“And you’re sure, my love?” Her question was soft, hesitant. Queen Minara chased it with a gentle brush of her hand on his upper arm, the black of her glove lost in the stormy grey of his doublet. 

 

Thick, calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist, using it as leverage to tug her closer. Minara eagerly rushed into the space beneath his chin, tucking her head against his broad chest and sighing against his beard. King Eron guided her captured arm to hug his waist, and slid his own around her shoulders. His murmured reply was thick against her dark curls. 

 

“I wish I was not so sure, Minara. Relo only just left the war room.”

 

Where Minara had tread lightly, Eron stomped. His tone harsh, even though his eyes were warm as she pulled back to look him in the face. Her palms lay against the emblem of the crown threaded into everything he wore. She allowed her thumb to brush the embroidery, capturing the texture of his only vanity. Minara whispered a kiss against his scratchy jaw, and then stepped back, smoothing her skirts.

 

Eron’s eyes traced the tiniest movement of her fingers as they skimmed the dagger strapped to her thigh, and then quickly shifted to cradle her large belly. He laid a hand against her navel, hoping to feel the babe kick one last time. Minara smiled at him, resting her hand on top of his. They stood in silence, trying to embrace the growing life between them. 

 

The noise outside their chambers reached a crescendo, and the King finally broke his vigil. With an aggravated sigh, Eron slid his fingers across the back of Minara’s neck and pulled her toward him to touch their foreheads together. “You are the greatest gift the gods ever gave me. I will carry your love, your smile, your laughter, etched into the threads of my very soul with every step I take from this moment forward.” He blew out a heavy breath, and then pressed his lips to her brow. “Will you please tell my babies that I love them?”

 

Minara drew her head back sharply, her gaze boring into his. “I will do no such thing. You will tell them on the morrow.”

 

Her husband grinned at her, his face open and wide. She memorized the way his green eyes crinkled at the edges when he was happy. Eron kissed her forehead once more, then quickly detached himself. “My lady love, you will listen to Relo when he tells you to abandon this castle. You will take my babies and flee. No throne is worth the godsblood.”

 

Before Minara could open her mouth to protest, Eron was moving toward the set of intricately carved doors leading to the common hall. His hand hovered near the opal handle, and he glanced back over his shoulder. 

 

“Do not look for me. I will find you in the salts and the sands.”

 

Minara’s resolve broke as the doors swung closed behind him, and her stomach chased her heart into her throat. She rushed the eastern window, throwing open the latched shutters and leaning out as far as her pregnant belly would allow. There, on the rolling hills surrounding the Tydon River, sat the camp of the Ordanian Sword. Even from the height of her semicircle tower built into the mountains, Minara’s eyes bounced over countless camphearths. Her breath caught in her chest, and she gripped the stone sill.

 

Relo’s scouting report revealed a marked camp housing at least a hundred cohorts, and his shadows were actively uncovering dozens of hidden outposts, each a century or more. Almost overnight, the self-proclaimed Seat had conscripted more than 5,000 foot soldiers who were now roasting quails caught in their forests and playing cards and dice on rough tables hewn from the stumps of their trees.  

 

Minara stepped back from the window, letting the shutters slam against the stone as they closed. A palm brushed her belly conspiratorially, turning to call for Imilde. 

 

Imilde stepped forward from the alcove where she normally sat reading while she waited for any need to serve her Queen. There was no book tucked into a pocket of her apron as Imilde dropped into a brief curtsy, so Minara knew that she had been waiting for the King to embark. 

 

“Is there anyone in this insufferable place that Relo did not share his intel with before he was so bothered to climb these stairs?!” Minara erupted, shoving past Imilde on her way towards the arched opening of the spiral staircase.The young woman’s soft footsteps followed her down the hallway, a few strides behind as they made their way down the stairs of the family’s tower and into the lower levels of the castle. 

 

They passed the nursery, and then Minara thought better of her rush and returned to the doorway, staring into the room. Imilde paused an arm’s reach away, peering cautiously at the Queen’s face. 

 

“Does it please you, your Grace?” Imilde’s soft voice stretched across the space between them. “They’ve only just completed it.”

 

Minara did not respond, but swiftly reached out to grab Imilde’s fingers in a tight grip. Had Imilde not served Minara since they were children, she would have missed the tremor in her hand and the tightness in her jaw. 

 

“I particularly enjoy the mural, your Grace. Pater Gabell spent a fortnight in the Rhwen Forest sketching the woodland for this piece.” Imilde took a tentative step towards the Queen, guiding her focus towards the nearest corner of the nursery. “See, there? The Pater even painted the evergreen tree with your initials.”

 

Minara followed Imilde’s gentle hand, allowing her attention to settle on the beautiful blue-green tree nestled between snowdrifts. On silent footsteps, she crossed the room and knelt in the space where the walls met. Imilde followed, their fingers still entwined. The Queen rested her forehead against the painted landscape, a shaky breath escaping her chest. Imilde brought her other hand to Minara’s nape, exerting a slight pressure that a practiced history had shown to help Minara release bad humors. 

 

They remained quiet for many long moments. Finally, Minara released another long, loud breath toward the painted pine tree, the warmth casting a brief fog across the initials carved into the trunk. 

 

As they returned to the doorway, hands still held fast, the Queen met Imilde’s eyes. “I hope our child can see this nursery.”

 

Imilde squeezed Minara’s hand. “I am sure they will love it here, your Grace. We will have many happy memories in these trees.”

