"Katherine..." I mumbled under my breath, the name barely audible even in the profound silence that had settled over the room like a heavy shroud. I waited, some irrational part of my mind still hoping, still expecting her to respond the way she always had—with gentle concern, with patient attention, with that soft voice that had become so familiar over our months together.
But she didn't answer. She couldn't answer. For she had already departed from the realm of the living, had crossed over that final threshold into the domain of the dead, into whatever came after this life. She was beyond the reach of my voice now, beyond the reach of anything in this world.
She would never answer me again. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever. She would never smile at me with that warm, genuine expression that lit up her entire face. She would never talk with me about trivial matters or important ones, never share her observations about people or situations, never offer her opinions with that careful diplomacy she had always employed. She would never scold me again for being reckless or impulsive, never shake her head at my decisions while still supporting me through them. All of those small moments, those interactions I had taken for granted as something that would always be available to me—they were gone now. Finished. She was gone.
My heart physically ached in my chest, a pain so intense it felt like something vital had been crushed or torn. The sensation was almost unbearable, radiating outward from my chest through my entire body. Even breathing became difficult, each inhalation requiring conscious effort, each exhalation emerging shaky and uneven. My friend, my companion from Draga, someone who had been a constant presence in my life for so long—she had died.
No. That wasn't the right word. That wasn't accurate or complete enough to capture what had happened here.
She hadn't simply died. People died from illness, from old age, from accidents—from natural causes that were tragic but ultimately comprehensible as part of the inevitable cycle of life and death. But Katherine hadn't experienced that kind of death.
She had been killed. Murdered. Slaughtered in cold blood by people who had treated her life as though it were worthless, as though she were nothing more than an object to be used and discarded according to someone else's malicious whims.
Someone had deliberately taken her from me. Someone had made the conscious choice to end her life, to inflict this unspeakable suffering on her, to rob the world of her presence and me of her companionship.
I started wheezing as uncontrollable sobs began forcing their way out of my chest, erupting from somewhere deep inside that I couldn't suppress or contain no matter how hard I tried.
"Ah... ah... ahhhh..." The sounds that emerged from my throat were ugly, raw, primal—the kind of grief that transcends language and reduces a person to their most basic, vulnerable state. I started crying without any attempt to maintain composure or dignity, not caring anymore about my image as a queen, not caring if the entire world stood watching my breakdown. What use was being a queen, what value did that title and position hold, when I couldn't even protect a single person I cared about? What good was all that supposed power if it couldn't prevent something like this from happening?
I cried and screamed simultaneously, the sounds tearing from my throat with a violence that hurt. My cries reverberated through the entire building, echoing off the walls and floors, causing the very structure to vibrate with the force of my anguish. The windows physically shuddered in their frames. Outside, the sky that had been bright and clear moments before turned abruptly dark, clouds materializing from nowhere and gathering with unnatural speed. A violent snowstorm began brewing in this region where such weather was supposedly impossible, where snow had likely never fallen in recorded history—my grief and rage manifesting in the physical world, my magic responding to emotional devastation by reshaping reality itself.
I cried like a child—completely, messily, without any restraint or self-consciousness. The realization struck me that I had never truly cried like this before, had never allowed myself this kind of complete emotional release.
I had not cried when my older brother died. I had been too young, and I had subsequently forgotten most memories of his death. I had been too immature to truly understand the concept of death, to grasp its permanence and finality. So there had been confusion and a vague sense that something was wrong, but no tears.
I hadn't cried when my mother passed away years later. She had been sick for such a terribly long time, her health declining gradually but inexorably. I had seen her death approaching from miles away, had months to prepare myself emotionally for the inevitable outcome. And by that point in my life, I had already been taught—explicitly instructed by tutors and advisors—that crying was weakness. That the future queen of Draga should never show such weakness, should maintain composure and strength at all times regardless of personal suffering. So I had swallowed my grief and presented a stoic face to the world.
I hadn't cried when my father died either, despite loving him deeply. He had fallen sick almost immediately after my mother's passing, as though losing his life partner had broken something essential in him that couldn't be repaired. Again, I had watched his decline, had seen death approaching with ample warning. And by the time he finally succumbed, I was being prepared to assume the throne myself, being groomed to become Draga's ruler. I was told repeatedly that I needed to remain strong for my people, that they would look to me for stability and leadership, that any display of grief or weakness would undermine confidence in my ability to rule. So once again, I had buried my pain and refused to shed tears.
