Isolde Point of View

  The gates of Solstara had never felt so tall.

  They stood open, the battered oak doors pushed back and chained, iron hinges groaning whenever the wind moved them. Splintered wood and bent iron lay off to the sides where the living-rams had smashed through.

  Her horse stepped over the mess, hooves ringing on cracked stone.

  The crown sat warm and solid on her head.

  It didn’t dig into her scalp. It didn’t slide. It just rested there like it had always belonged, humming softly with the ley lines under the city. Those lines were louder now. Every breath thousands of people drew, every parched patch of earth they passed, brushed her mind like soft knocks.

  It was heavy and loud but… she’d wanted this.

  She kept her back straight.

  Ragna rode on her left, blood mostly scrubbed off, hair still wild, her club resting across her lap. She stared at the walls like she’d happily knock them down too if asked.

  On Isolde’s right, Thorvyn sat on a black stallion. The horse was jittery with the smell of smoke and fear. Thorvyn patted its neck, murmuring something, his eyes on the crowd.

  Behind, Marius and Yasafina rode in step, armor clean, postures perfect. Valtor walked with Captain Jora at his shoulder, leading a knot of Veridian Guard. The rest of her host flowed around them, and banners of the Silver Falcon rose above the press of spears.

  People waited just inside the gate.

  They lined the street, crowded into doorways and onto sagging balconies. Thin faces, with clothes worn to the thread. Someone had thrown flowers – a little wreath of white blooms was already crushed flat under a wagon wheel.

  The sound that met them wasn’t cheering. It was a low, uneven murmur.

  “Is that her?”

  “She looks like the former Queen...”

  “Just because of the hair? No, no, she looks like the King did when he was young!”

  “Shut it, you’ll get dragged off.”

  Isolde heard every word whether she wanted to or not. The Crown carried the city’s voice to her now; it fed on life and sound was life. Each step her horse took brought another trickle of impressions. She sensed dry wells, sickrooms, and even… poor children gone hungry too long.

  Her fingers tightened on the reins until the leather creaked.

  A small voice cut across the mutter.

  “Long live the Queen!”

  It cracked on “Queen.” Isolde’s gaze snapped to the sound.

  A little girl stood on an overturned crate to see over the adults. Black hair in a crooked knot, rough shawl pinned with a strip of faded blue cloth. She held a younger boy’s hand in a white-knuckled grip.

  When she realized Isolde was looking at her, the girl flinched, then drew in a breath.

  “L-long live the Queen!”

  Her brother echoed her, voice too soft to carry.

  A man near them hissed, “Quiet, girl,” but he didn’t pull her down.

  People were uncertain. They hadn’t seen Isolde in years, as she’d been in the academy, and when she’d returned she killed her brother to enter the city. One might expect that it was a good thing given that Kaelan wasn’t a good King, but to these people they couldn’t be sure she wasn’t another Kaelan.

  So, for a heartbeat, no one else spoke. Then, from the doorway of a burnt shop, a round-faced woman in a grey scarf cupped her hands around her mouth.

  “That’s the Princess!” she shouted. Her voice shook. “That’s Lysandra’s girl!”

  The name spread like spilled wine.

  “Lysandra…”

  “Lysandra reborn…”

  People spoke of her mother in the softest voice, for they recalled the beacon of hope and fairness she’d been. She was such a sweet thing, and in the last few years, hadn’t Isolde grown up to resemble her so much?

  Isolde felt the old ache at her mother’s name, sharp and fast, then gone. The noise grew around her. Thorvyn’s horse edged closer. He didn’t speak, but she felt his eyes on her, weighing, ready. Ragna leaned forward in her saddle and grinned at the rising sound.

  “Ha,” Ragna said. “Little birds still have throats.”

  “Keep your posture,” Yasafina said quietly from behind. “You’re part of the picture.”

  “I know,” Ragna muttered, but she straightened.

  More voices joined.

  “Long live the Queen!”

  “Down with the usurper!”

  “Kaelan is dead!”

  That last one carried a rough satisfaction that made Isolde’s stomach twist. Brother or not, Kaelan had tried to burn their kingdom from the inside. Both truths sat in her chest and ground against each other.

  Marius’s horse drew level with hers for a few steps.

  “This is good,” he murmured. “Let them speak for you.”

  As if she had a choice.

  She let go of the reins with one hand and raised it. Palm open. First toward the girl on the crate, then slowly wider.

  The Crown stirred.

  Power traced down her arm, soft and warm, outlining her fingers in faint purple for a heartbeat. Cracks in the road ahead of them pushed out thin shoots of green. Not too many, she had to save her energy, but just enough for people to see.

  “Look,” someone muttered. “The stones...”

  “The ground’s waking up.”

  The murmurs shifted. Less fear, more uncertain hope.

