The closer she got to the Shards, the louder the shrieks became. She dared to walk into the high street in the hopes of sighting the Pax chapel. All she could see were crowds. Except they were nothing like the crowds in Stone Sparkles or White Raven when the sun watched over the city with a protective glow. These crowds were ravenous. Angry and desperate, the moon cared not a whit as it shined over the night-time chaos. Some cried, others bore red and white face paint and threw pitchforks at watchmen. Many lay across the street, peasant, watchman, and protestor alike, cradling their wounds and weeping for lost comfort. Only when one is in inescapable pain is when they truly value normality. That was something Rosamund’s father had told her. Long before, she knew of all the pain he had inflicted upon others.

The crowd swarmed and expanded. Rioters were being pushed back by a wall of watchmen. They looked scarier. Some watchmen dragged away a peasant from the crowd, threw him to the cobblestones and started beating. Even when the rioter was begging for them to stop, they carried on hitting. Blood seeped through the cracks in the cobblestones and Rosamund felt a pure fear take hold of her.

She heard one shriek soar through the cacophony of street violence. Rosamund crept closer to the battle. Through the cracks of the chaotic crowd, Rosamund could see a woman in a mauve hood being dragged away by a watchwoman. She recognised the purple robes. The Pax Priestesses were well known to don that colour, considering purple to be the most divine of them all. Ana had told her that before Dorian had poisoned her. The Priestess would know how to get to the chapel and Rosamund could hide. She could safely wait for Hideo and weep for her father.

But she would have to pass through the crowd first…

The watchwoman dragged the Priestess away by her hood. They fully disappeared behind the rabble. Glancing upwards, she saw painted rioters pumping their fists in the air and waving flaming torches. When she looked down, she saw dozens of ragged shoes, boots, and dirty bare feet stomping fervently into muddy puddles.

Rosamund tightened the stained brown hood around her head and ducked. She scurried through the many legs of the crowd like a frightened mouse. Sometimes she had to gently push some legs aside, but she was met with little resistance. To them, she was just a little urchin taking part in the protest. For a swift moment, she felt like Cleo again, free from regal chains to wander the city as she pleased. If only it wasn’t a part of the city that was collapsing.

When she broke through the other end, she exhaled aggressively as if she had just come above water. She choked and retched from all the smoke. As she finished coughing out her lungs, she caught a glimpse of the watchwoman and the Priestess around the side of an abandoned tavern. The Priestess was on the ground. It looked like the watchwoman was hurting her, grabbing and twisting her arm. Rosamund dashed away from the edges of the riot.

As she got further away from the rabble and closer to the tavern, she undid her hood herself and flung half of her cloak to the other side to reveal her gold dress. The watchwoman had twisted the Priestess’ wrist and was frisking her. “Where’s the Denarii?” she asked harshly and with a gravelly voice. “You harlots like your donations!”

Rosamund approached and attempted to sound like her father, despite not even being tall enough to meet the watchwoman’s gaze. “Get off her!” she yelled shrilly.

The watchwoman didn’t bother to so much as glance at her. She dismissed the stupid girl with a hand wave as she threw the Priestess to the ground. “Piss off, peasant.” She growled the words without looking back at the girl in the gold dress.

The rudeness angered her. Rosamund frowned and leapt onto her, attempting to wrest her away from the Priestess. The watchwoman smacked her with a gloved hand.

The glove was embedded with steel studs, and she felt each of them crash into her jaw. She landed in a puddle, not dissimilar to the puddle she fell into in Stone Sparkles on that cold winter day with Dorian. I refuse to hide away and take another beating. She pulled her hood back and arose, perhaps not as regally as she had imagined, stumbling over. When the watchwoman looked down at the girl in the golden royal dress, her eyes widened, and her face turned a pale white.

“You… Your Highness… I…” Once she realised, the watchwoman kept tripping over her words. Rosamund could have sworn she heard the armour rattling as she shook.

