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“Okay, so we fix it.” I tilt my head back to meet Sterling in the eye. “If they’re scared of magical aggression, we show them magical cooperation. If they’re bracing for isolation, we demonstrate the benefits of alliance. If they’re listening to the Devoted because the Devoted speak to their fears, we address those concerns directly.”

Sterling’s expression remains neutral, but I catch the flicker in his eyes. Pride mixed with worry. “That won’t be easy. Not when they’re actively preparing against us.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy. I’m saying it’s necessary.” Rising, I walk to the window. In the distance, the sun catches on the damaged dome of the Divine Commons. A cracked symbol of unity. A metaphor too obvious to ignore. “We’ll start with rebuilding the Divine Commons. Not just with magic, but with labor from the kingdoms.” I turn back to face them. “Rafe, can your guild mobilize craftspeople?”

He straightens, forehead crinkled in surprise. “Of course.”

“And Agnar, I need you to work with our military contacts. Find the reasonable, moderate voices in their ranks. The ones who remember fighting alongside Tirene against Xenon.”

Agnar nods, some of his usual confidence returning to his stance. “Consider it done.”

Sterling watches me, his expression softening just enough for me to notice. “And what will you do?”

I consider the question. What would the perfect queen do in this situation? The answer comes with surprising clarity.

“I’m going to listen. Not just to dignitaries and nobles, but to ordinary people. The ones who lost magic and don’t know how to live without it. The ones who are terrified enough to find comfort in Devoted rhetoric.” Feeling the phantom weight of my crown, I square my shoulders. “And then I’m going to show them that Tirene stands with them, not against them. That we’ll face this new world together.”

Chapter Fifteen

In the days following the events at the Divine Commons and the flight home, time loses meaning as I focus on my queenly duties. I devote as much of it as I can to my citizens, listening to pleas and requests.

Each sunrise brings a new test, a fresh opportunity to fail.

Except failure isn’t an option.

So I push harder, stretch myself thinner, and ignore the hollow sensation behind my ribs where certainty should live.

The Bricklayer’s Guild conclave meets once a month in the room known as the Guild Hall in the palace. Rafe insists it needs to be someplace secure and localized, which makes it easy for me to answer their request to attend.

When I enter, twenty-seven men and women rise as one, their expressions shifting from boredom to awe so quickly it would be comical if it didn’t knot my stomach.

The room, a salon much like the one where Sterling’s mother used to store sweet treats for her children, is as practical as it is grand. With two long wooden tables in the center and an assortment of sofas and chairs along the walls, the lofty space could easily fit twice as many people.

For the next two hours, I listen to impassioned speeches about the demands placed on guild members, the historical context of their service obligations, and increasingly detailed descriptions of mortar compositions.

“What say you, Your Highness?” The guild leader’s bright green eyes bore into mine, and the unamused expression on the stern redheaded woman’s face confirms I spaced out for a minute.

I clear my throat, scribbling a meaningless note on my parchment like I’ve been deep in thought about the guild’s contribution to the capital in the hope that Constance Cochran buys it.

Expectant eyes settle on me.

I haven’t prepared for this. As the queen, I should know exactly what to say. How to say it.

Instead, I’m about to wing it.

“Well, Constance, I think the contribution of the Bricklayer’s Guild to Tirene’s security cannot be overstated.” I begin cobbling together what I remember from historical accounts. “Your ancestors helped create not just our walls, but our very kingdom.”

Somehow, I find words that light up their faces with pride. I grant a partial easement, enough to honor their request without compromising security. By the time I leave, they’re practically glowing with loyalty, Constance Cochran included.

Miracles do happen.

The next day brings trade negotiations with merchants from the Eastern Provinces. I stay up until dawn reviewing grain prices and tax structures only to have my carefully prepped arguments dismissed with a casual, “That’s not how King Jasper handled these matters.”

I muster up a tight smile for the haughty merchant. “Perhaps it’s time for new approaches.”

But inside, doubt gnaws. What if the old ways were better? What if I’m too ignorant, too foreign still, to lead properly?

In the evening, I cancel my dinner to read more about Eastern trade relations. I ignore the way my stomach growls in protest.