'Another step, Your Highness.'

The words rang in Luis’ ears like a taunt, though they were meant as encouragement. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, each inhalation sharp and jagged like shattered glass. Pain lanced through his leg with every attempt to move, radiating up his spine and pooling as a hot, throbbing ache at the base of his skull. His knuckles turned white around the polished cane, his only anchor as he fought to steady himself. It had been a gift from his sister—a symbol of hope, she’d called it—but in moments like this, it felt more like a chain, binding him to his failure.

Sweat trickled down his temples, dripping into his eyes and stinging, blurring his already narrowed vision. His muscles screamed in protest, a chorus of agony that drowned out Doctor Renando’s firm but gentle urgings. The walls of his bedroom seemed to close in on him, the once-familiar space now a prison where every step was a battle against his own body.

'I’ve taken enough steps, damn it!' Luis growled, his voice hoarse and raw. His frustration erupted in the words, but the anger wasn’t meant for her—it was for himself. He hated the weakness in his voice, the way it cracked under the weight of his pain. He hated the way his legs trembled like a newborn foal's, unable to bear even the smallest fraction of his once-proud strength.

Doctor Renando didn’t flinch at his outburst. 'You will not heal properly if you give up, Your Highness,' she said, her tone steady, a thread of iron running through it. 'Now take another step. Please.'

Luis squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out her determined gaze, the cluttered room, the humiliating image of himself hunched over and defeated. His breaths came faster, shallower, a panic growing like a disease. For a moment, he felt like he might collapse entirely, crushed beneath those painful memories—the clash of steel, the roar of voices, and the searing agony that had left him broken.

Doctor Renando’s voice cut through the storm in his mind again: 'One step, Your Highness. Just one.'

Luis forced himself to open his eyes. With a grimace, he puffed out his cheeks, channeling his frustration into the motion. He willed his leg to move, to obey, even as it protested with every fibre of its damaged muscle. Slowly, agonisingly, he shifted his weight forward. The cane wobbled under his grip, its polished wood slippery with sweat. A guttural grunt escaped his lips as his foot dragged an inch, then another.

The pain was unbearable—sharp, burning, and relentless—but worse was the indignity of almost falling. His legs buckled, threatening to give way entirely, and his vision blurred from the sheer effort of staying upright.

Doctor Renando was there in an instant. Her hands found his arms, steady and firm, holding him upright as his balance faltered. 'Easy, Your Highness,' she said softly, her voice laced with a kind of patience he wasn’t sure he deserved. Luis gritted his teeth, fighting the wave of dizziness that rolled over him. For a moment, he let her bear his weight, his body stiff and unyielding, as though surrendering even this much felt like admitting defeat.

'I will not heal,' he rasped, his voice barely audible. He didn’t look at her, couldn’t bear to see the pity or determination that might gleam in her eyes. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, where a shadow wavered in the faint light of the morning. 'Not really.'

The words were a bitter truth spoken aloud. They tasted of ash on his tongue, of defeat and despair that no amount of stoicism could mask. His legs might grow stronger, his body might regain some semblance of mobility, but he knew in his heart that the man he had been—the warrior, the prince, the captain of the royal guard—was gone.

Doctor Renando opened her mouth to speak, but the creak of the door interrupted her, the sound carefully tearing through the room. Luis clenched his jaw as Sofia stepped inside, her black hair catching the golden streaks of the early-morning light spilling through the window. She wore their mother’s old dress—a pristine white with a delicate pink ribbon cinched around her waist—a choice that felt deliberate, almost manipulative, as if to remind him of better days. The mere sight of her standing before him, the mixture of familiarity and distance; a ghost of their past wrapped in the present’s clothing.

Behind her loomed Lord Serben Diae, his tall frame darkened by the light, his shadow stretching across the room until it brushed Sofia’s. There was something in his posture—a hesitation, a wariness—that only served to make Luis’ skin crawl.

'How is he doing?' Queen Sofia asked, her voice carrying that perfect balance of concern and authority she had been practising. She moved with an elegance that made Luis feel like a tattered rag in her presence.

Luis forced himself to look away. 'He is here, you know,' he muttered bitterly.

Sofia’s expression tightened. 'Please, Luis, don’t be like that.'

Her voice, calm and measured, only added fuel to the fire burning in his chest. He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto her with unspoken rage. 'How do you want me to be, Your Majesty?' His tone dripped with mockery, each word a barb aimed at the pristine armour of her composure, to make it crack at very least.

The pain in his leg surged as if summoned by his anger, and he staggered against the walking cane. The sharp ache twisted his features into a grimace, and before he could stop himself, a raw, guttural scream tore from his throat. 'Damn it!' He slammed his fist against the wall, the impact sending a jarring reverberation up his arm. Dust floated down from the point of impact, the room seeming to hold its breath in the aftermath.

Sofia stopped mid-step, her lips parting as if to say something, but the words never came. For a moment, she simply looked at him, her eyes flickering with something that could have been sympathy—or pity. Luis wasn’t sure which he despised more.

'Doctor,' Sofia said suddenly, turning to Doctor Renando. Her voice was firm now, the Queen emerging in full force. 'Could you give my brother and me some privacy, please? You as well, Serben.'

Doctor Renando hesitated, glancing between the two siblings before giving a stiff bow. 'Of course, Your Majesty,' she said, retreating with an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. The door creaked as it closed behind her, leaving only Serben.

The Lord of Diame lingered, his presence a quiet defiance. He glanced at Luis, his brow furrowed with concern. Luis stared back, unflinching, daring him to say something—anything.

