Lyrua hefted the sack with one arm, and rubbed her forehead with her other hand. With an ounce of sleep and the Dream spell of one of her Wards she was no longer concerned about keeping her eyes open for the moment, but her head was still tender.

Lander had found three sacks of ‘supplies’ and packed them with about as much grace and care as he typically did anything with. The one she carried must have been nearly as heavy as her son. It was so large she had to hold it high to avoid letting it rub on the ground. Her travel bag weighed nothing in comparison.

They left the Citadel the safest way they could; through the Tower of Manataklos. The colossal tower reached from somewhere beneath the city basin through the center of the Citadel, all the way into the heavens beyond view. The path was a stairway that spiralled through the outer edge of the tower and it was a long way down.

The tower stairs went on endlessly in both directions as far as anyone knew, so they could not simply have Spellwards check for threats and be on their way, but they flooded the tunnel with light and guarded them from the front and back. She’d had to insist on being allowed to carry some of the supplies herself, though by the thousandth stair she began to regret it.

“Two thousand.” she counted. Finally. She set the sack down and waved her tired arm in the air. One the Wards behind them whistled when they caught up; a signal to the ones ahead that they need not go further.

Torfinn and another guard answered the call, bounding up the stairs and halting before Lyrua with a quick bow. The scruffy captain quickly muttered a word she could not hear under his breath, though she knew it was ‘key’, and pressed a finger against the outer wall. Another Ward stepped up beside him and did the same with Light. The other two touched the wall a few feet away while Torfinn repeated the Key spell with Earth, Dark and Sound and soon all ten Keys were cast.

With their hands kept firmly on the wall, the space between the two pairs of Wards vanished, leaving a round opening that did not reach the ground. Cool air wafted through, smelling sweetly of flowers. She sent her light through the hole and Lander tossed the sacks of supplies out after it before squeezing through himself.

“Thank you,” she nodded to her Wards.

“Be well, my Queen.” the captain bowed, “Until we meet again.”

She climbed through the hole and looked back, but it was already gone. She took a deep breath. They were in Fourstaile’s Garden. The lowest point in the city without going below ground.

Neatly trimmed hedges squatted in the dark on her right, and she could just make out the tip of the yellow daffodil star on her left. If they skirted the star, they would come to the path. She made her light as dim as it could be while still being useful and gestured for Lander to move. She let him carry the supplies.

They navigated the garden by Lander’s superior vision to a grove where the web-like winterwhistle trees were carefully grown into elaborate arches where all the flowers would bloom along the tops. Walkways over long ponds were grown so the flowers bloomed underneath where no one could touch them, but the petals would fall to the surface and float about prettily. Then there were the sculptures. Masterpieces of tree-shaping, but Lyrua could not help but regret Fourstaile’s taste as she passed an elaborate sculpture grown meticulously over decades by manipulating the winterwhistle into the shape of… a tree.

Athen was ahead. So close the thread in her mind was clear and bright. Only the dark kept her from seeing him. He was sitting in the grass obscured by a feathery shadow, beneath a sculpture that was changed with each Queen. She thought it still looked like her mother. When the tree bloomed in spring, the flowers gave the appearance of a rippling red dress.

Hearing the thumping Lander’s feet, he poked his head out from behind Ove. She rushed to his side and lay next to him. She was about to leave Manataklos, and had to commit the last comforts she could to memory. There was nothing quite like the smell of the Fourstaile’s immaculate gardens.

Athen’s bangs brushed her face as he bent forward to kiss her head. He was kneeling beside her in the grass, patting his knees. He did that when he was nervous, but he was clearly happy to see her in spite of it.

The grass was cool against her hand as she sat up. Lander towered nearby, obscured by the night, with a stillness and stature that would have petrified anyone else, like the younger brother of the Tower of Manataklos rimmed in moonlight behind him. The three lumpy sacks hung on his shoulder. Ove was nearly invisible crouching at his feet; the cool air rustling her feathers was the only thing that cut the silence.

“I was worried about you.” Athen crawled onto her lap and put his arms around her. She held him tightly, squeezing to fill him with all her love. He was worried about her? “He said you fell asleep, and you were barely in bed!” The scents of blueberry and chocolate hid in his breath.