“You know what my father did?” Rosamund asked icily.

The watchwoman nodded with the eyes of a timid squirrel.

“I have that power now, so if you don’t want to end up burning too, you’ll leave and pretend you never saw me.” She knew her words were horrid. She hated saying them. They were effective, though. The watchwoman had disappeared into the crowds before Rosamund could make any further commands.

The Priestess had already stood to her feet. She pulled back her stained mauve hood. Her brown, stringy hair barely reached her neck, and her eyes appeared weary. Perhaps everyone was. The cruel night had long passed its zenith, and yet the chaotic storm around them remained reluctant to calm. The Priestess knelt at Rosamund’s eye level and grabbed her arms. “We need to get somewhere safe.” Even in distress, the Priestess’ voice had a calming effect.

Rosamund felt her eyes well up. Tears streamed down her face before she knew it. The relief to be with someone who cared after being hunted for so long was too overwhelming to bear. She hugged the Priestess as if she had known her for a lifetime. Maybe it was because of how similar she looked to Anastasia. Perhaps because she had no family left. Whatever it was, the Priestess had to struggle to pry her away. “We need to leave,” she said more softly and patiently than one would have expected.

They retreated further away from the chaos in the streets. The Priestess told Rosamund that they were heading to the Pax chapel. That strategy was curtailed when they found a large street brawl blocking their way at the entrance. Watchmen were clashing with protesters and beating them into the mud. These people were different. Their faces weren’t painted a bloody red. They were all poor, men and women in rags. They appeared to be defending themselves and fleeing the City Watch, not attacking them. Watchmen were still tackling many of them to the ground and beating them with batons, regardless. Rosamund was about to command them to stop before the Priestess placed her hand over her mouth. “You can’t reveal yourself out there,” she implored in a hushed whisper. “It’s too dangerous.”

Rosamund pulled the hand away. “But I’m the queen now,” she argued. “They have to obey!”

“Not all of the watch has your best interest in heart,” she said in that soft voice that calmed her despite the context of her words, “and the Velociraptor’s bounty on you hasn’t rescinded.”

The front doors of the chapel had been barricaded shut. The chipped wood and embedded arrows were evidence that the other priestesses had good cause to seal themselves in. The Priestess informed Rosamund of a back entrance that they could navigate around the brawl to reach. When they dashed down an alleyway adjacent to the side of the chapel, they were blocked by three men donned in boiled leather armour and brandishing war paint. The ringleader was bald, with two scars down the side of his head. It was too late for them to back away. They already took notice of them.

Rosamund frantically reached for her head. Her hood must have come down when they were fleeing. She had failed to notice. Her adrenaline betrayed her. She felt the Priestess sharply tug at her arm. They ran back towards the violent crowds. At this point that had become the safer option.

The distant shouts and wails pinned into her ears harder than before. The noise was pain, and it covered the whole street. Rosamund dared to glance behind her shoulder. The three men were still chasing them, pushing their way past protestors and onlookers. She could hear the Priestess’ breath become wheezy and harsh. Rosamund grabbed onto her robes and ushered the Priestess into a side alleyway. It was narrow and dark and was a pathway back into the main high street of the Shards. Rosamund began to bolt ahead. The Priestess caught up and clung onto her shoulder. She pulled Rosamund back. At first, she thought it was the thugs that had finally caught up to them.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The Priestess pried open the lid of a crate. A foul odour wavered out from side to side like a snake. There were bags filled with all kinds of garbage and waste. Rosamund did not wish to know further details regarding the contents. “Get in,” the Priestess ordered.

She would make a far better queen than me, Rosamund thought solemnly as she climbed into the stinky crate. The Priestess climbed in and shut the lid above her, trapping them in darkness. Rosamund could hear fast footsteps dash past outside. Their yells were muffled, but she knew it was the men chasing them. She tried to restrain her heavy breathing, pained to attempt the stillness of a crouching cat. She could hear the Priestess murmuring a hushed chant in a strange language.

