“My love,” he said.

“Don’t start with me,” she snapped, buckling the belt that held her cherished rapier at her side. It had been a gift from her father, when he’d passed the title on to her at the tender age of twenty. The Grand Duke was a shrewd man; he’d known her time had come to step up to the mantle.

She’d been quickly betrothed after that, to the second child of the Duke’s trusted Viscount. She had chosen Durand herself, plucked from the list of potential candidates to help her shoulder the duties and responsibility of the title of Duchess Drakuhl. It was said that the Carroll family had an eye for people; with her admitted ineptitude in social matters, she’d deemed it necessary to have someone like that at her side.

They didn’t marry for love, but like a sunflower in a fertile valley growing towards the sun, he’d grown into her heart. He never made her feel like a fool when she didn’t understand why someone said or did something. He never faulted her when her brusque nature made diplomacy thorny. He dealt with socialites while Lycrarose handled the fundamentals of administration. He was understanding of her wishes, her priorities, and her temper.

Roses were made to have thorns, he had told her once, when she apologized, awkwardly, for her prickliness. I’d rather you protect yourself than have you strip bare of your weapons for the comfort of others.

That didn’t mean they always agreed. They didn’t do it in public— presenting a unified front was the least of their duties as the Ducal couple— but they had fought tremendous rows in the sanctity of their marriage chambers. Lycrarose had lost many an antique furnishing during tax renewals, while they bickered back and forth about where to cut and where to raise.

She would prefer to be having this conversation there now. She could feel the eyes of their omnipresent royal guardsmen, of the servants, of everyone they passed as the Duke and Duchess descended the grand stair.

“Your Grace. Your royal brother has already taken to horseback. He will not linger or rest until he sees our Princess safely back to the children’s wing—you know this. His aide expressed as much.”

“Lysander is a fine magician,” Lycrarose allowed, “but he’s a piss-poor swordsman.”

“A bit unfair, your Majesty,” her own aide chimed in, falling into step behind the couple. “His Highness Lysander is decent with a blade. He’s just not on the same level as the Winter Rose.”

She scoffed. That title had been bandied about in her youth—a ridiculous appellation for the heir apparent at the time who seemed unmatched in swordsmanship. Her mana was in great supply, and her body had nearly twice the number of channels a normal human would have. Without any skill in higher-level magic, she had focused on learning basic circulation to an absolute end.

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Her vitality was overflowing by the time she reached her debut at eighteen. By moving her mana through her sword as though it were part of her body, she could split a great oak in half with a single swing. While some praised her fortitude, others called it monstrous strength—inherited from the Dragon as its backhanded compliment.

She grit her teeth.

She hated being compared to a beast that had found its end a millennia ago. Her strength was her own. She had cultivated it, and she used it for the righteous defense of her nation, and all the nations to the south of her own that relied on her people to maintain the barrier.

“Is my horse saddled?” She barked at the aide, a man with a lazy smile and appallingly red hair named Corde. He was informal to the point of disrespect but she appreciated his straightforward nature.

“Yes, your Grace, ready and raring to go. I think she knows you’re in a huff.”

“Take her for a ride to calm her, then unsaddle her.”

“Uh. What?”

“Lycrarose,” her husband started, catching her gloved hand in one of his own. She was forced to stop on the stair, turning back to him. “You can’t be thinking of running to Closkill, can you?”

We just got back, his eyes said, then an arching eyebrow conveyed, you did more than me, Lycra.

Don’t look at me in that tone of face, she glared in return.

Exasperation.

“Lycra. Let me go. I’ll fetch her. I will lay down my life for our child, you know this.” As he spoke he maneuvered around her, so graceful for such a mountainous man. His bulk blocked her view of the front door. He took both her hands in his. The aide glanced between them… then took a step back, clearly giving them as much privacy as possible. “Please, your Majesty.”

Lycrarose put a hand to his cheek and guided him down to her eye level.

“I am very fond of you, my Duke. But,” she said in a low, even tone that spoke of danger, “do not ever presume to step between me and my child, husband. I will throw you from the battlements myself if you delay me a second longer.”

With a forlorn look, Durand bowed and moved aside.

She resumed her descent and, without looking back, decreed: “Durand Drakuhl, you will reign in our stead until we return. Should we fail to return, you will be Regent in our place until news of his Highness Lysander’s whereabouts reach you, and thereafter will act according to the line of succession!”

“As you command, your Majesty!” The chorus echoed not only from the attendants trailing behind, but from every person in the foyer, from the maidservants to the porters and everyone in-between.

She threw her husband a sharp smile over her shoulder, red eyes flashing in the magelight from the chandelier of the foyer.

“Return alive,” he said.

“I will,” she assured him.

With a final nod between them, Lycrarose threw open the doors and sprang down the small set of stone steps that led up to the grand entrance. Her boots hit the stone with a sharp crack, and the flagstone splintered as she pushed off the ground, mana surging through her muscles and veins. She was up on the wall in an instant, over and down in a breath.

Her muscles ached from the abuse so soon after the rush home to see to her daughter’s condition. It wasn’t a dangerous ache, though, so she paid it no mind and simply shoved through it. She might not be very good at magic, but she had a monster’s strength and stamina. She had run farther, harder treks in her youth, fighting to prove herself worthy of the title Drakuhl; a mere three hours by horse—pathetic.

She’d beat Lysander there.

Daughter-mine, she thought, we Drakuhl always seem to do the impossible. My strength, your magic… I just wish you hadn’t inherited my hard-headed stubbornness.

Stay alive, little light. Two hours is all I need. Stay alive for two hours.