Our child.
A small creature who is neither Enduar nor human carries on my story. Pieces of my very soul.
Have I atoned enough? Am I weak, as my father believed?
The youngling will be another person to witness the moments of my life and remember me, continuing this circle yet again. Will they find me wanting, like I found my father?
The crown is a heavy burden; some may even consider it a curse. I swear I could never ask this child to do the same things my father asked of me. I wouldn’t train them to be a weapon of death or ask them to sacrifice their dignity for information.
If I could, I would shield them from bloodshed and subterfuge.
My arm is already tightly wrapped around Estela, and I dare not move for fear of waking her.
Dread and sickness curl in my belly as I think of how she wants to come with me to the battle.
A part of me wishes to leave her here—to slip out and leave the war behind her so that no part of it can touch her already scarred flesh. She is stubborn, but she doesn’t know what it is to be dragged into the clash of metal and the stink of blood and gore.
No, she shouldn’t be anywhere near any of this. But if I leave her here, even with someone to watch over her, it’s also possible that she could be harmed by giants or ogres invading the camp.Such a thing is just as inconceivable as taking her and watching her be hurt.
This is how I spend the next hour, torn between both outcomes and praying with all my heart that I never see either of them come to pass.
When the first sounds of midnight camp movement begin, fresh waves of terror wash over my skin.
Estela and I will not be with the first leg of warriors and hunters to close in on the fortress. That will consist of our finest benders, whose mission is locked on the stone towers of the mine’s fortress that protrude into the clouds, sharp and pointed like the tips of the giants’ spears.
It disgusts me. I’ve spent years paying for my father’s sins, but Rholker remains unchanged by his father’s legacy. He continues to cause the world so much pain, and he remains unrepentant.
I murmur profane prayers.
May their strength rend such towers to the ground so that the elves may burn down the wood harvested from the carcasses of trees.
May the animals swarm them and pick at their flesh...
When Estela stirs, I look down at her and watch those few sweet moments when she wakes. Her long black lashes brush against the skin on her cheekbones, and her eyebrows scrunch together as her body flexes.
My prayers change.
Please, on the lives of Endu and Grutabela, stay the weapons of the giants. Shield her from any harm. Protect my child.
I take another deep breath, grateful for the way she causes me to soften and pull away from the darkness, when her eyes flutter open. I lean down and kiss her cheeks. The moments between her dream bliss and crushing reality are sweet, and they almost catch me off guard.
When the reality of where we are crashes into her, she bolts upright, curls puffed in every direction. She looks over at my lap and sees the scroll.
“Is everything okay? What is this?” she asks hoarsely.
She slowly pulls the scroll into her lap, and I marvel as she works to read. She’s still a novice, and I help her through the more complex words, but she isreading.
“The royal line has been preserved by rigorous repopulation efforts over the last four thousand years,”she reads in my tongue and then looks up at me. “Why are you reading about this?”
I shrug. “Light reading helps calm my nerves.”
My poor attempt at humor fails.
Her hand goes to her belly instinctively, and I watch the movement. She swallows.
“How soon until we leave?” she asks.
“At least a few hours. We must wait for the towers to fall,” I say, picking at the blanket which covers us both. Despite the thick fabric, my skin is clammy.