 

Minara smiled at Imilde, though quiet tears traced paths down her cheeks. “I very much look forward to exploring these woods with the babe, and with you, dear Imilde.”

 

Halfway down the spiral staircase to the ground floor of the family tower, a deep rumble echoed through the hall. Minara crossed quickly to peer out of the arrow loop nearest them, which gave a vantage point of the side bailey as it approached the garrison. Soldiers sprinted from the stone building, climbing over one another with haste as they streamed towards the inner courtyard and into the forebuilding of the keep. Imilde watched over the Queen’s shoulder as the drum tower of the garrison crumbled, sending waves of dirt and stone shards into the mix of fleeing bodies. 

 

A hollow ringing bounced against the walls of the hall where they stood, the keep’s signal of an attack. Minara’s spine snapped into place and she looked sharply at Imilde, her bright green eyes searching the face of her chamber lady. “Where would you go first, Imilde? Should we seek the wounded or guide the rest of the castle to safety?”

 

Imilde dipped her chin in acknowledgment of the power Minara had granted her. “Your Grace, I would guide the rest of the castle to safety and then seek the wounded to see how you can assist in treatment.”

 

The women turned from the courtyard view, foregoing the Great Hall to head towards the postern gate leading into the mountain. Most servants quartered near this gate, as it was the gathering of several hidden stairwells carved into the caves of the cliffs of Ramsmet’s Run. Here, Imilde took a slight step before Minara, speaking softly and swiftly to every castle servant they met on the path towards what were typically the quietest parts of the castle, but were overrun with anxious voices this morning. 

 

In the circular room that held the iron gates which led into the great mountain, Imilde finally released Minara’s hand in order to direct the flow of servants in and out of the keep. Those with any healing knowledge were kissed on the brow by loved ones and shuffled back towards the cliffs, where they could assist any soldiers injured in the attack on the garrison. Kitchen servants were given the option to flee or to continue their work in the bowels of the keep, maintaining meals that would last out any impending siege. Only a handful chose to leave, while dozens of others returned to the lower levels to start on cold soups and stone grain breads that could stockpile for weeks. 

 

The families of the servants who remained behind struggled to say goodbye, and the Minara moved softly between groups, resting her hand on shoulders and offering condolences and promises of reunion. Something in her gut told her she was being dishonest, but she ignored it. 

 

After a few hours of coordination, nearly a hundred residents of the castle crossed the threshold of the mountain gates, their feet shuffling reluctantly across the strip of inlaid sapphire which marked the beginning of the keep. Dozens continued to look over their shoulders until they were too far down the stairwells to see anything of the castle or the family choosing to remain. The long halls filled with the crying of mothers, wives, and babes, but the sobbing grew fainter with time and distance. 

 

While nearly a hundred had fled, three times that remained in the castle, working to maintain stability for the soldiers and the other servants. Imilde dropped into a seat beside Minara, a heavy weight settling across both of their shoulders. Their fingers found each other again, and they took a few moments to steady their breaths. 

 

A clanging sound shot out from a nearby crosshall, and suddenly an armor-clad figure burst into the circular postern hall. Imilde chucked quietly to herself as the broad-shouldered knight strode across the room, his gauntleted-hand on the sapphire hilt of his greatsword. As he approached the ladies’ bench, he dropped to one knee and inclined his chin toward Minara. 

 

“Your Grace, I have been looking for you everywhere!” His exasperation evident in both the tone and cadence of his first statement. Galeran looked up from the stone beneath his iron boots and searched the Queen’s face. “Why are you here, lady?”

 

Minara sighed, and then smiled sadly at Galeran. “Ser, we have been working to ensure the safety of the castle servants. Their families only just absconded over the gates, but we fear it was not enough. Too many remained to support their King.”

 

Galeran shot a brief, but harsh, glance towards Imilde, who stiffened beside Minara. “I admire your interest in their safety, your Grace, but your own wellness was at risk, as well as that of the babe you carry.”

 

Minara’s hand jumped to her belly, flexing protectively against Galeran’s words. “The health of the child I carry is my responsibility and mine alone.” She looked at Galeran harshly. 

 

He dipped his head once again, but then returned his gaze to Minara. “I mean no offense, your Grace. But your wellbeing is my responsibility, which means that the babe’s wellbeing is also my responsibility until it breathes its first salts and sands.”

 

Imilde squeezed the Queen’s fingers, and heard Minara shoot a heavy breath out from her nose. A brief smile rose to Imilde’s lips, but she schooled her face into neutrality as the Galeran glanced between them. 

 

Minara stood, smoothing her skirts beneath her palms before looking towards Galeran again. “Ser, I am grateful for your diligence and dedication to the safety of the crown. Please - where should we move within the keep at this time?”

 

At this, Galeran rose to his full height, rounding his shoulders so his armor clanked against itself in the lines where the pieces met one another above the dark blue chainmail. He was tall, and broad, and intimidating, and was precisely the type of knight Minara would have requested as her guard, but Eron had resisted for time, suggesting other, older knights instead. Both she and Imilde conspired that it was because this knight was young and warm and godly handsome, but also less reserved with his tongue and more prone to rash decisions. 

 

Minara recalled, briefly, the tense discussion she held with her husband when she argued for this knight’s guardianship instead of Ser Whittle, forty years her senior and constantly groaning about joint pain with every swift movement. My love, she had said, why would you force a guard on me who cannot even keep with your wife? Imagine this man protecting our wild children. Am I to drop my silver spoon to take up sword and shield to guard their lives?

