The morning came cold and gray, winter pressing against the shutters like an unwelcome guest. Fran woke to the familiar ache in her side—duller now than the sharp fire of three weeks past, but present, persistent, a reminder written in scar tissue and half-healed flesh.

  She lay still for a moment, testing her body’s limits before attempting movement. The wound pulled when she breathed too deeply. Every movement sent a spark of pain through her side.

  Three weeks, she thought. Three weeks and I still feel like I’ve been trampled.

  But there was work to be done. There was always work.

  She pushed herself upright with careful deliberation, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. The room spun slightly—blood rushing, body protesting—but she breathed through it, waiting for equilibrium to return.

  The cane leaned against the bedside table. Polished oak, topped with a silver grip shaped like a hawk’s head. Elna had presented it with her usual no-nonsense efficiency: You’ll walk easier, and look less like a child clinging to my skirts.

  Fran hated it. Hated needing it. Hated what it represented—weakness, fragility, limitation. She’d always trusted her body: healer’s hands, a traveler’s endurance, a ruler’s presence. Now it was a traitor, failing her at every turn.

  She reached for the cane anyway. Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  A letter from the palace lay open on the table by the window, full of the usual news—taxes, disputes, weather, grain storage—written in Thalyra's small, neat handwriting. Next to it, a reply Fran had started the night before.

  Getting dressed took longer than it should have. Each movement had to be calculated, measured. Lifting her arms to pull on her chemise sent pain lancing through her side. Lacing her stays required breaks, her breathing shallow and controlled. By the time she’d fastened her dress—a simple wool gown in deep burgundy, practical rather than ornamental—she was sweating despite the cold.

  A knock at the door.

  “Come,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.

  Mother Elna entered with a tray: weak tea, bread with honey, a small bowl of porridge. The priestess set it on the table, moving the letters further away, then turned to assess her patient with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen too many fools try to rush their recovery.

  “You’re dressed early,” Elna observed. “Should I be worried?”

  “I have a council meeting. And an interrogation after that.”

  Elna’s mouth tightened. “Master Andrieu said you should rest another week at minimum. That wound—”

  “Will heal whether I’m in bed or at work.” Fran crossed to the table, leaning heavily on the cane. “I can’t govern from a sickroom, Mother Elna. Not when there are decisions that need to be made.”

  “Decisions that could be made by your councillors.”

  Fran lowered herself into the chair with care. “My councillors are part of the problem.”

  Elna poured the tea, her movements precise. “Lord Daskar.”

  “Among others.”

  A pause. Then, softer: “What will you do with him?”

  Fran wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her palms. “What needs to be done. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Elna studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Eat. You’ve lost too much weight, and you’ll need your strength.”

  She left Fran alone with the simple meal and the weight of the day ahead.

  The council chamber in Durnhal was smaller than the one in Vartis, its stone walls unadorned except for the Daskar crest and a faded tapestry depicting some long-ago battle. The barons were already assembled when Fran arrived, Verren at her shoulder. She took in the scene with a single sweep of her gaze—Lord Thorne, Lady Orre, Lord Tashe, young Lynton of Falkfield, and Alven Daskar at the head of the table.

  “Your Grace,” Alven said, his voice carefully neutral. “We weren’t expecting you so soon. Master Andrieu said—”

  “Master Andrieu does not set my schedule.” Fran moved to the chair Verren held for her, each step measured, the cane’s tap against stone marking her progress. “Sit. All of you.”

  They obeyed.

  She lowered herself into the chair, arranging her skirts to hide the tremor in her hands. The walk from her chamber had cost her more than she wanted to admit, but her face remained composed, her voice steady—at least outwardly.

  “We have much to discuss,” she began. “The attack on Durnhal. The state of our defenses. The disposition of the prisoners. And the governance of the eastern baronies going forward.”