But now, holding Katherine's violated, murdered body in my arms, all of those accumulated griefs seemed to crash over me simultaneously. All those tears I had never shed, all that pain I had forced myself to suppress and ignore—it all came flooding out at once, unstoppable and overwhelming.
Human lives were fragile. I knew that intellectually. It was one of the most basic truths about existence. When mortals died, they died—simply, finally, irrevocably. Death was inevitable for every living creature, an appointment that could not be canceled or postponed indefinitely. I knew all of this already, had known it for years, had accepted it as fundamental truth about the world.
But then why did my heart hurt so terribly much? Why did this knowledge, which I had possessed for so long, offer absolutely no comfort or cushion against this pain? Understanding death intellectually was apparently completely different from experiencing the death of someone you cared about. Knowledge provided no protection against grief.
The snow had begun falling in earnest now, accumulating with impossible speed. Thick flakes descended from the darkened sky to the ground below, caught and tossed by wind that had risen to near-gale force. The window that stood open in the room where Katherine lay—left open by whoever had murdered her, or perhaps opened by someone who discovered her body—admitted a steady stream of snowflakes. They drifted inside, swirling in complex patterns created by air currents, and began slowly piling up on various surfaces. The windowsill accumulated a growing mound of white. The bed itself, where Katherine lay motionless, also began gathering snow, the flakes settling on the blood-soaked linens and on Katherine's body itself.
I didn't know how much time passed while I knelt there, holding her and crying. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning, had become fluid and uncertain. The external world seemed distant and irrelevant.
When I finally stopped crying—not because the grief had lessened but simply because my body had physically exhausted its capacity to produce tears—I noticed that a huge pile of snow had accumulated on the open windowsill. The bed was covered as well, a white blanket settling over everything. And the snow that had fallen on the blood-soaked areas of the bed had absorbed that blood, the white flakes staining themselves red in patches, creating a grotesque pattern that looked almost like abstract art rendered in crimson and white.
I felt completely drained, hollowed out, as though every ounce of energy and emotion had been wrung from my body. Every single tear had been shed; there were literally no more tears left to cry. I couldn't have produced another sob if my life had depended on it.
Moving slowly, as though underwater or in a dream, I reached out and gently caressed Katherine's face. Her skin was even colder now than when I had first taken her in my arms, the chill of death settling deeper into her flesh as time passed.
"Rhia," Arvid's voice called from somewhere behind me. I didn't turn around to look at him or acknowledge his presence in any way. I couldn't seem to tear my gaze away from Katherine's face, couldn't make myself look at anything else.
"Rhia," he tried again, his tone carrying careful, measured intensity. "We've caught them. We apprehended the men who did this—all of them. And we also captured the spy, the mole they had planted in our residence in Auga who provided them with information about Katherine's departure and travel route."
He paused, clearly hoping this news would penetrate my grief and get some response from me. When I remained silent, he added more information, trying to pull me back to the present, to the practical matters that required attention.
"We know who ordered this. We have names, and we have evidence."
That finally got through. I carefully, gently set Katherine's head back down on the pillow, arranging her as peacefully as possible. Then I slowly stood up, my legs unsteady after kneeling for so long, my muscles stiff and protesting the movement.
"How did you find them so quickly?" I asked, my voice emerging hoarse and raw from all the crying. It had only been a few hours since we'd arrived at the inn. Tracking down multiple criminals and a hidden spy in such a short time seemed almost impossibly efficient.
I finally turned around to face Arvid. The doorway behind him was completely empty now—no curious onlookers, no inn staff hovering nervously in the corridor, no one at all. The entire building seemed eerily silent. I strained my enhanced hearing and couldn't detect a single heartbeat anywhere in the structure other than mine and Arvid's. He had clearly evacuated everyone, clearing the inn entirely to give us privacy.
Arvid looked profoundly worried, his face drawn with concern as he studied my appearance, clearly assessing how close I was to complete breakdown.
"They didn't want to hide their crime," Arvid explained, his voice carefully controlled. "In fact, they wanted it to be discovered and attributed correctly. The dagger that was left embedded in her body—it bears a very specific, distinctive crest. A crest I recognize very well, unfortunately. It's called the Lumirei crest. It's the family crest of the Saintess of Kima."
