The woman—whose name she had not yet told them—stood first.
The scarred man followed her, then the younger one, exchanging glances.
Then they approached Mira, who was still sitting on the old chair, staring at the ground as if listening to its heartbeat.
The woman spoke, her tone low but decisive:
"We must take you out of here, Your Majesty."
Mira did not lift her head.
The scarred man continued:
"The floating train still stops every three days at the southern station.
If we hurry, we can reach it before midnight… as queen, you have priority to board—"
The woman cut him:
"She is not to be considered as queen. She is to be considered as the last who remained."
Mira was still silent.
The younger man—his hesitation clear—then said:
"We don't know what happened… but if you survive, if you give the signal, resistance will rise after the war."
"A word?"
Mira's voice came out strange.
At that moment, the three lifted their heads toward her.
She had whispered the word as if it had cracked out of her chest like a broken stone.
"What word can be said… after this?"
Then she said it again, hoarse:
"Your Majesty…" the woman tried to encourage, her tone firm.
But suddenly Mira raised her head.
Her eyes were wet, her eyelids trembling, her voice rose for the first time:
"My husband… Orestos… remained there!"
Silence fell, killing.
"I told him to take Ilios and run, but he refused.
He said: if we are to fall, let us fall together.
And my son… Ilios was not ready to fight.
I told him not to go, not to fight, but he left…
He wanted to be like his father.
Now… they are both dead."
A tear slid down her cheek; she did not wipe it.
Slowly, the woman bent, placed her hand on Mira's knee, and whispered:
"No one knows fate… we saw with our own eyes some survive among the corpses."
But Mira closed her eyes again, as if rejecting hope.
"You do not understand… Orestos was the last banner.
I saw the smoke rising from the walls, the explosion in the palace.
It was like the fall of the heavens.
He is no longer alive."
The younger man tried to speak, his voice breaking:
"Even if… Ilios—"
But Mira interrupted, slowly, her voice heavy:
"Ilios… he was just a boy. He decided in a moment to be king.
But I did not allow it for him."
They all fell silent.
From the corner, Neva was stealing glances, unable to approach.
For the first time, her mother was crying, speaking,
and Neva felt—only for the first time—that there was something human inside her, not just queen.
Mira added, as if talking to a shadow that would not answer:
"Orestos told me… if we cannot protect the palace, then let us protect what remains of the story."
Then she whispered, as if reading a lament:
"But the story… burned."
She lowered her head, covered her face with both hands.
No one could console her.
The queen had lost her crown, her family… perhaps parts of herself.
There was nothing but silence.
Until suddenly—
"Enough!"
The cry tore the air, breaking the stillness.
The woman was standing, her hands trembling, her eyes blazing.
It was not out of life… it was out of rage.
She took a step forward, as if tearing the barriers between her and the queen who had lost her son.
"Do you know, Mira… what is the difference between us?
I am like you.
I lost everything, too. My son—nine years old.
I lost him, while you were taking your first step to escape.
But I… did not allow myself to die with him.
I struck my chest, woke myself again, and said:
I will not let my death be the reason I live.
If I die, then no one remains to tell the story.
So I lived."
Neva gasped with her, her breath cutting.
Mira, faint and confused, whispered:
"You do not understand… we lost everything… the throne…"
The woman cut her with a voice that shook like bones:
"The throne?"
She stepped closer until their faces were almost touching.
"The kingdom was never walls or crowns.
It was the people who believed in you, who saw something in you worth survival.
Do you think my soldiers who died in the alleys fought only for victory?
No.
They fought so they could turn to ash in memory,
so those who come after us rise, cry for them, then rise again.
We are not the strongest, nor the smartest.
We are only the ones who remain.
And the ones who remain… are responsible."
Mira began to sob, silently choking.
The woman shouted again:
"I will not allow you to die here like an old statue that withers.
Do you want to cry? Cry.
But after that, stand.
Be the queen for whom we buried our children.
Be the queen who lost everything… so that she may survive."
Neva could not stand anymore. She ran into her mother's arms,
threw herself into her lap, hiding her face in her chest as if trying to wake something inside.
"Everything will be okay, mother… everything… I am with you."
Mira embraced her tightly,
as if at last she remembered who she was,
who remained to her.
The three men stood silent, only watching.
In their eyes was something—pride, and a trace of hope.
The woman, calmer now, said softly, as if sealing an oath:
"Let us take you out of here."
They all sat together around the cracked circle of the table,
dragged from a corner.
The rotten wood did not inspire trust,
but at least it did not burn.
The map was torn, stained with old blood and black spots.
The scarred man spread it slowly on the table,
as if preparing for a surgery that could not bear mistakes.
He said in a low voice:
"We are here, in the district of Kaitra, northeast of the capital, burned.
The only open road leads southward to the station,
from there through the back passages toward the district of Birus,
the old palaces."
The younger man cut him, pointing to a spot on the map:
"But Birus is no longer safe.
Assassination squads roam there.
Every corner is bullets and traps.
It does not stop."
The woman shook her head:
"We will not go on the surface.
There are old tunnels built under Birus,
connected to the station, since the last war.
At least that is what I know."
Mira, regaining some of her royal features, though tired, said with a firm tone:
"And if the enemy controls those tunnels?"
The woman answered:
"That is why we will split the mission."
The younger man asked, worried:
"Split it?"
The woman said:
"Yes. I will go first, scout the way, make sure it is safe.
One of you stays here with the queen and the child.
The other prepares.
In two hours, we begin the plan."
The scarred man asked:
"And what is the plan?"
The woman said simply:
"To escape… through the surface, if necessary, with all possible madness."
The younger man laughed faintly, almost bitter:
"So the plan is… running through fire and death? Excellent."
Mira looked around them, then spoke quietly:
"Whatever the plan is… make sure Neva survives."
Neva suddenly turned to her:
"Don't say that again… this time, we survive together."
The three exchanged glances.
Then—
In that moment, footsteps echoed behind them.
Quick. Cautious.
They all raised their weapons in one motion.
But before anyone acted, Neva leapt from her place, her eyes wide in astonishment.
She screamed:
> "You came back! It's you!"
A small smile sprouted on the smoke-stained face before her.
The others remained in their places, waiting, watching—
but Neva had already run forward,
into the moment that entered before them.