Two

We leave the dead village behind, but not the dead. Their remnants follow us—a black track winding through the stubble of burned crops and the hunched silhouettes of survivors. The fields beyond the houses look worse than I remember from the last inspection: every stalk mowed down to the root, soil upturned in spastic furrows, as if the earth itself tried to spit out its own heart. I count seven people at work, none older than forty, none younger than the scarred child I spot squatting at the edge of the ditch.

He stares at us, unblinking, thumb pressed against a cheek mottled with pink scar tissue. His hair is cropped unevenly, the left side nearly singed off, but his posture is steady—he meets my gaze and does not flinch away, though the others do. A few of the women labor with shovels, lifting clods of dirt to the foundations of what was a granary, and two men swing improvised hammers against a ruined cart, stripping it for wood. All eyes keep drifting back to my guard, measuring the distance between us, weighing the odds of kindness versus another kind of notice.

I raise my hand, signaling a halt. The guards obediently stop ten paces behind, resting in parade-perfect formation. I dismount, careful not to spook the horse, and approach the boy where he waits. At this distance, I can see the burn wasn’t recent—the skin has healed in a rough, ropey mask, twisting his mouth into a permanent half-grin.

He doesn’t move as I crouch to his level. The silence between us is not hostile, but ancient, a truce that predates both our parents.

"You thirsty?" I ask.

He considers the question, then shrugs, one shoulder higher than the other. I unsling my water flask and offer it; he takes it, tilts it with practiced caution, and sips. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow. After, he wipes his mouth with the unscarred part of his sleeve and holds the flask out, never letting go until I actually take it.

"How old are you?" I ask.

He looks at the ground, then back up. "Old enough," he says.

His voice is soft, but I sense the humor in it, and for a moment I almost smile.

From behind him, a woman materializes—she must be his mother, though they share little resemblance except in the set of their jaws. Her hair is black, pulled back tight enough to make her brow shine, and her arms are corded with the muscle of someone who has known more shovels than spoons. She puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, drawing him in close. Her eyes are flat and brown, the whites shot with red, but she looks at me with something more than fear. Deference, yes, but also a bone-deep resentment, as if every royalty in Aradal owes her a debt.

"He’s not bothering you, is he, Your Highness?" She says it without bowing.

"He’s fine," I reply. "Has he had enough to eat?"

"We all get the same, now. Three days since the last wagon. They say there’s another coming, but it always takes longer than they say." She does not blink as she says it.

"It will come," I promise, knowing how little the promise is worth.

She moves the boy behind her. Only then do I see the crude drawings scrawled in the dust near where he sat. Stick figures, drawn with a child's impatience—three of them, all large, triangular heads, each with exaggerated, fanged mouths. Their bodies are wolfish, or what a boy imagines a wolf must be: hunched, heavy at the shoulder, legs that end in claws. One figure holds a stick, or maybe a sword. The last is bigger than the others, looming above a crowd of smaller shapes—people, presumably, but every one drawn with a red X where the heart should be.

The mother follows my gaze. "He says the wolves walk upright, like men. They come at night and howl around the burned places. Sometimes they dig up the graves, sometimes they just watch from the edge of the fields. He draws what he remembers."

I look down at the wolf figures. "You think they’ll come back?"

She shrugs. "Not if you stay, Sun-daughter. But none of you ever stay."

The accusation lands with more force than she intends. I glance up, catching her eye, and see the calculation there—a tiny flinch, the knowledge she might be punished for speaking so plainly.

"It won’t always be this way," I say, softer than before. I hear the hollowness in my own voice.

She looks at me, mouth drawn tight, as if she wants to spit at my feet but remembers at the last instant who I am. Instead, she kneels, draws her son into her arms, and mutters something I can't hear. They remain there, a single knot of grief and animal endurance, until a sharp, clattering sound interrupts us.

A horse, its coat foamed with sweat, appears at the far side of the square. The rider wears no uniform, but the courier’s sash is unmistakable—a strip of indigo cloth slashed across chest and shoulder. The guards intercept him, exchanging a brief, tense word, then wave him through.

He rides straight to the village elder—an old man hunched over a ledger near the church ruins. They confer in low voices. The elder’s face clouds with worry, then resolve. The courier looks over, sees me watching, and his eyes widen. He hesitates, then dismounts and moves in my direction, boots churning up little puffs of ash.

