The Dawn of Battle
The morning came gray and cold.
The snow had stopped falling, but the wind had not stopped blowing. It howled through the streets, through the cracks in the walls, through the bones of the people. The Withering was close now. Rhaena could feel it pressing against the gates, testing the iron, tasting the fear.
She stood on the wall, looking out at the white waste.
The crown was on her head.
The weight was heavy.
The cold was deep.
Corin stood beside her.
“Your Grace, the soldiers are in position.”
“The soldiers?”
“The ones who volunteered. The ones who are not afraid. The ones who still hope.”
“How many?”
“Three hundred.”
“Against the Withering?”
“Against the Withering.”
“It will not be enough.”
“It will have to be.”
Theron approached.
His burned hands were wrapped in fur, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, the fire is burning.”
“The fire?”
“The torch. The hope. The light. Lyra has kept it alive.”
“How?”
“She has given her blood. Her tears. Her dreams.”
“Is she strong enough?”
“She is strong enough to try.”
Elara approached.
Her red hair was dull, her green eyes were dim, her hands were cold.
“The children are in the crypt.”
“The crypt?”
“The old crypt. Beneath the chapel. It is the safest place.”
“Safe from what?”
“Safe from the Withering.”
“Will it hold?”
“I do not know.”
Rhaena turned from the wall.
“Open the gates.”
Corin stared at her.
“Your Grace—”
“The Withering is at the gates. It will not wait. It will not negotiate. It will not hope. Open the gates.”
“Your Grace, the soldiers—”
“The soldiers will fight. The people will hope. The children will remember. Open the gates.”
The gates swung open.
The Withering poured through.