She smiled back at him. Ove could not help herself could she? But it hardly mattered now. He was safe, he was in her arms where he belonged.

“Who said?” she frowned. Her head ached, she sat in the grass outside the Citadel with who knew how many creatures out there looking for her, but Athen was safe and nothing would take him from her even if she had to turn the world upside down to protect him. But she had to let him wiggle away. Just a little bit away so she could stand. She brushed herself off, and sighed at the dirt on her hands.

“We heard from Captain Torfinn when you were asleep.” he replied, mimicking the way they held their hands when speaking through a Sound spell.

Lander turned and strolled away towards the Queen’s Arch. She took Athen’s hand and hurried after him, chasing the silver edge of starlight along Lander’s tall form. “Captain Torfinn and some other Ward named Dag will take care of the Citadel,” he called over his shoulder. “They were discussing the formations for the sweep of the whole damn thing. They have a couple wits between the two of them, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Aggravated clacks of Ove’s beak came from somewhere in the darkness. “That flippant Dag better not be given any say, or the Wards will all be betting their wages on who can wet their pants the quickest.”

Lander rumbled with laughter. “So long as they get the sweep done. You’re right about Dag though; lost too much coin playing tooth-the-rings with that bastard.”

Lyrua was not particularly interested in antics. They could kill a stalker in their sleep. They could stand outnumbered twenty to one and still keep composed enough to scrape away a victory. That strength and discipline is why she paid them so well, and had fought to convince the entire nobility of their worth. She was confident the King could take nothing from them, even with her absence, and they would get their work done.

A voice caught her attention, barely a whisper. “My Lord…” Ove was so quiet Lyrua could barely tell what direction the raven was in, until she caught the sound of her rummaging in her cloak behind her son. Then Athen turned to her, a dark bundle in his arms and a sly grin on his face. “I brought this for you so you do not catch cold.” He reached up to spread a hooded cloak across her shoulders. He grinned at her, but his eyes kept darting to something hiding in the dark, something small and black that rustled softly when a breeze rolled though.

“Thank you Athen, very considerate of you.” She would let Ove have whatever it was she gained from that. Besides, it was sweet to see her boy acting responsible, even if it was under Ove’s strings.

She kept her attention on her son as they walked. He held her hand, and every time he looked at her he was smiling, excited to be up late. But through the elation his eyes were dark and tired. She hoped those sweets would at least keep him up long enough for them to get out of the city.

Tonight may be the last night she would see the gardens, left under the dim reflection of the Queen's Way. They were gorgeously bloated with flowers and fruit trees, it was a drastic contrast to the towering steel of the Citadel above. She could not see their colours now. She envied those who would use the gardens in the morning. Quiet conversation over a cup of tea while the bees and hummingbirds flit about. And oh how Fourstaile loved to hire musicians to play from the first rays of light to the last.

They walked along a cobblestone path parallel to the Queen's Way, a boulevard broad enough for eight carriages wheel-to-wheel. She used to hide in the bushes and spy on folk seeking favour with the crown, who often clogged the Queen's Way with their carriages. It seemed silly now, taking a carriage from the Night Quarter. Lyrua was looking forward to the walk. The rest of the journey south through West Eddy had her a little nervous.

Tall orb-lamps lined both sides of the Queen's Way, creating vibrant islands of the illuminated flower beds beneath. Flowing golden fountains capped with immaculate statues of the Archangels stood in each one.

The seven Archangels had distinct forms, forged with lifelike detail in white puresteel to a degree that contrasted with the austere walls of Manataklos. They returned her gaze with judgement as she walked by.

More than the others, the muscular form of Quareel, Guardian of Warbattery unnerved her. He clenched his four fists under a cocked glare that implied aggression. The statue always looked that way; the same thought crossed her mind every time she saw it. She hated the look of it tonight because she did not want that negativity following her through the city.

Lander scoffed at the statue of Faaldet, Guardian of Soulhollow. He always did. It was common among Irons to feel jealousy towards the angels of Faaldet. She had succeeded where the Archangels had failed. Their existence undermined the rejected Irons, and stoked their insecurity. Lander held his head high until the statues were behind them.