 

Galeran was named Protector of the Line the very next day. Since, he has fiercely dedicated his life to serving the family. Imilde often teased him about it, asking if he might next learn to launder or mend garments to become even more indispensable to her Grace. The two were constantly exchanging barbs, but their shared focus made them friendly. They had been spending more time together of late, overseeing the completion of the nursery and preparing the keep for what could only be the largest battle of their lifetimes. 

 

Galeran turned towards the crosshall he had entered from, bringing his hand up from the hilt of his sword to wave the women along. “We can take the servants’ ways to reach the Royal Cavern, your Grace. It’s the most secure place for you now.”

 

Minara shook her head. “I refuse to be locked away in the dark and damp while my kingdom fights for me.”

 

With that, she took up her skirts and marched back into the keep. 

 

Imilde and Galeran shared a defeated glance, and then hurried after their Queen.

 

🪾

 

The walls of the keep trembled with each assault on the castle walls, the aim of trebuchets slamming boulders thick with ice against the towers that lined the tall cliffs. At first, the dust and pebbles shook loose every few hours, and the shattering of glass and splintering of wood would cause everyone inside the keep to leap to arms in less than a breath. It was an exhausting late afternoon beneath creaking broad beams, the chill of the wind snaking through broken windows and settling in the halls. By midnight, the trebuchets had maneuvered closer to the cliffs, and the boulders reached their targets every quarter hour, so consistently that it could only be assumed that their artillerists balanced an hourglass at their sides to measure the pause with exaction. 

 

Those in the Great Hall no longer jumped when the walls shook around them, the assault now part of their senses as they worked. Imilde positioned Minara in a far corner of the broad space, keeping their backs to the interior keep walls. Nurses offered Minara minor wounds to treat, and many hands stayed at the ready to step in if the humors took her again, which infuriated her. Several times, she turned to glare at Imilde while her fingers threaded beneath gambesons to apply pressure or pinch together split layers of skin until a surgeon could arrive to stitch. After many furious looks, Minara pushed herself up from where she knelt beside the benches shoved together to make a cot, wiping bloody palms along the silks of her skirts. 

 

“Imilde,” she hissed, brows knitting together. “This is humiliating. A Queen should lead this, not serving as a figurehead who curtsies to pat the shoulder of the soldiers with bug bites!” She twitched her nose, glancing down at the spearman at her feet. “I mean no offense, good ser.”

 

The soldier grinned sheepishly. “None taken, your Grace. It was only a bug bite,” he said, voice hoarse, as he gestured weakly towards a large, round wound on his upper thigh. The movement caused another gushing of blood from the opening, and Minara sighed as she pressed linens against it once more. “Thank you, yer Grace.”

 

She nodded, chewing her bottom lip as she rearranged the soaked fabrics in her hands to find more dry pieces. The surgeon rushed over from a nearby table, his leather apron coated in something thicker than blood. Minara’s stomach flipped, and she felt the babe squirm beneath her belly button. Imilde caught her eye, brows raised, but Minara gave a small shake of her head. Once the surgeon was closer, she lifted the linens and deposited them in the overflowing bucket beside the benches, then stepped away to allow him access to the soldier’s leg. 

 

Imilde aligned herself with the Queen, offering clean linens to wipe away blood from her palms. Galeran appeared from the shadows, lifting a cup of cool water into Minara’s line of sight. She accepted both, but used some of the water to soak the clean linens and wipe the face of the soldier as the surgeon began threading his large needle through one side of the split skin across his leg. After a few failed attempts, he looked up at Minara and shook his head once. Once the man’s face was clean, she gently poured small amounts of the cool water down his throat, murmuring lines of poetry as she pushed back his matted hair. 

 

Minara continued to recite the nursery rhymes to the soldier as the surgeon withdrew the needle and waved for a nurse to bring over the surgical cart. She wheeled it over, wooden wheels echoing loudly in the room despite the overall din of a surgery. Milde exchanged a look with Galeran, and both moved to stand on either side of the benches. Imilde rested her hand on Minara’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, as Galeran withdrew his sword and rested the point on the stone between his sabatons, both gauntlets crossed across the bear carved into the pommel. 

 

Bonesaw in hand, the surgeon pressed one palm on the soldier’s hip, fully extending his arm. The nurse slid a cut of leather between the man’s lips, then gently forced his gaze towards the Queen’s face. He blinked rapidly up at Minara, silver lining his panicked eyes, and then his expression blew wide before the white of his eyes rolled into view. The surgeon was working from the outside in, ripping through muscle and skin with as much precision as the soldier’s quaking body would allow. When he reached the large leg bone, he reversed his saw, moving it along the bone and back into the hip. 

 

Galeran swallowed when he saw the white of the bone, and then held fast onto his sword when the surgeon lifted the nurse onto the man’s thigh, where she bent her knees and exerted the pressure of her entire body weight onto the exposed femur. A crack spilled from beneath her feet, and the soldier spat the leather out, his screams ripping through the Great Hall with frightening intensity. An onslaught of boulders slammed into the lower castle walls and brought a shower of splinters down onto them, and the nurse wavered as she balanced against the quaking floor. 

 

With the next snap of bone, the soldier sat straight up, clawing at the nurse to push her off. Galeran moved forward to help hold him down, his firm hand on one shoulder as Imilde and Minara pressed into the other. 

