Kenna leans against one of the stone columns lining the throne room and glances around. Through the great peaked windows can be seen the miles of rolling grasses that make up the castle grounds, and beyond that, the roiling thundercloud of Azura’s army. A bolt of lightning splits the shadows, and Kenna’s body gives an involuntary shudder at the sight, her mind springing back to a similarly grim day-- another streak of lightning, and Leon’s body collapsing on the floor at Azura’s feet as her wicked powers sap the life from him--

A hand on her shoulder sends a spike of adrenaline through her veins and her sword is already half-drawn by the time she whirls around and faces her assailant. Rowan draws back and holds up both hands, a gesture of comfort between battered warriors. Kenna nearly weeps with relief and shame at her melodramatic reaction, but Rowan just smiles kindly.

“I know where your head is going,” she says, her voice low but just loud enough to reach Kenna through the din of the party, that of a soldier practiced in the art of stealth. “You must not let it. Do you understand me, Queen Kenna?”

Kenna almost tries for denial, but her previous experiences with Rowan Thorn have taught her that such a route would be futile. “I keep seeing it,” she whispers, leveling her gaze at the floor. “All of the people who have died for me. Margaret, Gabriel, Leon--”

“And me, nearly, once or twice,” Rowan says with a chuckle.

Kenna gives her a tired smile and leans back against the column. “I just keep thinking about all of these people I’m asking to fight for me. What makes me worthy of commanding them? A crown that was given to me because of the circumstances of my birth?” She snorts and tosses her head, letting a few stray locks of her chestnut hair fall in her face. “I keep thinking, if I hadn’t been born in a castle, if my mother hadn’t been the queen of Stormholt, would they follow me anyway? I know that sacrifice is part of being a ruler, but who am I to ask it of them? These soldiers are people with families and dreams--”

Rowan places a stern hand on the younger queen’s shoulder and guides her into a corner, away from the bulk of the party guests. She snags a goblet of wine off a nearby serving table and presses it into the girl’s hands.

“Kenna,” she says, “do you know why I pledged Thorngate’s resources to your cause?”

Kenna’s eyes remain fixed upon her goblet as she shakes her head.

“Because when you came to me that day, so many weeks ago, and asked me to join you in uniting the Five Kingdoms against the Nevrakis-- I saw something in you. Do you know what it was?”

Kenna shakes her head again as she cautiously raises her eyes to Rowan’s.

“I saw a valiant, loyal, strong-headed woman who would tear the gods from the sky if it meant saving her people,” Rowan says. “I saw a warrior who would fight with everything she had to protect those under her charge.”

She reaches out a hand to tenderly cup Kenna’s cheek. “And I saw a queen, so young to have experienced so much heartbreak, to be battered by the winds of war. Yet, when my kingdom was weak and in your debt, you were merciful. You could have handed my castle over to one of your friends, or forced us to give up our entire crop of Heart Oak-- but you didn’t.

“You gave me something for which I had waited years, alone-- my throne. You helped me restore my family’s rule.”

She leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Kenna’s forehead. “That is why we are here, Kenna Rys. That is why we have sacrificed so much in your name,” she says. “Because we believe in you, in your cause, and I will do everything I can to make damn sure we win that battle tomorrow-- for all our sakes.” With a smirk, she adds, “Though if there ever comes a time when I need to choose between my people and you-- well, it does not need to be said.”

Kenna lets out a shaky laugh, unsteady from the wine and her heart swollen with Rowan’s words. “And the same to you,” she says, tipping her goblet in the queen’s direction.

Rowan grins and claps her on the back. “Now go, Queen of Stormholt,” she says. “Enjoy the party. Save your worrying for the battlefield.”

