The next morning arrived far too quickly, bringing with it a task I had been dreading since the moment I had decided it needed to be done. Though my heart felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by grief and guilt in equal measure, I carefully prepared Katherine's urns for their final journey. I entrusted them to a reliable messenger—someone I had personally vetted, someone who understood the precious nature of what he was carrying—along with detailed instructions for their delivery to Katherine's parents in Draga.
Alongside the urns, I had included a letter. I had spent hours the previous night composing and recomposing it, trying to find words adequate to the impossible task of explaining what had happened and begging forgiveness for my role in their daughter's death. But every version felt woefully inadequate. How could mere words possibly convey the depth of my sorrow, the weight of my guilt, the magnitude of what had been lost?
In the end, I had written simply and honestly, asking for their forgiveness while simultaneously knowing with absolute certainty that they would never grant it. How could they? I had taken their precious daughter from them and was now returning her in the most shameful, devastating way possible—reduced to ash, contained in ceramic vessels, all that remained of a vibrant, loving person who had deserved so much better than the fate that had befallen her.
Katherine had written to her parents frequently while we traveled together. She had been meticulous about maintaining that connection, making sure to compose and send at least one letter every single week without fail, no matter how tired she was or how busy our schedule had been. And her parents had replied faithfully as well, their responses arriving regularly by messenger—two letters every month like clockwork, filled with news from home and expressions of love and pride in their daughter.
They had been an older couple who had finally conceived a child after trying for many years. Katherine had shared this story with me one quiet evening in the Gorei library when the conversation had turned to family and origins. Her parents had prayed desperately to the Twin Goddesses, asking for the blessing of a child for years and years, making pilgrimages to sacred sites and offering countless devotions. When they had been on the verge of losing all hope, when Lady Yoyenne had nearly accepted that motherhood would never be her fate, she had unexpectedly become pregnant with Katherine.
So they had absolutely adored their late-arriving miracle child. They had raised Katherine as their cherished heiress, educating her carefully, providing her with every advantage they could afford, preparing her to eventually inherit their estate and continue their family line. She had been the center of their world, the answer to years of prayers, the living embodiment of their hopes and dreams.
And I had taken her from them. I had sent their late-born and only offspring back to them shamelessly reduced to ash in urns, delivered like cargo rather than returning home in triumph as they must have always imagined she would. No amount of apologizing, no eloquence of language, no depth of genuine remorse could ever forgive such a sin against grieving parents.
I wiped away the tears that had begun falling down my cheeks with the back of my hands, the gesture rough and impatient. I needed to hold myself together, needed to maintain some semblance of composure during this final farewell.
Arvid, who had been watching from a respectful distance, stepped forward and silently offered me a clean handkerchief. I grabbed onto it gratefully, using the soft fabric to wipe away my tears more gently than my hands had been doing. Then I turned to watch as the messenger carefully secured the urns in his saddlebags, taking extra precautions to ensure they would be protected from any jostling during the long journey north.
I stood there watching until the messenger had mounted his horse and ridden away, carrying Katherine's remains toward the home she would never see again except in this terrible, diminished form. I watched until horse and rider had disappeared completely from view, until I could no longer see even a speck of them on the distant road.
"Goodbye, Katherine Yoyenne," I whispered into the morning air, knowing she couldn't hear but needing to say the words anyway. "You will be forever remembered in my heart. Forever cherished. Forever mourned. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
---
After the afternoon had arrived and the sun had climbed high enough to chase away the morning's lingering chill, the preparations for our departure to Arpa began all over again in earnest. The brief pause that Katherine's death and the subsequent trials had forced was now ending. It was time to resume our original purpose, to complete the journey we had started what felt like a lifetime ago.
The soldiers moved with renewed purpose throughout the residence grounds and courtyard, efficiently organizing supplies and systematically loading the numerous carriages and wagons that would transport everything and everyone on the long journey ahead. There was a practiced rhythm to their work—they had clearly done this many times before, knew exactly how to pack efficiently, understood the logistics of moving a large imperial retinue across significant distances.
