The Crimson Red Lily

There were eight more kilometres to go before Sid could reach Logan's place.

The Enfield Bullet rumbled along the main road, the engine's vibration crawling up Siddharth Wendigo's arms and into the back of his skull. His hangover pulsed in slow, cruel waves. Too little sleep. Too much whiskey. Too many ghosts.

A crooked roadside sign announced a small café ahead. The heat pressed down on the tarmac in shimmering sheets.

Sid pulled over.

The Bullet coughed as he killed the engine. He took off his helmet and sat still for a moment, palms against the handlebar, eyes closed. The world swayed gently, the kind of sway that whispered he should have stayed in bed, buried under darkness and denial.

From his headset, Imagine Dragons murmured directly into his brain.

"When you feel my heat, look into my eyes

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide..."

He jabbed pause and pulled the headset off.

The silence felt heavier than the song.

Sid climbed off the bike and walked into the café.

It was small and cramped. Plastic chairs, metal tables, faded posters of old movies on the wall. A television hung in the corner, tuned to a news channel. The fan above spun just badly enough to make the heat feel personal.

The smell of frying dough and stale oil mixed with sharp black tea. Somewhere in the back, someone chopped onions, each thud of the knife echoing his headache.

He went to the counter.

"Lemon tea. Extra hot," he said.

The café owner looked up. His gaze slid over Sid's sunglasses, beard, and tired posture, then recognition lit his face. His eyes softened with something between respect and pity.

"Of course, Mr Wendigo," he replied quietly.

Mr Wendigo.

The name still meant something. Just not what it used to.

Once, Siddharth had been the rising star of Westbrook's left. Dashanan's prodigy. The boy wonder who could talk policy and poetry in the same breath. A symbol of what the nation could be.

Now he was the broken angel the country watched out of habit. A cautionary tale with a famous last name.

He took a seat in the corner, away from the television. The café owner brought over the steaming glass of lemon tea and placed it gently on the table.

"On the house," he said softly.

Sid managed a nod. "Thank you."

A young waitress approached a moment later, clutching a small notebook. Her hands trembled with nervous excitement.

"Sir, can I... maybe... one photo? And your autograph?" she asked.

There was no accusation in her eyes. Only hope. The kind of innocent faith that used to terrify him more than hatred.

He took the notebook and pen.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Arwen"

He signed her name above his own, then leaned in for a quick selfie. He tried to smile. His face remembered the shape but not the feeling.

"My father always says you gave people hope," she said.

Sid almost laughed. It came out as a breath instead.

"Tell him I said hi," he replied.

She left, beaming.

On the television, footage of burning streets and crowds filled the screen. The newsreader's voice cut through the café.

"Dashanan's funeral riot is now considered the largest civil unrest in Westbrook since the Arkine incident of 2013. Once again, the country is divided over his legacy. Right-wing leaders insist peace can finally return. The opposition claims the balance has been shattered beyond repair."

The café owner hurried to grab the remote and muted the sound, shooting Sid an uneasy glance, as if apologizing for reality.

Sid looked up at the screen.

Arkine.

Astela.

Rhea.

"I was there," he said, almost to himself.

He took a long sip of lemon tea. It burned his tongue on the way down. Not enough fire to cauterize anything.

He finished the glass in a few gulps, nodded at the owner, and stepped back into the heat.

Helmet.

Headset.

Ignition.

The Bullet roared back to life. Sid eased it off the shoulder and onto the thinning road. The main highway soon narrowed, swallowed by trees that closed in on both sides like dark, watching soldiers.

He hit play again.

"They say it's what you make

I say it's up to fate

It's woven in my soul

I need to let you go..."

The road ahead blurred.

His mind did what it always did when this song played.

It went back.

18 MAY 2013

ASTELA FIELD, ARKINE

The air above the Astela field felt electrically charged, as if the sky itself was holding its breath.

The 13th General Election had turned Westbrook into an argument too big for one room. For the first time in decades, the ruling party's majority was at risk. Their fortress states, their strongholds built on fear and religion, were showing cracks.

Arkine was their crown jewel of manipulation.

Rural.

Poor.

Kept obedient with racist whispers and staged riots.

