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The carriage trundles on toward the palace gates, passing through the thickest cluster of spectators. As soon as the wrought iron clangs shut behind them, the crowd moves in, pressing against it to claim their position. Soon, their Queen will address them from her balcony.

They had passed through the Mecca on their traditional route without incident. The skies were clear of Glacians and the crowd, though split in their affections, were docile enough.

Cressida breathes a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get this over with,” Alvira grumbles. “Adrik will be at the Boulder Gate by nightfall, and we should be too.” The carriage door swings outward and a hand is proffered to help the Queen alight.

The courtyard is behind palace walls, free from the townsfolk’s view. Only two guards await them here and Alvira notices immediately. She searches the courtyard, her brow furrowed. “Where is the rest of our escort?” she demands of the guards present, as though they are to blame for the miserly security.

“They’ve been sent to the Fallen Village, dear,” Cressida says lazily, flattening the lines in her skirts. “The last thing we need is for the Ledge escapees to run off now.”

Alvira looks as though she might argue. After all, it was not an order she had sanctioned. But her eyes dart to the sky and she shudders delicately. “Very well,” she says, holding her hand out to Cressida. “Come, dearest. Let us remind our people of what we’ve given them.”

Cressida ensures her lips press into a thin smile. She makes her fingers intertwine with Alvira’s and she tries to still their quaking.

“Are you cold?” Alvira asks, then turns to a footman waiting at the stairwell. “Fetch Her Majesty’s pelisse!”

“No,” Cressida says amiably, squeezing Alvira’s hand. “Do not fret, Veer. Let us have this business over with.”

Alvira stops her before they can begin to ascend the stairs that will take them to the balcony. The guards at their backs halt in turn, their armour clattering at the sudden movement. The Queen holds Cressida in her stare, cradles her there, as she always has. And Cressida knows what words will come next. Words of placation, of reassurance. A reminder that everything in Cressida’s life will be well. Alvira will make it so.

No matter the cost.

“This day will pass soon enough and tomorrow everything will be returned to the way it should be.”

Cressida denies herself the cowardice of turning her eyes to her feet. She forces herself to look at her wife and to hide the feeling of her chest caving in. “Of course.”

Like the courtyard, the balcony is empty of waiting guards, but this time, Alvira does not comment. The archers on the parapet above are enough to console her fears of a revolt and though the crowd swirls menacingly beneath them, they hardly seem a threat from this height. They are insects funnelling through the Mecca’s winding streets, easily squashed.

That is how Cressida has always thought of them. It is far easier to do so, than to think of the faces and minds and families they are made of.

It is why they loathe me,she thinks.They notice the way I look at them, desperately trying not to see.

That is where Alvira and her differ. Alvira looks wilfully at them now, eyes darting from face to face, scrutinising carefully. She sees the patched clothing of the children, the wayward hobble of an amputee. She sees the elderly jostled by the well-dressed, the women with black eyes and bruised jaws. She sees those of high station, seated within the palace gates below, and those that must remain behind, separated by the luck of their birth. She sees them all and it does nothing to her.

When Cressida looks, bile collects in her mouth. It has always been better not to see.

“Good people of Terrsaw!” Alvira calls, her voice projected onward by the town criers who repeat her words like an echo down the streets. “I humbly thank you for these illustrious celebrations!”

There is a cheer from the crowd, though its effect is watered-down some by the corresponding heckles.All hail the Queen!is interlaced with the ever persistentBring Sabar home!The maelstrom below builds.

“On this day, my Jubilee, we commemorate those who fell so that we could remain, and we celebrate fifty years of freedom!”

Another resounding compilation of applause and jeering. Cressida spots members of crowd being dragged to its edges by the Queen’s guard.

“We will eat the food of our lands, reap the rewards of our labour, and sleep peacefully in Terrsaw’s bosom without fear! Tomorrow, we will begin another decade free of threat. Another era on the land the Holy Mother granted us. Each day takes us further from those years spent in darkness. Our children will continue to grow, looking to the sky unflinchingly, and we, as a people, will continue to prosper!”

Cressida’s breath quickens. In the distance, she can see that great mountain looming, and she knows she must do it now.

“So, bow your heads with me now, good people. Let us acknowledge those brave souls who shield us from horror and pain. Thank them for their sacrifice. For without them, we would be returned to those dark days.”

“YOU SACRIFICED THEM!” comes a shout, though Cressida cannot find the speaker among the crowd. The words are met by a rumble of assent. The crowd roils.

“Bow your heads!”Alvira shouts, her voice amplifying. Only Cressida can see the blue veins stretched taut down the column of her throat. “And be thankful for this era of peace and safety.Let us pray our blessings will continue!”

But silence and prayers do not reign. The quiet is broken by the growing cries of the rebels interspersed among those too fearful or too selfish to follow suit. It starts small. The call of “Bring them home,” hardly reaches the queens up on that balcony at first. But soon it is ten who take up the chant, then double that. By the third call, it is a hundred or more – too many for the guards to silence and Alvira’s cheeks pinken. Her eyes flash with violence.

And the time is now.