Kenna gives her a grateful nod and merges into the crowd, soaking in the familiar scents and sounds of the revelry. Despite the encroaching chill outside, the room is filled with the heat of dozens of bodies laughing and dancing. Near the refreshments, Val has challenged a group of Panrion builders to a drinking game, one on five-- and, unsurprisingly, appears to be winning. Aside from the hubbub, Jackson and Diavolos are engaged in deep conversation, and Kenna even sees Jackson crack a smile. Zenobia and Helene hover at the edge of the crowd, neither desiring to engage with Luther nor each other, until Annelyse spots them and breaks away from the other dancers to drag them into the waltz. Even Adder decided to make an appearance and is chatting with Dom in the shadow of an ornate wall sconce. Kenna makes eyes contact with him over Adder’s shoulder and winks, causing a furious blush to spread through his cheeks.

If she could have her way, this is exactly how every day would be. All of her friends gathered in one room, their faces for once relaxed and unmarked by fear or worry, exchanging jokes instead of lashes, their clothes stained with wine rather than blood; the approaching battle feels more like the memory of a bad dream than the reality she will be facing in just a few short hours. Part of her tries to ignore the holes in the scene where the others should be-- her mother, Gabriel, everyone who has fought and sacrificed so much for her-- but she remembers Rowan’s words, and she lets the thoughts wash over her like an ocean wave and then dissipate. Her heart still aches for their absence, but the wounds they left have scarred over.

There is still one cut that she will not allow herself to acknowledge. Her gaze flicks unwillingly to Val and the memory of the day she arrived back from her mission in Azura’s castle bearing the awful news, the sting of betrayal slicing deeper than any sword or arrow. Kenna looks out the window at the darkness billowing along the horizon and wonders if he is among them, whether she will have to face him in the coming battle. Will he be standing at Azura’s side? She’s not sure what to make of the ball of emotions tangled up in her stomach at that thought. She’s not sure she would be able to hurt him even if she had to.

She isn’t aware that she’s moving toward the doors until Kailani intercepts her path, a frothing mug in her hand and wearing the widest grin Kenna has seen on her in a long time.

“Where’re y’ off to?” Kailani cries, a bit too loudly. She weaves on her feet, squinting with the effort of keeping herself upright.

“I’m just tired,” Kenna replies. “I have to rest before the battle tomorrow.”

“Battle, shmattle. Come, have a round with us!” Kailani tosses an arm around Kenna’s shoulders and tries to lead her back toward where the Panrion builders are immersed in the bottomless fruits of the royal cellar, but she trips on the seamless stone floor and stumbles forward, nearly taking Kenna down with her.

“Careful, ladies.”

Their momentum is stilled by the steadying hand of Diavolos Nevrakis. He extracts the two women from one another and helps Kailani to her feet, giving her a brisk pat on the shoulder and a gentle shove toward the other revelers. He turns to Kenna with an expression of amusement, but his smile fades when he sees the distress in her eyes.

“Queen Kenna,” he says. He starts to reach a hand toward her-- to comfort?-- then seems to reconsider the action and instead runs the hand through his hair.

She puts on her best happy face. “I’m used to rendering princes speechless, but I never thought I’d have the honor of seeing it on a Nevrakis,” she says with a cocky smile.

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Queen Kenna, I am just so overwhelmed by your beauty and poise, I can hardly stand it,” he says with a snort. His expression grows concerned once again. “Seriously,” he murmurs, “are you doing alright?”

The confidence in her expression doesn’t quite reach her voice. “You’re not the one who should be worried. That will be the Iron Empire, when we crush their queen into the dust,” she declares.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says with a grin. “Go rest up. I’ll make sure no one else tries to bother you.”

“Thank you, Diavolos.” She places a hand on his arm for the briefest moment as a sign of gratitude, then hurries out into the hallway before anyone can try to talk to her again.

The emptiness of the hallways is eerie compared to the noise and song of the party. A chill draft penetrates beneath her armor and raises gooseflesh on her skin. When she was little, the servants had told her that it was the ghosts of Stormholt soldiers killed in battle. An omen of bad luck. Queen Adrianna, of course, had scoffed at such ideas. Kenna hopes she can be like her mother now.