The last place anyone expected Dashanan to choose as the grand finale of his campaign tour.

Which was exactly why he chose it.

He stood on the makeshift stage in Astela, white shirt rolled to the elbows, hair streaked with silver, voice already seasoned by a lifetime of arguments. The field in front of him was full to the horizon. Farmers with sun-cracked skin. Factory workers with grease-stained hands. Students clutching homemade signs. Mothers with children propped on their hips. Old men who had seen elections come and go and never believed any of them mattered.

"Hear me, citizens of Arkine," his voice thundered through the speakers. "How long will they use race and religion to keep us obedient?"

The crowd answered with a roar.

"How long will they claim the Merfolk are cared for, while the money meant for you disappears into the pockets of a chosen few?"

Boos. Curses. Heads shaking. Eyes burning.

Sid stood in the crowd then. No sunglasses. No beard. Clean shaven, crisp shirt, rolled sleeves. Younger by nine years, but older in belief.

He watched his mentor at the mic and felt the old ignition in his chest.

Dashanan raised his hand.

"They tell you special funds exist. Show me where. Show me who received them. Show me one village that climbed out of poverty because of these promises."

Someone shouted, "None of us!"

Dashanan smiled sadly.

"Exactly. They do not uplift you. They use you."

A murmur rolled through the crowd. It was not surprise. It was recognition finally given language.

"Stand with me," he called. "Not as Merfolk. Not as Valan. Not as Ashen. Stand as Westbrookian. If we break Arkine's chains, we break the spine of their fear."

The field erupted.

At the edge of the crowd, police lines held. Riot shields up. Batons resting but ready. Their faces were unreadable from afar.

Sid's gaze kept drifting to them.

Dashanan's voice faded slightly from Sid's awareness as he scanned the perimeter. More police than necessary. More vehicles. A line of lorries with riot control markings parked a little too close to the stage.

His stomach tightened.

The crowd roared again. The stage lights shifted and something bright moved into the frame.

Rhea.

She stepped forward beside Dashanan as if she belonged beside him and nowhere else.

Cameras surged toward her. The crowd's roar changed, not louder but more focused. Admiration. Anticipation. Gravity.

She wore a midnight blue suit, cut sharp and elegant. A single white lily corsage was pinned near her heart. Under the warm Astela evening light, the petals glowed like a small moon.

Her hair was pinned up, uncluttered, revealing the firm line of her jaw and the intelligent fire in her eyes. At twenty nine, she was already a legend. The youngest Education Minister in Westbrook's history. The woman who had dismantled racist quotas and replaced them with policies that finally gave poor kids, Ashen and Valan and Merfolk, a chance.

The media called Dashanan the Firebrand.

They called Rhea the future Prime Minister candidate.

To Sid, she was simply Rhea.

His Rhea.

The woman who had once fallen asleep on his shoulder reading policy drafts at two in the morning.

She took the mic from Dashanan, fingers brushing his. For a fraction of a second, something passed between them. A familiarity. A recognition deeper than politics.

The crowd read it as mutual respect.

The tabloids later called it a partnership of minds.

Rumour mills would go further.

She smiled at the people.

"Arkine," she began, her voice smooth but firm, "I am not here to promise that I will save you. I am here to remind you that you can save yourselves."

The crowd quieted, drinking in each word.

"I grew up in a household that was told people like us should never aim too high," she continued. "I was told certain schools were not for me. Certain jobs were not for me. A certain life was not for me."

She glanced at Dashanan. For a moment, her face softened the way a daughter's might when she mentions the person who changed her life trajectory.

"He told me they were wrong."

The sentence was simple. The look was not.

Sid watched Dashanan's profile. The way he looked at her. Pride. A hint of guilt. Something unspoken behind his eyes.

People around Sid whispered.

"She is like his reflection."

"Look at the way she speaks. Same fire."

"No one knows her father for sure. She was raised in the orphanage run by Dashanan's foundation. Always wondered if she is somehow related to him. They speak almost similarly."

That old rumour drifted again through the crowd like smoke.

Sid focused on Rhea's voice to shut it out.

