Page 5

The days that follow my mother’s command are a blur of restless preparation, though I struggle to take interest in the minutia. My usual leather armor feels both a comfort and a mockery, a familiar weight against a future that now feels entirely like a contested fight I’m not sure I can win.

That’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to anymore.

I strap on my sword, its weight a comfort, cold steel against my hip, and try to find solace in its unwavering presence. At least this much remains mine and will, Overprince or no. Because if he or his father want to take my blade from me, they’ll be doing so over their own corpses.

My personal assurance isn’t spoken out loud, and though I know it’s just bravado ahead of a battle, it comforts me as well.

On the appointed morning, the air bites with the crisp promise of autumn, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of fading summer that crushed its punishing grip on the plainlands of Heald.

This far north, we get to watch the trees turn their colors, though the capital to the south barely feels the relief of season’s change until far later.

While Heald is small, it’s long and narrow, running the length of the River Duranthis to the desert that swallows the water in a massive waterfall that vanishes into a cavern that’s taken many lives.

I’ll miss this year’s return, the winter spent plotting and planning and feasting, diving from the slick rocks to the depths of the pool below.

I try not to think about Isthan’s yellow stone gates or the rich flavor of ruddy wine that comes from the hardy berries that thrive on the banks of the river’s ending.

Home is home no longer. Had I known I’d not be returning to the winter castle, I’d have said my goodbyes when we rode out late spring, months ago. It’s not mourning, precisely, but something akin to it, that lies heavily on my heart.

I can’t afford such weakness.

The daze I’ve been in ends abruptly as I enter the small courtyard, Mother waiting for my exit with her court around her, as always.

She’s donned the heavy purple silk she so adores, over thin black leather that shows every curve of muscle, each twist of sinew.

The sunlight sparkles from the threads of silver in her long hair, hanging free around her, as much a cloak as the silk she wears.

That and the lines she’s made from squinting into the distance that cradle her dark eyes are the only signs she shows of her age.

It's not Mother’s presence that has me pausing, nor the sign of Gorgon pawing the ground, tacked and ready for travel. It’s the sight of three riders of the queen’s livery that made me scowl back at her as she spreads her arms and speaks in a loud, joyous voice.

“Ride hence, dearest daughter and heir of Heald,” she says. “Bring glory and greatness to the land you call home.”

I close the distance, looking up at her, barely masking my anger. “Where are my riders?” I’d already told her who I’d chosen to join me.

“You need those befitting a princess,” she hisses back. “Get on your horse and go do your duty before I spank you in public like I used to when you were a babe.”

She’s not joking. She would do it. And though it hurts me deeply, and this ache I know is grief tries to win, I bow my head to her, spin, and march to my steed.

At least she’s left me Gorgon, if nothing and no one else.

His broad back is a steady anchor beneath me, warm and solid beneath my thighs.

Her small contingent of Heald guards forms up behind me, their expressions stoic.

I don’t search the crowd for the sight of friends or acknowledge the riders who fall in behind me.

They are all my mother’s people, two men and one woman of the queen’s guard, not my own command.

She already knows how much that stings. As I turn and urge Gorgon into a canter, racing for the gates, forgoing any regal air, I have to accept that Mother intends for me to succeed.

And will not have me return. That’s the reason she has seen to it that I have no familiar faces, no trusted voices, on this journey into the unknown.

To some, a petty move, perhaps, but one that drives home the chilling reality of my new role.

My life in Heald is over.

I don’t look back. The stone walls of the powerful fortress silhouetted against the rising sun is already in my mind.

Turning to say goodbye feels like consent to my forced departure.

We ride out from Heald, the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke gradually fading behind us.

The first day, we traverse the flat, empty lands far from the border of the river, staying clear of our neighbors to the west. While we’re not in active aggression with them this year, we have been in the past, and our forays into Granthenod, while increasing our small slice of the whole, barely grant us the necessary forests we need for building and industry.

I know this well, like I know the history of the formation of the Overkingdom of Protoris, the safety and security the Overking brought when he formed this land.

Granting larger swathes to some than others. Mother’s endless dissatisfaction with our allotment has turned from old bitterness into greed. I don’t blame her for her ambition, I’m well aware of the reason behind it. And knowing her as I do, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised by this turn of events.

Except she’s never once suggested this fate to me. It’s her thoughtless delivery that hurts the most.

I will not dwell in misery. My fate is yet to be written, and I have committed to doing what I’ve been sent to do. Honor and power to Heald.

That doesn’t mean I can’t at last say farewell to the country I love so much. The grasslands turn to low hills and scrub as we ride for the border to the headland, the center of everything a small, roughly circular core to the splayed and divided kingdoms that surround it.

It’s not until the fourth day, when I wake to the wind whipping past my face, carrying the smell of pine and distant mountain streams, that I have to fight tears, blinking as I saddle Gorgon. He snuffles at me for sugar, groaning softly as I tighten his girth and lean into him to hide my grief.

I’ll miss my freedom.

I know when it happens, our shift over the border, not just from the markers on the road and the Overking guard station that waves us through after a moment of speculation.