The muffled yelling faded, the silent darkness filling the void. Rosamund budged to open the crate. She felt a soft hand grasp her wrist. The Priestess’ sudden grip made Rosamund let out a brief frightened squeal. “Let us wait until dawn,” the Priestess whispered.

I’ll still be hunted and easier to find in daylight, Rosamund thought frantically. She should have struggled and bolted out of the crate. The urge was overcome by a sheet of guilt over the thought of leaving the Priestess behind. The Priestess needed Rosamund as much as Rosamund needed the Priestess.

“It will all be better by dawn,” the Priestess said softly, reassuringly. She patted Rosamund on the shoulder and draped her cloak over her. “It will all be better by dawn.”

“How do you know that?”

The Priestess shushed her with a finger and repeated the mantra quietly. Calmly. “It will be better by dawn.”

Her voice cut through the distant shouts and screams, the sharp dins of City Watch bells, the clamours of swords and batons. Her voice hushed them all. Rosamund began to feel the stings from the cuts she had endured throughout the night. Everything ached, and she felt lighter. “It will be better by dawn...”

Before she knew it, Rosamund was asleep.

She awoke to the sound of a rooster clucking, as if everything were normal, the night before a horrid nightmare. There were no more screams. Just birds tweeting. A small ray of light seeped through the crack. Rosamund squinted and flinched. The ray of yellow light grew wider and wider to the point where she was consumed by it. The only vision her eyes would permit her was yellow and blue blurs. Everything spun. The whole inside of the crate was spinning around her. Rosamund thought she might hurl before a hand reached through the light.

The Priestess pulled her to a stand and helped Rosamund climb back out into the alleyway. Daylight graced her as her eyes adjusted. An orange sun bristled above the city skyline. She averted her gaze as the Priestess gently led her out of the alleyway and into the high street of the Shards. The street was still littered with watchmen, except the violence had stopped and some of them were in transport cages alongside the rioters they had apprehended. Many of them were counselling locals and taking statements. Rosamund saw one woman weeping as she spoke to a watchwoman with a green badge pinned to her breastplate. Rosamund soon noticed that most of the watchmen not locked up with the rioters and bandits all brandished green badges.

One of them took notice of the Priestess and the tattered Princess and sauntered over to them. His face was grizzled, like Melborne's. Rosamund stood on edge, ready to flee again. He looked them both up and down. Then, without addressing them, he turned his head back and yelled, “Sheriff, I’ve found two more survivors!”

Rosamund felt a rush of relief when she saw Athena pushing past a crowd of gathered watchmen. Athena’s permanent scowl lifted when she saw her. Rosamund broke away from the Priestess’ soft grip and ran to her. She hugged the Deputy tightly. Her steel breastplate was stained, covered in mud, blood, and dirt. It didn’t matter. She finally felt safe. Alone. But safe.

“I think that one’s a peasant,” the watchman commented obliviously.

Athena looked up at the lawman and glowered. “It’s the Princess you dolt!” She shooed him away with an aggressive wave of her hand. Her eyebrow raised inquisitively when she saw the Priestess catch up to them. “Ah, High Priestess, fancy seeing you here.”

Rosamund did not understand why Athena regarded the Priestess so suspiciously. The Deputy broke away from her grip and offered her hand to shake. The Priestess pulled down her tattered mauve hood and smiled at her. It was the first time Rosamund had seen the Priestess smile and could not be certain it was genuine. “Glad to see that your dogs have restrained themselves,” she said icily. Not genuine then. It was taking longer than she would have liked, but Rosamund felt like she was getting better at reading others.

“The watchmen with green badges are under my own special command,” Athena said coolly. “Volunteers. They have been cleared of any connection to Sir Dorian and have no previous complaints made against them.”

“Dorian!” Rosamund blurted out, grabbing Athena’s arm. “It’s Dorian, Athena! He’s-”

“I know,” the Deputy cut her off calmly. She knelt and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. “We found his body in a nearby church. I’m sorry.”

