Chapter 21
When I wake the next morning,I hear them: soldiers preparing for battle, chain mails rattling, banners unfurling, spears being stacked. And I realize—I am the spark, the catalyst.
I have unleashed this.
I have made this happen.
And only I can stop him.
I run into the courtyard, my voice trembling. “Charles! Please…don’t ride in anger!”
He pauses when he hears my voice, his chain mail catching the morning sun. His eyes are fierce, but there’s something in them that still belongs to me.
“This is for you,” he says, low and steady. “So we can leave this cursed land and go home. Trust me.”
He bends down and presses his lips to mine, hard and demanding, and then he spurs his horse. The sound of hooves pounds against the stone, and he’s gone. The soldiers around us follow him, some on horses, most on foot.
“Prepare a horse for me,” I tell a stable hand, my voice shaking. “I have to follow them.”
The stable hand looks helpless. “My Queen, I do not thinkit wise—”
“I do not need you to tell me what is wise. Bring me a horse, or send me someone who will help me,” I shout.
He looks taken aback, and I feel sorry for him.
“I assure you, I will not ride into battle,” I say more calmly now. “I simply wish to watch over my husband.”
He gulps. “Of course, Your Majesty.” he runs off toward the stables and comes back with a small pony a few minutes later.
“Apologies, most of the horses are with the King,” he says.
But by the time I mount, they are already near the villages.
Located on top of a small mountain, the view from outside the castle walls allows me to watch their descent upon the villages along the river.
I watch as Charles and his men flood the streets, dragging villagers from their homes, demanding answers. The screams reach me before I even see them.
Men and women are seized and executed in the streets.
Baptism or death.
Many choose death.
One by one, they fall into the river. The water runs red, thick with blood. The river takes them, one after another, until it no longer reflects the sky. It stains the banks and clings to the grass. The smell reaches me even here—iron and wet earth—and I press my sleeve to my mouth too late. A sob escapes.
My stomach twists as I clutch the ring at my finger—the ring I enchanted to keep myself safe from him. From his hands. From his temper. From the sudden dark turns of his rage.
What cannot reach me seeks another outlet.
A voice cuts through the horror. “Fastrada.”
Aynhard stands beside me now, his face pale, his eyes sharp with accusation.
“This is your doing,” he says. His voice is steady; there is no emotion in it. “You turned his love into a blade and set it loose.”
I look at him, and I do not deny it. I loved Charles. I feared him. I wanted safety without cost. The magic was never meant to control him—but it constrained. It held all his anger and hatred. But what it held broke outward, searching for air.
Aynhard studies me as if seeing me for the first time. There is no anger in his face; here is something worse: respect.
