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It is time, Dawsyn thinks,that new alliances are drawn.

The mixed-bloods deserve the freedom to live away from the mountain, if they so choose. They were not responsible for the iskra or for the Fallen Village. They were as repressed as Terrsaw was before Queen Alvira struck her deal with the Glacian King, and they have earned their liberation.

As for Queen Alvira herself, Dawsyn has come to know what she could not accept before – the Queen put the good of the many before the good of the few, and it was, at the very most, an act of sacrifice.

And Dawsyn knows of sacrifice.

As Dawsyn and Ryon descended the mountain, hurtling through the skies like spirits, she recalled the Queen’s words. “If you had been there, dear Dawsyn, I wonder if you would have done what I did.”

No, she would never have doomed some to save many, but she cannot say truthfully whether she would have done better.

The Queens’ guards shout for them to lie upon the ground.

“Easy,” Ryon says, kneeling slowly. “We mean no harm.”

A guard tackles him down to his front regardless, and Ryon lets out an annoyed huff, letting the guard push his head to the cobblestones.

“That seemed unnecessary.”

“You talk too much.” Dawsyn smirks, watching him spit grit from his mouth. Another guard shoves her forward to the ground alongside Ryon, and she groans. “Ouch.”

“What were you saying?” Ryon huffs, wincing as no less than three guards kneel on his back to restrain his hands.

They are brought through the palace gates with their wrists shackled – a now-familiar position for Dawsyn. Swords glint at them from all angles. It seems an entire garrison of Terrsaw’s finest feels it necessary to escort them, which is not at all surprising, considering the scene of their last departure. Leading them is, of course, Ruby, the captain of the guard. She nods to the guard before the gargantuan oak doors, and the armored man turns to let them through.

As before, they are shuffled into the receiving room, the mosaic floor gleaming beneath the glass ceiling. The hands upon Dawsyn’s and Ryon’s shoulders force them back to their knees.

“Watch them closely,” Ruby says to her subordinates. “I will fetch Their Royal Highnesses.” She hastens away, the steel of her armor shifting noisily.

A tense silence follows. After several minutes, Dawsyn’s knees begin to ache, and she makes to stand.

Immediately, the hands on her shoulders force her back down. “Kneel!”

“It’s Dawsyn actually,” she grumbles.

Ryon groans, but a small smile finds the corner of his mouth. “You deserve to be thrown in the dungeons for that alone.”

Footsteps alert them to the return of Ruby, who is preceded by Queen Alvira and Queen Cressida.

Both the older royals are dressed to perfection, their delicately laced chemise and flowing gowns adorned in the finest embroidery, and yet they manage to look formidable.

Queen Alvira’s expression is resolved, it seems, as though she is resigned to do something she’d rather not. Cressida, in contrast, stares witheringly, particularly at Ryon, considering him a vile half-breed Glacian.

“Miss Sabar,” Queen Alvira says, her eyes trailing the bruises and scrapes that cover Dawsyn’s skin. “I must admit, I did not imagine I would see you again. Or you,” she adds, turning to Ryon. “If this is an assassination attempt, it is a poor one.”

“I have no desire to kill you,” Dawsyn says, and watches the Queen’s eyebrows rise. “Nolingeringdesire,” she amends.

“They came unarmed, Your Grace,” Ruby interjects.

The Queen seems to consider them for a moment, her eyes finding every detail of them. “Why have you come here, Miss Sabar? It’s best you tell me now. It is unwise to waltz into the hands of the very person you attempted to dethrone.”

“I never wanted the throne,” Dawsyn tells her, and there is not a part of her that does not believe it. “And I do not want it now. I was… angry.”

“You tried to run her through with a sword!” Cressida says indignantly, her voice shrill.

“But I didn’t,” Dawsyn adds, shrugging her shoulders. “I also did not give my own people to a monster. That was you, was it not, Your Highness?”

“It was,” Queen Alvira returns, her chin high. “Have you come to air your grievances once more?”