Rosamund did not understand why she was sorry. Dorian was a monster that tricked her into thinking he was a gallant knight. Then why do I feel yet emptier after hearing this?

The Deputy broke free from the embrace and turned her attention to another watchman sauntering past. Athena’s grin was unusually mysterious. “Oh, McDonnel…”

The watchman she had called McDonnel curtailed his jovial whistle and stood at the Deputy’s attention. The morning sun grazed the leathery skin of his face. A faint scar trickled down the side of his cheek and curved under his chin. He most likely had earned that from the night before. Rosamund couldn’t help noticing the lack of a green badge on his breastplate. She had no doubt that Athena noticed, too. “How did you fare with the riots last night?” Athena asked chirpily.

McDonnel spat harshly into the muddy ground. “They broke one of my bones. They did,” he said, moving completely normally. “Savages, the lot of ‘em.”

“That’s interesting,” Athena replied with feigned shock. “From what some of my men have told me, the damage you dealt some of the peasants was far worse.” There was a smirk on the Deputy’s lips that Rosamund did not like. It cast an icy aura onto the street. McDonald felt it too. He stepped back uneasily and removed his kettle hat, wiping oily sweat from his forehead. With every step back he took, the Deputy stepped forward. “In fact, they told me you were enjoying the beatings a little too much.”

“Slander!” McDonnel blurted out with some spittle along the way. “Baseless lies by sycophants wanting a promotion. Some of the men barely lifted a finger to help last night. They just held back and observed!”

“That’s what I ordered those particular watchmen to do.” The Deputy clicked her fingers. Two watchmen with adorned green badges grabbed McDonnel’s arms and slammed his knees into the mud. “They told me you had a tendency to get a little carried away, like a feline with catnip.”

“Deputy, I was just keeping the peace!” he pleaded.

“Beating peace into people isn’t keeping peace.” Her voice was hard as stone. “And it’s Sheriff now. Danson, give me the rope.”

Sheriff. It was at that moment when Rosamund noticed the pointed star badge clipped to Athena’s breastplate. A different colour than usual. That of jade green. Her men kept McDonnel’s knees bathed in mud as they turned him so that his back was facing the new Sheriff. A thick white knotted rope was placed in Athena’s hand. It looked like the kind Rosamund saw used to flog disobedient crewmen with when she had travelled with her kingly father by boat to visit Crimsonaria.

The watchmen stripped the armour and chainmail off McDonnel’s back. Rosamund felt the High-Priestess’ soft hand land on her shoulder. “You should not see this,” she whispered, attempting to tug the Princess away from the scene.

Rosamund gently pushed the Priestess’ concerned hand away. “I’ve seen plenty already.”

“But this is not a necessary sight,” the Priestess said.

“Listen to her, Your Highness,” Athena urged as she twirled the whipping rope in her hands. “My men will go with you. They're clean, I promise.”

She decided to listen to them. What could she gain by witnessing more suffering other than some pitiful pride and street credit? Four green watchmen escorted them both away. As Rosamund stepped into the City Watch carriage, she could hear a sharp snap followed by an excruciating scream. The watchmen became wroth when the Priestess tried to board until Rosamund had to step in and command them to stand down. It was like she had woken up in a different place. Safer, perhaps, but better? She could not say. Athena was Sheriff, Dorian was dead and presumably Redtower too. She observed the streets through the carriage window. Detritus draped the streets. There weren’t many people around that weren’t City Watch. The Shards had turned into a ghost town.

The Jade Palace awaited her. An empty throne room that her family once occupied awaited her. A crown that she did not want awaited her. When she glanced back out into the streets, she saw a figure standing amongst the rooftops, next to the chimney of a blacksmith. The black smoke obscured him, yet the light from the dark sapphire side of the armour cut through the fumes.

The rest of the journey was long and cold.