'Serben,' Sofia said again, her tone sharper this time as she turned to him. 'You heard what I said.'

This time, her words must have struck home. Serben’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he bowed deeply nonetheless. 'As you wish, Your Majesty,' he murmured. He cast one last glance at Luis, something unspoken hanging in his gaze, before stepping toward the door. The soft click of it shutting was louder than it should have been, echoing in the strained silence.

Sofia placed her hands on her hips, her posture radiating both authority and exasperation. 'Sit down, Luis. You look like you’re about to fall over.'

Luis shot her a glare but said nothing. His pride protested, yet his body screamed for relief. Gritting his teeth, he limped toward the bed, every step a brutal reminder of the injury that had rendered him a shadow of himself. The throbbing pain in his leg pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, each step feeling like a blade driven deeper into his flesh.

When he finally sank onto the mattress, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. His muscles, taut and trembling, loosened as the weight lifted from his legs. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to savour the reprieve, even as the pain lingered, a dull and insistent flicker.

The room was steeped in an almost suffocating blend of scents—Doctor Renando’s medicinal herbs, their earthy aroma thick in the air, mingling with the sour tang of sweat and the faint mustiness of old wood. It was a smell Luis had grown used to in his confinement, a constant reminder of his weakened state.

When he finally opened his eyes, Sofia was seated across from him. She perched on the edge of the chair with her back straight, her movements deliberate and composed. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, but her fingers betrayed her, fidgeting ever so slightly with the fabric of her dress.

Her gaze locked onto his, her large brown eyes studying him with a mix of scrutiny and concern. Those eyes—always so full of purpose—felt heavy now, weighted with something he couldn’t quite place. Pity? Frustration? Guilt? He hated that he couldn’t tell.

'Please don’t look at me like that, Sofia,’ Luis muttered, his voice hoarse and brittle, barely rising above the stillness of the room.

Sofia’s expression didn’t change. If anything, her eyes softened, a flicker of sadness passing through them like a shadow. 'Like what?' she asked.

'Like I’m broken.'

The bitterness in his voice cut through the quiet, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress like a madman. He wanted to lash out, to scream, to pick up his sword and slash his sadness down to hell where it belonged. But the pain in his leg anchored him, tethering his anger to his own helplessness.

'I'm sorry,' Sofia said, her voice softer now, almost trembling. 'I never meant to hurt you.'

Luis nodded faintly, his throat tightening like a noose. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, swallowing back the lump forming there. 'I know,' he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. 'I’m sorry too.'

Sofia exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly, though her gaze remained steady. 'I need to make sure we are in this together,' she continued, leaning forward. Her hands rested on her knees, her knuckles pale against the fabric of her dress. 'We’re fighting a war against Galia now. We can’t afford to fight a war amongst ourselves as well. I need your help. Can you do that for me?'

Her words hung in the air, weighty and inescapable, like a stone dropped into a still pond.

Luis sighed, his leg twitching in protest as the phantom of its pain surged anew. He looked away, his eyes fixing on the grooves in the wooden floorboards, each one a chasm pulling him deeper into despair. 'You’re right,' he said, his voice hollow, as though he were speaking the words to himself as much as to her. 'I’m broken.'

'You’re not broken, Luis,' Sofia said firmly, her voice tinged with both conviction and desperation. 'We need you. I need you.'

Luis shook his head slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of invisible chains. His throat burned, and stinging tears began to well behind his eyes, threatening to spill. 'They all know it,' he rasped. 'You said it yourself. What good am I now, hobbling around like this, like I’m...'

He clenched his fists tightly, the nails digging into his palms, using the pain to anchor himself. His jaw tightened as he fought to maintain the façade he had clung to for so long—a knightly composure, the stoicism of a man sworn to protect. He might no longer be a knight in name, but the instincts of one still coursed through his blood, refusing to yield.

Sofia’s voice cracked, betraying the Queen. 'Luis, look at me.'

His head turned reluctantly, his stony expression meeting her pleading eyes. Her deep brown eyes, brimming with emotion, searched his face with an urgency that unsettled him. They weren’t just the eyes of a queen—they were the eyes of his sister, desperate to bridge the chasm between them.

'We are the blood of the dove,' Sofia said, each word deliberate, as though she were driving them into him like stakes to hold him upright. 'I need your help. Please.'

Luis stared into his sister’s eyes, the weight of her plea pressing against his chest like a stone. The depth of her gaze, so unwavering yet filled with an ache she rarely allowed herself to show, pulled him into a whirlpool of memories. He could almost hear the echoes of their laughter as children, Sofia darting through the gardens with her friends, her hair wild in the sunlight, while he trailed behind, wooden sword in hand. Even then, all he wanted was to act the knight, to protect and serve. It had been his dream for as long as he could remember—a dream now reduced to ash.

Those carefree days felt impossibly far away, obscured by the haze of grief and the relentless throb of his injury. Memories of their parents’ warm smiles, the unbroken confidence of youth, and a body that had never failed him seemed like fantasies from another life.

Can I afford to hold this hatred in my heart? he thought, the question pressing at the edges of his mind. His anger, his bitterness—it had sustained him, but at what cost? Perhaps it was time to let it go, to stop nursing the wound like a twisted lifeline. Perhaps I need to bide my time, he reasoned. Perhaps I need to work through the pain, do something other than wallow in my own self-pity. What other choice is there?

He nodded solemnly, his decision as heavy as it was fragile.

Sofia mirrored his nod, though her expression shifted in an instant. The tenderness in her eyes hardened, the softness retreating like a tide. In its place emerged the unyielding resolve of a queen—a woman who bore the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders.