  Tashe shifted in his seat. “Your Grace, if I may—we’ve already begun implementing repairs to the wall. The breach has been sealed, though the masonry won’t hold through winter without—”

  “Money.” Fran’s gaze found him. “Which you don’t have, because half your winter stores were burned or stolen, and the other half are needed to feed your people through the cold months.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Vartis will provide funds for the repairs,” she continued. “And for additional fortifications—watchtowers at the northern and eastern approaches, reinforced gates, proper storehouses that can’t be set ablaze by a single torch.” She paused. “But this aid comes with conditions.”

  The barons exchanged glances.

  Lady Orre’s fan stilled. “What manner of conditions, Your Grace?”

  “Accountability.” Fran’s voice was flat. “Every coin will be documented. Every shipment recorded. Every decision regarding defense and supply will be reviewed by representatives from Vartis.” She looked around the table. “No more convenient fires. No more missing grain. No more raiders who seem to know exactly when and where to strike.”

  Silence, brittle as glass.

  “You’re saying,” Tashe said carefully, “that you don’t trust us.”

  Fran hesitated, fingers tightening around her cane. “I’m saying that trust is earned through transparency, Lord Tashe. And recent events have made it clear that transparency has been... lacking.”

  Alven spoke for the first time since she’d entered. “Your Grace, are you suggesting that someone in this room—”

  “I’m suggesting,” Fran interrupted, “that the attack was too coordinated to be simple opportunism. Someone provided information. Whether through malice or incompetence, I don’t yet know. But I will find out.”

  Edric Thorne cleared his throat. “A fair assessment, Your Grace. And a reasonable response. If we’re to rebuild, we need to know the foundation is sound.”

  Fran inclined her head toward him. “Which brings me to my next announcement. The ducal council requires representation from the eastern baronies—someone with deep knowledge of the region, its people, its challenges.” She paused. “Lord Daskar has served in this capacity, but his expertise is needed elsewhere.”

  Alven’s face went very still.

  “As burgrave of Durnhal, your focus must be on the defense and governance of this city. The walls. The people. The daily work of keeping a border fortress functional.” Her voice was even, almost kind. “Council work requires presence in Vartis, which would take you away from these pressing duties. It would be a disservice to Durnhal—and to you—to divide your attention.”

  It was a demotion dressed in logic. Everyone in the room knew it. And Alven, especially, would know that it was not only his failure as a commander that had sealed his fate.

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  Fran noticed Edric’s knuckles go white against the table, and for a moment she remembered the line of loss that ran between him and Alven—father-in-law and son-in-law, both left with more ghosts than family.

  “Lord Edric Thorne,” she continued, pausing just long enough for her voice to steady. “Your family stood by Duke Alric until the end. And your own record—military and civic—is clean, respected, and uncontested.”

  She met his gaze, weighing him. “I’ve heard enough from those I trust to know you have no taste for titles or flattery. All the better.”

  A brief pause. “You’ll take Daskar’s seat as Eastern Representative.”

  Edric was silent for a moment, his gaze moving from Fran to Alven and back again. Then he nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’m honored, Your Grace. And I accept.”

  “Good.” Fran shifted in her chair, suppressing a wince as pain flared in her side. “You’ll travel to Vartis when I do. We’ll formalize the appointment there.”

  Lady Orre spoke up, her voice carefully neutral. “And what of the Golden Banner, Your Grace? They’re still out there—scattered, perhaps, but not gone.”

  “No,” Fran agreed. “They’re not gone. Which is why the ban is no longer sufficient.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’m authorizing active pursuit. Bounties for information leading to arrests. Amnesty for rank-and-file mercenaries who provide testimony against their commanders and employers.”

  “Amnesty?” Lynton’s voice cracked slightly. “Your Grace, these men—”

  “These men are soldiers for hire,” Fran said. “They fight for coin, not cause. Take away their employers, and they’re just unemployed swords.” She paused. “But anyone caught hiring them—any lord, merchant, or official who provides them with gold or shelter—will face the same charges as the mercenaries themselves. Conspiracy. Treason. Murder.”

  The weight of that settled over the table like snow.

  Tashe was the first to break the silence, his voice a low rumble. “Your Grace, with respect—pursuit is one thing. But if these bastards have crossed into Vernador, we can’t simply ride after them. That’s an act of war.”

