Lyrua entered the sullen remains of the Daughter’s Plaza from the north, with Athen’s little hand sheltered carefully in hers. The sound of glass crunching under their boots was overwhelming as the overspent company of Spellwards crossed the glittering expanse. Ove was sitting on Lander’s shoulders to protect her feet. The grumpy metal man made a point of reminding her to get off every time she spoke or shifted too much, but otherwise remained quiet in his tired debility.

Discomfort was palpable amongst the Spellwards as they looked over the devastation left by the dracolisk. For thousands of years, Manataklos stood solid and impenetrable, and was a source of assurance for the folk who sheltered within its walls. Even when war shook the streets, and Tith the Decayed’s army of living dead howled in the night, the steel walls were there to protect them. Lyrua watched the glass under her boots as she walked. The glass had not cared about the steel.

She felt embers take light within her; a twinge of hate like she had not felt since her mother’s death. She had not sated her rage then, as the mobs of commoners swarmed between her and the Sorenrovs and deprived her of her vengeance. Or shield her from it, as Fourstaile said. Whatever debt of sin the dracolisk incurred was paid with its life, and all that remained were the ones who brought it here. If she found them, they would pay the same price.

Some of the Wards averted their eyes from the glass, as though the memories that the ruined plaza evoked were some they would rather keep fossilised in the Glass Desert. Fourstaile had told her it was hard on them, but it was a different matter to see it reflected in their faces.

It took her a moment to recognize the tower stretched across the plaza. She had never seen a building in Manataklos broken. It had fallen from the only side of the plaza that had not been vitrified, but the broken edges of the tower were shattered glass.

“What could cause that?” she asked Fourstaile. “I thought they just turned everything to glass.”

“I don’t think we have a name for that one,” Fourstaile replied. “It’s a precise wave that penetrates deeper than their gaze. Most of them can’t even do it.”

Lyrua shuddered. She was glad to be leaving by sea. There was nothing that dangerous out on the ocean.

It was difficult to see through the Spellwards marching in front of her, but she could just make out a crowd of sombre commoners around the base of the fallen tower. She could not see if they were all right. The tower blocked the direct route to the Daughter’s Arch, so the Spellwards turned to make their way around.

Wards and commoners were busy throughout the plaza, running carts of things she could not make out under tattered sheets or carrying buckets, blankets, or brooms. Seeing that the morning was settling down, Fourstaile waved her arm around, commanding people off to bed. The dismissed Spellwards eagerly dragged their feet back out of the square.

Through the busy Wards on the other side of the plaza, Lyrua finally caught a glimpse of it. A glimpse of him, as the Wards would insist. Larger than the shrills by far, the heaped form of the dracolisk was frightening even in death. About twenty Spellwards stood around him, shooing the occasional commoner who had a bit too much courage. She had to resist the urge to get a closer look herself.

The company finally halted near the centre of the plaza, where the toppled statue of Saarch was lost in a fountain of broken glass. The Spellwards formed a wide ring around Toldremand and Fourstaile. Captain Gottfred Agard lay slumped against the fountain, his once tidy hair matted to his blood-soaked forehead. Tiny cuts perforated his arms where his sleeves were shredded off of his damp tunic. She could not tell if he was even alive. The other Wards were more concerned with Lyskilde, who was being lifted carefully onto a stretcher. Her right arm was gone, hook and all.

Lyrua spun to pull Athen’s face cloth over his eyes. She could not tell if Lyskilde was breathing either, but she recognized the work of Light on the stump to seal the wound, and the skin from her shoulder to behind her ear bore the telltale signs of mana burn; visibly dry and cracked like parched earth. A shimmering plate a foot wide that reflected more colours than she could name rested on Lyskilde’s chest.

“What happened?” Lyrua directed the question at the woman Toldremand was speaking to. She did not know her by her face, but she wore the Captain’s crest and her uniform was pristine. Likely Isadora then. The woman made no indication that she recognized Lyrua either. That was good; she was just a dusty young woman in plain clothes today.

Isadora pointed a wagging finger towards the slain dracolisk as she spoke. “Dracolisks are tricky,” the woman said, “you can’t just throw a hundred men at them, or a hundred will die. Until the prismatic scale is off,” she nodded towards the brilliant thing laying on Lyskilde, “there is nothing you can do. So waste a hundred men on them? No. You want to know what happened? They killed the dracolisk, exactly as they were trained to. Remove the scale, disable it, kill it. And only two dead. They are a credit to the Spellknight Wardens.” The woman nodded, without any hint of concern about her.

Lyrua felt her fists clench of their own accord. “Lyskilde and Gottfred are dead?”

The woman cocked an eyebrow. “Them? No, don’t be silly. Nothing but cuts and broken bones for them,” she shrugged. “Well, a spot of mana burn but that’s her own fault.” She indicated a cloth on the ground, a few large chunks of glass were piled on it. “I’m afraid that’s all that remains of the dead. Johnny and Alan I believe were their names.”

