Then he hesitates. I sense that he’s waiting for something.Adeclaration? An offer to return? Some kind of promise for the future?
There are a thousand things I want to say, but they all wither and die on my lips. Because thereisno future. Not for us. In the end, all I can manage is “Be safe.”
Finn smiles. And there it is again, that flicker of pain behind his eyes. A glimpse behind the mask. “Take care of yourself, Lyria,” he says softly.
I listen to his footsteps long after he’s disappeared.
Finn’s absence makes the cottage feel unbearably vacant and cold. Even the colors look dim. The next morning, I force myself through my usual routine, but every part of it feels wrong. I can’t look at my sewing kit without remembering the holes I patched in his clothes. I search for my favorite chipped mug, and find it by the windowsill, next to a book Finn was reading before he left. Even the smell of him lingers, ruining everything.
Mother will be home tomorrow. I know I’ve got a big storm coming. There’ll be hell to pay if I tell her what I’ve done, but I can’t bring myself to care.
To cut through the loneliness, I pick up the book.
It’s a volume about the Aldain dynasty, the old kings and queens of Evermore, including some accounts that terrified meas a child. My favorite chapters were about Queen Soleste, the last Elven queen. She was born in the Ironwoods as a commoner and married into the royal family before the kingdom crumbled. The fables claim that Queen Soleste worshipped Nocturn, Goddess of Death, and could kill with a glance. There’s a whole section dedicated to her execution after she surrendered to King Verdin. I’ve never taken these stories at face value. It doesn’t make sense that humans vanquished someone so powerful. If anyone knew the truth, it would be Mother, considering she served the queen until the queen’s death. But Soleste exists in the same category as my father: wholly unmentionable.
I flip through the worn pages until I find the one Finn bookmarked. It’s the prophecy of the Heir of Evermore—more of a song than a story, the preachy, sentimental kind that makes Mother misty-eyed. She sometimes sang it to help me fall asleep when I was little, so the lyrics are familiar.
One day, through ash and ice and fyre, an acolyte will rise,
To hoist the fallen banners and to break the binding ties.
A hero with the gifts of Gods, rekindler of the flame,
Honor-sworn and duty-bound, a homeland to reclaim.
With starfalls of divinity at hand, and heart, and brow,
They’ll walk two worlds and dine with Death, unconquered and unbowed.
When legions of our fallen kin rise up and march again,
The unbreakable will shatter and unyielding knees will bend.
And all will hear the triumph of the old kingdom restored,
Through pain and retribution by the Heir of Evermore.
I slam the book shut, annoyed with myself. It was foolish to think revisiting the book might make me feel closer to Finn. It’s just a painful reminder of his absence and the vast chasm between us. I’ve never found comfort in the prophecy as Mother does. The empire stole her past and robbed me of my future. Those aren’t things you can reclaim.
I try to shove Finn and the stupid fables out of mind as I prepare for Mother’s return. No doubt there will be dire consequences for my rebellion, so I compose another speech—this time, an apology.
But by dusk the next day, Mother hasn’t returned.
One day of waiting rolls into two, and then three, and my apprehension grows exponentially. In all her years of travel, Mother hasneverreturned late. After a week with no word or sign, I resolve to go after her. But a raven arrives in the midst of my packing, carrying a note with a word scrawled in Elven runes:
Delayed.
Frustration sears through me. Of course she wouldn’t feel the need to explain any further. What does it matter if I wait here another day, another week, another month? What does she care?
I crumple the note and toss it into the hearth, gritting my teeth against the swell of my Talent. I can’t remember the last time I was this furious. The magic isscreamingfor release. I pace the cottage, considering another trip to the waterfall to temper the liquid fire. The wardlines are shot to hell anyway—what’s one more rebellion?
I’m on my way to grab my shoes when I hear theBANG! BANG! BANG!of a fist on the door.
I wish I could say I spring into fighting stance, ready to face the threat. But the knock catches me so off guard, I jolt withsuch force that I fall flat on my ass. I’m clambering back to my feet when I hear a man shout from outside:
“OPEN UP! THIS IS THE ROYAL GUARD!”
eering out the window, I count half a dozen soldiers around the cottage.