  “Lord Tashe is right,” Alven said, finding his voice. “The eastern border is... delicate. Vernador’s lords are already suspicious of our patrols. If we send armed men across—”

  “Then we’ll be accused of invasion,” Lady Orre finished. “And Vernador will have justification to retaliate. We’re barely holding what we have, Your Grace. We can’t afford a border war.”

  Edric Thorne shifted in his seat, his expression thoughtful but troubled. “The raiders scatter like smoke when pressed. They know we won’t follow them past the river. It’s what makes them so damned effective—they strike, they run, and we’re left counting our dead while they drink in Vernador taverns.”

  “So we do nothing?” Fran’s voice was quiet, but edged. “We let them bleed us, winter after winter, because we’re afraid of what Vernador might think?”

  “We do what we can on our side of the border,” Tashe said firmly. “We defend. We fortify. We make ourselves hard targets. But we don’t go chasing shadows into another kingdom’s territory.”

  “Even if those shadows killed your people?” Fran asked. “Even if they burned your granaries and left children orphaned?”

  Edric spoke, his voice measured. “Your Grace, no one at this table wants to see the Golden Banner unpunished. But Lord Tashe speaks wisdom. The eastern baronies have held for generations precisely because we know when to fight and when to hold the line. Cross into Vernador with soldiers, and we give them cause to cross back—with more men, more anger, and more justification.”

  Fran was quiet for a long moment, her fingers drumming once against the table. Pain pulsed in her side, but she ignored it, focusing on the tactical reality they were presenting.

  “Then we don’t send soldiers,” she said finally.

  The barons exchanged glances.

  “Your Grace?” Lynton ventured.

  “If armed pursuit across the border would be seen as invasion, we don’t pursue with arms.” Fran’s gaze moved around the table. “We pursue with information. With gold. With pressure on the merchants and tavern-keeps who shelter them, the blacksmiths who repair their weapons, the landlords who rent them rooms.”

  She leaned back carefully. “The Golden Banner needs money, supplies, and safe harbor. Take those away—quietly, through channels that can’t be traced back to Foher—and they’ll have no choice but to come back to our side of the border. Where we can pursue them.”

  Edric’s eyebrows rose. “You’re talking about spies.”

  “I’m talking about intelligence,” Fran corrected. “About making the cost of harboring these men too high for any Vernador merchant to bear. Anonymous complaints to their authorities. Pressure on trade routes. Whispers that anyone dealing with the Banner risks losing access to our markets.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Indirect warfare,” Lady Orre murmured, and something like respect flickered in her eyes. “Nasty business.”

  “Necessary business,” Fran nodded, quietly hoping her own voice sounded steadier than she felt. “We can’t ride across the border with banners flying. But we can make Vernador’s side of the river just as dangerous for the Banner as ours has become.” She paused. “And for those who are on our side—the bounties stand. As does the amnesty for those who turn informant. We cut off their funding, their shelter, and their escape routes. Then we wait for them to make mistakes.”

  Tashe grunted. “It’ll take time. And coin.”

  “Both of which we’ll provide,” Fran said. “This isn’t policy anymore. It’s war. Just fought with different weapons.”

  The barons were quiet, weighing it.

  Finally, Edric nodded. “A longer game. But smarter than charging across the river and giving Vernador an excuse to burn us in return.”

  “Agreed,” Alven said quietly, and there was something in his voice—grudging respect, perhaps, or simply relief that she wasn’t ordering an immediate invasion.

  Fran allowed herself a small breath. “Then we’re decided. Captain Serwin will coordinate with local watch commanders on our side of the border. And Lord Thorne—” she looked at Edric, “—once you’re on the council, you’ll work with our intelligence networks to establish contacts in Vernador. Discreetly.”

  “Understood, Your Grace.”

  Lady Orre’s fan resumed its measured movement. “And the winter supplies? You mentioned aid, but also conditions.”