Lyrua groaned. It eased her heart to know Lyskilde and Gottfred were all right, but she was just as unhappy to lose Johnny and Alan, even if she had not known them.

Isadora looked over her shoulder, and gave a half-hearted salute to the Highwards without facing them. “If you’ll excuse me I think our guest is here.” She turned and jogged off to meet a group of Wards approaching from the east. Toldremand grimaced at the woman as she left, but Fourstaile paid her no mind, instead busying herself by stuffing her face cloth behind Gottfred’s head for padding.

“I told you something was off with that woman, Four,” Toldremand said.

“Never mind Isadora,” the wilted Highward sat down to tend to Gottfred. Fourstaile could close his wounds with Light if she had the mana for it, but she did not, and as she wiped his face with a damp cloth that was brought out with a bucket by a commoner, Lyrua saw that his wounds had already been closed and only pale scars and dry skin remained. That was a relief.

A woman in a frayed apron scurried over and laid a small basket of assorted fruits near Gottfred, then blended back into the crowd.

“Is it normal to lose Spellwards to dracolisks like that?” Lyrua asked. Her eyes fell nervously to the small arrangement of glass atop the cloth. “And… with so little remains?”

“It depends,” Toldremand sighed. “They always encounter dracolisks in the Glass Desert during their patrols there, but that’s intentional. It rarely results in combat though. Dracolisks aren’t hard to reason with, so most of the time it’s no trouble. But when there is a fight, well, let’s just say two is not as bad as it’s been. It is extremely important that the border of the Desert is patrolled for Tolik’s safety though. At least there’s no more need to have multiple rookies in the patrols at once.” Toldremand shrugged, and frowned at Gottfred as he began to stir.

The Captain slowly rolled his head at each of them, his eyes landing finally on Lyskilde. “She tossed him into the air and broke his legs.” He breathed haggardly, trying to laugh. “I didn’t know she could do that. Might have turned herself inside-out. Don’t think she knew she could do it either. Lost her arm though.” His arm rattled over to the basket to take a bruised apple. He bit into it so slowly Lyrua thought he would fall asleep with his teeth in it.

“What happened?” Toldremand tapped his spear on the glass, his impatience directed at no one in particular. “Isadora is coordinating, and didn’t have time to tell all the details.”

Gottfred pointed over his head towards the Daughter’s Arch. “You see how the ground there is lumpier?” He choked the apple down and bit it again as he waited for Toldremand’s response, ignoring the juices escaping his lips. The Highward nodded at him. “Thirty or so guards,” he continued. “Not enough left now to tell who most of them…” He slipped back into unconsciousness, his arms flopped to his sides with the apple gripped tightly.

Lyrua turned around as the crunch of glass announced a group of people approaching behind her. Isadora returned with Torfinn, and two other wards, hauling Herluf Sorenrov in silver chains to sap his mana. The well-fed nobleman was damp with sweat and caked with dust on one side of his face. One of Torfinn’s sleeves broke free of the last thread holding it and tumbled off as he kicked the man to his knees.

It had to be Herluf Sorenrov. Out of his bed at dawn and covered in dust in the wake of the most elaborate assassination attempt in Manataklos history, the evidence of his involvement was already overwhelming. She sighed. It was best to leave him to the Spellwards and just go on her way, but she regretted that she would have to miss his execution.

“Early to be out of your bed, is it not, Herluf?” Lyrua said. She crossed her arms behind her back.

“Manataklos will prosper when the Kirkegaards are dead.” Herluf spat at her feet, earning a prod from Torfinn’s spear that produced a high-pitched squeal.

“I have no time for swine this morning,” Lyrua said. “I just want to know how you got a dracolisk into the city before I leave.”

Herluf smirked at her and his eyes narrowed as they did when he thought he was clever. “It was not my idea,” he said hopefully. “I was only here to keep an eye on Bartholomaeus. You know how he gets.”

“I’ll feed your intestines to the gulls,” Lander said, some of the glow returning to his eyes. Fourstaile nodded.

“Well, that’s just it, is it not?” Herluf said, trying to sit up straight on his knees. “Take the gallows off the table, or I know nothing of anything. Otherwise, knowing Kirkegaards, I’ll be hanged whether I am guilty or not.” He paused. “Not, if you were wondering.”

“You conspired to have me killed. You will hang regardless.” Lyrua looked down at him. The look of him made her feel sick. “If you tell me, I will agree not to hang your family with you, unless there is evidence connecting them to this as well.”

Herluf’s face contorted, his teeth showed under wide eyed rage. “Would you hang even my children?” He pulled at his chains as he began to tremble.