  “Careful,” Thorvyn’s voice came low. “If you dump too much out right now, you’ll fall off the horse.”

  His tone was dry, almost amused. It steadied her.

  “If she falls, I catch,” Ragna said. “Easy.”

  “Let’s not turn the first day into a circus,” he replied.

  Their small bickering felt normal in a way nothing else did. Isolde smiled inside and pulled the Crown’s reach back in. The vines slowed. The lines under Solstara dimmed a little. The city’s “voice” became a background hum instead of a shout.

  They moved deeper.

  They passed a square where Kaelan’s proclamations still hung, words half-torn. ONE KING. ONE WILL. ONE BLOODLINE. Someone had crossed out WILL and written in clumsy chalk: ONE IDIOT.

  Valtor snorted softly when he saw it.

  “Your people have opinions,” Jora said.

  “At least they’re honest,” Valtor replied, scanning roofs.

  Whole stretches of houses lay empty, doors knocked in or boarded from the inside. The smell here was worse, old smoke layered over the sour trace of mana-poisoned bodies. Outside a closed United Church shrine, three women knelt with their heads bowed.

  One looked up as Isolde passed.

  Hatred and grief burned there.

  “You’re late,” the woman said quietly.

  Isolde heard it as clearly as any cheer. The words slipped under the Crown and hit her old guilt head-on. Millhaven’s children, the blighted fields in the Blighted Reaches, Asharion’s ash on her hands. She forced all of it down.

  I am late. But I’m here now.

  Her face stayed calm. She didn’t let her jaw shake.

  By the time they reached the plaza before the palace, the chant had finally found a rough rhythm. Soldiers had formed a corridor, shields locked, but people still surged forward behind them.

  The palace loomed.

  The doors still bore faint scorch marks. The mosaics of old Thalasson ships and kings were stained, Kaelan’s face on the newer tiles smeared with black paint or cracked clean out.

  Her horse stopped at the base of the stairs on instinct.

  Yasafina slid down and came to her side, hand extended. “Your Majesty,” Yasafina said, not loud, but with enough force that the nearest ranks heard it. “Solstara awaits its Queen.”

  The word struck Isolde harder than the noise had. Her heart hammered, and the Crown thrummed against her skull. The ley lines pressed, eager.

  She took Yasafina’s hand and dismounted.

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  The roar of “Long live the Queen!” swelled. Not everybody shouted it, but enough. Spear-butts thudded on stone. Somewhere, a child’s thin voice yelled it so hard they coughed.

  Isolde risked one glance back.

  Thorvyn watched her from the saddle, face unreadable, eyes sharp. She wondered what he was thinking, watching her like that. Ragna had dismounted and stood with her club on her shoulder and a stupidly proud grin on her face. That girl was as transparent as ever.

  The wind caught her hair and whipped it across her face, and she shoved it back with an impatient hand. Something about the gesture made Isolde's laugh to herself.

  Valtor stood at the edge of the square, arms crossed, his expression half-annoyed, half-something else. Nostalgia perhaps? Or perhaps seeing himself in her position, if things had gone differently. Marius sat his horse just behind her, features smooth, one hand resting on the pommel like this was any other ceremony at court.

  She turned away and climbed.

  Each step up the wide stone stair felt heavier than the last. She refused to let her knees show it.

  At the top, she faced the city.

  The Crown flared, a faint outline of purple and green haloing her for everyone to see. The ley lines pulsed under her boots. For a second, she felt every thirsty field, every sickbed, every hungry mouth like pins on a map driven into her skin.

  Her throat tried to close.

  She opened her mouth anyway.

  Nothing came out.

  If she tried to force words now, they would break. Or she would. So she closed her mouth, took one slow breath, and lifted her hand again in simple greeting.

  It was enough.

  The crown acted itself, focusing mana on her throat. She was surprised. It was… supporting her? Encouraging her. Isolde smiled, “Everyone,” she said. “I’m here.”

  The sound that came back wasn’t polished. It was rough, overlapping, full of grief and joy and anger all at once. But it was loud. Louder than the silence that had sat over this city since the drought deepened. Louder than the crack of evil spells these past few weeks.

  Louder than despair.

  Isolde tilted her head back a little and let the wind hit her eyes so that if anything wet escaped, people could tell themselves it was only the cold.

  Her city had been liberated from the great evil that haunted it.

  ****

  Vexia Point of View

  The sea cave stank of salt, rust, and old magic.

  Vexia’s bare feet slapped through the water on the floor. The tunnel ceiling dipped low, forcing her to duck. Her wounded shoulder throbbed with every step and the Concord script cut into her skin, trying to knit itself back together and failing halfway.

  Behind her, bootsteps echoed. Unhurried. Annoyingly steady.

  She came out into the main chamber where the cave opened on one side to the sea. Moonlight spilled in through a jagged mouth, silver on black water. Waves rolled in, lapped at the stone, then slid back out.