The guards nod to her as she passes, and she acknowledges them with a curt jut of her chin. Hard as she tries to ignore it, the chill follows her along the corridors. She starts to turn right, toward the grand staircase in the front hall-- but something stays her feet on the cold flagstones. She hovers there for the briefest of moments before turning left, toward the servants’ staircase. She is unsure why her gut is tugging her this way, to the place she has not visited since childhood. Since she learned how to become a queen. It’s almost comedic, to think of how little she actually knew about ruling when unfortunate circumstance shoved the throne upon her shoulders.

A different kind of ghost lingers on these wooden steps. She can hear far-off laughter, jibes, the cries of imagined battle. How many times had Gabriel or her mother had to shoo her and Dominic out of this staircase, servants veering around their play with a mixture of irritation and fond amusement? She trails her hand along the wall as she ascends, feeling the years embedded in the stone like ancient remains encased in amber.

Upon disembarking on the second floor, the chill of premonition cuts through Kenna’s heart. The corridor is empty even of the guards that were supposed to be posted. The fear would be indistinguishable to anyone who did not know her well, and she allows it to pass over her with an exhausted sigh. As she ambles toward her room, she makes sure to stoop her shoulders a bit and allow her eyelids to linger half-closed, maintaining the ruse of ignorance.

A fire has already been lit in the hearth beside her bed. She keeps her ears attuned to the noises of the room beneath the crackling of the logs and the shnk of her armor as she begins to undress. She places each piece upon the armor stand until she’s in her underclothes. She doesn’t have room to be bashful when her mind lingers over the assassins that could be lingering in the corners of this very room. She slips into a simple white shift and is about to climb into bed when her ears catch on the faintest noise. A far-off shuffling, slightly hushed but hardly stealthy. Clumsy fool.

She grabs a few pillows and shoves them beneath the covers in the vague shape of a person. That finished, she snags her loyal shortsword and ducks into the alcove half-hidden behind the fireplace, the perfect spot to view the wall where she knows the secret tunnel opens to her bedroom.

When the hidden panel slides open, however, rather than the masked assassin she was expecting, the figure that steps out makes her heart freeze in her chest. His hair and beard are a bit longer and somewhat unkempt, his infinite chestnut eyes framed by purplish rings, but otherwise he appears unchanged from the last time she saw him. When she kissed him goodbye-- wished him luck , for gods’ sake-- not knowing that in a few brief hours he planned to betray them all.

Every step he takes toward her bedside feels as if it is falling upon her own heart, and when she glimpses the dagger in his hand, it may as well have already pierced her through for the agony that erupts in her chest.

Before she can stop herself, her blade is at his throat, the pain surrendering to a wave of cold fury.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat right now, traitor,” she hisses.

She should kill him. He betrayed those who called him friend, betrayed Stormholt, put her people in danger-- gods, she could forgive him anything he did to her but he had no right to gamble away her kingdom. She should make him bleed for all the lives he’s thrown into the balance of this dangerous game. She should kill him. He deserves it.

But there’s a part of her-- she likes to think of it as the bit of her mother making itself known-- a voice telling her to have mercy, make peace. Make peace with a murderer? The wolf in her snarls at the prospect, the queen balks with upturned nose. But her heart, oh, it begs her not to hurt him. Because as much as she will try to deny it, despite her frigid and roiling rage, her heart still whispers his name in every beat, and there is no chance in any hell that she could muster the power to kill him.

“Kenna.”

Gods, how sweet her name sounds in his gentle baritone. She wants to wrap the sound around herself and fall asleep in the billowing curl of his sigh, make her home in his beautiful laughter. It is the sweetest balm to her senses, and yet it stings like venom.

