Three

The city rises from the last of the dusk like a fortress built from old bone and bad dreams. The walls are the color of cured leather, the gate towers blackened from a recent siege. At the outermost checkpoint, we are met by a row of guards in livery faded to a muddy ochre, their boots and blades dusted with the same ash that has trailed us since the Wound. Above them, banners hang in limp festoons: some in mourning black, others in the garish gold and blue of victory. They clash against each other, visually and ideologically—a city that cannot decide whether to grieve or to gloat.

I slow my horse as we approach, feeling the unsealed letter from my father press like a second breastbone beneath my armor. The guards snap to attention, or what passes for it after twenty years of attrition. The captain, a thin woman with a scar running from brow to lip, gives the formal salute—fist to chest, then a slight bow of the head. Her eyes never quite meet mine. Instead, she looks just above my shoulder, as if expecting an arrow at any moment.

"Highness," she says, voice sanded down to the essentials. "The King’s council awaits. There’s been word of your coming."

I nod. "Is the city secure?"

"As much as it ever is," she replies. "Crowd’s more trouble than wolves, these days."

"Very good." I let my gaze pass over the rest of the checkpoint. The men look tired, but none are wounded, which is more than I can say for most garrisons between here and the border.

She steps aside, motioning us through. The moment we cross beneath the portcullis, the city closes in like a trap designed by committee. The main avenue has been swept, but only just; I see the double lines where a body was dragged, the sticky patchwork of old blood not yet scoured from the flagstones. Vendors line the street, their wares draped in thin veils of black as if the cloth alone could show respect to the fallen. Most of the stalls have been shuttered for the night, but a few still cling to their business: a baker selling sweet rolls that reek of burnt sugar, a pottery merchant hawking chipped relics as souvenirs of the last campaign.

We draw stares, of course. Some linger on my face, searching for the resemblance to my father, or to his ghost. Others look at Sir Darius, whose straw-blond hair and scar-patched jaw mark him as one of the king’s chosen. His hand never strays far from the hilt of his sword; each time a laugh rings out too close or a voice rises above the market hum, I see his knuckles blanch on the grip. He rides half a pace behind me, a deliberate breach of protocol that I allow for the comfort it brings.

The deeper we ride, the thicker the air grows. Smoke from last week’s parade still clings to the eaves, mingling with the hot-animal stink of bodies packed close for the spectacle. The banners here are less dignified: some hand-painted, many patched from the rags of old campaign standards. I recognize one—a sunburst sigil defaced with a red X. The mark of the Wound, painted by those who lost family to the border. I wonder if they would spit at my boots if not for the ring of royal guard at my back.

At a crossroads, a small group of children stands beside a makeshift shrine, the kind built by survivors who cannot afford stone. Candles gutter in the wind, their wax pooling into a single, yellowed mass. The oldest girl holds a sign: Daughter of the Sun, Bring Us Peace. She wears her hair in a single, severe braid. Her eyes track me as I pass. I look back at her, just for a heartbeat, and see that her fingers are stained with ink, the sign freshly made.

Past the market, the architecture grows grander but colder. Every window is dark, every doorway watched by someone who thinks themselves invisible. We pass a tavern—its sign half-torn, the letters rearranged to spell something obscene—and through the open door I glimpse a crowd gathered around a gaming table, the only sound the click of dice and the mutter of lost bets. No one sings, not even the old campaign songs. Perhaps the memory is too bitter now.

Sir Darius leans close, voice low. "We’re being watched."

"I should hope so," I say. "It’s not every day they see a living warden ride through the gates."

He frowns, jaw working beneath the stubble. "Not all the eyes are friendly."

"None of them are," I reply, and he does not argue.

We reach the inner wall just as the bells of evening prayer begin. They ring out from the cathedral spire, slow and deliberate. I count the tolls—one for each year of the war, then three more for the dead of the past month. The sound reverberates off the stone, swallowing the city in a hush. Even the crowd on the square falls silent, heads bowed as if by instinct.

In that moment, I see the full breadth of it: the hundreds gathered beneath the banners, the clusters of old men in patched uniforms, the widows in veils, the orphans in packs at the edge of the crowd. All those faces turned upward, watching me with a mixture of hope, resentment, and something harder to name.

The bell’s last note hangs in the air. I halt the horse and dismount, boots landing heavy on the flagstones. The guard forms a perimeter, but no one presses close; instead, the crowd parts for me, as if I carry some invisible contagion.

A rustle of fabric draws my attention. From the steps of the cathedral, a priest in full regalia approaches, robes heavy with gold embroidery. His face is familiar—High Priest Aldren, the Voice of Solis. He was younger when I last saw him, but the eyes are unchanged: blue as the river in winter, and just as cold.

