CHAPTER 94: A QUEEN’S LAST GRACE

Finally they reached the edge of the known world, where the breath of civilization ended and the wilderness began to dream of conquest once more.

The outpost rose from the blackened earth like a scar: all stone and steel, spears and silence. Its towers pierced the red-streaked sky, their tips glinting faintly under the dying sun. Ballistae loomed like sleeping giants upon the walls, each aimed at the dark horizon where mountains bled fire into mist.

The air was thick with salt and smoke, the kind that clung to armor and memory alike. Soldiers patrolled in disciplined silence, their boots striking rhythm against the flagstones. These were not courtly guards or ceremonial knights, these were war men, carved by survival, tempered by fire.

When the imperial procession arrived, the gates opened with the groan of chains and the hiss of steam.

"Your Majesties," came the voice that could cut through battle.

Commander Thorne, tall, scarred, every inch the legend soldiers whisper about but never dare approach. His armor bore scorch marks older than most recruits. His eyes, one brown, one clouded white, missed nothing

"We’ve been expecting you."

The command hall was a map of the world in miniature, walls lined with relics of old wars, banners faded by time, the great table in the center carved with scars of planning and desperation.

Maps sprawled across it, pins and sigils marking outbreaks of beast activity: burned fields, vanished patrols, shattered villages.

The names of the fallen had begun to outnumber the names of the living.

Commander Thorne’s hand swept across the parchment. "The Rakhai packs are moving northward, toward the trade routes. Ragaur prides have been spotted near the villages. And..." he hesitated, glancing toward Eris, "a Tiraxil nest was found near the Iron Veins."

A low murmur spread through the room. The Tiraxil hadn’t emerged this far from the lava rivers in centuries.

Soren stood at the head of the table, posture immaculate, voice calm. "I’ll handle the Anakai personally once we reach Nevareth," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We’ll also be reinforcing the magical wards across the Northern front. And as for Solmire—"

"Caelen must be notified," Eris finished quietly.

Soren’s gaze slid toward her, soft, approving, a glimmer of respect. "He will be," he said simply. "I’ll see to it myself."

The others nodded, relieved. Orders were given, scrolls exchanged, the tense air easing with the precision of authority.

But Eris... Eris lingered.

The command room had emptied hours ago, the soldiers retreating to their posts or their bunks, leaving only the faint crackle of dying embers in the hearth and the low whisper of wind against stone.

Eris sat at the edge of the long table, a cup of fire-wine cradled in her hands, untouched. The great map sprawled before her like a wound, rivers curling like veins, borders bleeding into uncertainty, the red markers glowing like coals in the lamplight.

Her fingertips brushed the parchment, tracing the lands that had once knelt beneath her name.

Her mind was a storm.

The barriers were failing. The beasts were gathering. The dragon sites, her father’s legacy, were decaying.

How strange, she thought, that power could feel so heavy in one lifetime, and so ghostly in another.

She had ruled Solmire with flame and ferocity, had been both curse and crown. But for all her fury, she had never allowed her people to be consumed. And now, as she stared at the spreading marks of beast incursions, guilt clawed its way up her throat.

How had she not known?

How had her kingdom, her Solmire, fallen into such decay while she still breathed?

She couldn’t shake the gnawing, terrible thought that it was her fault.

That the world was shifting because she’d chosen to step off the page. Because she’d walked away from her role. Because the dragon inside her was stirring, responding to something she didn’t understand.

The spells that once bound the wild magic were weakening, vanishing faster than prophecy foretold. The disappearance of their gods explained some things, yes, but not this. Not the suddenness. Not the hunger.

She poured herself wine, though it tasted like nothing on her tongue. "Perhaps," she murmured to the empty room, "perhaps this is the world reminding me I was never meant to leave it unguarded."

She was powerful, yes, she knew that.

Powerful enough to burn every beast on that map to ash. But she couldn’t use her power carelessly. Not at that scale. Not without risking losing control completely. Not without risking the dragon breaking free and turning her into the very thing the world feared most.

She exhaled slowly, staring into the wine as though it might hold answers.

Orrian, she thought bitterly. Where are you when I actually need you?

But the entity didn’t appear. It never did when she wanted it to.

She was alone.

Her reflection in the wine trembled, a faint shimmer of gold, then red, then fire.

If Solmire was dying, she would not let it die quietly.

She would refortify the old spells, even if it demanded her mind, her blood, her soul.

A final gift.

A queen’s last grace.

And if madness claimed her in the process... well, she had someone now who might pull her back.

As if summoned by her thought, a shadow appeared in the doorway, tall, unmistakable, cloaked in frost.

He didn’t speak at first. Simply leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her as one might watch a flame that could burn or warm depending on the wind.

He knew the weight of responsibility weighed heavily on her. Eris had been made for the throne just like he was. Seeing her like that, made him wish he could strip her bare of every burden she carried, just so she could be a woman.

She hadn’t heard him enter, only felt it, the shift in the air, the sudden coolness brushing against her fevered skin.

His voice was low when it came, almost too gentle for a man who commanded armies.