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“You fell,” Ryon tells her, making no attempt to move away from her. “You fell a long way Dawsyn… You’re hurt.”

But Dawsyn can already feel the iskra and mage light moving slowly within her, sluggishly stitching that which was torn. “I’m well enough for this.”

Ryon obliges, as he always does. He stands first, lifting her gently. She sees the cuts that mar his arms. A deep gash bleeds insistently at his side. “It’s not deep,” he tells her quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Rivdan,” Dawsyn says, her lungs screaming with the effort. “Where is he?” But Ryon need not answer.

All around them lies the toll of war. The broken and bloody are everywhere. Some unseeing, others screaming, some taking their last breaths.

Dawsyn sees the Terrsaw civilians surrounding the injured humans and mixed alike, aiding them where it is possible or else offering comfort in their last moments.

And beside Ryon and Dawsyn, crouched low, is Tasheem. She bows her head over the form of Rivdan.

He is as peaceful in death as he was in life, his eyes hooded, lips parted. And if not for the arrowheads that protrude through the wall of his chest, Dawsyn might believe he is merely lying upon the earth, gazing at the stars and telling them stories of Glacian legend.

Too much has transpired for Dawsyn to cage the savagery of pain. She makes no attempt to hide it now. For a moment, she hates that he died in her place before she remembers that he was nothing if not noble, honourable, kind and generous.

She sinks to her knees and lets the violence of grief find its outlet. She takes Tash’s hand and Ryon’s, and for long moments they simply sit side by side by the body of their friend, and they say nothing aloud that won’t be heard in death anyway.

Dawsyn’s pain is surely nothing to that of Ryon’s, or Tasheem’s, for this friend they grew up with in the Colony. She steps back and leaves them with their storyteller. She watches as Ryon grips his hand, then lays his own on Rivdan’s heart. Tasheem does the same. Dawsyn can hardly stand to see the devastation in her eyes.

She turns on shaky legs and it is to find many faces looking back at her; a strange collection – men and women, armour-clad soldiers and mixed-blooded Glacians. They watch her expectantly, but she cannot move her feet forward.

Ruby strides before her and Dawsyn is glad to see her alive, uninjured. In her hand is a familiar crown. The one Dawsyn has seen adorning an imposter’s head. Ruby’s sword is bloody, and she drives it into the ground before Dawsyn and kneels.

“Your Majesty,” she says, bowing her head.

She proffers the crown into the space between them.

Others lower to the ground. A few dozen at first, and then more, until Dawsyn looks over a sea of bowed heads. They kneel, eyes averted, awaiting her word, her command. Though there is a sense of victory here on this battlefield, it is not strong enough to outweigh Dawsyn’s weariness.

She is tired.

She walks forward slowly, gingerly, wincing at the pain that lances from every limb. She bends to take Ruby’s hand and urges the woman back onto her feet.

With all of Terrsaw watching, Dawsyn takes the crown. She looks at it for a moment, notes the silver and jewels that adorn it. She thinks of the Sabars that wore it in eras past, her ancestors. She thinks that perhaps their bloodline has served enough, suffered enough, and that whatever days remain should be spent idle. It need not be her enemy any longer.

Dawsyn lifts the crown and places it carefully on Ruby’s head. When the woman’s eyes widen, and her head shakes, Dawsyn places her hands on her cheeks and holds her still.

“You were destined for glory, Ruby. Take it.”

“I cannot.”

Dawsyn musters all the conviction she is left with. “You can,” she says, then turns the captain around to face her kingdom and kneels at her side. Slowly, one by one and then altogether, the crowd follows suit.

Ruby seems baffled, awe-struck. “What is the third lesson?” Ruby blurts, her chest heaving. “You never told me.”

Dawsyn only shakes her head as she stands again. “Nothing you need learn.” She has never been more certain of anything.

Dawsyn turns away, turns back to the only thing she will only ever seek in her remaining years. Ryon is waiting for her, warring with uncertainty. “Are you sure?” he asks, and she closes her arms around him. “You would make a fine queen.”

Dawsyn smiles into the wall of his chest. “You made me a promise,” she tells him. “I intend to make sure you keep it.”

By dawn, the Fallen Village is empty of all but the dead and their mourners, Dawsyn among them.

They sit by Rivdan’s side all night and no one speaks. They simply spend these last moments with their friend, with their brother. They do not think of what comes next.

When first light arrives, they stand wordlessly. They wipe the blood and dirt from their hands and wait for the first person to break the quiet.