I drew in a breath that tasted like dust. “Because I am the Queen’s General,” I said then, slowly, as if weighing each word carefully. “Because when she names where she lays her claim next, I will ride. And when their gates close to keep me out, I will be the one to break them open.”
“Doesn’t that make us pawns?”
“Yes,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “And it makes us soldiers.”
Astrid looked at me, long and level. “Same thing, some days, I guess.”
I turned to her sharply, but she was already standing, brushing dust from her palms. “I’ll take first watch,” she said, and walked off before I could speak.
The barley rustled behind me.
And I realised I’d stopped turning the dagger.
Somewhere behind me, the voices of the camp had quieted. A soldier laughed – too loud – and was quickly shushed. A cooking pot clattered and was hushed just as quickly. The fire snapped, a brittle sound, drawing my gaze to its flickering rim.
Beyond it, just out of reach of the light, the cart sat in silence. I didn’t hear Alaric move, but when I turned, his face was lifted, barely visible through the dark – eyes open, waiting. He hadn’t spoken all day, but now, with the others gone and the field hushed, his silence felt like a summons.
I rose, brushing dust from my palms, and walked over to the cart.
He looked older in the firelight. More worn than before, but not diminished. Some people shrink in chains – Alaric did not. He sat with the quiet dignity of someone who had long since made peace with pain.
“You haven’t said a word in days,” I said, folding my arms. “Running out of riddles?”
Alaric sat quiet for a moment longer, then said, “It’s nearly time, isn’t it?”
I didn’t answer. He knew it was.
“They’ll hang gold from every arch,” he went on. “Fill the streets with silk and fire. You’d think it was a wedding, not a warning.”
“You’ve seen it before?” I asked, wary.
“Once. Long ago.” He tilted his head. “Not from the palace steps, mind you. From the gutters. It looks different down there.”
“Everything does.”
He gave a soft hum of agreement. “The Feast of the Black Flame. That’s what they call it now. But it wasn’t always called that, was it?”
“You seem to think I know.”
“There was a time it meant cleansing.” His voice wasn’t sharp. It was tired. “A renewal of light. The fire was a symbol. Now it’s a sentence.”
“You’re not the first man to be executed as entertainment,” I said.
“No,” he replied, “but I might be the first to enjoy the irony.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I didn’t like how calmly he said it. The fire crackled between us.
“They say people cry during it,” he added. “Not from grief. From awe. From fear. From the heat of it all.”
I remembered. The smell. The way the flames twisted in colours no natural fire should bear. The way my mother smiled when the crowd gasped.
“She makes it beautiful,” I said quietly.
“And that’s the horror of it,” Alaric murmured. “She’s made the world love the fire that devours it.”
My shoulder pulsed then – not a sharp jolt, but a steady throb. It felt like a warning.
I turned away from the cart, my hand instinctively brushing over the aching spot.