He bows, deeper than the villagers did. His hand trembles as he produces a folded dispatch. The wax is broken—probably by the elder—but the seal is unmistakable: the double sun, my father’s private mark.

"For you, my lady," he says, voice tight with nerves. "From the capital. It’s urgent."

I do not open it. Not yet. The dusk has deepened, and the last rays of the real sun catch the sweat on the boy’s burned face, turning it molten. Around us, the village freezes, as if they sense something has changed.

"Thank you," I tell the courier, taking the letter. "Get yourself water, then rest. You’ll need it for the ride home."

He nods, relief flickering through his expression, then bows again before retreating.

I slip the letter into my gauntlet and turn to the boy, who now looks at me with a strange kind of hunger, as if waiting for me to explain what it all means.

I wish I could.

Night gathers in the hollows before the sun has fully quit the sky. Lanterns bloom along the broken fence line, held aloft by villagers with the solemnity of a funeral procession. Even the wind has settled, as if unwilling to disturb the fragile quiet. I hear the voices before I see the speakers—thin, overlapping, urgent enough that no one bothers to lower them.

"Peace talks," someone whispers, the words shivering in the cold air.

"King Aldric has called for an end," answers another. I can’t see their faces, but I know the shapes: hunched, tired, faces lined by the expectation of disappointment.

Sir Darius stands at my shoulder, his posture more rigid than before. I sense him itching to see what’s in the letter, but he waits, as do the others, eyes fixed on me like a jury waiting for verdict.

I step away from the road and find a fallen beam for a seat. The wood is icy under my hand. I break the seal and unfold the parchment, my heart pounding faster with every word I expose.

The handwriting is my father’s, quick and unmistakable, the slant of it betraying a haste he would never let his councilors see. I read the lines once, then again, as if they might rearrange themselves into a different truth.

Daughter—

I have reached terms with the enemy. You will not believe the conditions, but I require your assent. By the time you read this, emissaries from Tharros will be riding for the Wound. Meet them at the Oathstones. Bring the wardens. Do not delay. The priests will protest. Ignore them.

You will be my voice. You will carry the pact home. There must be no further war.

A.

I close my eyes and let the cold bite my skin, let the pain root me to the moment. The letter smells faintly of wax and something sharper—my father’s old cologne, perhaps, or the memory of his hand. I fold it again and press my thumb to the seal until it indents my flesh.

Footsteps crunch the ash behind me. I turn to see the village elder, the ledger clutched in one hand, the other fidgeting at his side. He looks older up close—each wrinkle a trench, his hair more scalp than thread.

"High Warden," he begins, then stops, waiting for permission to continue.

I nod. He swallows, tongue darting over cracked lips.

"We heard… there is to be peace," he says. It isn’t a question, but I hear the hope in it, brittle and desperate.

"That is what the letter says," I reply. My voice is steady, but I can hear the strain in it, the effort of keeping so many things locked inside.

He bows his head. "Many here have lost too much. They won’t believe it until the wolves are gone for good."

"The wolves will never be gone," I say, not unkindly. "But there may be something better than endless dying."

He looks up, the set of his mouth uncertain. "Are you afraid?"

I almost laugh. Instead, I rise from the beam, tucking the letter into my armor. "No. But I wonder if peace is more frightening than war. At least in war, we know our place."

He nods, as if this makes sense. Maybe it does.

I mount my horse and gesture for the guard to form up. The lanterns behind me flicker, and in their light I see the banner of Aradal, its gold stained brown, edges frayed and flapping weakly in the night breeze. I think of the oaths sworn beneath it, the thousands who have marched and bled for a strip of fabric and the idea it represents.

"Prepare to ride," I tell Sir Darius.

He bows, the relief and unease mingling in his features. "To the capital?"

"To the border," I correct. "We have a meeting to attend."

He signals the men, and in moments we are a single file line again, moving west into the teeth of the wind. I look back once, just once, and see the villagers clustered at the edge of the ruins, their faces lit orange and gold by lantern-glow. They watch us go, silent, as if hoping our movement will drag the future in behind us.

The horse picks up speed, its breath pluming in the cold. My hands are steady on the reins now, and the letter sits heavy against my breastbone—a promise, or a dare. Above, the last edge of sun slips behind a curtain of black clouds, and the Wound opens before us, dark and waiting.

What does peace look like, I wonder, when the world has forgotten its shape?

I ride, and I do not look back again.