The Northern Road
The forest released them at midday.
Not gently — the trees seemed to push them out, roots retreating, branches rising, shadows withdrawing as if they were expelling something that did not belong. Rhaena felt the change immediately. The air grew warmer, lighter, easier to breathe. The silence lifted, replaced by the sounds of birds and insects and wind.
She looked back.
The forest stood behind them, dark and patient, its secrets hidden once more beneath its ancient boughs. The first king was back in his grave, his roots drinking the cold water of the deep earth, his memory waiting for the next traveler brave enough to listen.
Corin pulled his horse beside hers.
“Your eyes, Your Grace. They were silver in the forest. Now they are brown again.”
“They are not brown. They are gray. They have always been gray.”
“They were silver. I saw them.”
“You saw what the first king wanted you to see.”
Theron rode ahead, his scarred face turned toward the north, his good eye scanning the horizon.
“The road is clear,” he said. “No patrols. No riders. No signs of Malrik’s men.”
“The forest protects its own,” Rhaena said.
“The forest protects itself. We were just passing through.”
“Were we?”
Theron glanced back at her.
His good eye was uncertain.
“I do not know what you are, Your Grace. I do not know what you saw in there. I do not know what touched you.”
“I am the same woman who kneaded bread in the castle kitchen yesterday.”
“No. You are not.”
The northern road stretched before them, narrow and winding, bordered by fields of wild grass and scattered copses of birch and oak. The sky was wide and blue, the sun was warm, the wind was gentle.
It was beautiful.
It was wrong.
“There should be farmers in these fields,” Corin said. “There should be shepherds on these hills. There should be children playing in these streams.”
“Where are they?”
Theron’s voice was flat.
“Dead. Or fled. Or hiding. Malrik’s tax collectors have stripped the north bare. There is nothing left to farm. Nothing left to shepherd. Nothing left to play.”
“How far to Ironhold?”
“Three days. Maybe four. The roads are rough, and the horses are tired.”
“Then we push hard. We rest little. We sleep less.”
Rhaena looked at her hands.
The calluses were still there. The flour was gone.
She had been kneading bread yesterday. She had been scrubbing floors. She had been emptying chamber pots.
Now she was riding to war.
Now she was leading men.
Now she was the hope of a kingdom.
She did not feel like hope.
She felt like a servant wearing a borrowed crown.
They rode until dusk.
The sun bled across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of orange and red and purple. The shadows grew long. The air grew cool. The horses grew tired.
“We stop here,” Corin said.
They were at the edge of a small stream, its water clear and cold, its banks soft with moss. A grove of birch trees offered shelter from the wind, their white bark glowing in the fading light.
Theron dismounted.
He moved stiffly, his burned hands struggling with the saddle straps, his scarred face twisted in pain.
“I will take the first watch,” he said.
“No,” Rhaena said.
He looked at her.
“You need rest. Your wounds. Your burns. Your guilt. They are all weights. You cannot carry them and the watch.”
“I have carried them for twenty years.”
“Then let someone else carry them for one night.”
Corin unsaddled his horse.
“I will take the watch. Theron, you rest. Your Grace, you rest.”
“I cannot rest.”
“You must.”
“My mind will not stop.”
“Then close your eyes and pretend.”
Rhaena almost smiled.
Almost.
She sat on a fallen birch, its bark soft with age, its wood warm from the day’s sun. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and watched the stars appear, one by one, scattered across the darkening sky.
Theron sat a few feet away.
His good eye was closed.
His burned face was hidden in shadow.
“Theron.”
He opened his eye.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Did my father suffer?”
The silence stretched between them like a chasm.
“No,” he said. “I made sure of it. The blade was sharp. The stroke was clean. He was gone before he hit the ground.”
“Did he say anything? Before?”
Theron was silent for a long moment.
“He said your name.”