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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𝖑𝖎𝖎. Who to Blame
Chris
CHRIS HATES THE WAVES. They offend him.
Every heave of blue against the hill of the boat makes his stomach toss, and it's entirely too difficult to remain still, silent, the image of reserved strength he needs to be. Perhaps Reva or her mother is roiling the sea on purpose. In punishment for him risking Reva's life in Harbor Bay. Even though she survived and escaped easily enough. Survived, escaped, and lost the city to my perfect brother. He wouldn't put it past the Lakelander queen. She's even more powerful than her daughter. Certainly she can control the rise and fall of the ocean around them. Chris spots her crafts ahead, six of them. Small but formidable warships. Less of her armada than he expected.
His lip curls in frustration and anger. Can no one simply do as they're told? Even with her daughter in the balance, leading the failed defense of the city, Queen Marella hasn't brought her full strength. A trickle of heat bursts through Chris, a tongue of angry fire down his spine. He restrains it quickly.
The constant motion makes it more difficult to keep his grip on the rail of the deck. It drains his focus. And when he loses focus, his head becomes less . . . quiet.
Harbor Bay is gone.
Another thing lost to Matt, the familiar voice whispers. Another failure, Chris.
Astraea's voice had grown fainter as time passes, but she never truly recedes. Sometimes Chris wonders if she planted a seed in him, leaving it to bloom only after her death. He doesn't know if whispers can ever do that. But it's an easy explanation for the murmurs that rot and rattle around his skull.
Sometimes, he's glad for her voice. Her guidance from beyond the grave. The advice is always small; sometimes, it's something she used to say before she died. Sometimes, it could be just memories. But he wakes up far too often from uneasy sleep, her words ringing in his ears, for her voice to simply be a product of his own mind. She's here with him still, whether he wants her to be or not. He calls it a comfort, even when she is anything but.
All that matters is the throne, she whispers again, as she whispered over the years. Her voice is almost lost to the swell of the ocean. Part of Chris strains to hear, and part of him tries not to listen. And what you have given to get it.
That is today's refrain. It repeats as Chris' flagship sails toward the waiting armada, cutting through the waves as the sun sets low and red against the distant coast. Harbor Bay still trails smoke, teasing him on the horizon.
At least her voice is gentle today. When Chris falters, when he slows down, it turns sharp, a fraying, splintering shriek, steel on steel. Glass popping in the heat of flame. Sometimes, it's so awful he checks to make sure his eyes and ears aren't bleeding. They never do. Her words never exist beyond the cage of his head.