The words landed on me with crushing weight, the implications immediately clear. Fiona. The Saintess. The queen of Kima. She had orchestrated this atrocity. That spoiled, delusional woman who I had frightened in the garden, who I had threatened and humiliated—she had decided to retaliate by going after someone close to me, someone completely innocent and uninvolved in our conflict.
But why? Why would she do this? Why target Katherine specifically? Why inflict such terrible suffering on a person who had done absolutely nothing to harm her, who had no involvement whatsoever in whatever imagined grievances Fiona harbored? Was this purely for revenge? Did she order Katherine's brutal rape and murder simply because I had scared her, because I had damaged her pride and made her feel powerless? Was a person's life really so worthless to her that she could casually order their destruction as petty retaliation?
The questions churned in my mind, each one stoking the rage that was beginning to burn through the numbness of grief.
"We're interrogating the criminals tonight," Arvid continued, his tone becoming more businesslike, though his eyes remained soft with sympathy. "Tomorrow there will be a formal trial. Everything will be documented properly, conducted according to law. Justice will be served, Rhia. I promise you that."
He slowly extended his arm toward me, offering his hand in invitation and support.
"Come with me," he said gently. "It's time to begin the process of sending Katherine off properly. She needs to be cremated according to northern traditions, doesn't she? That's how your people honor their dead."
"No!" The word burst from me with sudden, desperate intensity. "I can't! I can't send her off yet!"
The irrational part of my grief was still clinging to impossible hope, still insisting that if I just refused to accept reality, if I just kept denying what had happened, somehow it wouldn't be true.
"She'll wake up," I insisted, hearing the hysteria creeping into my own voice. "She'll wake up and call me Rhia again, just like she always does. I'm sure of it. We just need to wait a little longer. She's just sleeping deeply. She'll wake up soon."
Arvid crossed the distance between us with quick strides and pulled me into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around me with firm, grounding pressure.
"Rhia, I know you're devastated," he said quietly, his mouth close to my ear. "I know you're sad and angry and probably feeling a thousand other emotions I can't even name. But Katherine is gone. That's the truth, as terrible and unfair as it is. She's dead, and we can't bring her back no matter how much we might wish we could."
He rubbed my back in slow, soothing circles, the physical contact helping to anchor me.
"But we can avenge her," he continued, his voice taking on steel beneath the gentleness. "We can make absolutely certain that the people responsible for this pay the full price for what they've done. We can ensure that justice is served completely. But to do that, I need your help, Rhia. I need you to focus. There are criminals waiting for interrogation right now. I need you beside me, helping me question them, helping me ensure we get the full truth. So I'm asking you—help me do this. Help me get justice for Katherine. Can you do that?"
His words penetrated the fog of grief, giving me something concrete to focus on, a purpose beyond the overwhelming pain. I started crying again, but these tears felt different—less helpless despair, more fury seeking an outlet.
"Yes," I managed to whisper against his chest. "Yes. I'll help. Let's make them pay."
---
After the criminals had been thoroughly beaten during their initial capture—apparently the soldiers who apprehended them had not been gentle, and Arvid had not discouraged their roughness—they were administered truth serum and subjected to formal interrogation. I watched from a position in the shadows, not yet trusting myself to actively participate without losing control and simply killing them all where they sat.
The truth serum was powerful and effective. Under its influence, they couldn't lie or even significantly omit information. When asked who had ordered Katherine's murder, they all gave the same answer without hesitation.
"The Saintess of Kima. The queen," they replied, their voices flat and emotionless under the serum's influence.
"She personally approached us and hired us," one elaborated when pressed for details. "She asked us specifically to torture and kill the Draga queen's maid who was traveling north. She provided detailed descriptions so we would target the correct person. She paid us half in advance and promised the remainder upon completion and proof of death."
The methodology they described made my stomach turn. They had broken into Katherine's room at the inn while she was asleep, vulnerable and unsuspecting. They had violated her repeatedly, taking turns, treating her body as an object for their gratification while she screamed and begged and fought uselessly against superior numbers and strength. And then, when they had finished amusing themselves with her suffering, they had killed her by stabbing her multiple times—not quickly or cleanly, but slowly, ensuring maximum pain and terror before death finally released her.