  Three bodies lay where the tide broke.

  They wore Harvester robes with Concord brand on the necks. Their limbs were twisted, with their eyes open and clouded. Dammit, she cursed, seeing the bodies she herself had killed. She’d just been here ten minutes ago. She was running in circles, and that bastard was enjoying his hunt. Disgusting bastard.

  She had bragged to the other Domain Lords, and had them agree only to let her and Vorlag come here. Vorlag was a fool who only relied on his blessing, but Vexia was a cold planner. She’d planned everything nicely, and was confident in taking over this tiny nation formerly ruled by a mere 6th Ascension King.

  Everyone in the Concord had believed that Thalassaria would be an easy annexation. It was supposed to be the entry point through which the Grey Sentinel would come to this world.

  They hadn’t accounted for a Valterian Mantle, a Mirror Queen, a Divine Cult Executor, and a Pirate Prince choosing the same battlefield.

  Not only could Vexia not get her hands on the Crown Jewel, which was supposed to make the Murmuring Glass wider using the leylines, but now the Divine Cult was involved, the crack would be studied and protected by them.

  “Domain-Lord Vexia.”

  The voice slid into the cave before he did.

  She knew who it was. She didn’t turn right away.

  “Executor Thragg,” she said. “You’re persistent.”

  “You’re noisy,” he replied.

  She turned.

  He stood in the throat of the tunnel, framed by rock and shadow. Same black and red coat she’d seen on the tower above the army. Sword at his hip. Crimson eyes faintly lit behind the mask. The air around him felt a fraction heavier.

  He stepped into the chamber, boots sinking a little in the wet sand. His gaze flicked to the corpses first. “Poor men,” he said. “They were yours.”

  “Were,” Vexia agreed. “They were a liability, and their death has granted me a bit more Levels and Mana. It should help me at least a little more against you.”

  “How hard you try just to cover a fingernail’s worth gap,” Thragg said. “You guys could have chosen a different kingdom, any kingdom. Bad luck really. You guys had to dig under a kingdom that my Liege had given his word to protect.”

  “Your Liege isn’t here anymore,” she argued.

  “But the Divine Cult remains, and so does Nevaramis,” he said and she could feel that he was smirking. “It’s honestly comically arrogant how you thought the Heavenly Demon not being present means this planet is yours to conquer.”

  He took a few more steps in. They were close enough now to talk without raising their voices.

  “You’ve cost me time in Veridian, in Millhaven, in the Bloody River too,” he went on. “Time can be regained. But what you’ve cost this place cannot be so.” His eyes shifted back to her. “The Grey Sentinel is very bad at picking fights. The Divine Cult doesn’t plan to share with him.”

  “We’re not asking,” Vexia said. “We’re taking. That’s what he does.”

  “And I’m here,” Thragg said, “to tell him no.”

  His hand went to his sword.

  “You’re a long way from Nevaramis,” Vexia said. “Your floating city doesn’t cover this coastline. Be careful you don’t get lost.”

  He drew the blade in one smooth line of silver.

  He didn’t answer.

  He moved.

  Steel blurred. She threw herself sideways. The sword cut a clean groove into the stone wall where her neck had been. Bits of rock pattered into the water.

  Her palm slapped the floor as she fell. Concord script flared black around her hand and sank into the ground.

  Darkness thickened.

  Her Mandate rose.

  The shadow in the cave grew deep and oily, swallowing the edges of rock and water. The hiss of the waves dulled. A tight, cold pressure crawled up from the stone, carrying all the fear she’d harvested and stored. Panic in a hundred cities, kings’ last breaths, soldiers’ eyes as they broke.

  She pushed it toward him.

  Thragg’s step hit the black tide of it. His shoulders stiffened for a heartbeat. His eyes narrowed.

  “Fear Mandate,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Worse? No, those were shown to your soldiers,” she said. “This one’s much more lethal. For generals who haven’t looked past their own walls, you don’t know better. You’ve seen the Glass, you know how grand reality truly is.”

  Fear brushed his aura. Under the calm, under Nevaramis' discipline, there were echoes that she felt. A dragon rage, vampires’ hunger, and devil laughter. All bound under one sharp will.

  They snapped at her touch.

  He pushed back. It felt like a different kind of law. Not the Sentinel’s cold accounting, but the Heavenly Demon’s old demand – strength with responsibility. For an instant the two pressures scraped against each other.

  Her teeth ached, but he didn’t look bothered. “Have you ever felt the Heavenly Demon’s crushing will? Or at least heard tales of it? This much is nothing.”

  “Bastard.”

  “For lesser men this works,” he said. “But I’ve watched kings cut their own throats under less. But I stood behind the Heavenly Demon when Gods screamed. You don’t measure on that scale yet, little Succubi."