She shoves him away and sends him stumbling, legs catching on the edge of the bed and sprawling across the covers. She keeps her sword trained at his throat and her eyes on his own, reading every tic with the precision of practiced intimacy. He should look angry, even though he has no right to be when this whole thing has been his fault-- but he looks at her with a stoic calm, almost gentle, and she can already feel herself crumbling. She clenches her teeth and straightens her posture, determined not to reveal the turmoil eating away at her insides.

“Kenna,” he says again, and she think her heart might just break.

“You have about thirty seconds before I cut your damned throat,” she snarls.

He drops the dagger and holds up both hands palms-out in a gesture of appeasement. “I swear, I did not betray you. I don’t expect you to believe me,” he says, and there’s a note of intense sorrow in his voice. “You have every reason to run me through right now, and I would not blame you for it.”

“You’re not helping your case,” she snaps.

“I’m not trying to,” he replies.

Keeping his hands by his head, he slips off the bed and to his knees, head just bowed. He looks like the most beautiful penitent, and it takes everything in her not to throw herself at his side.

“I pretended to join Azura so that I could learn her secrets,” he says. “Please believe that every moment away from you was unending torment. I could hardly breathe, knowing that you thought me a traitor. I--” His voice falters, and though he keeps his head slightly lowered Kenna can see him bite his lip to regain control. “I discovered information that will be invaluable in the battle against the Iron Empire. If you will allow me to share it--”

“You expect me to take you at your word, then?” she says. “What good is the word of a silver tongue?” She prods his cheek with the tip of her shortsword. “What good is the word of a viper ?”

His fingers twitch and she almost sees a flicker of hurt on his face-- good, she thinks, she wants him to be in pain, even if the sight only deepens the cracks in her poor weary heart. Yet he still does not look at her, and for some reason this makes her furious. She wants him to be angry with her, to scream and fight back, insult her, hurt her, give her a reason to stop wanting to throw herself at his prone form and kiss him until they both forget why they were fighting anyway.

“Why did you come back?” Her voice sounds pitiful to her own ears and it makes the anger brewing in her heart all the more potent. “Are you trying to hurt me? Does it please you to know how much it pains me to see your face?”

“Kenna, no-- please, that is the opposite of what I want,” he says. His voice is strained but he still does not quite meet her eyes.

She presses the tip of her sword into his cheek, sees the skin split and a thin red line well up, and the sight alone is enough to tear at the aching fissures in her chest. He does not flinch at this pain. He lowers his arms until they rest loosely at his side, and slowly, slowly he raises his gaze to hers.

It is almost impossible to speak without crying. “If that is true,” Kenna whispers, swallowing against the lump in her throat, “then why did you come here tonight?”

His eyes are shimmering with raw, unbridled emotion when they finally meet her own. “Because,” he says, “I love you, Kenna Rys.”

She had expected the words, but not here, not in this situation, and they catch her like a gauntlet to the chest, her heart constricting in its tight, painful cage. There is a part of her that wants to scream at him for all the pain he’s caused her, bury her fists in his bones and drag her nails over his chest and make him look as bloody and ruined as she feels inside. And he would let her. He would let her do anything she pleased, because he is speaking the truth. He--

Raydan loves her.

Her grip on the sword falters, the blade feeling so impossibly heavy in that moment, as heavy as the grief festering in her ribcage. Every piece of her fragile heart is screaming at her to drop her weapon and run back into his arms, but the straining remnants of her pride will not allow it. As much as she wholly believes his words, as only a lover can, the anger in her chest is hollering for blood.

How dare he do this to her-- make her believe his lies and waste so much time mourning the loss of him, and then stride back into her bedchamber expecting an audience? As if he had any right to speak to her after what he put her through?

She clenches her fingers around the hilt, watching the blood eke out of her knuckles and leave her skin so stark-white against the burnished metal. How precious a thing her blood is. Centuries of rulers flow through her veins, their trials and triumphs, the power to topple empires or rebuild them, and yet it flows just as red as anyone else’s. The weight of the crown on her head does not offset the burden of her shattered heart. Her pride is not a crutch for her anguish.