  “The grain shipments from Vartis and the western baronies will begin within the week,” Fran said. “But I want full accounting of current stores, distribution records, and population counts from each holding. No estimates. No approximations. Actual numbers.”

  Tashe’s face darkened. “Your Grace, that’s—”

  “Standard practice in any well-governed territory,” Fran interrupted. “I’m not accusing anyone of theft. I’m establishing a baseline so that when spring comes, we can assess what worked and what didn’t.” She paused. “And so that if supplies go missing again, we’ll know exactly where the gap occurred.”

  “You’re treating us like criminals,” Tashe said bluntly.

  “I’m treating you like lords who failed to prevent an attack that killed seventeen people and nearly killed me.” Fran’s voice was quiet, but each word landed with precision. Yet her gaze softened, just a touch. “None of us did enough—not you, and not me. If that offends you, Lord Tashe, I suggest you focus that offense on making sure it never happens again.”

  The silence that followed was thick enough to cut.

  Then Edric cleared his throat. “The Duchess speaks plainly, but she’s not wrong. We failed. Whether through incompetence or infiltration, we failed. Better to accept her conditions and prove ourselves worthy of trust than to argue about pride while our people starve.”

  One by one, the other barons nodded—some reluctantly, others with clear relief that someone had voiced what they were thinking.

  “Then we’re agreed,” Fran said. She glanced at Verren, who’d remained silent throughout, a watchful presence by the door. “Lieutenant, please have the documents prepared for Lord Thorne’s council appointment. We’ll formalize it when we return to Vartis.”

  “Your Grace.” Verren bowed.

  Fran braced her hands on the table, preparing to rise. The movement sent a sharp lance of pain through her side, and for a moment she couldn’t quite hide the wince.

  Edric was on his feet immediately. “Your Grace—”

  “I’m fine.” She reached for her cane, accepting Verren’s steadying hand as she stood. Every eye in the room was on her now, watching her struggle to maintain dignity while her body betrayed her weakness. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow to finalize the details.”

  “Your Grace,” Alven said quietly, “perhaps you should—”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeated, more firmly. Then, softer: “Thank you all for your time.”

  She walked from the room with measured steps, the cane’s rhythmic tap against stone covering the tremor in her legs.

  The corridor outside was blessedly empty. Fran made it perhaps twenty paces before she had to stop, one hand pressed against the cold stone wall, breathing carefully through the pain.

  “Your Grace.” Verren’s voice was low, concerned. “Should I send for Mother Elna?”

  “No.” She straightened slowly, willing her body to cooperate. “I need to see the prisoner. Today. While I still have the strength.”

  Verren hesitated. “Master Andrieu said—”

  “I know what Master Andrieu said.” She looked at him, saw the worry in his face. “How many of our people died that night, Lieutenant?”

  “Seventeen confirmed, Your Grace. Two more since, from their wounds.”

  “Nineteen.” The number settled heavy in her chest. “Marcus. A boy with his whole life ahead of him. I need to look his killer in the eye before I sentence him. I need to understand why.”

  Verren was silent for a moment, then nodded. “The holding cells are in the lower keep. I’ll have him brought to the interrogation chamber.”

  “No.” Fran pushed away from the wall. “I’ll go to him. In his cell. I want him to see me walk there on my own.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

  He bowed, recognizing the finality in her voice. “As you wish. But I’m not leaving your side.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  The descent to the lower keep was an exercise in controlled agony. Each step down jarred her wound, sent fresh spikes of pain radiating through her side. By the time they reached the bottom, Fran’s breath was coming in shallow gasps, and cold sweat dampened her temples, but she kept her face composed.

  The cells were old—carved from the bedrock beneath Durnhal, with thick iron bars and a smell of damp stone and unwashed bodies.

  Two guards snapped to attention. “That one, Your Grace,” said the elder, nodding at the third cell. “Name’s Harren.”

  Fran approached, cane clacking. The man inside pushed himself upright—a lean, hard-edged figure in his late twenties, hair matted, jaw bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut. When he grinned, she saw gaps where teeth were missing; the smile was all wrong, a sharp edge of mockery.