'Tomorrow morning, we ride for the border,' she said, her voice clipped and authoritative.

Luis blinked, his frown deepening. 'What?'

'You heard me,' Sofia said, her tone brooking no argument. 'I want you to join me on a trip west. We’re going to end this war, Luis, before it can do any more damage.'

Her words hit him like icy water. 'You want me to go with you?' Luis asked, disbelief threading through his voice.

'Yes,' Sofia said without hesitation. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers tightening on the armrest of her chair. 'I need you by my side. Please, Luis.'

Her plea hung in the air between them, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm of resentment and regret. The pain in his leg flared again, a sharp, pulsing reminder of his limitations, but he pushed it aside. It would not break him. Not now.

He stared at his sister, weighing her words, her determination, and the faint tremor in her voice. Despite everything, despite the bitterness that still lingered at the edges of his heart, she was his sister. His queen.

Luis exhaled slowly, his body still, his leg throbbing as if testing his resolve. At last, he nodded, his voice low but steady. 'Alright. I’m with you… Your Majesty.'

A faint smile ghosted across Sofia’s lips—gone in an instant, replaced by the unyielding mask of command. Luis couldn’t tell if it had been meant for him or for herself.

Sofia and her brother spent weeks confined to the confines of a rickety wooden carriage, watching one lush green field dissolve into another. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels over uneven terrain became a grim lullaby, masking the distant roar of the war they were heading into. Normally, they would have ridden on horseback—an unspoken symbol of royal dignity—but Doctor Renando had insisted on the carriage, her tone insistent with warning about the risk to Luis’ injury.

The cold was merciless. It seeped through the thin wooden panels like a predator, biting at their skin and numbing their fingers. Each gust of wind rattled the windows, and the carriage creaked with every rut in the road. Sofia clutched a woollen blanket tighter around her shoulders, her teeth chattering despite her best efforts to still them. Across from her, Luis sat rigid, his face pale, every jolt in the road etching a new flicker of pain across his features. His knuckles were white where they gripped his cane, and he hadn’t spoken in hours.

'We should have stopped at that inn last night,' Sofia said softly, breaking the oppressive silence. She didn’t expect an answer, and Luis didn’t give her one. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the window, as though sheer will could distance him from the agony burning in his leg.

Sofia sighed, glancing out of her own window to distract herself from the knot of worry twisting in her chest. The Crab’s Gorge sprawled beneath them, a jagged wound carved into the mountainside, its edges sharp and unforgiving. The mist that blanketed it seemed alive, shifting and curling like the tendrils of some ancient beast awakening from slumber. The Gorge’s depths were invisible, swallowed by the eerie white fog, which gave it the illusion of being bottomless.

The stories about the Crab’s Gorge rose unbidden in her mind. A mark of violence, they said—a dragon’s wings gouging the earth in its death throes, felled by elven magic over a thousand years ago. As a child, those tales had enchanted her, painting the Gorge as a place of wonder and history. Now, the sight of it filled her with unease. The silence here felt unnatural, too heavy, as though the Gorge itself were holding its breath. If it weren’t for the fighting, Sofia would’ve bet on the Crab’s Gorge being one of the first places Fernando and Esme would visit on their journey.

The journey we were supposed to go on together.

'There it is, Luis,' Sofia breathed, her voice barely rising above the steady clatter of the carriage wheels. She pressed her hand against the frost-laced window, her breath fogging the glass as she leaned closer.

Luis stirred, his face pale and drawn with pain. 'What?' he asked, his voice strained, hoarse from hours of silence.

'The Crab’s Gorge,' she said. ‘The one—'

She stopped herself, the sentence fracturing before it could escape. The one Father always promised to show us.

The words sat like stones in her throat, too heavy to say aloud. Instead, her mind betrayed her with an image of the Gorge transformed—not into a natural wonder, but into a gaping grave. She saw her father’s coffin suspended over its edge, ropes creaking as Jacques stood over it, lowering it into the abyss, wearing his devilishly charming smile. The pit swallowed Father whole, as final and cruel as his blade had been the day it pierced her father’s chest.

Sofia’s breath hitched. She clenched her fists, forcing the memory away, but it left its mark like a bruise.

Luis’ gaze darkened, his dull eyes catching the subtle tremble in her voice. He didn’t need her to finish the sentence to understand. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement jarred his injured leg.

'Sorry,' she said quickly, the word tumbling out before she could stop it. It felt small, pitiful. Useless.

Luis gave her a tired look, his lips pressed into a thin line. 'You’re the queen now, Sofia,' he said after a long pause. His voice was steadier than hers, though there was a roughness to it, as if each word carried its own weight. 'You don’t have to be sorry about anything.'

And yet she was.

Lord Serben and the royal guard flanked the carriage like silent sentinels, their armour catching faint glimmers of light as it clinked with each deliberate stride of their horses. The rhythmic sound of hoofbeats mingled with the creaking of the carriage wheels, creating an uneasy symphony that underscored the tension in the air.

Ahead of them, the road vanished into a wall of dense white fog, each swirl and eddy obscuring what lay beyond. The ancient stronghold of Anthera was their destination, a crumbling fortress nestled deep in the mountains. Sofia’s fingers tightened on the edge of her seat as she stared into the murky expanse, her mind conjuring images of the old stronghold emerging like a black phantom from the mist.

‘Will we even see it before we arrive?’ she muttered under her breath.