She spoke of classrooms. Jobs. Hospitals. Children who should never have to know what a racial quota even is. Her words turned policy into human faces. She named no enemy outright, but anyone listening understood exactly whose power was being challenged.

Among the thousands stood Isadora.

Plain shirt. Worn sandals. Hands chapped from work. A face that would not stand out in any crowd.

Isadora from Arkine.

She had come because someone in the market told her there was a rally. Because they whispered that this man, Dashanan, was different. That he spoke for people like her, not at them.

She had spent years surviving the city's underbelly. Men. Debt. Shame. The slow death of her dream to own a small restaurant. A place where no one would touch her without consent. A place where hunger was met with warmth, not a price.

But tonight, standing among thousands, listening to Dashanan and Rhea, something cracked open in her chest.

When Rhea talked about girls no longer needing to apologize for existing, Isadora felt her throat close.

A life with dignity.

It sounded like fiction.

On the far side of the crowd, Sid felt hands reach for him. A touch on his elbow. Another on his shoulder. Someone grabbed his forearm, eyes wet, saying, "We need you too, Sid."

He smiled and nodded, letting them. To them, he was the natural successor. Dashanan's political heir. The boy genius who could one day sit in Parliament and tear the ruling party apart law by law.

He did not feel like any of those things.

His attention kept snapping back to the police.

He excused himself from the cluster of supporters and moved toward the perimeter. The closer he got, the more clearly he saw.

Riot control shields lined up. Tear gas launchers. Batons. Helmets. Armoured vehicles pulled close in a semicircle. No protest had broken out. No bottles thrown. No chants of violence. The worst thing happening in the field was people chanting for equality.

"Inspector General," Sid called.

The IG of Arkine turned. Tall, clean uniform, eyes like glass.

"Mr Wendigo," he said. "Big night."

Sid flicked his gaze over the units behind him. "This seems excessive."

"Precaution," the IG replied smoothly. "High profile figures. Sensitive state. We are here to maintain peace."

"There has been no disturbance," Sid countered.

The IG smiled. "And we would like to keep it that way."

It was an answer that sounded reasonable and felt wrong.

Sid forced a tight smile and turned away.

He did not believe him.

Back near the stage, the energy rose. Dashanan and Rhea stood together, hands clasped in the air, as the crowd chanted both their names. The cameras loved them. The people loved them. Somewhere in those lights and faces, the ruling party saw something they could not afford.

Hope.

Sid began pushing back toward the crowd. Toward the stage. Toward Rhea.

The first shot rang out just as he reached the densest part of the field.

It was not fired by a protester.

The crack of the gunshot split the evening in half.

For a second, the crowd froze.

Then the tear gas canisters launched.

The hiss of gas overhead. The sudden sting in the air. A white cloud blooming and swallowing faces. A child's shriek. A woman coughing so hard she dropped to her knees.

Panic moved faster than noise.

The left flank surged, bodies slamming against barricades. Police lines broke. Riot lorries rolled forward, engines snarling. More gunshots. People screamed without words.

Sid's heart slammed against his ribs.

"Move!" someone yelled behind him.

He did not know if they were telling him to run or to get out of the way. He pushed against the tide instead, forcing his way toward the stage.

Boots. Knees. Elbows. He ducked under flailing arms, stepped over someone who had fallen and did not get up. The acrid sting of gas clawed at his lungs. His eyes burned. Every breath tasted like metal and smoke.

On the slope near the field, the stairs to higher ground became a funnel of bodies. People clawed over each other to reach safety. Some slipped. Some were trampled. The sound of bones hitting concrete mixed with the sound of gunfire.

Isadora found herself near the rear, pressed hard between strangers.

She tried to move toward the stairs, but the crush was too intense. Her feet barely touched the ground. A man elbowed her in the ribs. Another pushed her aside. The air grew thin. Panic rose like bile.

She had survived men hitting her. Survived nights at the brothel. Survived the slow humiliation of selling her body to stay alive.

She did not want to die on a staircase in a stampede.

Her survival instinct screamed.

She shoved sideways, pouring all her strength into one movement, breaking free from the flow just enough to slip along the edge. Her hand scraped metal. A gap at the fence. A narrow space between the railing and a block of concrete.