  His voice was rough as gravel. “So. Come to look at what’s left of the bastard who gutted you?”

  Fran stared through the bars. “I came to ask you why.”

  Harren gave a snort. “Don’t reckon you’d listen if I told you.” He limped closer, favoring his left side. “But you’re here, so might as well. The Banner—was family. You outlawed us, took our coin, made us criminals with a word. What’d you think we’d do, roll over and beg?”

  “You were mercenaries who preyed on the people you were hired to protect,” Fran said, voice quiet, tired. “You burned crops. Terrorized villages. Killed civilians.”

  “We did what the job paid for. Nobles don’t care who starves, long as their grain comes in. We just tried to live. You cut us loose.” He spat to the side. “So we took the only pay left.”

  “By murdering a boy barely old enough to grow a beard?”

  Something flickered across his face. “Didn’t mean to. Kid got in the way. Stupid, brave. That’s how heroes end up, Duchess—dead and forgotten.”

  Fran’s jaw tightened. “And me?”

  “That was the job.” He shrugged, almost casual. “Kill the Duchess. Send a message. Make sure everyone knew the Banner doesn’t forgive.”

  “Who paid you?”

  “Don’t know. Word came through cutouts. I never saw who paid.”

  “You think this makes you safe?”

  “Safer than talking, maybe. Names get you killed in here, too.”

  Fran let silence stretch. “You gave Captain Serwin a few names.”

  “Gave what I had. Said you’d help my family keep their land.”

  “I will. That much is true.”

  He watched her, eyes sharp and defiant. “So what now? Parade me through the square? Hang me for the crowd?”

  “You’ll be tried,” Fran said quietly. “Formally. With testimony from the guards, from the survivors, from the families of those you killed. Then you’ll be sentenced according to the law.”

  Harren’s smile twisted. “Means I’ll swing. Don’t pretend it matters more than that.”

  Fran almost looked away. “It means justice, if such a thing exists after all that’s been lost.” She drew a shaky breath. “It won’t bring them back. And it won’t ease what’s been done. But I can’t offer mercy for nineteen dead, even if I wish I could.”

  She turned to leave, her legs trembling, the cane now her only support.

  “Duchess,” Harren called after her. “I’m not sorry for taking the job. For the gold. But the boy… wasn’t meant to die. If that counts.”

  Fran paused. “It doesn’t. But thank you for saying it,” she said softly, and left the cell behind.

  By the time Fran reached her chamber, her vision had started to blur at the edges. The climb from the cells had taken everything she had left—every reserve of strength, every scrap of stubborn will. Verren had tried to help her at the final flight of stairs, but she’d waved him off with more sharpness than she’d intended.

  Now, alone, she collapsed onto the mattress, still gripping her cane, her other hand pressed hard against her side where the pain had become a living thing—sharp, insistent, unforgiving. For a moment she just lay there, breathing in shallow gasps, waiting for the worst of it to pass.

  It didn’t pass.

  The room spun slowly around her. She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse—made her aware of every pulse of pain, every place where her body was failing her. The wound itself, still tender and angry beneath its dressings. The muscles that refused to support her weight. The exhaustion that lived in her bones now, so deep that sleep barely touched it.

  You’re weak, a voice whispered in her mind. Fragile. Helpless.

  The tears came without warning—hot and sudden, welling up from some deep place she’d been keeping carefully sealed. She tried to stop them, to breathe through them the way she’d learned to breathe through pain, but they kept coming.

  She’d lost a child she never knew. And Marcus—young, brave, gone. Nineteen lost. Nineteen families grieving. And here she was, still expected to lead people who deserved better than a duchess who couldn’t even walk without a cane.

  She curled around the pain, around the grief, until exhaustion claimed her. When she finally rose, she wiped her face, repinned her hair, and put on her mask again. She’d broken, and she was still standing. For now, that would have to be enough.

  Three days later, Fran stood in the courtyard as dawn broke over Durnhal’s walls. The snow had stopped during the night, leaving everything covered in a thin blanket of white that reflected the pale morning light.