There’s a strange, invisible line that guards the headland from the rest of the kingdoms, as though some power protects the Overkingdom seat.

That’s ridiculous, of course. Magic died with the last of the dragons, and though their human descendants, the drakonkin, remain, magic does not.

Still, I feel it in the air as it changes, growing subtly warmer, the fresh scents less wild, more mundane.

The landscape shifts, too, manicured and tended, all wildness disappearing behind us.

Here, the roads are wider, paved with smooth stone, and maintained with a meticulousness Heald can only dream of.

The forests we ride past have been cultivated, density thinned, giving way to rolling fields of golden grain being harvested and orderly orchards heavy with ripe fruit.

We’re suddenly passing through towns and villages instead of avoiding such places, the buildings larger, built of finely cut stone and timber, with neatly thatched roofs and filled with curious people who come out to watch us pass.

Not a few of the women squint at me as they wipe their working hands on their aprons, and I can guess what they see when they see me. The banner of Heald snaps overhead, but rather than sending them scurrying, it generates scowls and distrust.

We’ve earned it, and I will not apologize for it.

I note the changes with a soldier’s eye.

The people we pass on the roads seem well-fed, their clothes clean, their faces unlined by constant worry.

The land itself seems to breathe with prosperity.

There’s no sign of the petty infighting or the border skirmishes that plague our own territory.

The scent of woodsmoke here is cleaner somehow, mixed with the sweet aroma of baking bread and ripening crops.

It is a world far removed from the constant struggle of Heald.

As we travel, reactions keep pace. Locals eye our Heald banners, our worn leather armor, and our stern faces, but now with a mix of awe and reverence.

The further we ride from the border, the less animosity we seem to face and the more curiosity instead.

Whispers follow us like shadows that I ignore, snapping at the soldiers to do the same when they turn to look.

“Heald warriors,” “The war queen’s daughter,” “Fierce, they say.”

“Eyes front,” I growl, and am obeyed. Let their eyes linger on my armor, on the sword at my hip.

The reputation of Heald as powerful warriors precedes us, a reputation earned through generations of hard-won battles.

Who is it that the Overking calls on in times of war?

Who does he depend on for combat- ready troops when the pirate queen of the Landlow Isles threatens his shores?

It’s strange to lean into pride mixed with unease. I can’t afford the first, and the second is a constant companion now. It’s clear the headland’s residents respect us, yes, but there’s a tremor of fear, too.

Will that serve me when I become their Overqueen?

“They whisper, highness,” one of my mother’s guards, a battle-tested veteran named Tundor, murmurs to me that night at camp.

We’re a single day now from the capital at Winderose, and I’m distracted, running scenarios and vulnerabilities while knowing such a strategy won’t help me.

“About the queen. About our campaigns.” He gestures vaguely to a cluster of villagers watching us pass, their faces a mixture of curiosity and something less welcoming.

It’s clear he’s unhappy about those whispers. “We’ve heard them before, aye, but…”

But, they’re usually with my mother, not me, and no doubt that brings comfort when my presence cannot.

I nod because I take no offense. There remain still hints of resentment, a subtle tightening of smiles, a wary shift in shoulders despite my initial thoughts otherwise.

Heald’s ambition, and Mother’s relentless push for power, are clearly well-known throughout the Overkingdom.

It seems we are celebrated for our strength, but perhaps also feared and resented for our aggressiveness.

“We are not here to acknowledge their nosy curiosity,” I say, and the three soldiers grunt in turn. “Mind your own.”

“Of course,” he says. “For the queen.”

If he says so.

We settle in, our camp outside a village for the night our standard protocol in a foreign land.

Trust is a thin commodity in Heald, my mother’s contingent adhering to a strict training.

We never stay in towns or inns, seeking out secluded clearings, setting up our own tents, building small, easily extinguished fires.

We eat cold rations or simple, quickly cooked meals.

The nights are filled with the hoot of owls and the rustle of leaves, a constant reminder of our isolation, our need for vigilance.

Danger and threat can come from any direction, even in the most cultivated of locations.

I will be well served to remember that when I arrive in Winderose tomorrow.

The ground feels cold beneath my sleeping furs, a sharp contrast to the warmth of a hearth, but I prefer it, honestly, the softness of a mattress almost foreign to me after years of campaigns and sleeping where I can, when I can.

My senses are heightened, always listening for the snap of a twig, the distant murmur of an unseen voice like in any wartime scenario.

Riding to wed or to fight for Heald, it’s all the same to me.

This wariness is still a familiar battle, fought not with steel, but with constant vigilance.

After almost a week of travel, the world I know has given way to buildings, to towns that grow steadily larger, their houses packed closer together.

The air fills with the smell of more people, more smoke, more sound, more activity.

I ignore most of it aside from scanning for threats, acutely aware that fate awaits ahead and I don’t want to miss it.

And then, fate appears. The shimmering haze on the horizon slowly resolves itself into a colossal stone wall, crowned with glittering spires.

Winderose, the star of Protoris, shining jewel of the Overkingdom.

It beckons, welcomes me.

It takes far more effort than it should not to turn Gorgon around and run the other way.