Faaldet stood out to Lyrua as being the least spirited statue; her feathered wings did not shift in the corner of her eye, nor did the statue’s mauve oculus appear to watch her until she observed it directly.

Lyrua did not know about Faaldet, but she thought perhaps they disapproved of her leaving. Old tales told of Descendants sojourning in ignorance of the way the world bent in their wake. Often in such stories, it fell to the Archangels to clean up the mess and set the world right.

She shook off the thought. From her experience, being a Descendant only meant unearned riches and meaningless power. And heaps over heaps of responsibility. Drama oozed from the walls of Manataklos like honey, attracting opportunists, gold-grubbers, and narcissists. Nobles scurried about sniffing for crumbs to feed their schemes. Once she was out of the city, the guileful theatre of the nobility would no longer echo around every corner. She kept that thought in her mind to lend strength to her steps.

They approached the Queen’s Wall that separated the gardens beneath the Citadel from the seven districts, with the Arch the only passage through it. A shame that the moon hid behind the Citadel tonight; Athen would have loved to see the Arch glowing with moonlight, though a bit of starlight still played along the top of its quiet silhouette.

As they left the path and crossed the Queen’s Way a man pushed off the wall of the Arch and marched towards them, his three-toothed Captain’s Gear glittering in the lamplight. Lyrua could not see them all, but she knew there should be two dozen or so others guarding the Arch under his command. Four Spell crests marked his chest, showing an incredible talent or equally notable diligence in his training.

He stopped five paces away, his small hand resting idly on his weapon. “My Queen,” he said in a tired voice. His bow lacked enthusiasm, but she never meant the Spellwards to bow to her anyway. They served the people, and that distinction would become crucial in her absence.

Lyrua pushed Athen behind her. Her eyes met the Captain’s and she held his gaze, but the short man held himself with unflinching confidence. “I am no longer your Queen,” she said. The words sounded off to her own ears, as though someone else had spoken them. But she had to believe in them.

The man laughed quietly. “Is that so? Last I heard, The High Queen could take some time away and still be Queen when she returned.” The tip of his mouth kept its upward curl like a child with his hand in a candy jar.

“How much have you been told?” She tugged the nape of her cloak subconsciously. She trusted the Spellwards, but it would be simpler if they did not have to speak this way with anyone along the way.

“I know why you go,” he said carefully, his eyes hovered over Athen for just the tip of a moment. “I heard from Captain Torfinn…” he trailed off, his nose wrinkling hesitantly. “Regrettably, I think you’ll find my news comes heavier than his, given your current circumstances.”

Her head fell back with a sigh. “That is not what I need to hear now. So what is it?”

The Captain lowered his voice. “Well, the patrols are a bit scattered. The orders come from all the way up. The Council or the King. Something about spreading out the Wards to cut costs in Tolik and Geodome. We only found out about the change a few hours ago, at shift change. They pulled most of the Wards from the Night Quarter and replaced them with guards.”

Lander’s neck produced a creak as he slowly turned his head down to the small man. “That makes no sense.” He adjusted his tricorn as it slid down his smooth head, glancing at Lyrua as if she knew. “We put Spellwards in the Night because only they can see in the dark. What are guards going to do? Spit at shadows?”

“You don’t have to tell me,” the Captain said, shrugging. “Highward Toldremand Lykksen fought to keep what he could so the Arches are still properly manned, but the rest of the city…”

Lander crossed his arms, his head hanging in thought. “I’m trying to get a hold of this… A Spellward may be as good as twenty guards, but one can never cover the ground that twenty can. They still need guards and they still need to pay the Spellwards. Pulling Wards from Manataklos and assigning them elsewhere doesn’t actually save any money.”

“Aye, that’s what Toldremand said.” He looked up at Lyrua, “I’m sure you’ve got it figured out for yourself already, my Queen, but when I told Torfinn, he said it’s likely part of the play against you. No one is as loyal to you as the Spellwards; ridding Manataklos of them strips you of power.”