There had been four men involved in the actual assault and murder. The Saintess had provided them with the distinctive dagger bearing her family crest, and she had specifically, explicitly instructed them to leave that weapon embedded in Katherine's body. She had wanted everyone to know who was responsible. She had wanted to send a message, to demonstrate that she could reach out and destroy anyone connected to me.
How incredibly bold. How monumentally arrogant. I trembled with barely contained rage, my magic responding to my emotional state by radiating off me in powerful, visible waves that made the air shimmer and distort around my body.
There was also a maid from our residence being held for questioning—the spy, the mole who had reported Katherine's travel plans to the Saintess. She sat bound to a chair, already beaten to the point that her face was nearly unrecognizable, blood dripping from multiple cuts and contusions. She had been the one who informed Fiona exactly when Katherine would be leaving, what route she would take, where she would be staying along the way. She had provided all the information necessary to set up the ambush.
Why? I wanted to scream at her. What had Katherine ever done to deserve betrayal? Katherine who was always kind to the other servants, who never treated anyone badly regardless of their position or status? Why participate in her destruction? Why take out whatever anger or resentment you harbored on someone so innocent?
But I knew the answer, even without asking. It should have been me. The Saintess had wanted to hurt me, to punish me, but I was too powerful to attack directly. So she had gone after someone close to me instead, someone vulnerable, someone who couldn't defend herself against trained killers. Katherine was dead because of my actions, because of the conflict I had initiated with Fiona. If I hadn't provoked the Saintess, if I hadn't humiliated her and threatened her in that garden, Katherine would still be alive. If I hadn't sent Katherine away, if I had allowed her to stay in my service despite her confession, she would have been protected by proximity to me and would never have been alone and vulnerable on that road north.
My mind kept circling back to that terrible memory—Katherine asking me with tears streaming down her face to let her stay by my side, begging me not to send her away. What if I had agreed to her plea? What if I had simply accepted her confession and allowed things to continue as they were? Then none of this would have happened. She would be alive right now. Safe.
It was all my fault. The guilt was crushing, suffocating. Katherine's death was my responsibility, the direct consequence of my choices and actions.
"It's not your fault," Aiona's voice suddenly spoke in my mind, breaking through the spiral of self-recrimination. She had been silent throughout this entire ordeal, but now she spoke with unusual gentleness.
"How can you possibly say it's not my fault?" I responded mentally, my thoughts practically screaming at her. "You were there when Katherine confessed her feelings. You were there when I told her she had to leave, when I insisted on sending her away despite her tears and pleading. How is this not directly my fault? How can you claim I bear no responsibility when every decision I made led directly to her being alone and vulnerable on that road?"
"That's not how causation works, and you know it," Aiona replied firmly. "Her mortal life in this world simply reached its end, Rhia. Every person has a finite span of time allotted to them, and hers concluded. You didn't kill her. You didn't order her death. You didn't wield the weapons or participate in any way in her murder. The people responsible for her death are the ones who actually committed the crime—the Saintess who ordered it, the men who carried it out. Not you."
She paused, then continued with harder edges creeping into her mental voice.
"But you do have responsibilities now. You need to send Katherine's spirit off properly to Tumlin, to wherever souls go after death in your belief system. You need to perform whatever rituals your people consider necessary so her spirit can rest peacefully. And you absolutely must get revenge for her. You have a purpose, Rhia. You have things that need to be done. So you need to get up, pull yourself together, and focus on what comes next."
"And let me remind you of something uncomfortable but necessary," Aiona added, her tone becoming almost harsh. "There will be more deaths of loved ones waiting for you in the future. If you fall apart completely every single time someone you care about dies, if you let grief incapacitate you like this repeatedly, how will you be any different from any other mortal? You're supposed to be becoming something more, something greater. So steel yourself. Harden your heart just enough to function through the pain. You can grieve—you should grieve—but you cannot let grief destroy you or prevent you from acting."
Her words were harsh, almost cruel in their bluntness. But they were also exactly what I needed to hear. She was right. I had responsibilities. Katherine deserved justice, deserved vengeance for what had been done to her. And I was the only person who could ensure she received it.
So I straightened my spine, wiped the remaining tears from my face, and prepared to do what needed to be done.
The Saintess of Kima would pay for what she had ordered. The men who had tortured and murdered Katherine would die. And anyone else involved, no matter how peripherally, would face consequences.
I would see to it personally.