“No,” she said, “because obviously you will tell me how you brought a dracolisk into the city.” She did not want to hang children, but if the Sorenrovs insisted on making a life of threatening her family she may have to at least banish them.

“Do you know why my mother did not have you killed as well?” He dribbled as he spat the words, his disgusting jowls catching the drops. “She thought you were young enough not to turn out like yours.”

“I am nothing like my mother.” She took a step forward, intending to swing her foot into his arrogant head. She caught herself, told herself she would wait until he angered her further.

“No,” he sneered, “you are so much worse. Your mother was a covetous bitch who thought the world belonged to her because of her birth. Nevermind the noble houses who built the Four Capitals before the Kirkegaards came along. But at least she was a bloody Queen!”

She raised her voice. “Mine is a di—!” … divine bloodline that had the right to rule the city built by Archangels? She immediately felt like a hypocrite. She did not care about her divinity. It bothered her that she had to remind herself. That the moment she needed to defend herself she turned into her mother.

“Just like your mother,” Herluf shook his head, “but without any conviction.”

Toldremand lowered his spear to Herluf’s throat. “This is a waste of our time,” he growled, “take him away so we can get the Queen out of here.”

Torfinn pulled him to his feet. She did not want to let him go. Not without her answer. It was not about whether she even wanted it. She would not let Herluf win by getting away.

“If he does not answer me…”

Torfinn stopped with a hand still on Herluf’s arm from pulling him up. He looked at her, waiting for her command.

She told herself the answer was not important. She knew her mother was… strict… and selfish. She had not wanted to return power to the common folk through Sorenrovs’ democracy because she believed surrendering her authority would only empower the nobility and they would hoard it rather than share it as they claimed.

Was she wrong?

“… Put his family to trial and find out if they were involved as well.”

Herluf’s mouth widened in a shaky grin, with lips trembling as he spoke. “So, therein does lie a girl capable of being more than what her mother left of her.” He shook off Torfinn’s hand, and with his back straight began to look like a man who may be worth a modicum of respect. “Bartholomaeus thought to use a dracolisk to knock down the Spellwards. Kill a few, rob them of their respect perhaps when folk witnessed their failure. I told him it would not work.” He paused for breath. “I used my ties to Syl Gregoria in the Blossoming Meadows to get a team of Inquisitors for a good price. They captured the beast easily. The shrills scared it into behaving, and I’m sure you can piece together the rest yourself.”

She was not sure how much she knew of the Inquisitors. They used to be a body of the Church called Paladins, but were no longer needed after Samella’s worshipers were wiped out. They became a band of mercenaries, and replaced their Light with the power of Beelzemark’s Prismatic Scale. She eyed the scale resting on Lyskilde. It glimmered alluringly in the dawn light. Was there power in that as well, or was it some unique property in the King’s that allowed them to project its impenetrable force?

“A lot of trouble just to kill me,” she said.

“And it was still not enough.” Emboldened by his encroaching doom, Herluf continued speaking without pretence. “Perhaps I should save if for the trial, if I will be allowed one, but I assure you I never meant to endanger Manataklos. The Inquisitors were supposed to keep things contained, and I hoped your Spellwards were out of the way. They fled like cowards. That is on me for bringing them here, but I should not have needed to.”

“Of course you would blame me.” Lyrua could not believe the hubris of the portly man to stand there in chains and speak down to her. She regretted not kicking his head when she had the chance.

“Nythyemere will never prosper to the likes of Marden Teradon as long as Descendants remain to stifle it with their avarice.”

“Marden Teradon fell.”

He laughed, but it was cut short by the tip of Torfinn’s spear, and Lyrua was suddenly reminded of the other people watching them. She let him continue speaking; she would never have another chance to hear him. Her husband had told her to listen to people whose words she did not like, because she may find unexpected truths in them. She did not understand why she was listening to him now.

“Marden Teradon fell because a Dracolisk Lord appeared in the capital and turned it into a Glass Desert,” he shrugged. “The same happened everywhere. Democracy was the rich soil from which the kingdom flowered and flourished, not the poison that wilted it.”

“And you believe that I am that poison to Manataklos? That my family is?”

“You are not poison.” Herluf brushed dust from his shirt as his confidence continued to return and brought noble vanity back with it. “You are a glass case that suffocates and arrests the kingdom’s growth,” he said sorrowfully. “Your family used to do great things; it was your ancestors who slew the Dracolisk Lord who threatened Tolik, after all. But then their child married a Descendent, and decided they were worth more than the people. Now I am forced to smash a glass that has reinforced itself for generations, to release the flower of Manataklos unrestricted.”