Anthera was more than a meeting point; it was a symbol of defiance. Built centuries ago by her ancestor, Gloveiro Paloma, the fortress had once been the stalwart guardian of Eastamere’s western border, an unyielding wall against Galian incursions. According to the stories her father used to tell, King Gloveiro had designed it to blend seamlessly into the cliffs, as though the mountains themselves had willed it into existence.

Now it was little more than a ruin, abandoned since the last war, its purpose eroded by years of uneasy peace. But peace was a memory, and Anthera had been resurrected as the kingdom’s first—and perhaps strongest—line of defence against the wrath of King Rickard.

Sofia glanced at Lord Serben, his face as unreadable as ever beneath the shadow of his helm. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers curled tightly around the pommel. The golden knights beside him sat rigid in their saddles, their eyes scanning the fog with the intensity of men who expected death to emerge from it at any moment.

Sofia shifted in her seat, uneasy. Lord Gallo was supposed to meet them with the Eastamerean forces, but the fog made it impossible to gauge how far they were from their destination, or whether Gallo’s men had arrived safely. The thought of entering Anthera only to find it empty and vulnerable sent a cold shiver down her spine. No doubt it would’ve put a humorous smile to Jacques’ face, to see her humiliated like some dimwitted child.

Anthera’s position was strategic, its placement blocking the most direct route through the border mountain range. Any army attempting to bypass it would be forced into the treacherous depths of the mountains, wasting time and resources as they navigated the rugged terrain. But that wasn’t the part of the story that lingered in Sofia’s mind.

The legend of Gloveiro Paloma whispered through her thoughts like a ghostly refrain. It was said that if Eastamere were ever in mortal danger, Gloveiro himself would rise again, his spirit summoned to defend his homeland with the same unyielding resolve he’d shown in life. The tales described him as one of the greatest swordsmen the world had ever seen, a warrior who had stood alone atop the Gorge’s cliffs and held back an entire Galian battalion.

She remembered her father’s voice as he recounted the legend, his tone equal parts reverence and mirth. ‘Even the mountains answer to our first king,’ he’d said once, his eyes alight with the kind of pride that only the Paloma lineage could claim. ‘The Galians feared him more than the dragons of old.’

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

But now the story felt more like a hollow comfort than a rallying cry. Legends didn’t stop swords, and ghosts didn’t fight battles. It was flesh and blood that Rickard’s armies would face at Anthera, and for all the fortress’s storied history, Sofia couldn’t shake the sense that it was woefully unprepared for the storm bearing down upon it.

Sofia knew the risks if she lost. If the Galians took Anthera, the cracks in her forces’ morale might start to show. It was unlikely her soldiers would abandon the fight entirely—there were still many strongholds left to defend after Anthera—but the loss of such a critical position could sow doubt where confidence needed to reign. She couldn’t afford even the whisper of hesitation among her men.

I have to make it clear, Sofia thought, clenching her fists, Eastamere would not fall without a fight.

The carriage creaked as it moved further along the mountain pass, the wheels crunching over loose stones. Outside, the fog had thickened, a cold, wet shroud that turned the already narrow path into a labyrinth. Somewhere ahead, obscured by the haze, the gorge yawned wide and treacherous. Then came the noise—shouts echoing across the chasm, faint at first, but growing louder with every second.

Luis shifted beside her, his movements stiff and cautious as he leaned toward the frosted window. His eyes were wide, darting nervously as if trying to pierce through the fog.

'Galians?' he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sofia didn’t answer immediately. She stared out the window, her stomach sinking as she caught the faint glimmer of torchlight flickering in the mist. There were too many flames to count. Her throat tightened as she nodded.

'And far too many of them,' she murmured.

The enemy was already here, their campfires like a constellation spread across the opposite ridge. Soon, those shouts would give way to the twang of bowstrings, the thud of rocks hurled by trebuchets, and the deafening crash of flaming arrows streaking across the gorge. Sofia’s mind raced with images of chaos—the sky alight with fire, screams echoing off the cliffs, men falling from the parapets into the endless void below.

Her breath quickened, but she forced herself to stay still, sitting frozen with the weight of her thoughts. Yet beneath the fear that clawed at her chest, another feeling stirred, strange and unwelcome.

Her heart sang.

She hated herself for it, but the truth was undeniable. She was about to lead soldiers into battle, to stand as a figurehead of defiance and hope. A year ago, she’d been nothing more than a sheltered princess, ensconced in the safety of her father’s palace. Her days had been a blur of etiquette lessons, idle conversations, and dreams that felt too small for the grand halls she wandered.

A part of her yearned for that life again, for the simplicity and safety of being just a princess. But another part of her—the part she barely understood—thrived in this moment. She wasn’t just a princess anymore. She was a queen, and the lives of thousands rested on her decisions.

Her mother’s words echoed in her memory, unbidden.

I remember when your father became king. He was just like you—all scared and on edge. Look at him now. That will be you one day. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed. I can promise you that.

She had believed those words then, drawn comfort from them. But now, they felt hollow. She doubted her father had ever felt like this—this suffocating blend of fear and determination, of doubt and desperate resolve. Her father had been larger than life, a towering figure of authority who made everything seem effortless. How could I ever live up to that?

Luis pressed his face against the carriage window, his pale hand trembling as he pointed to the tallest of the towers. Above it, a white flag bearing the golden dove of the Palomas fluttered against the cold wind—a beacon of hope and unity.

