The Queen’s Burden
The autumn came early.
The leaves turned gold and red, the air grew crisp, the sun grew low. The harvest was plentiful — more than enough to feed the city, more than enough to fill the granaries, more than enough to share with the villages that had been cut off by the winter.
Rhaena stood at the window of her father’s chambers, watching the farmers work in the fields.
Corin stood behind her.
“Your Grace, the lords are asking for a tour of the northern provinces.”
“Why?”
“They want to see the progress. They want to assess the damage. They want to plan for the future.”
“The future?”
“The spring. The planting. The hope.”
“Let them go.”
“Alone?”
“They are lords. They can travel without me.”
“Your Grace—”
“I am needed here.”
Theron entered.
His burned hands were wrapped in fresh bandages, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, the Withering is stirring.”
“Stirring?”
“The cracks are spreading. The hunger is waking. The dreams are returning.”
“What dreams?”
“The dreams of the grandmother. The dreams of the first queen. The dreams of the last god.”
“What do they say?”
Theron was silent for a long moment.
“They say the throne is breaking.”
Elara entered behind him.
Her red hair was dull, her green eyes were dim, her hands were cold.
“The children are sick.”
“Sick?”
“The same sickness as before. The coughing. The fever. The weakness.”
“The Withering?”
“I do not know. But it is spreading.”
Rhaena walked to the window.
The fields were golden.
The sky was blue.
The world was beautiful.
But the darkness was there.
Beneath the soil.
Beneath the stone.
Beneath the silence.
“The throne is breaking,” she said. “The Withering is waking. The children are sick. The people are afraid.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“What would you have me do?”
Corin stepped forward.
“Fight.”
Theron stepped forward.
“Hope.”
Elara stepped forward.
“Heal.”
She turned from the window.
“I will do all three.”