2. Mare
Mare
Muirashi had an odd way of ruling its cities. Governors and generals were one and the same—perhaps the city's coldness came from the press of martial law. Wherever I went, I'd spy a group of soldiers, watching, hands tight on their spears.
Nodding at the pair of guards stationed at the gates, I ascended the steps to the Governor's manor, errant little brother in tow.
The heavy doors closed behind us, sealing out the bitter cold. Breathing in the warm air, my gaze drifted from the soft candlelight hanging from the walls to the gatherings of nobles scattered around the hall.
Liam shrugged off his heavy cloak and dusted snow from his elegant brown coat.
"You look practically noble," I said.
"Fitting for someone who's almost noble," he agreed.
Around the time I was five, everyone in Aenir had decided my title no longer meant anything. The king had allowed Father to join his council.
Out of pity, I supposed.
Liam and I had never quite fit in with the other noble children. They had regarded us as outsiders, at best. Tirnanog stock growing up in the wrong city. We'd grown up in solitude, with only each other for company.
Full-grown now, we loitered under Father's wings, not poised to inherit any titles or join the council ourselves.
I hated it—the feeling of nothingness where there should have been duty.
Lifting my skirts, I followed the growing crowd into the ballroom.
The visiting party from Aenir was easy to pick out: shocks of light hair, colorful finery with too much lace, and skin pale as snow.
The natives of Muirashi had an orderliness my people lacked: long gowns and tunics in muted colors, dark hair in neat, simple styles, and eyes in every shade of blue.
Father's white hair and bright green cloak stuck out from the sea of shadows.
I briefly considered avoiding him, but he spun in his seat, as though he sensed our presence. Beaming, Father waved us over.
"I know what he's going to say," Liam whispered.
Pulling my fur cloak off, I laid it over the back of my chair. "Evening, Father. You look positively radiant."
It was true. His pale eyes shimmered. "Lady Muirin said she saw you with Prince Laiserian?"
Liam grabbed a wine bottle from the table. "Lady Muirin works fast," he murmured, plopping into a chair.
Nobody gossiped quite like the ladies of Aenir. Nothing escaped their notice.
"I'm happy for you, dear," Father continued. "Your mother floated the idea of you and the prince . . . " He trailed off, mouth slowly stitching shut. "Well, fate has a funny way of working out."
Any mention of my mother made Father fall silent. Swallowing, I glanced away.
King Ailithir stood at the head of the room, talking with Kentoro's governor.
Laiserian arrived at their side and stood with his father—they were mirrors for one another: sharp features and steel hair.
I caught a smudge of white skirts as a woman walked behind them.
The queen, most likely. A quiet woman who kept to herself.
But the younger prince was nowhere to be seen.
What ill-favored venue had Prince Ferris chosen tonight? A seedy bar in a back alley, perhaps. For all the grief I gave Liam, Prince Ferris' roguish ways made my brother seem positively polite.
As though sensing my thoughts, Liam shot me a sour glare. "Get your wine, sister. We're about to toast."
Throwing myself into my seat, I grabbed the wine bottle and filled my glass. Shifting in the cold wooden chair, I observed the room.
My countrymen, the people of Aenir, couldn't be more different from the Muirashins. The Iceborns of Muirashi were stiff and formal, quiet and polite. Most of the Aenir guests were already drunk, their voices boisterous.
The merriment echoed in this austere room. Muirashins weren't known to decorate anything. The ballroom in King Ailithir’s palace glittered with crystal chandeliers and hung paintings of vivid landscapes. This place had simple wooden floors and barren tables set with a single candle.
Father had explained their creed to me: vanity breeds sin. A pure soul had little need for the material.
Thank the saints I hadn't been born in Muirashi. I would sooner brawl a wild herd of elk than give up my wardrobe.
King Ailithir raised his glass to begin the toast. Back home, his speeches were raucous, but during Winter's Tide, he reigned it in.
"Good people, though we've gathered to celebrate another turning of the years, we must not forget the darkness we faced, five years ago, nearly to the day. I would begin by honoring those who gave their lives."
Silence fell over the room as everyone bowed their heads. I did the same. Five years ago, while we packed up to depart Winter's Tide, the Emperor had been slain, felled in the next city over. Every year since, we'd held a vigil in his memory at the beginning of the festival.
A flutter of movement caught my eye, and I glanced up at the chandelier. Perched on the edge of the flickering candles was a small black bird—a crow.
Its beady black eyes met mine, and a sense of dread washed over me. Ice flooded my veins, and I sat upright, looking around.
How had a bird gotten into the ballroom?
Rubbing my chest, I tried to shake the sinking feeling, but it bit into my skin like a fierce wind from a winter storm. Swallowing, my eyes darted around, but everyone wore smiles or bored expressions.
Why did I suddenly feel like I drowned in darkness? No matter how I tried to shake the sensation, it clung to me like wet cloth.
