Two Weeks Later
“The de la Croix fortress is both a testimony to Lothmeeran ingenuity and man’s penchant for paranoia. I have heard it said that King Hamon the First originally built the Dawnspire not only as a stronghold, but also as a love letter to his wife, Queen Francesca. But if this is cold, hard place was meant to be a love letter, then I tremble to think how fearsome the queen in question must have truly been.”
-Master Edvin Howard, former Steward
of the Spire, writing to a friend
Chapter fifty-nine
Seraphina
Aweek.
It had been a week of biting winds and stone-gray skies. A week of waking up in a bed that was not her own, in a fortress that felt more like a prison carved from the living rock of the mountain than a home.
Seraphina walked the drafty corridors of the Dawnspire, dressed in heavy wools and furs that still smelled of dust and times long past. Around her neck, Alyx draped in her familiar perch, her injured wing wrapped in clean bandages and tucked tightly against hercollarbone.
“The grain stores in the lower vaults are fuller than we anticipated,” Duke Percival announced, consulting the ledger in his hands as he matched her stride.
His cane clicked rhythmically against the stone floor—a sound that seemed to echo too loudly in the vast emptiness of their current wing. “Whatever faults Morris Finch may have as a steward, he is at least a hoarder. Coupled with the shipments the river lifts brought up yesterday, we have enough to feed the refugees for perhaps three months. Four, if we ration strictly.”
Seraphina nodded, though her gaze drifted to the narrow arrow slits that served as windows. Outside, there was only the white void of clouds and the jagged, black teeth of the neighboring peaks.
“And Master Finch?” she asked, trying to hide her note of disdain. She failed utterly. “Has he deigned to leave his chambers yet?”
“The man is mourning his solitude,” her godfather muttered, a dry edge to his tone. “He viewed the Dawnspire as his private hermitage. To have it suddenly turned into a city of refugees has offended his delicate sensibilities.” He huffed. “The refugees are lucky you are here, Your Majesty. He surely would have starved them out simply to establish his peace once more if left to his own devices.”
Lucky. She did not feel lucky. Her capital had fallen. Her throne was in the hands of her enemies. The fate of both her best friend and her husband was unknown to her.
“Let Master Finch hide,” Seraphina murmured, pushing aside her own woes. She had business to attend to. “So long as the lifts keep running and the people are fed, I care not.”
They turned a corner, and the quiet gloom gave way to the hum of life.
The great hall—once a place of dusty banners and empty echoes—was now a sea of makeshift pallets and huddled families, mostly composed of women, children, and the elderly. The refugees from Mysai.
Her people.
They had lost their homes. They had fled across the Straight on overcrowded ships, only to be hauled up thousands of feet into the freezing air by the great winch-and-pulley lifts that served as the fortress’s only mouth. They were cold. They were frightened.
And they were looking at her.
As she passed, the hum of conversation died. Men bowed their heads. Women curtsied low, clutching their shawls tighter against the chill.
Seraphina forced her spine straight and a smile to her lips. It should have brought her joy to see them, to know that not all of her well-laid plans had failed her in the end. The evacuation of Mysai had succeeded.
But her heart struggled to celebrate even the smallest victory while her mind still kept tally of every defeat. She had no army to protect these people—no one beyond the Skyguard and the Watchers holding the outposts along the pass.
She had no treasury to help them build new lives here in Elmoria.
She had nothing but this cold rock and a prayer that the Lord would not abandon them to freeze and starve once their firewood and rations ran out—
A small body slammed into her legs, childish laughter cutting off with the impact.
Seraphina stumbled back and gazed down at the young boy—no older than six—who scrambled out of her path. His dark eyes widened with mingled terror and awe.
“Khalid!” A woman who looked about her age rushed forward from the crowd, her face lined with exhaustion. Grabbing the boy’s shoulder, she pulled him into a deep bow before dropping into a curtsy herself. “Please forgive him, Your Majesty,” she pleaded, “he has too much energy for these halls.”
Your Majesty.She was no queen. Not any longer.
