“Yes.” Julian nods solemnly.
“No.” Cassius shakes his head. “He’s not a Yorkton supporter? Julian, tell me it isn’t so! Darrow! Darrow, how could you be? They never win a game! Priam, are you hearing this?”
“You don’t understand how much this means to Cassius. After Julian’s death ... He has to succeed. He cannot be remembered solely for what happened. He can’t.”
Why do I care so much?
The hollow abyss of despair calls to me. The voice that found me in the Jackal’s prison tomb. Reaper, Reaper, Reaper. Look what you have done. Look what you are. In your shadow, nothing can survive.
Before I can stop myself, I hail Mustang’s private frequency. It takes her twenty seconds to answer. “What is it?” Hesitation haunts her voice.
“Stay alive,” I say.
A pause. Emotion? Annoyance?
“You too.”
She closes the com link.
“Cassius.” I nod.
“Cheers to your victory. I was worried you were all brains,” Cassius laughs. His golden curls are not even tousled. He throws an arm around me and surveys the room with a wrinkled nose. He feigns this nonchalance; I can tell he’s worried.
One by one, the fifty seats fill. And bit by bit, his face darkens as each chance for Julian to join the table disappears. When the last seat fills, he does not move. It is a cold anger that radiates. Not hot as I thought it would be.
“I have lost the invincible armada,” he says, stepping back, his hand tightening on his razor. Behind him, the display shows Sevro’s trap ruining the main body of his fleet. “How can I go on? How can I bear this shame?”
These people are all about glory, victory, and family pride, yet they know nothing of love. Nothing of family. These are false families. They are just teams. The ArchGovernor has not even said hello to his children. This vile man cares more to speak with me.