 

Tears rolled down the Queen’s cheeks, but she continued whispering poems into the man’s ear. Imilde joined her, lips moving quickly as she caught up to the line and echoed Minara’s soft voice. It was not long before the soldier stopped fighting their hold, and his body went slack against the benches beneath him. The Warden dared a glance towards the surgeon, who had abandoned the bonesaw and was offering his bloody hand up to the nurse to assist her climb down. 

 

Minara’s feeble voice broke the air between them all. “Is he dead?”

 

Nodding, the surgeon cleared his throat. “Removal of the entire leg does not often end well. It may not have been the best medical choice, but it was our only decision in the time we had. I believe we may have severed the femoral artery in our haste.” He gestured to the lake of blood growing beneath the soldier’s destroyed leg. “My condolences, your Grace.”

 

Quickly, the surgeon and the nurse pushed their surgical cart in the opposite direction. Minara blinked after them, mouth agape, before she dragged her face toward Imilde and Galeran. “Does such negligence exist in all of our medical spaces?”

 

Imilde shook her head, lifting her shoulders in confusion. “I… I am not sure, your Grace.” Ignoring public decorum, her hand shot out and gripped the Minara’s fingers. “You should not have had to witness that. Please, let’s leave the Hall.”

 

Subdued, Minara nodded weakly and gathered her skirts. Galeran sheathed his sword and examined the large room, gesturing towards a nearby exit. The ladies passed beneath his arm and walked slowly, leaning on each other, until they reached the narrow wooden door. He pushed it open, then ushered them through into the servant’s alley between the Great Hall and the upper kitchens. Here, the attack of the trebuchets was riotous, the force of the boulders slamming against the towers enveloping all of their senses. All three pressed their backs against the far wall of the alley and slid to the floor, feet stretched out into the walkway.

 

Imilde was the first to speak, several minutes later. “Your Grace, perhaps the Queensguard has it right. We should flee.”

 

Minara said nothing. She continued to stare blankly at the opposite wall, her thumbs scraping dried blood from her other fingers. 

 

Galeran caught Imilde’s eye, and then spoke as softly as he could. “It is not accepting defeat, my Queen. The safety of you and yer babe are the future of the throne. Your king husband would be outright furious with me if he ever learned that we allowed you to remain in the Keep when he ordered your removal.”

 

Minara lifted her chin, eyes narrowing. “He ordered me to leave?”

 

Imilde tried to warn Galeran off from his next words, but he missed - or ignored - her wide eyes over the Queen’s head. “No, your Grace. He ordered that I remove you, whether you wanted to leave or not.”

 

Minara rounded on him, neck snapping in his direction as she placed both eyes fully on his face. “Ser, you mean instructions were left to lift and carry me out of my own castle without my permission?” Her words were thick with anger, clipped in places. 

 

Galeran swallowed, and then nodded with a single dip of his chin. Imilde sighed softly, tossing her hands up in frustration. 

 

Minara considered his words for a moment, nodding as she thought. Her lips thinned as she blew a breath out of her nose, and then she laughed. It was sharp and too high-pitched to be full of humor. “Well, let the gods see you try.” She smiled sweetly before suddenly leaping to her feet and throwing herself at full speed down the alley. She was around the farthest corner and out of sight before Imilde and Galeran were fully erect. 

 

Imilde giggled. “I’ve never seen her move so quickly. Something to be said about the right motivation?”

 

Galeran growled, heading in the same direction as his Queen. His armor made it difficult to move with speed, but he was quick enough. 

 

Imilde continued to laugh as she rushed after him. “What do you mean to do, Gale? Throw her over your shoulder and hope to the gods that running through the caves doesn’t smash her babe to bits against your breastplate?”

 

He threw a furious look over his shoulder as he rounded the far corner, armor clanking together as it stretched in different directions. “You’re incorrigible, Imilde.”

 

“Rightly so, I’d say.” Her breath pushed out of her in a rush, and she lifted her skirts even higher to continue moving quickly. “We both know the only reason Eron left that order to you was because no other knight in his right mind would attempt to sequester Minara.”

 

Galeran did not respond, instead picking up his pace. A sharp glance at the stones beneath his feet told him that the blood on Minara’s skirts was flecking, and he could follow the trail if he looked close enough. He sighed, annoyed. “She’s heading towards the ramparts.”

 

Imilde choked back another laugh and then sped up to reach Galeran. She threw a punch into his shoulder, wincing as her small hand bounced off the pauldron. “Would have been my first guess.”

 

They continued in silence save for the huffs of breath over the next several minutes, the Warden scanning the floors for drops of blood as they moved farther along the halls of the Keep to the inner courtyard. He pushed through the exterior door and they fell into the fresh air, panting heavily. Imilde doubled over, hands on her knees, as she sucked in the cold mountain breeze. When she straightened, she had to rush to catch up with the Galeran’s broad strides. 

 

Above them, a huddle of black helms were all turned towards the far end of the battlement they were meant to protect. Galeran thrust a gauntlet in that direction, withdrawing his sword and settling it against his side as he leapt onto the first stone steps into the ramparts. Imilde cursed under her breath, wishing aloud that her Queen had instead been interested in leatherworking or turning herbs into poultices when she was a child. But no, Minara insisted upon being trained in small arms and the bow, working herself to the bone in the armory yards on the other side of the bailey. When her father King Beltar had announced her betrothal to the son of a nearby lord, the soon-to-be Queen had doubled her hours beneath Olen of Nyada, the castellan. 