As much as she wants to, she cannot carry the world on her shoulders.

Something breaks in her, the tiniest fissure in the glass barrier which has grown around her heart in the days since Raydan left. It deepens and spreads, shattering into great sharp crevices whose edges snag on the fragile membrane of her heart. Gods does it hurt, but it feels like the sun is shining in her ribcage and when she takes a breath she does not feel the thorns of grief tearing at her lungs. That breath feels like freedom.

“Kenna…?”

His voice is clear and gentle and so perfectly him she thinks she could cry. Her arm drops to her side, fingers loosen and the sword clatters to the floor beside her.

“Raydan.”

A sob rips itself from her throat and she stumbles forward, knees trembling, feeling herself fall before he stands and pulls her to his broad chest. She buries her face in his robe, inhaling the familiar, beautiful scent of him, and it feels so terribly much like home.

She lets herself cry, really and genuinely cry, for the first time she can remember. Every inhale feels like sandpaper on her chest but Raydan’s fingers stroking her hair feel like sweetest balm. She briefly muses that she should probably be embarrassed about getting tears and snot all over his robe, but it feels so magnificent to finally be back in his arms that she cannot find the energy to care.

Kenna comes back to herself gradually. At some point Raydan had guided her onto the bed and they sit beside one another, her hand still clenching his sleeve and head leaning upon his shoulder. She fingers the silky fabric of his robe to distract herself from the moment at hand. Regret stirs in her gut at the reality of being so raw and vulnerable with another person, but the warmth radiating from his skin melts the negative emotions away and replaces them with a simple bliss. Still, there is a lingering urge to fill the growing silence between them.

“Thank you,” she mumbles into the quiet.

“I should be the one thanking you,” he says, and though she cannot see his face she can hear the smile on his words. “You are not obligated to forgive me, and I would understand if you wanted to banish me from court forever. I...”

She straightens up to face him and places a finger on his mouth, shushing him. “I forgive you, Raydan Lykel,” she says. “And I lo--”

He cuts her off with a desperate kiss. She gives a muffled cry at the unexpected gesture, but soon melts into his touch, eyes sliding closed in bliss. He brings a hand to cup the back of her head, pulling her closer, both of them yearning to meld with each other’s body through slick tongue and clashing teeth.

Kenna has to pull away before her heart explodes. She glances up at Raydan’s normally composed visage, now flushed and absolutely wrecked with desire, and it sends a pleasant thrill through her gut.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

He returns her tender smile and leans closer, pressing his forehead against hers. She takes his hands in her own and they sit like that for many long moments, breathing the same air, sharing the same warmth, basking in the cocoon of their love.

A flash of lightning yanks Kenna back to reality. She glances out the window at the storm swirling in the distance and feels the dread still well inside her, but it is different now. It is tinged with that little bit of hope that she thought had left her forever the day Raydan left.

“It’s almost over,” she murmurs. “By tomorrow’s end, the war will be finished. Either Azura will be dead-- or I will.”

“Hush now,” he admonishes. He cups her chin and gently guides her gaze to his, warm chestnut irises swimming with emotion. “Let Azura just try to take our kingdom. The Iron Empire may be mighty, but we have something even greater.”

“A talking wolf cub?” she teases.

The corner of his mouth twitches, though his eyes stay intensely on her. “Azura’s army was forged through fear of her powers, not through any real loyalty,” he says. “Stormholt’s soldiers are united by the love of their leader, a queen who has fought and sacrificed everything in the name of her people. And love, my dearest, will always win over fear.”

As she sinks into her lover’s embrace in the half-light of the dying fire, she does not turn back to the window. In the morning she will face the battle and whatever fate the gods will provide her. For now, she must allow herself to rest, buoyed by her love, and think not of fear.