Arvid had gotten pulled into a strategic meeting that appeared likely to last for hours. He had been intercepted by General Rohan and several of his higher-ranking military officers, all of whom apparently had urgent matters that required the emperor's attention and decisions before we could depart. I had seen him being led away toward a private room, already deep in discussion about routes and timing and security considerations. His expression had been apologetic as he glanced back at me, clearly wishing he could avoid the bureaucratic necessity but recognizing it couldn't be postponed.
So I found myself at loose ends, not particularly needed for any of the preparation activities. I decided to simply wander around the grounds, observing the busy work happening all around me. It gave me something to focus on besides my grief, some distraction from the constant replay of recent traumatic events that my mind seemed determined to subject me to whenever I had idle moments.
The soldiers I passed all bowed to me respectfully when they noticed my presence, interrupting their tasks long enough to show proper deference to their empress. But I also noticed they kept glancing at me with expressions I couldn't quite interpret—something complicated mixing respect with wariness with perhaps a touch of fear. The way they looked at me had definitely changed since the duel with Sofia. I was no longer just the emperor's foreign wife, the northern queen about whom they knew little. I had become something else in their eyes, something more dangerous and less predictable.
Rora accompanied me during this wandering, maintaining her position several respectful steps behind me as southern custom dictated. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground as she walked, never looking up, never meeting anyone's gaze. The posture was becoming more familiar to me, though I still found it somewhat uncomfortable—this rigid hierarchy, this physical manifestation of the distance between servant and served.
Eventually, I decided I needed a brief break from walking and from the attention my presence seemed to generate. I found a relatively quiet corner of the preparation area where an already-loaded wagon partially concealed the space, creating a small pocket of relative privacy. I settled myself there, leaning against the wagon's side, giving my feet a rest and allowing myself a few moments of mental respite.
I genuinely hadn't intended to eavesdrop on anyone. I swear that wasn't my purpose in choosing this particular spot. I just needed a break, a moment of quiet away from duties and expectations. But the wagon I had positioned myself behind apparently didn't provide quite as much acoustic shielding as I had assumed, and I soon found myself inadvertently listening to a conversation happening on the other side.
"I'm telling you, I swear to God, I saw it with my own eyes!" A young male voice was saying in the Arthian language, his accent heavy with regional inflection that suggested he came from the southern coastal provinces. He sounded excited, almost awed. "Her Majesty just cut the duchess's head completely off like it was absolutely nothing! One stroke, clean through. I've never seen anything like it in my life!"
"Is she some kind of witch?" another voice asked, this one also young but carrying a note of nervous speculation. "I remember that one night when we were camping during the journey south—I saw Her Majesty create a massive dragon in the sky, made entirely of magical fire, like the most incredible fireworks display anyone's ever witnessed! I knew then that she had to be extraordinarily strong, magically powerful beyond normal human capability."
"You know, at first when I saw Her Majesty, I thought she looked too pale and fragile for southern life," the first voice admitted. "She seemed delicate, almost sickly, like she wasn't going to survive the climate or the harsher aspects of southern culture. I honestly didn't think she was suited to be our empress, didn't think she'd last. But now? After everything we've witnessed? I've completely changed my opinion. She's absolutely suited to the South. His Majesty is an extremely lucky man to have found someone like her."
There was a collective murmur of approval from several other voices—apparently this conversation involved more than just two soldiers.
"Yes, exactly right," someone else chimed in enthusiastically. "And she's going to need to be that strong, that capable. It's going to be an absolute bloodbath when we get to Arpa—everyone knows it. There are people there who've been plotting and scheming during His Majesty's absence, people who think they can challenge his authority or carve out power for themselves. Her Majesty is going to have to navigate all of that political warfare. I'm genuinely glad she's proven herself to be strong enough to handle it."
An older, more gravelly voice added weight to the discussion: "Indeed. The empress will need every bit of that strength and ruthlessness to survive what's coming. Court politics in Arpa can be more deadly than any battlefield. I've seen it destroy people who weren't prepared for it. But Her Majesty has shown she won't be an easy target. That duel sent a very clear message about what happens to people who threaten her or those she cares about."
