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Kladerstaff quickly became near delusional himself. His queen was dead, his kingdom would soon be annihilated by an enemy he could not fight – he was desperate. He had to purge the province of this contagion. And if all were to perish, it didn’t seem such a mighty cost to rid the kingdom of a few.

He concocted a magical fire in the Square. His wife had been known for her spiritual nature after all, and if anyone were to devise an antidote to Dyvolsh, it would be Queen Yerdos. Kladerstaff beckoned all to leave their houses and join him. He pointed to the raging pyre and said, “This magic was left to us by our beloved queen, and it will purify the sickness that blights us. Bring forward all those afflicted and watch as it cures Terrsaw.”

One by one, those deluded by the plague stepped into the fire willingly, drawn to its flame like a moth. With each sacrifice, the flames grew higher, until they could be seen by all, and soon, each and every person infected heeded its call.

The kingdom of Terrsaw was rid of its infection by dawn. The loved ones of those who sent their kin to the pyre waited for their return, only to find that the fire was only fire, and the magic Kladerstaff had promised was a farce. When the flames finally died, only ash and bone remained.

Kladerstaff was prepared for anger and outrage. He awaited the storming of his castle and was ready to allow his subjects their retribution. But instead of a great uprising, the nation rejoiced. The devil had been slain by their king along with hundreds of his own subjects, and yet the surviving populace hailed him a saviour, not a murderer.

One might argue (and Queen Alvira often did), that Terrsaw’s current monarch had achieved feats rather similar to Kladerstaff’s on the day she’d made a deal with the Glacian King and sacrificed the people of a fringe village to the Ledge. A long-lasting blight to the kingdom was gone in a matter of hours, and yet not a soul had ever hailed her efforts. Alvira had traded a forgotten shire and was met with distaste, yet Kladerstaff had ushered double the humans into his purification fire, and his statue was erected in the Mecca – a patron saint of wellness, right alongside that of his wife.

It was the tale of Kladerstaff that had driven her to make the bargain with King Vasteel fifty years ago. Kladerstaff’s act of decisive leadership had saved Terrsaw from extinction, and so too had Alvira. A true leader, she knows, makes the decision all others are afraid to, and then withstands the shudder of its recoil alone.

Every man, woman and child in Terrsaw reaps the benefits of her quick action, her continued action, and yet it is not her name they chant in the streets. It is not in her name that they rally.

It is for Dawsyn Sabar.

Alvira has taken to grinding her teeth to dispel the chorus of voices mocking her. Taunting her. It seeps through the castle walls. It finds her through the corridors.

Long live Sabar! Long live Sabar! LONG LIVE SABAR!

By the week’s end, her molars will be ground to dust.

Impertinent imbeciles. Ungrateful leeches. She should throw them all beyond the Boulder Gate, feed them all to the–

“Your Majesty?”

Alvira jumps. She is loath to be seen jumping, yet she seems to startle easily of late. “Yes?” she says gruffly to her chief advisor. The nobleman appears to be awaiting her answer. In fact, the entire table waits, all faces turned to hers. To what question, the Queen could not venture a guess.

“I was inquiring as to Your Majesty’s wishes for the continued search of Miss Sabar?”

Alvira exhales, not bothering to hide the air of irritation. “Sixty days since she swung from that noose,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

“I’m sorry?”

“I was pondering the ineptitude of my guard,” she says loudly now, enough that it rouses looks of contrition from the faces of her noblemen. “A thousand strong, last I counted, and yet still not enough to find a singular girl.”

Silence follows the statement, and Alvira lets it fester. None dare speak. She hopes it chafes, to have failed so brilliantly.

To her immediate left, her wife peers down her nose at the advisors and strategists, just as disillusioned, Alvira imagines, as she is herself. Cressida may not have many ideas of her own, but she certainly heeds the sense of a good one. The chief advisor, Chen, keeps his eyes downcast, fiddling with the edges of the maps splayed out before him. His underlings follow, two indiscernible men whose names she cannot recall and does not care to.

And to Queen Alvira’s left, is Ruby. Once captain of the Terrsaw guardianship, and now the repentant servant, tethered to the palace until she proves herself useful once more. Which thus far, she has yet to do.

“Perhaps,” comes the quaver of Chen’s voice, eyes looking anywhere but to his Queen. “It no longer benefits the kingdom to continue our pursuit of the Sabar girl and her… followers.”

Acid soaks Alvira’s tongue. “Followers,” she repeats, testing the word aloud. She relishes the sight of seeing Chen flinch. “As though she were a messiah. A deity.”

Cressida scoffs beside her, and Alvira can imagine how her eyes must roll in that derisive way. That keen ability to cut and slice by way of expression and gesture.

“N-no, of course not, Your Majesty,” Chen says.

“Tell me, sir. Do you harbour a fondness for Dawsyn Sabar?”

Chen’s eyes flicker once to the side. “No.”

A lie. Alvira’s fists clench. “And yet your advice is that I let her roam free on Terrsaw territory, despite her attempts to murder myself and my wife.”

Chen turns a worrying shade of red and sweat beads his upper lip. “I only mean to glean your majesty’s wishes. Our battalions have had no success in locating the girl’s whereabouts across Terrsaw, and your people… well, I fear they…”