But Luis wasn’t done. He pointed again, his finger wavering as it landed on the crimson flag adorned with an iron fist, the unmistakable banner of House Gallo. Beside it, the green serpent of House Diae coiled menacingly on its standard, swaying with the same breeze that carried Sofia’s dove. The sight of the two foreign banners standing beside her own made her stomach churn. Allies, yes—but how long could they protect her?

Sofia tore her gaze away from the flags and focused on the fortress itself. Anthera was a marvel of defensive engineering, a relic from an era when survival demanded ingenuity and sheer will. The fortress gates loomed ahead, a towering slab of black iron reinforced with thick wooden beams. Four concentric walls rose behind it, each higher and thicker than the last, forming a formidable barrier between the gates and the heart of Anthera.

If everything goes to plan, Sofia thought, my enemies will never lay a hand on the innermost wall. But plans were fragile things, easily shattered by the chaos of war.

The carriage groaned to a halt, and Sofia’s royal guard descended with practiced precision, their armour clinking softly as they formed a protective line. One of them opened the door, and a sudden draft lashed through the interior, biting at her skin and taking her breath away.

The fresh mountain air rushed into her lungs, crisp and wild, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant snow. For a moment, it steadied her—unclenching her shoulders and loosening the knot in her chest. But the illusion of calm didn’t last. The cold wasn’t a comfort; it was a reminder of how exposed they were.

Sofia stepped down from the carriage, her boots crunching against the gravel-strewn path. She moved to the centre of the formation, flanked by her brother on one side and Lord Serben on the other. Behind them marched her royal guard, their eyes scanning the fog-shrouded cliffs for any sign of movement.

'Welcome to Anthera, Your Majesty,' came a voice from ahead.

Lord Gallo stood just beyond the gate, his stocky frame wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. His breath rose in plumes as he rubbed his gloved hands together, his face creased with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

'Please, come this way,' he said, gesturing toward the gate.

The massive doors groaned as they swung open, their iron hinges protesting with each inch. The sound reverberated through the gorge like the cry of a wounded beast, sending shivers down Sofia’s spine. She glanced at Luis, who was pale but composed, his lips pressed tightly together.

Beyond the gate, the fortress unfolded like a labyrinth of stone and shadow. Soldiers milled about the outer courtyard, their breath visible in the frigid air. Some paused to salute her as she passed, their eyes flickering with a mixture of hope and unease. Others were busy reinforcing barricades, sharpening blades, or hefting crates of arrows toward the ramparts.

A wooden platform stretched along the walls, its weathered planks groaning under the weight of soldiers pacing back and forth. Above the massive gate, additional platforms jutted out like jagged teeth, their narrow slits ready for spears and vats of oil. Sofia paused beneath one, her gaze tracing the murder holes cut into the wood where defenders could rain death on any who dared breach the gates.

Will that be enough? The thought twisted in her mind like a knife. King Rickard would be relentless; he’d easily burn his own men alive to keep his siege going. Boiling oil and spears only delayed the inevitable if the walls didn’t hold. Her stomach coiled tight, anxiety buzzing through her like an unseen current.

She turned slightly toward Lord Gallo, who marched ahead with his usual puffed chest and confident stride. His cloak swayed with each step, fur-lined and embroidered with the iron fist of his house. Sofia wanted to ask him—Will it hold? Will we hold?—but she swallowed the words. The last time she’d dared voice a concern, he had launched into a monologue on war and tactics that had droned on for the better part of an hour. She could still hear his gravelly voice explaining oil mixtures and ‘the optimum angle for spear throws.’

Instead, she said nothing. Silence was easier than listening to a man who seemed so certain of things she couldn’t bring herself to believe.

The second gate loomed larger than the first as they approached. Like the first wall, it bristled with defensive features—plank-lined platforms, barricades ready to be dragged into place, and narrow arrow slits carved into the stone like watchful eyes.

Two walls, she thought. And there are still two more.

The incline steepened as they delved deeper into the mountain pass, Anthera’s walls looming over them like sentinels that had been watching for centuries. The air grew colder here, the slate walls seemingly holding the chill, leaching warmth from her fingertips even through her gloves.

By the time they passed the third gate—identical in its defences but larger, more imposing—the shadow of the fourth wall had swallowed them whole. Sofia tilted her head back, staring up at the final gate. It was monstrous, its iron-reinforced beams thicker than her torso. The stone wall flanking it was doubly thick, layers of slate and granite piled atop one another in a feat of engineering she couldn’t help but admire. If any gate would withstand the Galians, surely it would be this one.

But what happens if even this falls?

The thought slid unbidden into her mind, a whisper of doubt that tugged at her fraying resolve. Sofia clenched her fists, forcing her breathing to steady. Now wasn’t the time for fear.

The fourth gate groaned open, its hinges protesting against years of disuse, and the sound reverberated through her chest like the toll of a funeral bell. Sofia stepped inside, flanked by Luis and Lord Serben, the royal guard fanning out behind them with measured precision.

The interior of the fortress swallowed them in shadow. Grey slate greeted her on all sides—walls, floors, even the vaulted ceiling above, which loomed so high it felt as though the very mountain had hollowed itself out to accommodate Anthera’s heart. Torches were lit along the walls, their flames crackling, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance across the stone like restless spirits.

The great hall awaited them, cavernous and cold, its silence deep enough to hear the faint echoes of their footsteps. In the centre of the room stood an immense stone table, carved from the mountain itself and shaped like the continent it represented. Sofia approached, the surface rough beneath her fingertips as her gaze traveled over the table’s sprawling map.