  His sword flashed again.

  She raised a shield of condensed shadow and script. The blade cut through it, then through flesh. Pain exploded down her forearm as the edge kissed bone and slid out. Vexia stumbled back, clutching the wound as sigils glowed and struggled to seal it.

  He raised his sword for a killing blow.

  Something grabbed her wrist and yanked. His blade sliced the air where her throat had been and clipped only a few strands of hair.

  A new presence settled into the cave.

  It was thin and cold and came from nowhere the cave understood. Not from the stone, not from the water, not from the air. It came from the space between things.

  “Enough.”

  The word landed like reality making a demand.

  Vexia twisted. The figure that had appeared between them was taller than either of them and wrong to look at. It was built from overlapping plates of glass and parchment that slid over one another as it moved. Every shift made a dry whispering sound.

  Where a face should have been, there was only a hollow and a steady grey light.

  Thragg’s eyes thinned.

  “First Voice,” he said.

  “Executor Thragg of Nevaramis,” the First Voice of the Grey Sentinel replied. Its voice was clear and flat. “You are far from your city.”

  Thragg didn’t lower his sword.

  “Funny how you repeated the same things she said. Single-minded baboons,” he said. “You’re trying to misuse a Murmuring Glass, sacrifice children in this land, and are trying to summon your Evil God here. What made you think the Triumvirate of Nevaramis would sit still?”

  “The System cracked the Glass,” the Voice said. “It promises potential, a considerable boost before a new world is born. Why wouldn’t we take it? Aren’t you people being too greedy?”

  Thragg scowled. Even he didn’t know as much as the First Voice did. The First Voice fell quiet as it realized the enemy didn’t know this much, and quickly changed the subject. It turned its hollow head slightly toward Vexia.

  “But you are correct that waste is unwise,” it added. “Even for us.”

  Vexia forced her legs to keep her upright. The grip on her wrist was cool and firm. “I misjudged the field. I apologize,” she said. “I still serve.”

  “You will,” the Voice said. “The Barren King is gone. The Mirror girl wears the replica Crown. A mutated Valterian’s Mantle has awakened, which means this world moves again. You will watch and prepare the path.”

  Thragg’s jaw worked.

  “You intend to keep attempting to summon your God?” he asked. “With the land healing under Isolde Thalasson, how are you going to move next? We’re not going to sit and watch.”

  “We both are aware that a clash between us, when the Heavenly Demon isn’t in the picture, is pointless and harmful to both of us,” the Voice said. “So I have chosen to abandon Thalassaria from our plans. However, the Sentinel’s empire is not complete… we can’t rest until then. There are countless Murmuring Glass across the world, and the Divine Cult can only watch so many.”

  The air around Thragg twisted.

  “You should stop moving so riskily and return to Nevaramis,” the Voice told him. “Your mandate does not extend this far. Not fully.”

  “That hasn’t stopped me before,” Thragg said.

  “But it will now,” the Voice replied.

  The cave floor cracked under Thragg’s boots. Fine lines spidered out from his feet. He held his ground for a moment, the sword humming softly.

  Then he let out a short breath and eased his grip.

  His eyes found Vexia one last time.

  “You’re still on my list,” he said. “Your master can’t hide you forever.”

  “You’ll have to live long enough to see me again, handsome,” Vexia shot back with a smirk, because she couldn’t help herself. “I want to know what hides under that mask.”

  His eyes crinkled slightly. Then he took one step, two, and on the third step he was simply not there. Just absence.

  The cave exhaled.

  The shadows retreated to their corners. The sea’s hiss came back, waves hitting rock, pulling away.

  The First Voice released Vexia’s wrist.

  “You overreached,” it said. “Adjust.”

  She pressed her hand to her bleeding arm and laughed once, low and rough. “One gone, now remains the Barbarian. Haah, I thought I was dead,” she said.

  “You will be,” the Voice answered. “Later. Not now. Now you are useful. The Queen will try to mend a starving kingdom and that… oddity… that Barbarian will climb the System. The Pirate will complicate foreign borders, while we work on a different Glass.”

  The grey light at its center brightened a little.

  “When the time comes,” it said, “you will ensure the door is open and the vessel is strong. Do not die stupidly before then.”

  The glass and pages blurred. One blink, and the First Voice was gone, sucked back into whatever thin place it had stepped through.

  Vexia slumped against the cold rock and let herself breathe for a few heartbeats. Her arm hurt. Her pride hurt more. “Isn’t that such a great honor,” she mocked.

  Outside, the waves rolled on, stupid and patient.

  Far above, a new Queen walked through a cheering city with a Crown that still bit into the ley lines, and a barbarian with a hungry soul rode at her side.

  Vexia watched the strip of moonlight on the water and started planning how to turn all of that into a foothold instead of a grave. “Fuck.”

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