She squeezed through.

On the other side, a small alley ran behind a row of buildings. Abandoned crates. Overflowing bins. No gunshots yet.

She ran.

Her slippers slapped against the cracked pavement. She did not stop until the sounds of the crowd were muffled by bricks and distance.

Only then did she lean against a wall, chest heaving, sweat and gas stinging her eyes.She did not know where safety was. She only knew one thing. The state had fired into a crowd that had come to listen, not to fight.

And they had done it without hesitation.

Back on the main field, Sid kept pushing.

He could not see the stage clearly through the chaos, but he saw flashes.

Police moving in tighter rings.

Some shoving people away.

Some raising weapons.

"Sid!" someone screamed. Maybe. Or maybe his mind filled it in.

Gunshots cracked again. Closer now.

He forced his way past a toppled barricade and stumbled into the inner ring, where the stage's shadow fell.

He saw them then.

Dashanan was sitting on the ground, back against a concrete wall at the side of the stage. His white shirt was soaked. Not all of it looked like his blood.

In his lap lay Rhea.

Or what was left of her.

Dashanan's hands trembled as they tried to hold her together. He looked up at Sid, eyes wide with shock that had not yet become grief.

"She pushed me down," he rasped. "They fired. She jumped in front. She... she took it."

Rhea's suit was torn. Her hair was matted with blood. The right side of her face was a ruin of shattered bone and flesh. The blast had been close. Too close.

Sid's body moved forward without his permission.

His mind refused what his eyes saw.

This was Rhea. The woman who could argue education policy for hours and still remember to ask if he had eaten. The woman whose laughter had once made him believe the country could be saved. The woman who had stood on this very stage minutes ago, smiling with a white lily on her lapel.

The lily was no longer white.

Petal by petal, it had drunk up her blood until it glowed a deep, vivid red against the dark blue of her suit.

A crimson lily blooming over her heart.

Everything around Sid went dull and distant.

The tear gas.

The screaming.

The chaos.

All of it blurred until there was only the red flower, the broken face, and the wet rasp of Dashanan's breath.

This was not just the death of a leader.

This was an execution, and someone had chosen very carefully where to aim.

Dashanan's voice shook.

"There was no threat from the crowd," he whispered. "They were unarmed. They only had flags and banners. They wanted to listen."

He looked at Sid like a man who had seen a god die by accident.

"They fired at the stage, Sid. At us."

Sid's legs felt hollow.

He knelt beside them. He did not touch Rhea. His hands hovered in the air above her, useless.

He caught a faint trace of her perfume beneath the blood and smoke. The scent she wore on the night they first kissed in a corridor outside Parliament. Soft floral, almost innocent.

The same perfume that haunted his dreams on the private beach.

His chest cramped so hard he thought something inside had torn.

The world inside him split cleanly into two.

Before.

After.

Westbrook had lost its brightest young leader. The one who had turned classrooms into battlegrounds and policy into mercy.

Sid had lost his future.

He did not cry there, beside the stage, with cameras in the distance and chaos all around. He felt something far colder coil around his ribs instead.

A silent, heavy pact with grief.

Later, the ruling party would call it unfortunate collateral.

Later, talk shows would speculate that the crowd had turned violent.

Later, files would vanish and footage would be "lost due to technical error."

But Sid would always remember the smell of gas, the sound of the first shot, and the way that white lily turned crimson in a matter of seconds.

A promise had died in Astela that day.

Not just between lovers.

Between a country and its youth.

A car horn blared behind him.

Sid jerked back to the present. The forest road snapped into focus again, sunlight flickering through the trees. He realized he had been slowing down without noticing. The car behind him flashed its headlights impatiently.

His cheeks were wet.

He wiped the tears away with the back of his glove and forced air into his lungs. The song was still playing in his ears.

"Your eyes, they shine so bright

I want to save that light

I can't escape this now

Unless you show me how..."

He twisted the throttle.

The Bullet surged forward, swallowing the remaining distance between him and Logan's hideout.

The past stayed where it always was, coiled tightly inside his chest, but the road ahead did not care.

Logan was waiting.

Dashanan was dead.

Westbrook was burning again.