I slip through a side entrance, the guards at the gate catching the glow of my fae-lit eyes.
They drop to their knees instantly, heads bowed. “Majesty.”
I say nothing as I pass, my gown sweeping behind me like a shadow.
Down, down—into the dark, echoing underbelly of the stadium, where old stone stairs lead into the backstage corridors. The holding stables lie just beyond.
And there—exactly where I hoped—stand Tòrr and Myst.
They’re housed in a makeshift iron stall, Tòrr munches lazily on alfalfa hay. Myst flicks her tail beside him, alert but calm.
The stable attendant jolts upright at my approach, scrambling to cover the fact that he’d been dozing. He mutters something about not expecting visitors.
I wave him off with a flick of my wrist. “Go.”
He bows, eyes wide with reverence, and scurries off, whispering prayers.
I take a moment to greet Myst with a scratch on her forelock. Then, I turn to Tòrr, my heart aching in a way I hadn’t expected.
You were right,I whisper, stepping closer, my voice thick with something more than power.You sent Plume to watch me. Not because you didn’t trust me, but because you were afraid I’d forget what matters.
Tòrr lifts his head, those ageless eyes meeting mine, full of understanding.
And maybe I did forget,I admit, resting my hand on his powerful withers.For a while. I got so caught up in the human world, crowns and battles and thrones, that I forgot to look up—at the birds. And down—at the mice.
The words tremble out of me, but I keep going.
But I’m looking now. I remember. The forests, the rivers, everything with wings or teeth or tails. I haven’t forgotten who I am.I pause.And I need your help, friend.
Tòrr shifts forward, the stall’s gate creaking under his weight, as if already answering.
I unfasten the gate’s latch.
Let’s make it right together,I say.
Tòrr gleefully paws his massive hoof in the straw bedding. His eyes flash with a ring of red, and a thick cloud of steam rises from his dripping nostrils.
I throw open the gate. There’s no mounting block, but he lifts his front foot for me, giving me his massive hoof as a boost. I swing onto his back, licking my lips against the bite of iron in the air.
For once, I feel as fierce as him.
Feel his ambition as my own.
His drive.
You want to safeguard the natural realm?I say, leaning forward, knitting my bare hands in his mane, realizing the sting of pain from his razorwire hair doesn’t hurt me anymore.We’ll show the gods that their power is nothing against nature.
I squeeze my legs, and he takes off. We thunder up the ramp to street level, hooves striking sparks off stone, bursting into the night like a storm let loose.
In the short time that I was below ground, something on the city’s surface shifted. The air no longer rings with jeeringjokes about Artain’s puppet show. Laughter has been replaced by screams—high, shattering wails of genuine terror.
Around the corner, a legion of the dead lurches into view. Filthy, bloated things with outstretched arms, vacant eyes, mouths agape. They fall upon citizens still drunk from celebration who are too slow or stunned to flee.
Then comes the tearing of flesh. The sharp, wet sound of teeth sinking into muscle. The splash of blood on cobblestone alleyways.
I shift my hips on Tòrr’s back, guiding him with my weight, aiming him like a living battering ram straight at the horde.
Behind me, the first golden threads of dawn stretch across the rooftops.
