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Nicu had morphed into the opposite of himself, withdrawn and morose. He evaded his parents’ inquiries, particularly since their son had never kept his griefs to himself before, certainly not from them.

I’d sensed the family’s distress. A quiet and unapproachable Nicu was a wholly foreign one, taking the jester, princess, and queen by storm. They had no knowledge of the cause.

Thus far, and thankfully, they had not approached me for answers.

I had offered myself to Nicu for counsel, for friendship, only to be refused as well. Notwithstanding, his accusation did not surprise me. I had sensed an imminent shift in his demeanor, building to a moment when he would break.

It had come at last.

“I sent no one away,” Poet said. “He chose to leave.”

Nicu’s expression crumbled. I suspected that he’d been hoping for a different answer, one in which Lyrik had not left of his own accord, one that would have unintentionally vilified his father.

The jester approached his son, tipping the young man’s chin up. “This upsets you,” Poet comprehended, his eyes searching Nicu’s until, at last, realization crystallized. His features split open and went slack, the vestiges of his charismatic facade slipping completely. “Wicked hell,” he breathed. “Nicu...”

“He really chose?” Nicu whispered. “He chose to leave me?”

The jester simply shook his head in disbelief, for his son had never given the slightest indication, though how could any of us have known for sure? With Nicu, who had never expressed an amorous thought for someone in his life, and with his unconditional zest for kinships, how was it possible to distinguish between the two? How was it possible to be sure what Nicu felt?

I was sure now.

Only two souls had the power to render Poet speechless. His son and the princess.

“As we saw Lyrik off, he embarked with reluctance and a heavy heart,” I reported gently, for what it was worth. “I believe he does care for you.”

“But not enough,” Nicu said.

He blinked at the wheat fields in the distance, the forest beyond. The route to Winter, whether or not he knew it.

Glancing at Poet, Nicu’s eyes watered. “Papa,” he whispered, the word falling from his chest, wrought from a great, heaving pull.

Poet opened his arms, mouthingCome here, and Nicu crushed himself to his father. I ducked my head as the jester embraced his crying, heartbroken son.

After a moment, Poet nodded over Nicu’s shoulder, and I stepped away, leaving them to their privacy.

I could hardly have predicted where my feet would carry me from there, yet I should have known, once my pace accelerated toward the stables, toward my horse. From there, she galloped, taking me to the shroud of birches near the citadel, the wind sweeping through my clothes, spurring me onward.

In years past, many nights of loneliness and mourning had brought me to my knees, with me silently beseeching,What will it take? What will it take to stop this pain? What must I say? What must I do?

I had wanted to claw out of my flesh, strip myself of that pain. Nothing had felt right, nothing had felt necessary anymore, other than covering myself in armor and swinging a sword. Beyond that, grief had made me lazy, so lazy that it had blinded me for too long.

A man did not dishonor his wife’s memory by wallowing in it.

Springing from my steed, I hiked past shrubs and trunks to reach the grave, the arch of stone etched with her name, a climbing vine draped along the left side.

I knelt, remembering her fear of horses, her love for strawflowers and Winter colors. I recalled not only her strengths but her flaws, the true and raw about her, the pieces that I’d cherished. I remembered her without picking and choosing what came to me, without the need to store these things someplace eternal.

In doing so, I remembered Robin not as a monument, but as a soul. I remembered her more vividly than I ever had.

I bowed my head and confessed, telling her of the young woman I’d met. This maiden favored marshmallows, woodpeckers, and feather hats. She was girlish yet passionate about weaponry. She spoke a timber language, and as a child, she’d tried to build the sky out of wooden blocks.

This maiden scandalized me, bested me with cheekiness, disappointed and inspired me, taxed and comforted me, made me laugh in spite of myself. She’d reminded me what it meant to be a soldier. She’d proven that fairytales and real tales needed one another. She’d reminded me that innocents could do wrong and villains could change for the better.

I spoke of what I might be for this girl, to this girl, with this girl.

I spoke of other things, uttering words that I had never expected to say, wants I had never expected to want, a future I never expected to have, a life I never expected to lead.

As I whispered, a breeze lifted my hair and tickled my fingers. Robin once told me the best way to remember was to release theneedto remember. And so I felt that slim push of wind as though a hand held mine.