 

Olen had died of the dark breath plague shortly after her Coronation, and then a few months after, Minara had suffered the loss of her first pregnancy. In place of the proper mourning period, Minara had declared an open field for training beneath the cliffs of the castle, and had spent weeks ensuring all who wished to learn the art of the sword, or the bow, or the spear, given the opportunity in honor of Olen’s memory. 

 

Despite herself, Imilde smiled at the memory. The first day on the fields had been just the two of them, but the second day filled with the Queen’s beaming face as she trained a young girl from a fishing village near Loch Aleran. The third day brought several more women, and some young boys, and by the end of the month, Minara had needed to invite several other guardsmen from the Keep to offer their skills to those who had gathered amongst the snow and the stones at the foot of the castle. After three months, Minara had armed every common villager between the Maedon Sea and the closest shores of the Upper Levant, and spent countless hours teaching them to use those weapons. 

 

A wayward arrow plunged into the bannister beside her, and Imilde shook off her reverie to continue climbing the steps onto the rampart. When she crested the landing, the direction of every helm in her line of sight drew her gaze towards the edge of the battlements, where they ended against a tower, to find her Queen. Minara’s skirts were tied around her waist, and she placed a foot on the higher ground to balance her stance. Her arms drew back the string of a great bow, muscles quivering at the tension. With a soft cry, she released the red-flecked arrow into the battlefield below, its iron point sinking into the upper leg of a white-armored soldier at the foot of the castle. 

 

A rampart guard knelt beside the Queen, offering new arrows from a quiver she had discarded beneath her skirts. Imilde started to pull him away from where Minara was exposed, and then realized that the young man’s gaze pointedly fixed in the opposite direction. Grinning, Imilde moved towards Minara. 

 

“Your Grace, the great bow is far less effective from the ramparts when you fire upon the fields below.” Imilde called as she neared, waving Galeran back against the wall that lined the bailey. “Olen would chastise your choice in weapon.”

 

Minara considered this, her expression wild. The cold mountain wind whipped her copper hair in every direction. “Imilde, you’re absolutely correct! Olen would be furious.” She shoved the great bow at the soldier holding the quiver. “I need a crossbow!” Minara screamed, voice breaking against the cold. “A CROSSBOW!”

 

Several soldiers scrambled into action nearby, shuffling a measured bow between them until it reached the Warden. He rolled his eyes, grabbing it from the nearest soldier and then thrusting it at the man seated next to the Queen. This soldier’s eyes were wide as he accepted the bow, slowly rotating until he could lift it into Minara’s sight. 

 

Minara crowed as her fingers wrapped around the stock and foregrip, the sound high and sharp against the stones of the tower beside her. Another soldier rushed forward to shove a cache of bolts towards the Queen, and the soldier casually deemed her squire replaced his collection with those heavier arrows. He pulled several from the crate and handed one to Minara, who slid the bolt into place along the flight groove before lowering her face to settle against the thin glass rod that served as the sight for her aim. She scanned the field below, her fingers deftly adjusting the serving and retention springs. Minara screamed in fury as her forefinger curled around the trigger, releasing the bolt and sending it flying towards a spearman on horseback near the base of their closest tower. 

 

The impact of the bolt in the soldier’s chest sent him careening off saddle, and he landed in the muddled snow beneath the hooves of his horse amid a rising chorus of the soldiers atop Minara’s battlement. Imilde chuckled, winking at Galeran, as another bolt nocked and she took aim once more. 

 

The Queen worked through five caches of bolts before her fingers were too frozen to continue her piece of the battle. Cheeks and nose bit red by the cold, eyes wild, she looked over her shoulder at Galeran, waving the crossbow at him. “Your turn, ser.” 

 

His large hand closed around the stock and he stepped forward to assume Minara’s position in the corner rampart, and then he stopped moving. Over the crest of the hills that bled into the upper parts of the valley where they spilled from the mountain pass came three great siege towers, their wooden structures reinforced with iron and steel shield walls strapped to the beams. Their large wooden wheels were dragged forward through the mud and snow and ice by ten Halhead Greys, their speckled black ears reaching eighteen and twenty hands high. 

 

Galeran lowered the crossbow, a wayward prayer slipping beneath his breath. Rolling his shoulders back, he turned towards the rest of the battlement. “TOWERS!” He roared, dropping the bow and reaching for Minara. Soldiers shot into positions as the news hit their ears, clambering to grab sword and shield and bow as they stepped into place at the ramparts. Galeran pulled Minara up and into his arms, rushing down the interior wall and back to the steps, Imilde quick on her feet behind him. His last look over the Minara’s hair was towards the nearest siege tower, its broad head crowned with a ballista, flaming bolt in place. 

 

A sergeant nearby shouted for the catapults, and Galeran stepped aside to allow soldiers carrying vats of hot oil to climb onto the battlements. Then, he and Imilde rushed the Queen back into the bailey and towards the Great Hall doors. She pounded on his breastplate, shrieking about duty of crown, that she could light boulders, that she just needed to warm her fingers and then she would be ready for the crossbow again. Galeran gave a pointed glance at the swell of her stomach and marched on. 