I felt a complicated mixture of emotions listening to this assessment. Part of me was gratified that I had apparently earned their respect, that they no longer saw me as a liability or weakness. But another part felt uncomfortable with being discussed this way, being evaluated and categorized, having my actions analyzed for their political implications.
I decided it was time to leave before I heard anything else that might complicate my feelings further. I had been feeling guilty about eavesdropping anyway, even though it hadn't been intentional. So I quietly extracted myself from my corner hiding spot, moving with careful steps to avoid making noise that would alert the conversing soldiers to my presence. Rora followed me with equal quietness, her soft-soled shoes making virtually no sound against the ground.
We had nearly exited the preparation area entirely when I unexpectedly came across someone with notably pale skin—unusual enough in this predominantly darker-complexioned region that it immediately caught my attention. I recognized him after a moment: Rahu, Dulga's son, the talented young craftsman who had been documenting our journey in his detailed sketches.
He was sitting on the edge of a wagon that had already been loaded with supplies, his legs dangling over the side, completely absorbed in drawing something in his ever-present sketchbook. His pencil moved across the page with focused precision, his entire attention concentrated on capturing whatever image he was creating.
I stood there for a moment, genuinely unsure whether I should approach him or simply continue on my way. The boy had always been noticeably afraid of me—I had observed this repeatedly throughout our journey but had never understood the reason for it. It had always been Katherine who approached Rahu, who spoke with him regularly and looked after his needs with the caring attention of an older sister watching over a younger sibling. She had established a rapport with him that I had never managed to create.
But as I contemplated what to do, Rahu suddenly lifted his head and looked directly at me, as though some sixth sense had alerted him to my observation. His eyes widened dramatically, and he immediately got up with such startled haste that he lost his grip on his sketchbook and pencils. They tumbled from his hands and fell to the ground with a clatter, the sketchbook landing open to whatever page he had been working on.
I let out a quiet sigh. Was I really that frightening? What had I done to inspire such fear in this gentle young man who had never given me any cause for displeasure?
But I decided that retreating now would only reinforce whatever fear he harbored. So instead, I walked forward deliberately and bent down to retrieve the sketchbook from where it had fallen. The open page revealed a remarkably detailed sketch of what appeared to be a statue—a monument depicting a young woman with delicate features and an expression of serene dignity. The rendering was exquisite, showing real artistic talent in its execution.
And I recognized the subject immediately. The statue was designed to look exactly like Katherine.
Rahu was looking at me with obvious nervousness, his body tense as though preparing to flee if I showed any sign of anger or displeasure.
"Did you draw this?" I asked him, immediately recognizing it was rather a silly question. If the sketch wasn't his work, whose else would it be? It was his personal sketchbook, after all.
He nodded quickly, his voice small and uncertain: "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Is this meant to be Katherine?" I asked more gently, though I already knew the answer. I wanted to hear him say it, wanted to give him the opportunity to talk about her if he needed to.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he confirmed. Then words started tumbling out in a nervous rush: "It's nothing weird or inappropriate, I promise. I just miss her so terribly much, so I thought if I could design a memorial, something permanent that would honor her memory... I know I don't have the authority to commission such a thing, but I wanted to at least create the design, to have something..."
He was trembling now, clearly terrified that I would interpret his tribute as somehow disrespectful or presumptuous.
"Why are you so frightened of me, Rahu?" I asked, deciding to address this long-standing mystery directly. "I've noticed it throughout our entire journey—you avoid me like I'm some kind of plague, you can barely look at me, you practically flee whenever I come near. But I've never done anything to harm you or give you reason to fear me, have I? So what is it? What makes you so afraid?"
The question had been burning in my mind for months now. This boy had never allowed himself to get close to me even though I had genuinely wished he would, had wanted to know him better, had hoped to establish some kind of friendly rapport. But it was like he was constantly looking at something behind me, some threat I couldn't see, that made my presence unbearable to him.
"That, I'm not—I just—" he stuttered badly, so flustered that he dropped the sketchbook again despite having just gotten it back.
