“Your Majesty!” Olivia called.
But she didn’t stop. She didn’t look back.
She just flung herself from her saddle and burst through the tower door.
Two startled guards straightened at once, their eyes wide. “Your Majesty?”
“As you were,” she murmured through numb lips, already sweeping past.
She took the narrow stone steps leading upward two at a time, skirts gathered in her gloved fists. The stairwell spiraled sharply. The torches lining the walls sputtered as she passed. Her breath came fast, too loud in the confined space. Her riding boots thudded against each step.
At last, she reached the top.
Shoving open the heavy wooden door, she exploded out onto the ramparts, where the wind welcomed her with biting fingers. But she didn’t feel the cold anymore. The only thing she could feel was that ache beneath her sternum, widening with every beat of her heart.
Beyond the walls of the palace, Goldreach spread before her—a breathtaking vista of tiled rooftops and labyrinthine streets allleading to the harbor and the sparkling waters of the Straight beyond.
But closer at hand, down on the road leading out of the palace, was him.
Her Crow.
He rode at the front of the column next to Sir Easome, a stark slash of black against a sea of blue tabards. Unmistakable. Even from that distance, even surrounded by hundreds of men, he stood out. Grim. Straight-backed. Unyielding.
Her chest clenched further.
Footsteps scuffed against stone behind her. Panted breaths broke the stillness.
“Sera!” Duchess Edith gasped as she and Olivia burst out of the tower to join her there on the ramparts, a handful of Queensguard and Lord Tiberius not far behind. “Are you all right?”
No. That single, traitorous word lodged in her throat, fighting to be loosed.
She swallowed it back and forced herself to smile. “I am well,” she lied, turning her attention back to the procession below. “I merely thought I would have a better view from up here.”
In the next breath, Olivia was at her side, saying nothing. No quips danced from her best friend’s lips. Instead, the other woman simply took her hand and threaded their fingers together.
Duchess Edith mirrored the gesture on her other side, her grip gentle but unyielding.
Throat burning, Seraphina squeezed back.
Tiberius’s voice stirred just behind her, his tone too light for the moment. “Surely, the army can march south without you having to sacrifice your comfort to watch them do it, Your Majesty. Let us return indoors so you can best me at cards.”
She flinched. “These men intend to die for me, my lord. For their sake, I can endure a little cold.” The air behind her shifted. The baron retreating by a step, perhaps? She could only imagine the flicker of annoyance playing across his features at having been rebuked.
Why had she allowed him to accompany her to the send-off? She didn’t know.
Years of habit, perhaps? Old loyalties? Because despite everything…he was still one of her oldest friends?
Even if she was swiftly coming to dread his company—to dread what favor he might ask for next—Tiberius Beaumont was still familiar.
Safe.
Drawing in a deep breath, she softened her tone and promised, “We will play cards later. But for right now…” Her gaze locked on the distant speck of black armor riding away from her, off to the front, perhaps never to return.
And I did not even say goodbye.
“Right now,” she whispered, hating the way her voice cracked around the words, “I just want to watch a little longer.”
Please, Lord, watch over him. Keep him safe.