 

“Unhand me!” Minara screeched as they ducked into the Keep. “That is an order!” Balled fists slammed against the metal covering his chest, the rhythmic thud echoing loudly in the sudden quiet. The Queen noticed, too, and ceased her struggle to look around the Great Hall. 

 

The surgeon and his nurses were gone, their surgical cart tipped over, spilling blood-soaked tools near the wide hearth. The coals in the fireplace long since burned down, only faint smudges of red and orange behind the growing plume of smoke. Imilde stepped into the Great Hall, peering around a broad door, and then jerked her head back. She looked back at Galeran, eyes wide, and shook her head sharply. His eyes narrowed in response, and he lowered Minara to her feet, pushing her into Imilde’s grasp behind the door. Carefully, he drew his sword, rolling it in his palm before grasping the hilt firmly and stalking into the room. 

 

Imilde’s hand was over the Queen’s mouth, dampening the rush of heavy breaths from Minara. She closed her eyes, listening intently for Galeran’s footsteps as he moved into the Great Hall. Soft metallic ringing met her ears, growing fainter as he distanced himself from where they hid in the doorway. And then, several heavy footfalls as Galeran moved quickly away from something, shouting in surprise. Metal rang on metal, weapons meeting each other in rapid strikes. 

 

Minara’s fingers snaked up Imilde’s arms, tightening around the lady of the chamber’s wrist and pulling her hand away from her mouth. Sucking in a breath, she pressed her own hand to her chest and whispered, “Imilde… Imilde. I’ve had my waters.”

 

🪾

 

Both women looked downwards at the fluid seeping from beneath Minara’s skirts, pooling between stones at their feet. Imilde couldn’t help the laugh that burst from her lips as she reached for the Queen’s hand, squeezing her fingers tight. “Your Grace, let’s get you somewhere safer.” She led the Queen down a long side hallway, moving slowly, offering of a firm hand at Minara’s hip and low, steady breaths aloud. 

 

It took a long time for them to traverse the hidden stairwells, but they reached the final landing as it opened into the circular postern hall that faced the mountain gates. Had it not been just earlier that day they had helped families escape into the Run? Imilde felt it had been weeks before, exhaustion settling in her bones at the realization. She guided Minara to a low bench near the gates, pressing the Queen’s hands firmly against the lower part of her large belly and whispering, “Push lightly beneath your belly button. Do you feel anything?”

 

Minara obliged, fingers moving slowly between folds of fabric in her dress. “I cannot be sure, Imilde. My heart is racing and I fear I only feel my own pulse.”

 

Imilde nodded, brushing stray hairs from the Queen’s face before resting her palm on the flushed cheek of her lady. “Focus on breathing, your Grace. Deep, long breaths in, and then deep, long breaths out.” She mimicked it alongside Minara, throwing a smile she hoped was reassuring when Minara got the cadence right on the third try. “Yes, that’s wonderful my lady. In, and then out. I’ll be right back.”

 

Imilde rose and strode to the mountain gates, staring at the endless, dark cavern that stretched beyond. Her fingers slid along the cool stone beside the nearest gate, seeking the hidden alcove where the gate latch tucked away beneath a wooden casing. Part of her hand fell behind the wall, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she flipped the latch and the gates slowly fell open before her with several sharp metallic twangs. But once the gates were fully wide, the sound of metal on metal continued, growing louder with each passing moment. 

 

A shout and a grunt echoed up the long stairwell on the other side of the postern hall, and Imilde’s spine snapped into place. Galeran battled someone up the stairs, making his way to the gates. She rushed to the bench to kneel beside Minara, placing her hands against her Grace’s thighs and pushed her face into Minara’s line of vision. “Your Grace, we must go. It is no longer safe here.” 

 

The Queen hissed a loud breath, teeth gritted against a wave of pain, and then nodded slowly. Imilde slid her arm beneath both Minara’s, lifting her from the bench and offering stability to the journey ahead. Her other hand settled above the Queen’s belly, and underneath the thick fabric of her corset, she could feel the tightening of muscles as they moved. Minara was going to have this child, and soon. 

 

The two women crossed into the mountain cavern, and Imilde looked over her shoulder to see Galeran leap forward into the room, parrying against a greatsword so black it seemed to suck in the light of the lanterns on the wall nearby. He yelled in frustration as he pushed off the blade, stumbling back several steps to avoid a sweeping arc of the dark metal. Imilde swore aloud when the black crystal helmet rose beyond the height of the stairwell, the Spektre seemingly floating into the postern hall with ease. 

 

The black knight towered over the Warden, his helmet covering every bit of his face save for a wide swath beneath his nose. His mouth was painted in charcoal lines to look like a skull - or perhaps it was a skull, as the nightmarish tales of her childhood wanted her to believe, either a jawbone fashioned to the inside of the helm, or an actual skeleton in armor. Imilde’s heart leapt into her throat as the Spektre launched himself at Galeran, swinging the greatsword from his helmet to the floor in a fluid motion with a single hand. 

 

Galeran dove out of the way, armor clanging against stone as he hit the ground hard. The landing forced his own sword from his hand, and it clattered several feet away. He scraped blindly above his head for the blade. Instinctively, the Imilde cried out, “It’s to your left!”

 

The black crystal helm swung in her direction, and then dark pauldrons as the Spektre’s shoulders rotated towards the gates as well. Heavy footfalls bounced against the walls as the dark knight prowled between benches. Imilde felt lightheaded, her feet weighed down as if they had fused to the stones beneath her boots. The lanterns on the walls flickered and then went out, and darkness washed over her and the Queen. 

