Alinore snorted. ‘But you faced the Great Dragon! A few Calestran courtiers can’t scare you. Besides, Prince – no,KingOttone has ascended the throne now. He’ll rightfully reinstate you as the Princess.’
Cressyda hesitated, her thoughts drifting back to the fear thathad flashed across her brother’s face earlier when he had realized the same terrible truth. Ottone had never wanted to be the firstborn heir; he had never craved the weight of duty. He had always been more comfortable in the background, where he could think quietly, speak when necessary, and let Samsel bear the crown’s expectations. But with Samsel gone, the burden had shifted abruptly, landing on Ottone’s shoulders with a force that had left him visibly shaken.
‘Promise me you’ll help me, Cress?’ he had pleaded, his voice cracking beneath the surface of his usual calm. ‘You must be my trusted advisor. We can rule together. Or something like that. I can’t do it alone.’
The memory of his plea echoed in her mind now, more serious than she had allowed herself to admit in the moment. She had laughed light-heartedly then, masking her own uncertainty, and told him of course she would help – she would always help. But Ottone’s words had taken root inside her, and since then, she had been picking over them. Perhaps it was not an absurd proposition. Perhaps this could be a new kind of reign for the Kingdom of Calestra, one built on trust, on partnership, on shared strength. It felt like a chance to step forward, not just for Ottone, but for herself. Maybe this was the start of something new.
‘I want us to ride through Tormale like this,’ she said, gesturing at their dirty, torn clothes and bruised, bandaged battle wounds. ‘I want us to parade through the gates of Syonno Castle and straight into the throne room. I want them all to see what they did to us and how we survived it.’
Alinore grinned. ‘We’ll look like warriors,’ she said. ‘Like heroes.’
‘Yes.’
After a pause, Alinore asked carefully, ‘And what about the Queen?’
Cressyda tried to swallow the rising burn of fear in her throat. For all his cruelty, for all the damage he had done, Samsel was still Queen Flavria’s eldest son and she had loved him with a fierce, blinding devotion. The news of his death would devastate her, and what she would make of Cressyda’s role in it all was unknown.
‘Before I left, the Queen had taken to her room with a sickness,’ said Cressyda slowly. ‘We must secure Ottone on the throne and our own places at court while she’s indisposed, and then … face her later.’
The thought of confronting Queen Flavria brought a stinging ache to Cressyda’s chest that was more painful than her cuts and bruises. The Queen had once been a figure of warmth – distant, but not unkind. Whatever love had existed between them in the past had thinned over the winters, strained by the Queen’s relentless expectations and Samsel’s ever-growing shadow. Even so, some part of Cressyda had always clung to the idea of Queen Flavria as a mother, but she knew now that she did not need to accept scraps of affection and conditional love. She deserved better.
Out loud, she said, ‘No one will ever call me the Pet again.’
Alinore took her hand and squeezed her fingers.
Below them, a figure emerged from the clutter of stone cottages. It was tall and broad, walking out of the village and up the mountainside, leading three stocky ponies.
‘Here is our new King,’ said Alinore, her voice soft with affection. Then she cleared her throat and added, ‘We should bid farewell to Maylie before we go. I would’ve bled out on a mountainside if it weren’t for her …’
Cressyda saw an unspoken question waver in Alinore’s eyes. Her friend knew that Maylie was not just a conscientious citizen, not merely a kind stranger. Or she certainly suspected something.
Cressyda wanted to explain the impossible truth that hadunravelled over the last day, to lay bare the snarl of emotions still churning within her, but the words would not come. Everything still felt too raw and tangled. She did not know how to explain what it felt like to stand face to face with the woman who had given her life and then vanished from it. She did not know how to put into words the gut-wrenching confusion of being held and comforted by the same person she had spent winters trying to forget.
But she owed Alinore more than silence.
Cressyda made a vow to herself then, as they stood in that uncertain stillness. She would tell Alinore everything – about Maylie, about the reunion, about what it had awakened in her – on their journey back to the city. Not because her friend demanded it, but because she deserved the truth. Maybe in speaking it aloud, Cressyda would finally begin to understand it herself too. And – though the thought felt fragile and tentative – perhaps, in time, she and Alinore could come back to these mountains together. Return with steadier hearts and clearer minds when things were settled. And then Maylie could tell the whole of her story from the beginning, as she had claimed she wanted to, laying the past out in full, while Cressyda tried to listen without judgement. Maybe.
Cressyda reached for Alinore’s hand again, grounding herself in the familiar warmth of her friend’s presence. ‘We must be on our way soon,’ she said. ‘If we ride fast, we’ll reach the city by early afternoon.’
Alinore smiled. ‘Back to Tormale. Back to Syonno Castle.’
Cressyda looked out towards the horizon, where the sky had turned clear and bright with the promise of the day ahead. A thousand uncertainties waited for them in the city, but so did purpose and, perhaps, healing.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Back to our home.’
Epilogue
THE TALE OF THE MAIDENS
THE GIRLS TRICKLEDdown the mountains. They appeared one at a time, here and there, through the morning mist. Some of them ran, some of them walked and some of them stumbled with arms outstretched, fingers spread, as if at any moment they might launch into flight.
They emerged in the higher Mountain villages first, blinking and dazed. They were met with wonder by the Mountain folk there, who hastily wrapped blankets around the chilled, naked bodies and pressed hot, sweet milk into the trembling hands. The villagers formed makeshift nursing wards in their Sanctuaries and everyone rushed to proffer spare food, drink and clothes, singing praises and shouting prayers of tribute. They did not yet understand why, but a miracle had occurred.
Often, they recognized a girl: ‘Lianorie from Pienzi?’ they might ask. Or, ‘Flessanie from Morccia?’
And the girl in question would slowly nod, her gaze distant and filmy. ‘Yes,’ she might whisper. ‘I think that’s me.’
There were some girls no one recognized, since they hailed from families who lived far away, but the Mountain folk welcomed them all the same with sincere kindness, promising to send word to their relatives as soon as they could. And there were some girls who were not girls at all – they were women with slight lines at the corners of their eyes and grey streaks in their hair. It was harder to reach them. They would flinch at anyone’s touch with a sharp, fluid movement that was not quite natural, and snap their jaws at the offered food and drink. The ancient magic of the Great Dragon still lingered in them, too tangled and powerful to ever fully disappear. ‘They’ll recover in time,’ the Mountain folk assured each other. But in some cases, they never did.
