Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Annora

I tighten my fingers around a lump of charcoal in the library, and as I lean down to add shading, a strange sound filters through the stone walls.

The noise comes again—rhythmic, like waves against the shore. A frown tugs at the corners of my mouth as I stand and follow the sound toward the eastern veranda. I push open the door, where rain patters against the covered veranda, but the crowd below pays it no mind.

Hundreds of people pack the courtyard, their faces turned toward the palace as they chant in unison. “We’re starving. Give us grain.”

My chest tightens at the sight of children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, their tiny fingers twisted in the fabric.

An elderly man leans heavily on a gnarled walking stick.

Next to him, a woman with hollow cheeks clutches a bundle to her chest—a baby, wrapped in what looks like an old flour sack.

“We’re starving. Give us grain.” They chant again and again, their voices blending into a desperate roar.

I turn away and hurry into the palace, through the corridors, then into Asha’s parlor, where she lounges in her favorite chair. Aleksander sits beside her, holding a goblet of wine.

“Asha, there are hundreds of people outside. They need grain,” I say as I step further into the room.

Instead of glancing up, she flips a page. “The grain is for the people in the fortress, Annora. You know that.”

Desperate to help our people, I step closer to her. “There’s a woman out there with a baby. Surely, you will not allow a baby to starve.”

Aleksander’s gaze flicks between us, but he remains silent.

“They’re starving, Asha.” I shove loose strands of hair behind my ear. “Do something.”

The scratch of paper fills the air as she turns another page. “I am doing something. I am making sure we plant more fields for the next harvest.”

She’s not going to help them.

The truth steals my breath, destroying that internal dais I have always placed her on.

My chest tightens as I race from the parlor, through the palace, and out the front door. Rain pelts my face as I rush down the fortress steps.

The crowd parts before me, their chanting faltering as I pass. Water streams down my neck, soaking through my gown, but I barely notice. Not when my people need me.

My heart pounds and my lungs burn as I race across the muddy courtyard, heading toward the counting house.

The door groans as I shove it open and step inside.

Torchlight flickers across towering shelves stuffed with leather-bound books and scrolls.

But I don’t care about them. I only care about the overseer, who hunches over his desk.

“Open the granary,” I say as I stop in front of the old man with his dull eyes and stringy gray hair. “Our people are starving. We have to help them.”

The overseer looks me up and down, and I resist the powerful urge to adjust my veil. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Anger races through me, anger that he could just sit there while children cry from hunger.

The door opens, and I turn, my eyes widening as Aleksander steps into the counting house.

“Open the granary,” he says.

“But I-I,” the overseer stammers.

“Open the granary,” Aleksander says again, his voice cutting through the air like a whip’s crack.

The overseer’s eyes widen, then he bows and scrambles to obey, unlocking the heavy doors.

The scent of fresh grain wafts out, and the crowd surges forward with a cheer. Aleksander and I wade into the fray, scooping grain into outstretched hands and sacks.

I pause between scooping grain, watching as Aleksander hands a full sack to an elderly woman. The woman’s gnarled fingers brush his as she takes the grain, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

A small boy approaches me, holding up a threadbare bag. His cheeks are sucked in, and his eyes are too big for his thin face. I add an extra scoop when he whispers that he has three younger sisters at home.

Aleksander pauses his work to help a mother gather her scattered little ones, speaking to them in a gentle tone I’ve never heard him use before.

As I watch him interact with my people, there’s no trace of the disgust or superiority I expected to see on his face. Instead, his expression is open—almost soft—as he helps an old man secure his grain sack.

This is what power should be used for. Not to oppress, but to uplift. Not to hoard, but to share.

My muscles ache as I hand the last sack of grain to a young girl with tangled braids. She clutches it to her chest like it’s made of gold, and maybe it is. Maybe grain is worth more than all the gold in Bakva’s vaults when your belly is empty.

“Thank you, My Lady.” Her voice trembles as she bobs a clumsy curtsy.

I crouch down to her level, ignoring how the mud seeps through the hem of my gown. “What’s your name?”

“Merri.”

“Well, Merri, if you need more, come back tomorrow.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll make sure there’s enough.”

She nods, then scampers off to join her waiting mother.

The courtyard is empty now, save for scattered footprints in the mud and the lingering scent of rain, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full of something I can’t quite name—hope, maybe, or purpose.

This is what I was meant to do. Not wage wars like Asha, but help people. Feed children. Ease suffering where I can.

For the first time since Aleksander bound my magic to him, I feel whole. Strong. Like myself again. Because helping my people, seeing their relief, hearing their thanks—this is real power.

Not magic or crowns or ancient bloodlines.