The Queen’s Sacrifice
The light did not fade.
It spread across the courtyard, across the walls, across the city, pushing back the darkness, warming the cold, healing the hurt. The people who had been huddled in their homes crept to their windows, their doors, their roofs. They watched the light. They felt the warmth. They hoped.
The Withering was gone.
Not dead — gone. The hunger was sleeping. The cold was retreating. The shadows were fading.
But Rhaena was not moving.
She lay on the cobblestones of the courtyard, the torch still clutched in her hand, the crown still on her head, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her chest barely rising. The light pulsed from her body in waves, silver and gold, warm and bright, pushing back the last remnants of the darkness.
Corin reached her first.
He fell to his knees beside her, his hands hovering over her body, afraid to touch her, afraid to hurt her, afraid to find her cold.
“Your Grace,” he whispered.
She did not respond.
“Your Grace,” he said again, louder.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Her lips moved.
No words came.
Theron arrived a moment later.
His burned hands hung at his sides, his scarred face was wet with tears, his good eye was fixed on the queen’s face. He had seen death before. He had caused death before. He had watched the light fade from a hundred eyes, a hundred hearts, a hundred souls.
He did not want to watch it fade from hers.
“She is not dead,” he said.
“How do you know?” Corin asked.
“Because the light is still burning.”
Elara arrived with the children.
They had emerged from the crypt, their faces pale, their eyes wide, their hands clasped. They had been singing when the light came. They had been hoping when the darkness fled. They had been believing when the world was breaking.
“The queen,” one of the children whispered.
“The queen is sleeping,” another said.
“The queen is dreaming,” a third said.
“The queen is hoping,” Elara said.
She knelt beside Rhaena.
She placed her hand on the queen’s chest.
Above her heart.
The heart was beating.
Slowly. Steadily. Strongly.
“The Withering is gone,” Elara said.
“The hunger is sleeping.”
“The cold is retreating.”
“The hope is spreading.”
“What of the queen?” Corin asked.
Elara was silent for a long moment.
“The queen gave herself to the light. She gave her blood, her bones, her breath. She gave her hope. She gave her love. She gave her heart.”
“Will she wake?”
Elara looked at the crown on Rhaena’s head.
The iron was warm.
The silver was bright.
“I do not know.”
The people gathered in the courtyard.
They stood in silence, their heads bowed, their hands clasped. They did not weep. They did not wail. They did not scream. They simply waited.
They had been waiting for twenty years.
They could wait a little longer.
The sun rose over the city.
The light was golden.
The warmth was gentle.
The hope was strong.
Rhaena opened her eyes.