Eastamere sprawled to the east, its carved mountains rugged and lifelike, while Galia stretched westward, smooth plains giving way to sharp, raised coastlines. The border was marked by a dark crack splitting the continent, a pattern Sofia had seen a thousand times in her father’s library. On top of the table lay meticulously carved pieces, each representing the great houses of both realms.

Sofia’s eyes went first to the soaring dove of House Paloma, the largest and most prominent piece on Eastamere’s side. Its wings spread wide in perpetual flight, its golden edges glinting faintly in the torchlight.

Nearby stood the snarling sheepdog of House Rue, its carved teeth bared, its stance one of defence rather than aggression. The piece was weighty and solid, far less elegant than the dove, but reassuringly grounded. Sofia brushed her fingertips over its surface and exhaled shakily.

'We have picked the spot, Your Majesty,' Lord Gallo said, his voice carrying a note of triumph as he gestured toward the map. His smile, sharp and thin, stretched across his face. Sofia suppressed a shiver; she’d come to recognise that particular smile. It only surfaced when Lord Gallo was speaking of war, and it made her skin crawl. 'Yes, the Galians have nearly double our numbers, but it took King Rickard nearly two years to claim this fortress during the last war. We shall not let it fall again.'

'Indeed,' Sofia replied, keeping her voice steady, though a chill ran down her spine. They need to believe I can do this. I must be strong, like my father. They must see a queen, not a scared little girl. She lifted her chin, forcing a hint of steel into her voice. 'But let’s get to the point of why I am here, my lord.'

She turned toward him, letting her once polite smile fade into something colder, sharper—something that spoke of command. Her glare locked onto Lord Gallo, and for the briefest moment, he faltered, his smile flickering. She pressed the advantage, replacing any lingering trace of hesitation with authority.

'My father was always the commander of his armies, was he not?' Her voice rang clear in the hall, its echo filling the spaces between the silent lords gathered around the stone table.

'Then I shall do the same,' Sofia declared, stepping closer to the table. The carved map loomed before her, its etched contours catching the flicker of torchlight. She studied the pieces spread across it, each representing lives—her soldiers, her people—arrayed against the enemy. Her eyes lingered on the snarling sheepdog of House Rue, King Rickard’s emblem. Jacques’ emblem.

For a brief moment, the weight of what lay ahead pressed down on her shoulders. The air felt heavy, and her breath quickened, but she forced herself to keep her composure. She leaned over the table, tracing the borders with her finger, then spoke, her tone calculated.

'King Rickard is a winner, everyone knows this,' she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. 'He’s defeated far more powerful men than me. Abrasiveness will not work here. We cannot afford rashness or ego.' She raised her gaze, meeting Lord Gallo’s eyes. 'Instead, I will use patience. That is a skill you sorely lack, my lord.'

A muscle twitched in Lord Gallo’s jaw, his expression hardening. The air in the room grew taut as a drawn bowstring. The knights standing around the table exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes darting between Sofia and Gallo like spectators waiting for a fight to erupt.

'I’ve been commanding armies for half a century, Your Majesty,' Gallo said, his voice low, each word deliberate and heavy with restrained anger. 'I know how to be patient.'

'No,' Sofia replied, her voice cutting through his like a sword. 'I cannot take that risk.' She straightened, her presence filling the room despite her smaller stature. She turned sharply toward Lord Serben, who stood stiffly at her side, his hands clasped behind his back.

'Lord Serben,' Sofia said, her tone softening slightly but still firm, 'I charge you with leading my army and ensuring this fortress remains defended.'

Serben’s eyes widened, his composure slipping for the first time. His gaze darted around the room, searching the faces of the other lords, as if seeking confirmation that he’d heard her correctly.

'Your Majesty, I have absolutely no military experience at all,' he said, his voice trembling with disbelief and fear. His hands clenched at his sides, the knuckles white against his weathered skin. 'Are you sure you wish me to command your armies?'

Sofia met his gaze, holding it steady, though the unease in his voice tugged at her own confidence. 'You were my father’s most trusted adviser,' she said, her tone firm and unyielding. 'I know you will follow my instructions to the letter, and that is precisely what we need.'

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of expectation. She willed him to accept them, to trust her judgment. But Lord Serben’s head shook, more vigorously this time, and the lines of worry on his face deepened.

'I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I must strongly advise against this,' he said, his voice rising with urgency. 'Lord Gallo is the right choice to defend this castle. He has the experience, the knowledge—he commanded these walls once before. I implore you to place your faith in him, as your father did.'

At the mention of her father, Sofia’s chest tightened. She glanced toward Lord Gallo, who stood rigid and imposing, his hands clasped in front of him. His expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes that set her teeth on edge. The old lord carried himself as though he were already in command, as if her authority were a mere formality to be endured.

Sofia inhaled deeply, the air sharp and cold against her lungs. Her father’s words echoed in her mind: I understand your apprehension, Sofia, but rulers stand alone in their burdens.

As much as she wanted to emulate King Geraldo’s strength, the truth was undeniable: she couldn’t do this alone. Too much was at stake. She needed the fortress to hold, the men to fight with resolve. Every decision she made now could mean the difference between victory and annihilation.

Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she looked back at Serben. 'Very well,' she said at last, her voice calm but edged with resolve. 'Lord Gallo will lead the defence of this fortress.'

A flicker of relief crossed Lord Serben’s face, but before Lord Gallo could bask in his apparent victory, Sofia turned sharply to face him, her gaze locking onto his like the point of a drawn blade.

'However,' she continued, 'he will adhere strictly to my battle plan.' Her tone left no room for debate. 'That is non-negotiable, my lord. Do I make myself clear?'

