Page 60 of Fallen Nocturne

“Kheirall, Balthazar and Ragnar have sided with Avalon as well.”

For a moment, I can only stare at him. Every name closes another door. Every alliance strengthens the army gathering against my people.

“I see.”

Cedwyn shifts the letters beneath one arm. “There is still hope, Your Highness.”

I look at him.

“Our Maiden of Arawynn may yet convince the third prince of Myrkheim to stand with you,” he says. “And I have sent your appeal to the independent Orkan tribes. They have not answered, but they have not refused us either.”

“Thank you, Cedwyn. You have done well.”

He bows his head. “I believe in you, Your Highness.”

The certainty in his voice surprises me. I used to feel uneasy around him, though I could never explain why. Lately, that unease has begun to fade. He has been diligent, respectful and tireless in his duties as my scribe. Perhaps offering him a place outside the knighthood was the right choice after all.

Only when he steps closer to pass me one of the letters do I notice how poorly he looks. His skin is pale, with shadows beneath his eyes, and his uniform hangs more loosely from his frame than it did a few weeks ago.

“Are you unwell?” I ask.

“Only tired.” His smile is quick and unconvincing. “The war has not allowed any of us much rest.”

I understand that too well. “Then finish what must be done and sleep.”

“I will.”

We part at the end of the corridor. Cedwyn returns to his work, and I continue toward the palace doors.

The ruined capital looks different at dusk.

During the day, the destruction is stark and brutal. Blackened stone, collapsed buildings and the ugly scars of war lie exposed beneath the sunlight. At dusk, golden light settles over the broken walls and softens their harsh edges. Orange and purple streak the sky while shadows gather in the empty streets. Birds have begun returning, building nests inside the hollow shells of ruined homes.

Life persists among the ruins.

I walk without direction, my feet finding quiet paths through the debris. My bad leg aches, but I ignore it. The physical pain is easier to deal with than the weight in my chest.

Five seconds. That’s all it would take to erase Aelfheim and turn my home, my people, everything I love into dust and glass.

I have no way to stop it.

I turn down a narrow street where wildflowers have started pushing through cracks in the cobblestones. Spring has come despite the war and the death.

Something catches my eye, and I stop.

A single flower grows from a pile of rubble that was once someone’s home. The petals are delicate and white, tinged with pink at the edges. It sways slightly in the evening breeze.

I kneel beside it, careful not to disturb the surrounding debris.

It is just a flower. One small, stubborn bloom that has forced its way through ash and destruction to reach the light.

But looking at it, I feel something stirring in my chest.

I smile for the first time since learning about the Fae King’s weapon.

“We’ll survive,” I whisper to the flower, to myself and to the ruined city around me. “Somehow, we’ll survive.”

The flower sways in response, indifferent to my words.