The First Night
The castle was quieter than it had been in twenty years.
The torches burned low in their sconces, casting soft shadows on the stone walls. The servants moved through the corridors in silence, their faces pale, their eyes wide. They had spent two decades serving a tyrant. They did not know how to serve a queen.
Rhaena walked alone.
Her footsteps echoed in the emptiness.
The crown was still on her head, though she had tried to remove it. The iron band would not budge. It had settled into place, as if it had always been there, as if it had been waiting for her.
The grandmother’s words echoed in her mind.
The throne is not a cage. The throne is a seed.
The throne is not a seed. The throne is a harvest.
The throne is what you make it.
She did not know what to make of it.
She did not know what to make of anything.
She found herself at the door of her father’s chambers.
The wood was old, scarred by years of use. The handle was brass, worn smooth by her father’s hands. She remembered sitting on his lap in this room, listening to his stories, watching the fire burn in the hearth.
She pushed the door open.
The room was dark.
The furniture was draped in white sheets, ghostly in the dim light. The hearth was cold. The windows were shuttered.
But someone was there.
A figure stood by the window, silhouetted against the moonlight.
“Who are you?” Rhaena asked.
The figure turned.
Theron.
His burned face was half in shadow, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?”
“I have done what I came to do. I killed the usurper. I brought you to the throne. I have fulfilled my vow.”
“Your vow?”
“To your father. On the night he died. He asked me to find you. To protect you. To bring you home.”
“You have done all those things.”
“Yes.”
“So now you leave?”
“Yes.”
Rhaena walked toward him.
The sheets rustled as she passed.
“Where will you go?”
“I do not know. North, perhaps. Into the mountains. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere where no one knows my name.”
“They will know your name. You killed the usurper. You killed the king. You are the Butcher. They will never forget.”
Theron’s good eye dimmed.
“I know.”
“Then stay.”
“Your Grace—”
“Stay. Help me rebuild. Help me heal. Help me hope.”
“I am not a healer. I am a killer.”
“You are a man who made a terrible choice and has spent twenty years regretting it. That is not a killer. That is a penitent.”
He was silent for a long moment.
The moonlight shifted.
“The court will not accept me. The nobles will despise me. The people will fear me.”
“The court will follow my lead. The nobles will learn to respect me. The people will come to love me.”
“You are very confident.”
“I am very tired.”
She sat on the edge of her father’s bed.
The sheet was cold beneath her.
“You killed my father. You saved his crown. You brought me home. You killed the usurper. You have done terrible things. You have done wonderful things. You are not one thing. You are many things. That is what it means to be human.”
“And what does it mean to be a queen?”
She looked at the crown on her head.
“I do not know yet. But I am learning.”
Theron sat beside her.
The bed creaked.
“I will stay,” he said.
“Good.”
“But not in the castle. I will find a room in the city. I will keep my distance. I will not attend your councils. I will not sit at your table. I will not—”
“You will do whatever I ask. Because I am your queen. And you are my subject.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
She stood.
“The city is sleeping. The castle is sleeping. The kingdom is sleeping. Tomorrow, we wake them. Tomorrow, we begin.”
“Begin what?”
She looked at the window.
At the moonlight.
At the shadows.
“Everything.”