I decided to change my approach, to ask a different question that might get closer to the heart of the matter.
"What do you see when you look at me?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice gentle and non-threatening. "Not what you think you should see, not what others see. What do YOUR eyes show you?"
At that question, Rahu froze completely. His face went pale—paler than his already fair complexion—and his eyes widened with something that looked like shock that I had asked that specific question in that specific way.
"It's... it's your shadow, Your Majesty," he finally let out in a whisper, the words emerging reluctantly, as though he was confessing to some forbidden knowledge. "When I look at you, I don't just see you. I see what's behind you, what follows you. It's an enormous dragon in your shadow—massive beyond anything that should be possible, with scales that seem to absorb light and eyes that burn with ancient intelligence. I'm frightened because of it, because I can see what you really are, or what you're becoming. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be able to see such things, I know it's not my place to—"
"Oh," Aiona's voice suddenly chimed in my mind, sounding genuinely surprised for once. "This is genuinely interesting. I thought that particular lineage went completely extinct generations ago. Apparently not. The boy has Seer blood—extremely rare, extremely valuable, and extremely dangerous for the person who possesses it."
I decided to pretend I hadn't heard that explanation, to feign ignorance about the implications of what Rahu had just revealed.
"I'll sponsor you to build that statue," I said, deliberately changing the subject back to the sketch, back to safer ground. "When we get to Arpa, I'll provide whatever funding and resources you need to create a proper memorial for Katherine. Something worthy of her memory, something beautiful and permanent."
I picked up the fallen sketchbook again, carefully wiped off the dust that had accumulated on its cover, and handed it back to him with a small, encouraging smile.
"And please, try not to be so frightened of me," I added gently. "I'm not going to hurt you, Rahu. You're under my protection, and that means you're safe. The dragon you see in my shadow isn't a threat to you. Do you understand?"
Before he could formulate a response, before he could process what I had just told him, another voice suddenly chimed in from nearby.
"Your Majesty!" It was Gautham, Rahu's constant companion and obvious romantic partner, hurrying over with concern written clearly across his features.
"What's going on here?" Gautham asked, trying to maintain appropriate respect in his tone while simultaneously positioning himself protectively in front of Rahu, physically placing his body between the young artist and potential threat. "Did he do something wrong? If there's been some offense, I'm sure it was unintentional—"
"No, nothing like that," I interrupted, giving Gautham a knowing smile that acknowledged what I had observed about their relationship without explicitly stating it. "We were simply having a pleasant conversation. I was just telling Rahu that I'll sponsor him to create a memorial statue in Arpa—a tribute to someone we both cared about. That's all we were discussing."
"I see, Your Majesty," Gautham replied, his posture relaxing slightly though his protective stance didn't entirely disappear. "Thank you for your generosity."
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters that require my attention," I said, preparing to take my leave and give them privacy. "Carry on with your preparations."
I walked away at a measured pace, Rora falling into step behind me. But after putting some distance between us, curiosity got the better of me and I glanced back.
Gautham had placed both hands on Rahu's shoulders and was leaning in close, clearly asking something in an urgent whisper—probably trying to determine if Rahu was alright, if I had said or done anything concerning. Rahu was responding, his expression gradually relaxing from frightened to merely nervous to actually smiling slightly at whatever reassurance Gautham was offering.
And then Gautham looked around quickly, clearly checking to see if anyone was observing them. Apparently satisfied that they had privacy—completely failing to notice that I was still within line of sight—he leaned in and quickly kissed Rahu's lips!
Oh good Gods! I thought with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Boys, please be more aware of your surroundings! I'm still here, still watching, seeing absolutely everything you're doing!
But I smiled to myself and turned away, giving them the privacy they thought they already had. Let them have their moment of affection. They deserved happiness wherever they could find it.
And perhaps seeing their obvious care for each other, their willingness to show affection despite the risks, gave me a small measure of hope. If love could survive and even flourish in circumstances as complicated as theirs, perhaps there was hope for all of us navigating this complicated, dangerous world.