For a moment, silence blanketed the room. The tension coiled tighter, winding like a snake about to strike.

Lord Gallo raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smile It was the smile of a man accustomed to command, one who didn’t take well to orders, least of all from a queen he likely thought untested and unworthy.

'As you say, Your Majesty,' he replied, his tone smooth, but his words carried a subtle edge, a challenge unspoken yet unmistakable.

Sofia stood her ground, her eyes never leaving his. She could feel the weight of every gaze in the room pressing on her, waiting to see if she would falter, if she would break beneath the old lord’s scrutiny. But she refused to yield.

'I mean it, Lord Gallo,' she said, her voice dropping lower, colder. 'The plan is not a suggestion. If I hear of any deviation—' She let the words linger, unfinished, but heavy with implication.

Lord Gallo inclined his head, the gesture respectful in form but begrudging in spirit. 'Of course, Your Majesty,' he said, though his tone betrayed a hint of disdain.

'I am also going to speak to my men at nightfall, before the Galians attack,' Sofia declared, her voice steady despite the anxiety stirring in her chest. 'They need to see me out there, just as they saw my father.'

The words lingered in the air like a challenge. A strained silence followed, broken only by the distant howl of the wind beyond the fortress walls. Lord Gallo’s brow furrowed, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. He shifted his stance, turning to Serben with a questioning look.

'Was this your idea?'

Serben straightened his shoulders and met the old lord’s gaze with a proud smile. 'Our queen wants to help,' he said firmly. 'I think we should give her that chance.'

Lord Gallo regarded her in silence, his hand rising to stroke his chin. The motion was slow, as if weighing her words on some invisible scale. For a moment, Sofia wondered if he was going to argue, to try to dissuade her. The thought sent a ripple of unease through her, but she stood firm, meeting his gaze with all the determination she could muster.

Finally, Lord Gallo gave a small nod. 'Very well, Your Majesty,' he said, his tone carefully devoid of emotion. 'I’ll make sure the men see you.'

A chill passed across Sofia’s skin, sharp as the mountain air. She couldn’t tell if it came from the old lord’s lukewarm support or from the image his words summoned in her mind: soldiers lining the walls, fighting for her, bleeding for her, dying for her. She imagined their faces streaked with sweat and blood, their eyes alight with desperation as they fought to hold the line. All for the sake of a crown she was still learning how to wear.

'Although…' Her voice faltered slightly as the thought crept into her mind, unbidden. 'I have never… spoken publicly like that before.'

Serben turned toward her, his expression softening. He stepped closer, his smile warm and reassuring. 'Not a problem, Your Majesty,' he said with quiet confidence. 'I’ll write a speech for you.'

Lord Gallo led Sofia across the narrow slate path, his heavy boots thudding with a steady, unwavering rhythm. The towering black gate of Anthera loomed ahead, an unyielding monolith against the darkening sky. Night had smothered the last embers of sunlight, leaving the world in shades of black and grey, while the air, sharp and frigid, bit at her skin with a cruel ferocity. Sofia exhaled, and her breath escaped in faint white clouds that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, though the chill seemed to crawl beneath the wool, winding itself around her ribs like a vice.

Behind her, the tapping of Luis’ cane on the slate shattered the uneasy silence, each tap like a dagger of sound. It startled her, her pulse spiking. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe slowly, to steady the tremor in her fingers as she tightened her grip on the parchment Serben had given her. The ink on the speech—so neatly written, so confident in tone—blurred slightly as her hands shook.

Stop it, she scolded herself. They’ll see.

The weight of her father’s crown seemed to grow heavier with each step, its cold metal pressing into her scalp, its edges biting into her skin. Ahead, torchlight flickered from sconces mounted high on the walls, casting wavering shadows across the gate’s ancient surface. In their glow, the towering fortress looked almost alive—an enormous beast waiting for battle, its gate a gaping maw, ready to consume whatever dared approach.

A shiver ran through Sofia that had nothing to do with the cold. The men beyond this gate—the soldiers, the defenders, her men—were waiting for her. They were huddled along the walls, on the ramparts, within the shadows of their tents, clutching swords and spears and wondering if they would live to see the morning. They were waiting for their queen. For her.

You cannot fail them.

Sofia scaled the stone steps to the wall, her pulse quickening with each step as the chill of the night air cut through her cloak. The clatter of her boots echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of soldiers shifting on the ramparts above. When she reached the top, she was greeted by a solemn line of Eastamerean soldiers, their silhouettes etched against the faint light of the moon. They stood shoulder to shoulder, each man gripping his weapon tightly, their expressions hardened into masks of resolve.

Yet the quiet betrayed the truth. Fear hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick and oppressive, threatening to drown the bravest hearts.

Sofia’s eyes drifted down the line, taking in each face, every crease and shadow illuminated by the flickering glow of torches. These were not just soldiers—they were farmers, blacksmiths, and tradesmen thrust into the brutality of war. One of them, shorter than most and standing near the edge of the wall, caught her attention. He shifted slightly, his trembling hands fumbling with something at his neck.

A silver eagle pendant.

He kissed it softly, his lips brushing the metal with a reverence that sent a pang through Sofia’s chest. The motion was quick, discreet, as though he feared someone might notice and call him out for weakness. But his hands betrayed him, shaking even as he returned to his place in line, his weapon held high. Sofia locked eyes with him briefly and saw the truth.

He was terrified.

This could be his last night in the world, and he knew it.