  Her travel cloak was heavy around her shoulders, lined with fur against the cold. Beside her, Verren supervised the final preparations—horses saddled, supplies loaded, guards assembled. A full escort, as befitted a duchess traveling in uncertain times.

  Mother Elna approached with a basket of supplies: dried herbs, bandages, bottles of tincture. “For the journey,” she said, pressing it into Fran’s hands. “And for when you arrive in Vartis. Master Andrieu says the wound is healing well, but it could still reopen if you push too hard.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Fran promised.

  “You’ll be stubborn,” Elna corrected, but there was affection in her voice. “At least promise me you’ll rest when you reach the palace. Actual rest, not just sitting at your desk instead of lying in bed.”

  “I promise to try.”

  Elna studied her face for a long moment, then nodded. “You’re stronger than you think, child. Your mother would be proud.”

  The words hit harder than expected. Fran felt her throat tighten, but she managed to keep her composure. “Thank you, Mother Elna. For everything.”

  “Just stay alive, Your Grace. I’m too old to train another duchess in proper wound care.”

  They embraced carefully, mindful of Fran’s healing injury.

  Edric Thorne waited by the open carriage door, broad-shouldered and solid. “Ready when you are, Your Grace.”

  Captain Serwin approached next, offering a formal bow. “Your Grace, the patrols have been doubled, and we’ve implemented the new rotation schedules. The watch commanders have their orders regarding the Golden Banner intelligence gathering.”

  “Good. Send regular reports to Vartis. I want to know every development.”

  “You’ll have them, Your Grace.”

  Fran scanned the courtyard one more time. Most of the barons had come to see her off—Tashe and his bulk, Lady Orre with her fan tucked away for once, young Lynton looking both relieved and anxious.

  “We should go. I want to reach Vartis before the next snow,” she said to Verren.

  Edric helped her into the carriage, then climbed in, while Verren and the guards mounted their horses outside. The movement pulled at her wound, but she’d learned to breathe through it, to let the pain wash over and past her rather than fighting it.

  As the carriage rolled toward the gates, Fran caught sight of Alven standing alone beneath a bare-limbed tree. He watched the snow fall, shoulders stiff, a scrap of parchment clenched in one fist. She thought she saw a stranger slip past him, dark cloak vanishing around the keep’s corner, but she filed the image away in the tired corners of her mind.

  The road climbed out of Durnhal, then dropped into the valley toward Vartis. Fran looked back once as they reached the high point, taking in the fortress with its repaired walls and smoking chimneys, the town clustered around it like a child seeking protection.

  “Your Grace,” Edric leaned toward her, “if I may—you handled the council well the other day. Better than your uncle would have, truth be told. Alric would have stripped half of them of their titles and hanged the other half for incompetence.”

  Fran glanced at him. “Would that have been wrong?”

  “It would have been easier,” Edric said. “But not smarter. You chose the harder path—accountability without destruction. It’s what Callen always advised, back when Alric would listen.” His expression grew distant. “My cousin had a gift for tempering rage with reason. Your uncle lost that when he lost Callen.”

  “I never knew them,” Fran said quietly. “Not really. By the time I learned who I was, they were both long dead.”

  “Aye. But you carry something of them anyway.” Edric smiled faintly. “That stubbornness—that’s Alric through and through. But the way you listen before you strike? That’s more Callen’s influence, filtering down through the years.” He paused. “Your mother had it too, from what I remember. Seraina could cut you down with a single sentence if she chose, but she’d make sure you deserved it first.”

  Fran felt something loosen in her chest. “I wish I remembered her.”

  “You were too young when they died.” Edric’s voice gentled. “But I knew her, briefly. Knew your father too. Darin was brilliant—possibly the smartest man in the duchy, and certainly the most stubborn about chasing down historical mysteries that should have stayed buried.”

  The words hung in the air, weighted with implications she wasn’t ready to explore.

  Fran cleared her throat softly. “I imagine you weren’t expecting a council seat when you rode into Durnhal.”