 

Through the shadows, she heard Galeran’s muffled roar, “CLOSE THE GATES!”

 

Without hesitation, she released her hold on Minara and rushed forward, pushing the mountain gates together and grunting as she forced them to close the latch. As it snapped shut, the glittering point of the greatsword thrust through the nearest gate, slicing through the skin of her inner forearm. She swore, and the Spektre chuckled darkly. A roaring wind filled her ears, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck, as she pressed a layer of her other sleeve against the wound. She stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over Minara, who was sobbing on the stones beside her feet. As she did, the wind settled into a rush of whispers, little voices that repeated, “A trail of blood always leads home.”

 

Imilde screamed, pressing her palms against both of ears, the blood from her wound dripping down and slicking her jaw and braids. The whispers ceased, but the knight chuckled again, low and reverberating, as the lanterns flickered back to life. The Warden leapt from the fading darkness, his broadsword smashing into the shoulder of the Spektre, a roar of fury bouncing along the cavern. 

 

The Queen cried out in pain, her fingers grasping the dirty hem of Imilde’s skirts, tugging her towards the floor. Imilde wiped her bloody hands on the bustle at her back before bending over to lift Minara carefully back to her feet. They leaned against the other as they slowly made their way down the long cavern. The sounds of the duel in the postern hall grew faint when they rounded a rough corner and continued towards the rush of the waterfall that masked the entrance to the hidden route. 

 

“Imilde, I cannot.” Minara’s voice was raspy, thick with emotion. “I cannot continue at this pace.” She separated from her lady of the chamber, leaning against a cavern wall, breathing heavily. 

 

Imilde shook her head. “But we must, your Grace. We are not yet to safety.”

 

A trembling hand lifted. “The babe comes.” Feet started to slip out from beneath Minara, and she slid roughly down the wall. “The babe comes!” The last word was a screech, and Minara clawed at her overgrown stomach. 

 

Imilde fell to her knees, scrambling toward Minara. “Your Grace, you have to breathe. Breathe, breathe.” The Queen struggled to slow her air, and Imilde again mimicked the cadence as she threw royal skirts aside to get a clear view. Everything was thick with mucus and blood. 

 

“The babe comes!” Imilde cried, plastering a smile on her face as she emerged from beneath Minara’s dress. They found each other’s eyes and shared a weak celebration before the Queen screamed, a guttural howl that rumbled beneath Imilde’s hands. “Your Grace, it is time to push. You must bear down and push the babe to life.”

 

Minara’s eyes rolled back in her head as she grunted through a contraction, pushing and pushing against the wave of pain. Tears poured down her cheeks and her lip split from biting it, blood mixing with salt on her chin. Another contraction; Minara threw her head backwards with its sharpness, smacking against the cavern wall. This push let loose a wave of blood, soaking Imilde’s skirts and flowing downward along the slant of the cavern floor. 

 

Again and again and again Minara pushed, screaming and grunting, the ends of her fingers raw where she had tried to bury them into the stone at her sides. Imilde cried out as she felt the fine down of hair on a babe’s head, and then the small ears, and a soft jawline. Her slick fingers touched shoulders, and Minara shrieked as they ripped through her. And then the babe was out, cradled against Imilde’s thighs, and she was handing the blue babe to her Grace. 

 

Minara held it to her chest, sobbing, her bleeding fingers tracing the shape of the baby’s eyes and nose. “It’s a boy,” she whispered, gaze never leaving the baby’s face. 

 

Imilde sighed, repeating Minara’s statement. “A boy!” She murmured, before she reached between Minara’s legs once more and severed the cord. “A beautiful boy, who needs to breathe his first air of this plane.” 

 

She lifted the cord above her head and cut it in half, coating her thumb in the thick fluids inside. Leaning forward, she pressed the pad of her thumb against the babe’s forehead, marking it with his mother’s life, and quickly whispered the Rites of Salts and Sands. 

 

Pink rose to the babe’s cheeks, and he began to squirm. His tiny mouth parted to suck in the damp air, and his mother buried her face in him, her loose curls muffling his soft cries. 

 

Metal on stone echoed in the cavern behind them, and Imilde leapt to her feet. She reached up to her hair and withdrew the sharp pin holding her braids in place, flipping it in her palm so the point was forward. She held it out, ready to attack. 

 

The footsteps grew louder, and then the Warden stumbled out from the part of the cavern that led away from the gates. Blood drenched Galeran, and he was missing part of his armor. His breathing escaped him in ragged pants, and he doubled over to hold his hands with his knees as Imilde approached him. 

 

“I could have stabbed you, you know.” She hissed, kneeling down to examine him for wounds. “You did not announce who you were.”

 

Galeran heaved, bile spilling across his sabatons. Imilde slid her hairpin into a fold of her dress, leaning forward to embrace him. “Thank the gods you are alive,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the salt-crusted, damp hairline she could reach beneath the helm. 

 

Galeran grunted, then pressed a blood-soaked gauntlet against her hip. “Alive, but not well,” he ground out. “We need to leave.”

 

Imilde ran a hang along his back, slicking even more blood against his armor, and then helped him back to his full height. “Indeed, Gale. The babe has arrived.” She waved a hand towards Minara, who had nestled the baby against her breast. 

 

Galeran swore, clutching at his tasses as blood spilled through them. “He’s attacking the gates,” he choked out. “Mil, we must go.” 