Sofia tore her gaze away, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had dreamed of this moment once—standing atop a wall, a queen before her army, her voice ringing out in a speech that would echo across the ages. She had pictured herself as her father, her words filled with the same commanding conviction and fiery inspiration that had won battles before a single sword was drawn. She had imagined their cheers, the roar of belief and loyalty that would rise from the soldiers like the beating of a single heart.

But now, standing here, she understood.

This moment was not a dream.

Her palms felt clammy, and a cold sweat prickled along her spine as she looked down at her trembling hands, hidden within the folds of her cloak. She gripped the fabric tightly, her knuckles whitening as she steadied herself. The reality of the situation struck her in waves—these soldiers didn’t need her perfection. They didn’t need a queen with all the answers or a speech carved from legend. They needed someone real.

She thought of the story she’d once heard about her grandfather, Geraldo I, a king known more for his wisdom than his voice. His stammer had made speeches difficult, and her grandmother, and later her father, had often spoken on his behalf. Yet when the last war with Galia broke out, it had been Geraldo himself who stood before the soldiers. Her father had told her that when he spoke, his words were imperfect but powerful, marked by the occasional stammer that reminded his men it was truly him speaking, not someone else. They followed him not because he was flawless, but because he was true.

I remember when your father became king. He was just like you—scared and on edge. Look at him now. That will be you one day. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed, I can promise you that.

'Tonight… in this grave hour, we do battle.'

The wind howled along the walls like a chorus of ghosts, whipping Sofia’s hair across her face and clawing at the edges of her cloak. The torches sputtered, their flames dancing wildly, as if the night itself conspired to swallow them. For a brief second, all Sofia could hear was the wind and the faint clatter of armour as her soldiers stood in rigid silence, waiting for her to continue.

She swallowed, her throat tight, her pulse drumming in her ears.

'This is perhaps the most fateful night in our history,' she said, her voice lifting over the storm as she straightened her back. Each word carried weight, pressing down on her chest but carrying her forward all the same. 'Tonight, we are not just fighting an enemy of flesh and steel. We are fighting a war against greed—a war against tyranny. A war against selfishness. A war against hate!'

The words rang out across the ramparts, slicing through the dark like sharpened blades. Faces turned to her, eyes glimmering with torchlight—wide, wary, and resolute.

Sofia clenched her fists, willing warmth back into her fingers as she took a step forward. She could feel the weight of all their fears resting on her shoulders, but she stood taller for it.

'For the sake of everything we hold dear—our homes, our families, our freedom—we must stand together tonight. Shoulder to shoulder. Heart to heart. And we will prevail.'

A gust of wind struck her, stealing her breath for a heartbeat, but Sofia forced her voice louder, stronger, her words defying the storm.

'But let us not fool ourselves—this victory will not come for free. Not all of us will greet the dawn.' She paused, letting the truth of her words settle like a shroud. Some soldiers looked down, a few murmured prayers, and that same short soldier kissed his eagle pendant once more. 'Some will live. Some will die. But each and every one of you here with me tonight—' she raised her voice, clear and ringing like a bell—'fights with honour. With courage. With pride.'

She searched their faces now, letting her gaze linger on one soldier, then another, as if she were speaking to each of them personally. 'You are Eastamerean. And I could ask for no better men to stand with me. There is no army more loyal, no hearts braver than yours.'

A murmur rose among the soldiers, faint and uncertain at first, but it grew as torches were lifted and hands tightened around weapons. Sofia could feel the shift, the faint spark of something beginning to burn within them—a belief, fragile but real.

'It is a brighter future we fight for tonight!' Sofia declared, her voice carrying far beyond the walls and into the black abyss beyond. 'A future where our children will not kneel to King Rickard’s rule. Where they will not have their freedom stripped and their voices silenced. Where they will grow as free Eastamereans—where their lives will belong to them, not to some greedy tyrant who seeks to take everything from us!'

The murmurs became a low rumble.

Sofia took another step forward, the cold wind battering her face, her hair whipping behind her like a banner. Her heart was pounding now, each beat filling her chest with fire. 'And we will send a message to King Rickard tonight! He can batter us! He can belittle us! He can burn our cities to the ground and cast us into shadow!'

Her voice rose to a roar, fierce and unrelenting, words forged in the fire of her fear and fury.

'But if we are to burn tonight—' she thrust her arm into the air, clenching her fist—'then he will burn with us!'

'To the queen!'

The cry erupted from the soldiers, a deafening roar that reverberated through the night air. It was like a crack of thunder, shaking the very walls of Anthera, and for a fleeting moment, Sofia thought the sheer force of their voices might collapse the ancient stone beneath her feet.

The cheers surged in waves, each one louder than the last, but they did not fill her with pride. Instead, they weighed her down, the weight of expectation pressing hard against her chest, pinning her in place. This wasn’t her. These weren’t her words. The speech had been Serben’s creation, every line carefully crafted by someone who knew how to honey their words.

Sofia clenched her fists, the paper with the speech still crumpled in one hand. Its smooth surface was now creased and damp from her clammy grip. Her throat tightened as her gaze swept over the soldiers below.

They weren’t just warriors. They were people—men, some barely old enough to wield a blade, their shoulders trembling despite their best efforts to stand tall. She spotted a boy no older than sixteen, his gauntlets too big for his hands, his helmet sitting askew on his head. Beside him stood an older man with streaks of gray in his beard, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles were white. Fear flickered in their eyes, unspoken but impossible to miss.

Sofia’s heart twisted. These weren’t nameless soldiers; they were sons, brothers, husbands, fathers. They had families waiting for them—families who might never see them again. And here they stood, offering her their loyalty, their lives, because she was their queen.

Their queen.