Of course it did. It meant her husband was prepared for the attempt on her life to fail. Or perhaps he anticipated retaliation of some kind. “If he believed I could survive the attack,” Lyrua said, “and flee the city… he is doing all of this because he expects me to return.”

The Captain stared at her through a blank expression. “Y-you don’t mean to say you’re leaving for good?”

If she were alone, she might find courage drowned somewhere deep within the whirling turmoil of her heart, to fight back and regain control of Manataklos. She could not do it with Athen to protect. Her son was whining at her now, begging for answers. She did not know what she should tell him, so she shushed him. He obeyed her immediately, but his frown filled her with guilt.

“Tell Toldremand to take care of the city while we are gone. Do not let the King undermine the Spellwards,” she said.

‘Yes, my Queen.” He looked at her as if still expecting an answer to his question.

She rolled her eyes, “And stop addressing me that way.”

He paused, “May I be frank?” He distracted himself fiddling with the Light crest on his chest while he waited for her answer.

Lyrua shrugged; frankness would be a treat after the chicanery of the nobles. “Please do.”

The Captain averted his eyes. “You’ve always been a hands-off Queen…” he said carefully.

She twinged at the bitterness of the words she knew were coming, even though they would be ripe with truth.

“Some would even say, not much of a Queen at all. Many things have worsened since you took the throne and left it to that bastard from Geodome.” He turned away, as if speaking the words to the ground would protect him. Or protect her from them.

With one hand impatiently on her hip, she waved him to continue with the other.

“But it must be said that when you actually acted as a Queen, you always acted in favour of the people. I suppose you’re a lot like your mother in that way.

“Now, I always had a talent for spells, and that got me assigned to the most dangerous posts as a guard. The morons would say, ‘A dragon is attacking Ardorn! Send the man who can sprout a candle flame from his thumb to wither the dragon’s breath! Send the man who can make his hands damp to fight the fires!’ And then they died as easily as any other. Because their spells were children’s tricks and their only real combat experience came from breaking up street brawls or cutting down bandits that they outnumbered three to one.

“Talent is not the same as training and discipline, and the challenge of casting spells was greatly underestimated. Being a spell caster used to be a death sentence for guards; all because their mother taught them a trick to keep their hands clean, or they learned to light candles empty handed to impress a girl.

“But then you sat with Toldremand and Fourstaile to pen a budget… a plan. Proper training for guards who wished to wield spells to proper effect. Training that pulls sweat from our pores like open bleeding wounds and ravages our bodies like a rampaging stampede, but we return from it better and stronger people.

“I can’t describe to you what it was like, when folks stopped teasing about spell casters in the guard walking in the shadow of death. Children in the streets began calling us Spellwards, after the old Spellknight Wardens, when we returned from slaying dracolisks, dragons or abominations. We have respect, we have the love of the people for keeping the streets safer than anyone thought they could be. We have our lives.

“And… forgive me if this sounds hoggish, but the pay. By the Gods, the pay. My husband and I adopted two babies, the sweetest things I have ever laid eyes on. They would have died from dustlung, had we not taken them and been able to afford their treatment. My entire family only exists because of you. So forgive my flapping jaw, but you are my Queen. When you are not, it will be because your daughter wears the Satellite Crown.” He finished with his teeth clenched, visibly straining to force his watering eyes to dry.

Fatigue still weighed Lyrua down, but somehow she felt lighter. She felt strongly about her family and this man understood that. It felt good to be understood, and in understanding each other the Captain found his own answer to his question. He knew that she needed to be away. For family. “What is your name?” she asked quietly.

“Gottfred Agard.”

“Captain Gottfred, perhaps one day, when my family has grown, we will return. Until then, I wish you well. Try to make sure there is something here for me to return to.”

“Well then.” He eyed each of her companions, even Ove, who Lyrua had lost sight of in the shadows, before looking over his shoulder. His men stood diligently guarding the Arch from, frankly, very little. Even tonight the Arch was quiet, except the howl of wind through streets walled with steel and a distant crackling like frost. Bowing to hide a tear in his eye, Gottfred turned to return to the wall. As they passed through the Queen’s Arch, the Spellwards looked away.