 

Imilde dipped her chin in acknowledgement, crossing to the Queen’s side. She fell to her knees before Minara, beaming at the child. “He’s beautiful, my lady. Healthy and whole.”

 

Minara smiled up at her, raising a palm to rest on Imilde’s cheek. “Healthy and whole, as no others were.” Fleeting sadness behind her eyes, and then she blinked. “The gods have blessed us.”

 

Suddenly, the walls of the cavern shook, chunks of rock plummeting around them. The baby wailed, and Minara jostled her arms to settle him. Imilde smoothed the loose strands of hair from her Queen’s brow, pressing her lips against the cleanest part of her forehead she could find. 

 

“Your Grace, we must leave. We must go now.” Imilde gestured to Galeran, and then behind them. “The dark knight is almost through the mountain gates.” 

 

Minara gazed at her, a serene smile stretching her cheeks. The dried blood there cracked. “I cannot leave.”

 

Imilde stumbled over her immediate response, and stared at the Queen. “But you must. We need to get you and the babe far from here.”

 

But Minara shook her head, her broad smile turning down at the corners. “No, you must get the babe far from here.” She pushed the bundle towards Imilde. “The Spektre is here for the Crown.”

 

The lady of the chamber accepted the baby, but hesitated to draw it closer to her chest. “Your Grace, if we leave now, we can protect the line.”

 

Galeran stumbled closer, his gauntlet hand falling on Imilde’s shoulder. “I can carry you, your Grace.” 

 

Laughing softly, Minara waved her hand at Galeran. “You can hardly carry yourself, ser.” With a firm hand, she pushed the baby into Imilde’s grasp. “Take him. Run from here. Protect the line.”

 

“But -” 

 

“Do not question me, Imilde of Tydia.” Minara again thrust the baby deeper into the lady of the chamber’s hold. “I carried my child as far as I could, and now it is your turn.” 

 

Imilde began to cry, great sobs wrenching from her chest as she shook her head against the Queen’s words. “Your Grace, I will not leave you. I will not go!”

 

Minara smiled again, warm and full. “Mil, you must go. He is here for me, and for me alone. He is not aware of the child.” She lifted her eyes to Galeran, searing him with her gaze. “You must protect the line.”

 

He nodded once, and then wrapped his hand around Imilde’s forearm, tugging her towards the waterfall. “This way, Mil. We should make haste.” 

 

She cried out sharply as the pressure reopened the wound on her arm, blood spilling across the stones at her feet. The baby moved against her, and then opened his mouth in his own wail. 

 

The Queen’s cheeks were wet with tears as she leaned her head back against the cavern wall. “Blood of my blood, I send you into the world with the grace of the gods, and the hope that you will continue to be blessed by them outside of the walls of our castle.” A sob broke her resolve, and the rest of her prayer was interrupted by great heaving cries. “May you find the breeze that lifts you. Should you be pulled beneath by a tide that seeks ruin, remember these words: you are the shore on which all others break their ships.”

 

Thick shadows spilled around the far corner, licking at the stones beneath them as they explored the narrow cavern. They reached the edge of Minara’s skirts, and a spark erupted along them, back towards the gates. The Queen shivered as the darkness moved up her body. Galeran released Imilde and moved back towards Minara, but she lifted a hand covered in dried blood to hold him off. “GO!” She shouted hoarsely. 

 

At the sound of her voice, the shadows thickened and formed a vise around her throat, shoving her head back against the cavern wall. Sparks erupted into a single line of blinding light along the cord of shadows. 

 

Imilde and Galeran ran as fast as they could along the rest of the cavern, throwing themselves headlong through the icy pour of the waterfall. They drew breaths of fresh air in a snowy mountain pass, the footsteps of others who fled the castle that day already washed away with new drifts. The rush of cold air roused the baby, who began to wail against Imilde’s chest. She pulled as much fabric as she could over his naked body, pushing warm breaths against his brow as the Warden pulled her forward along the cliffside. 

 

Inside the cavern, metal footsteps echoed along the walls as the dark knight drew closer. The cord of light in the shadows pulsed erratically. He emerged from around the corner, the black crystal of his helm glittering against the sparks below his boots. He dragged his greatsword behind him, the point leaving a deep groove in the stones where he walked. 

 

In three broad steps, he hovered before Minara, peering at her through narrow eyeslits. The painted skull lines of his chin broke into a thin smile, the silver of his teeth glinting in cast-off light. A low, gravelly voice rumbled from his chest as he said, “A Crown, all alone?”

 

She lifted her chin at him, eyes defiant despite her disadvantageous placement on the stones beneath him. “A Crown, willing to sacrifice for her kingdom,” she spat. 

 

The Spektre chuckled. “How brave,” he hummed as he lifted his greatsword. “How foolish,” he hissed as the blade rounded and nocked in her neck. 

 

He wiped the greatsword against her skirts, cleaning blood and muscle from the blade, before he sheathed it across his back. He stooped, wrapping gauntleted fingers into the tangle of curls, then wrenched the loose head from the last bit of spine that kept it intact with her body. Holding it even with his gaze, he took in the Queen’s dead face, confirming for himself the tales of her unearthly beauty. He opened the satchel at his waist and deposited Queen Minara within, cinching it tight and waving his hand above it to cease the flow of fluids from the severed arteries and muscles. A flash of black smoke coated the satchel, and he patted the leather with finality.