The Cracks Spread
The autumn deepened.
The leaves fell from the trees, covering the garden in a blanket of gold and red. The air grew cold, the wind grew sharp, the sun grew distant. The people worked quickly, harvesting the last of the vegetables, storing the last of the grain, preparing for the winter.
They were afraid.
The Withering was stirring. They could feel it in their bones, in their blood, in their dreams. The cracks in the throne were spreading, and the hunger was waking.
Rhaena walked through the city, her hands in her pockets, her eyes on the ground. The crown was on her head, heavy and cold. The iron band pressed against her temples.
She could feel the Withering.
It was close now. Closer than it had been since the winter. It was testing the barriers, probing the weaknesses, searching for a way in.
She held it back.
She held it back with hope.
She held it back with love.
She held it back with herself.
Corin found her at the edge of the garden.
“Your Grace, the children are asking for you.”
“I know.”
“The sick are asking for you.”
“I know.”
“The old are asking for you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
She looked at the garden. At the dying plants. At the falling leaves.
“Because I am thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“About the throne. About the hunger. About the Withering. About the grandmother. About the first queen. About the last god.”
“What about them?”
“They were all wrong.”
“About what?”
“About hope.”
Theron approached.
His burned hands were wrapped in fur, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, the riders have returned from the north.”
“The riders?”
“The ones we sent to find the fire.”
“The fire in the east?”
“The fire in the north. The fire that was supposed to save us.”
“What did they find?”
Theron was silent for a long moment.
“Nothing.”
Rhaena’s blood went cold.
“Nothing?”
“The fire is gone. The hope is gone. The people are gone.”
“Dead?”
“Vanished. The Withering took them. The hunger consumed them. The cold buried them.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds. Thousands. I cannot count them all.”
Elara approached.
Her red hair was dull, her green eyes were dim, her hands were cold.
“The sickness is spreading. The children are dying. The old are fading.”
“The fire?”
“The fire is not enough. We need more.”
“More what?”
“More hope. More love. More you.”
Rhaena turned from the garden.
“Call the council.”