He bows. "Your Highness. The council is assembled."

"Is my father there?"

He hesitates, just enough to notice. "The King awaits in his chambers. He wishes you to attend the council first."

I nod. "Lead on, then."

He falls in beside me as we climb the steps. Behind us, the crowd watches in silence, broken only by the occasional cough or the shush of a mother quieting her child. At the door, the priest pauses, hand on the great iron handle.

"You have your mother’s eyes," he says, voice pitched low.

I study his face, searching for the angle, the implication beneath the compliment. "And my father’s spine, I hope," I reply.

He smiles, but it never reaches the eyes. "We shall see."

The doors groan open. Inside, the cathedral is all shadow and echo. Candles flicker in the side aisles, but the nave is dark except for the spill of blue light from the rose window. The mosaic depicts the Sun Father in triumph, arms raised above a field of supplicants. The artistry is exquisite, but the faces are blank, empty ovals. I wonder if the artist ran out of patience, or simply found it too painful to finish.

We cross the nave in silence, the only sound our footsteps and the soft creak of leather armor. At the altar, Aldren kneels, making the sign of the sun with practiced grace. I bow my head, but do not kneel. After a moment, he rises and turns to face me.

"You know what is expected," he says.

"Expected, yes," I answer. "Willing is another matter."

"That is why it must be you," he says, as if it is a kindness.

The side door opens and the chamberlain appears, parchment in hand. He is younger than I remembered, his hair slicked to a perfect sheen, but his eyes are lined with worry.

"Lady Maris," he says, bowing. "They await you in the council chamber."

I glance at Darius, who stands at the threshold, ever watchful. "Stay here," I tell him. "If there is trouble, wait for my signal."

He nods once, but his jaw is set, ready to splinter.

The chamberlain leads me through the cloisters and up a narrow stair, past guards who bow and then look away as if fearing contagion. At the top, we emerge into the council antechamber. The air is thick with candle smoke and the cloying scent of old wine. I pause at the door, drawing a deep breath.

Inside, voices rise in a susurrus of debate—some angry, some pleading, all united in their sense of impending doom. I catch a phrase: "peace at any price," and another: "the wolves will never keep it." The words are familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition.

I let the chamberlain announce me. The voices fall silent as I step into the chamber, every face turned in my direction. Some I know: the Lord Marshal, the Mistress of Coin, the old scholar who once taught me to read. Others are strangers, eyes red from sleeplessness or grief.

I stand at the foot of the table, hands at my sides, and wait for someone to speak.

The Lord Marshal rises. He is taller than I remember, but thinner, as if the years have worn him away from the inside. "Lady Maris," he says. "We are honored by your presence."

I nod. "My father sent for me."

"He did," says the Marshal. "The terms are… unprecedented."

"War breeds novelty," I say, and the chamber ripples with a nervous laugh.

The Mistress of Coin speaks next. Her hair is perfectly silver, each strand disciplined into place. "The treaty is drafted. All it lacks is your assent."

"And the council's blessing," Aldren adds, appearing at my shoulder like a ghost.

I look around the table, taking in the faces. Some meet my gaze, others do not. "What is the price?" I ask.

A silence. Then the Marshal answers, "Your hand. To King Rhael of Tharros."

The words land like a blow, but I do not flinch. I had suspected as much—no other coin is valued by kings as highly as their daughters.

"And if I refuse?"

The old scholar clears his throat. "The war continues. The losses will mount. There is no guarantee we would survive another winter."

"So you would barter me for peace," I say, not bothering to soften the accusation.

The Mistress of Coin folds her hands. "We would entrust you to lead us into it."

It is, I suppose, a promotion.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, and feel the weight of the letter against my skin. My father’s voice echoes in my memory: There must be no further war.

When I open them, I see not the council, but the faces of the villagers in the Wound, the boy with the burn-scarred face, the woman who gave me the weed for luck.

I bow my head. "Then I will do as duty commands."

A collective exhale from the council—relief, or something more desperate.

The Marshal bows. "You do your House, and your people, proud."

I nod, then turn to Aldren. "Is it enough for the Sun Father, too?"

He inclines his head. "Only you can decide what is enough."

The chamberlain signals, and the council begins to file out, leaving me alone in the candlelit gloom.

I stand there, letting the quiet fill me, until at last Darius appears at the door. He does not speak, but his presence is a comfort.

Together, we walk out into the night, the city waiting beneath us, its wounds and its hopes both raw and unfinished.