It’ll be more difficult for my enemies to follow us past the more heavily fortified Loegrian border. The more distance I put between Aren and her attackers, the better.
The Loegrian guards at the gate watch as we approach, naturally curious to see what brave or foolish souls have dared undertake the journey. As word of its danger has spread, only a handful of people have made it this far across the bridge. But I feel far from a homecoming hero.
I’m troubled by how easily I was able to call the Whisting—and how I was so close to hurting Aren. The Whisting killed that bandit with ease. My soul is hollow with fear. The sooner I remove the Rings, the better off everyone will be.
South Dunston lies before us. The city is flanked by gentle hills covered in lush trees and moss-covered stones. Its sprawl winds like a river through the mountains, carving itself to match the flow of the valleys. Pulleys powered by horses and oxen stretch like spiderwebs across the cityscape, carrying trolleys and carts high above the roofs of buildings. Shadows from these contraptions move across the streets like giant clouds.
I hope Aren finds the city beautiful. I’m too exhausted to appreciate it right now.
Guards stop us at the gate. “Papers,” the one closest says, holding out his hand in a carelessly imperious gesture.
“Watch your tone,” Marcus snaps, his temper worn thin by the long night. “This is the Loegrian royal caravan.”
Nonetheless, he gestures toward one of our aides, who clumsily shuffles through papers, trying to find something with the royal seal.
“Royal caravan, is it? Where’s the prince’s carriage, then? The banners, the horses?” the guard says, unsmiling. “Papers.”
Marcus looks ready to punch the guy, but I stop him with a shake of my head. I doff my cap, and the guards’ eyes widen. I look remarkably like my father did thirty years ago, and they’ve never updated his likeness on the coinage.
“Your Highness,” he stammers, bowing low. Others nearby overhear and quickly follow suit. I remember my task and extend my hand to Aren. She takes it, confusion written across her face.
“May I present Loegria’s future queen, Aren of Alarice,” I say, raising her hand for the crowd.
Aren stands up straighter, plastering on a gracious smile, and waves shyly at my subjects. If I hadn’t endured the same ordeal, I wouldn’t be able to tell how tired she was.
Their response is muted, half-hearted applause and weary murmurs instead of cheers.
I don’t blame them.
“If you would be so kind as to show us to the nearest inn—”
“Of course, sire. Please forgive us, sire, but His Majesty, your father, was the one who ordered us not to let anyone in without proper traveling papers, sire,” says the now-apologetic guard.
“Understood,” I say, as the rest of the guards leap to action. They guide us into the city, apologizing profusely for their lack of preparedness and insisting we’ll be given the best rooms in South Dunston. Aren thanks them on behalf of our whole party. I’m proud of how far she’s come. She may be a natural princess, after all.
Gasps and murmurs follow us through the streets. I smile and greet my people as best I can, but exhaustion blurs the edges of my vision.
The guards bring us to a large inn, and I stop the overeager cohort before they leave. “If you’d be so kind, we’ll need some horses, supplies, and anything you can spare for our journey south.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” says the captain. “Though supplies are running low, we’ll do our best to accommodate.”
It’s as I feared. The brewing hostility is already consuming resources.
“Whatever you can spare,” I say. “We must make it to the Oracle of Alba as soon as we can.”
The words feel hollow on my lips. Despite the reassurance any mention of the Oracle seems to give my people, I wonder if it’s worth continuing this lie about a wedding when the shadow of war is already upon us.
Once the captain and his men have left, we can’t make it to our rooms fast enough. Aren’s smile gives way to weariness. She barely says anything as she sees herself to her room. Marcus refuses to rest until he’s established a security perimeter. Everyone needs a fresh start.
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
Despite the ache seeping into my bones, I can’t fall asleep. Instead, I sit at the window, staring out across the city—south, toward Estyrion and the Great Waste. The darkening sky that looms on the horizon is like a great shroud shadowing the land.
…
We’re on the road before anyone has truly gotten a good night’s rest.
We set out with a horse, a simple wooden carriage, and humble supplies. Breakfast was sparse, though the innkeepers assured us that the next village on the road south would have more provisions. South Dunston has been overwhelmed too quickly by refugees from Penrith to feed everyone.