“Something wrong?” Liam whispered.
I jerked my chin up. “A bird is watching me.”
Furrowing his brow, Liam followed my gaze. One eyebrow lowered when he met my eye again. “If you're trying to make a joke, I don't get it."
Liam couldn't see it? The bird cocked his head and fluttered his feathers—real as my heartbeat.
"May the stars bless this coming year," King Ailithir continued. "And may the twin moons watch over our people . . . And, I'll stop talking now."
A few people chuckled as the king raised his glass and returned to his seat. I looked back up at the chandelier, but the crow was gone.
"What?" Liam asked.
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. The dread abated from my breast.
Removing my hand, I took a breath. What had that been, a hallucination? Had I not slept enough last night?
"Line's forming up." Liam nodded toward the dance floor. "Don't miss your chance."
Father touched my arm as I stood, eagerly pushing me. "You look beautiful tonight, dear."
"Thanks," I breathed. "Guard the perimeter, Liam?"
He smirked. "Mhm."
Reaching up, I touched my bun, ensuring my snow-white locks hadn't fallen loose. Smoothing the neckline of my lavender gown, I strode toward the gathering line of young noblewomen.
Women waited for a man to ask them to dance, hands knit and eyes downcast. Should no man ask for their hand, they would be shamed, deemed undesirable.
The fate had never befallen me. Liam or Father would step in if no one else would.
Taking my place, I stared at the floor. It had taken years to convince the king I was a suitor worthy of his son.
As a child, I'd run off, searching for home, searching for my mother. As a teenager, I'd raged against Father's insistence to leave the past be.
Years ago, I'd realized nobody was going to uncover the truth of what happened if I didn't. And nobody would raise Tirnanog from the ashes if I faded into darkness.
What better option had I than to pursue the prince? The shock of Tirnanog's loss had shaken Aenir to its core, but everyone had long accepted it was gone.
And that my name meant nothing anymore.
"May I have this dance?"
I looked up sharply to see Laiserian standing before me, hand extended, lips curled in a smile.
"You may." I smiled back.
I placed my hand within his, and my night came crashing down.
The doors slammed open in the distance, and thundering footsteps followed. Shouts of surprise echoed near the ballroom's entrance as a man in the silver armor of the Aenir guard rushed to the center of the room.
The king shot to his feet.
"Your majesty," the guard panted. "Trouble in Galasvar. I've been sent to call for aid."
The Governor scoffed. "Galasvar? Who sent you?"
Galasvar was a small border fort. They watched over the edge of our kingdom, picking off the occasional monster that roamed in from the Shadowlands.
"Paragon Killian, sir," the guard said.
I blinked at the man. Paragons were our most vaunted heroes. They strode with the authority of kings and walked where the world needed them most.
"Is that bad?" I whispered.
"Yes," Laiserian breathed, dropping my hand.
The king paled. "Governor, forgive me, but I need to step out for a moment." He marched across the room and addressed the guard. "You. Come with me."
Laiserian turned and followed his father. And for some reason, I hiked up my skirt and hurried after them.
My father caught up with me and took my arm. We left the ballroom through a side door, following a dark hall into a quiet parlor. A handful of guards pursued the king. I wasn't sure I had the authority to be here, but nobody told me to leave.
Bathed in the light of a dim mantle, the king spun on his heel. "What's happened? Why did he send only you?"
"The Paragon didn't want to spare any men," the guard explained. He pulled off his helm, revealing a youthful face smudged by dark shadows. "There's movement beyond the walls, sir. He fears an imminent attack."
"Movement?" Laiserian questioned. "From who?"
"We're not sure."
Nothing lived beyond the southern walls but shadow. Monsters prowled the depths of a living hell—the darkness we were tasked with dispelling, to win back the gods' lost favor.
I'd never given it much thought before.
"There is nothing there," the king said. "In a hundred years, the worst the walls have faced is the occasional roaming pack of wyverns."
"Something's changed." The young guard handed the king a scroll. "It's not merely Galasvar he fears for."
The king paced away from us, eyes scanning the letter. He returned with a furrowed brow. "Finan," he addressed my father. "I'm afraid your leave's been cut short. You're headed to Tsuyan, and someone must meet with Killian."
The king handed my father the letter and strode past him, running a hand through his hair. Father glanced over the note and spun around, calling out to the king.
"Send Mare," he said.
My eyes widened, and I glared at him.
"I can vouch for her. I've trained her myself."
The king's pale green eyes traced my face, and he nodded. "Perhaps one of Killian's own can talk sense into him. You leave on the morrow."
He turned on his heel and marched away, a stream of guards following him.
One of Killian's own? Was the Paragon from Tirnanog?
"Saints," Father breathed, fingers clenching the scroll. "Come with me." He touched my arm, and I stumbled after him.
What could that letter have possibly said?