris is.
Valencia shudders at the memory of that pale face, those blue eyes, how every part of him seemed to burn with an all-consuming flame. There is nothing in Chris but hunger.