Lyrua stared at Herluf, squeezing her hands shut until her knuckles hurt. The more she looked at him, the less she saw him there. She saw her mother, teaching her to distrust anyone who would take power from her, for they only desired it for themselves. Lyrua did not even know if it was true. She was not wise enough to know. She had always had to trust that her mother was. Her mother, who killed Valdemar Sorenrov for speaking against her unchallenged rule, or the nobles who thought she wielded too much power for an individual.

“Who are the Inquisitors who brought the dracolisk in?” she demanded, attempting to avoid being distracted by abstruse thoughts. Athen was clinging tightly to her, his arms wrapped around her belly as if to shield his sister from the conversation. Could the nobles and her mother both be right?

“They were led by Mechthild Eilert. There was Annabelle Juel, Stavros Haagen, Xerarch Metaxas…” He shrugged with spread hands. “I will give the Highwards the contract with their names to read, unless you think I should name all twelve now.”

“No, don’t bother,” she said. Her heart burned. It was not necessary for her to waste more time on Herluf Sorenrov if he was going to cooperate. She took deep breaths to cool her temper. She had come so close to letting Lander take his head. “Even though it would be within my right to take—”

“Would it be?”

“Shut up.” She shrieked, her fist beginning to shake again. She wanted to shake it right into his nose. “Since I will not be here, I will leave your fate to those who remain.”

“Fine,” Toldremand said, giving her a satisfied nod and a look from the corner of his eye. He waved Torfinn off. The Captain and his charred uniform stiffly marched Herluf away. Lyrua realised Isadora had already left while Herluf was trying to pervert her memory of her mother. Could the nobles and her mother both be wrong?

Fourstaile was quivering, a gentle rustle of her hair that a stranger would not have noticed. Her subtle rage withered more of her leaves, and her vines were beginning to crinkle like snake skin. It would take a lot of meditative rest and some good music for her to recover from losing so many flowers, even more so if she allowed herself to get angry.

“I’ll play you a song later, Fourstaile,” Lyrua said. Seeing the Highward’s anger made her feel silly for hers. She needed to leave her frustrations behind with the city. “If you would like.”

The Highward’s head immediately snapped up to face her. “I hope you’ve been practising that lyre,” she said with a wry smile, “or your playing may give me conniptions.”

Before Lyrua could answer, two Spellwards approached, leading a rustox with long iron horns. It pulled a rickety wagon patched with mismatched scraps of wood that struggled across the glass. The wide beast tossed its shaggy beard to dislodge dust, which swung its horns dangerously from side to side. The Spellwards lifted Lyskilde’s stretcher carefully onto the back, then returned to haul Gottfred to his feet.

Gottfred took a lime from the basket and held it out to Athen with a trembling arm. “You’ll need it if you’re going out to sea, lad,” he said, “to keep the scurvy off.”

Athen pulled the cloth down from his eyes and accepted the lime, tucking it into his bag. The Spellwards helped Gottfred into the wagon, clutching his apple as though the yellowing was gold. They set the bundled remains of Johnny and Alan with him, and carted them away.

“What is scurvy?” Athen asked her.

“We should not need to worry about it,” Lyrua told him gently, “but keep it safe and maybe Ove can make you something sweet with it.”

He smiled at the thought of sweets, and Lyrua was glad to know that at least for the moment, he was not thinking about the same things she was.

Lyrua was eager to leave, but Fourstaile insisted on waiting for Isadora to return. When she finally did she showed signs of fatigue with stalled breath and a sweaty chest. “I found Spilde,” she saluted, “Sum of the reports from around the city: virtually nothing else going on. The usual commoners trying to peek at things and a dog wagging a glass tail. It’s actually quite boring. I’m beginning to understand why everyone is falling asleep.”

“Get to the point,” Fourstaile barked. “What did Spilde say?”

“Ah, well, I have it written here…” She pulled a roll of paper out of her tunic and squinted at the tiny writing on it. “The Solitary Sydway is quiet. There are folk camping about, which is typical. Squirrely folk from out of town who sweat their socks off when Spellwards approached them. Spilde is confident they are less dangerous than a stone on the path. There was a rockslide in the cliffs last night, but there was nothing there but stones so he hasn’t bothered looking into it yet.”

“Good,” Fourstaile shook her head. “Finally, nothing remains to keep us here.”

Lyrua turned and walked away as confidently as she could manage, holding Athen close. Lander kept a brisk pace beside her, looking as tired as she had ever seen him. His eyes were dull and lacked their normal colour, and the fact that he was still carrying his blades instead of restoring his armour meant he was too tired for his mana to replenish. They would need to find somewhere to rest soon.

The patter and crunch of Fourstaile’s steps trailed after her, but she did not turn to look. She focused on the Arch like a cat watching a fly. They were so close. After all the night’s work they would finally make it out of the city. After all the night’s violence, she was still determined. That surprised her most of all; she had not floundered on her decision, she was as determined as ever to get out. Perhaps more so now that she knew the depths her enemies would go to to destroy her family.