  That earned her a brief glance, dry and steady. “No, Your Grace. I assumed I’d be ordered back to hold the roads or the supply lines. The usual.”

  She studied him a moment. “And perhaps you should have.”

  He turned, now fully facing her, but didn’t speak.

  “I didn’t appoint you to reward loyalty,” she said. “And certainly not sentiment.” Her tone was calm, but it carried steel. “I named you Eastern Representative because I needed someone the barons would listen to—and someone I wouldn’t need to watch every minute.”

  He nodded once. “I’ll remember that.”

  “I’ve never met you before three days ago,” she added, more softly. “But sir Rhyve spoke well of you. So did others. They said you don’t chase titles or favors. That you command respect without demanding it.”

  “I’ve done my duty,” he said. “No more, no less.”

  “That would already set you apart from most.” She leaned back slightly. “Durnhal fell. I won’t let the rest follow. If you’re the right man for this, you’ll help make sure they don’t.”

  Thorne inclined his head. “Then I’ll earn the seat, not just sit in it.”

  A faint flicker passed across her expression—approval, perhaps, or at least satisfaction.

  “Good,” she said. “Because I won’t offer it twice.”

  They reached Vartis six days later, the city rising before them with high walls and snow-blanketed towers. Fran felt something loosen in her chest. However much work awaited, however many problems remained, this was home.

  The carriage rolled through the outer ward and into the palace courtyard, where Sir Rhyve waited, his weathered face showing relief at her return.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “Welcome home.”

  “It’s good to be back, Sir Rhyve.” She accepted his hand as she got out of the carriage, her legs unsteady. The cane was there immediately, and she leaned on it without shame. “Any news I should know immediately?”

  He hesitated. “Nothing that can’t wait until you’ve rested, Your Grace.”

  Which meant there was something. Something significant, but for tomorrow.

  The walk to her chambers felt both endless and too short. Her rooms were warm, fires burning in both the sitting room and bedroom. Someone—probably Silja—had put fresh flowers on the desk, a small gesture of welcome.

  Next to the flowers lay a small, oilcloth-wrapped bundle tied with blue string. Fran frowned, not recognizing it at first. A folded scrap of paper rested on top, written in Gale’s unmistakably over-flourished hand—each letter looped and curling, dramatic as always. She plucked it up, lips quirking despite herself.

  For emergencies, sleepless nights, or any other trouble you refuse to admit to. —G.

  She untied the string, already suspecting what kind of nonsense lay inside, and unwrapped the bundle. Two books tumbled out: one slim, the cover painted with glossy, oversized blossoms—The Painted Garden of Zanatheia; the other thick, battered, its title barely visible in gold leaf—On Salt and Spice: A Journey Through Kentarian Kitchens.

  Fran snorted, her amusement warming the quiet gloom. “Idiot,” she muttered, but her voice was fond.

  She set the books beside the flowers, the note tucked between the pages. For the first time since Durnhal, she felt something in her chest ease—a sense of being home, ridiculous gifts and all.

  A soft sound from the bedroom made her turn. Two shapes emerged, both moving with the imperious dignity of cats who’d been deeply offended by their human’s absence.

  “Nymph. Rudy.” Fran’s voice caught slightly. “I’m sorry I left you.”

  Nymph approached first, green eyes assessing, then deigned to jump into Fran’s lap with careful precision that avoided her wounded side. Rudy followed more cautiously, settling against her leg with a rumbling purr.

  “I missed you too,” she murmured, stroking their heads.

  Later, after eating and a brief examination by the palace physician, Fran finally allowed herself to think of what tomorrow would bring. Sir Rhyve’s hesitation lingered in her mind—a shadow she’d face soon enough.

  She turned Gale’s ring on her finger—the sapphire catching firelight— and let herself ache, just for a moment: for his presence, for all they’d built, for what might have been, and, despite herself, for his questionable gifts.

  Then she straightened her shoulders, set her jaw, and prepared for whatever morning would bring. The storm wasn’t over. But she was still here. That would have to be enough.