Then, slowly, imperiously, he raised one massive, gloved hand.
"Wait," he said, his voice cutting clean through the stillness, deep and resonant, carrying with it a command no one dared disobey.
It was different to how she had seen him before. Not the quiet menace, not the sardonic taunts, not the unexpected gentleness. This was authority, sharpened to a blade's edge.
And she thought darkly to herself: he will be no mild-mannered consort, this one. He will be a terror. He already is.
He turned, and his expression was hard, unreadable, a mask of power. His eyes glowed faintly, unnervingly, as though something otherworldly had been lit behind them.
He uttered a command in orcish to the palanquin bearers. They bowed their heads in assent, shifting their weight, waiting.
Then he came to her. He reached the door, pulling the curtain aside with a measured hand, and bent, extending his arm toward her.
"Come, Eliza," he said. "It is time."
She met his gaze, unafraid, her defiance rising again like steel in her chest.
"And what do you expect me to do here?" she asked quietly.
His mask softened. The blue glow in his eyes dimmed, fading back into shadow. A wry quirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"They're your people, aren't they? And you are queen. You know our agreement." His head tilted slightly, dark hair shifting with the motion. "You decide."
She took his hand. Stepped out of the palanquin. Her bare feet sank into the Maidan soil—precious soil, soil that had drunk rivers of blood. Hers. His. Their peoples'.
At once, the guards lowered the palanquin, bowing under its weight.
And before she could react, Rakhal's arm swept around her waist. In one effortless motion, he lifted her, setting her on the roof of the palanquin. The sudden height stole her breath.
"My queen!" a guard in the watchtower cried, his voice cracking with astonishment. "Our queen is alive!"
A roar went up along the walls. Her men, her knights, her people—they shouted her name, a storm of relief, fury, and confusion all at once.
"Harm a hair on her head and you are all dead men!" the same guard bellowed, and a volley of shouts echoed behind him, steel flashing in the torchlight as weapons were raised.
"Enough!" Eliza's voice cracked through the night, ringing off the stone walls. Cold air bit at her throat, but her words carried strong, resonant, and undeniable. "As you can all see, I am alive and well."
"Why are you with the orcs?" a soldier shouted back. "Give the word and we'll put bolts of iron through their skulls and incinerate them with mage fire!"
Her heart hammered. She raised a hand, steady, commanding, willing her body to look as imperious as her title demanded. Staring up at the soldiers—the first she had to win over—she steeled herself.
"You will not shoot any of these orcs," she declared, her gaze flicking briefly to Rakhal at her side. "For now."
A ripple of confusion stirred along the walls.
"As you can see," she pressed on, her voice clear, strong, "for the past day and night, there has been no fighting. No war. Nobloodshed. The plains are peaceful. The city is quiet. Like you and I, these orcs want the fighting to end."
She lifted her chin, daring them. "You see me standing before you, atop the vessel of our enemy, because I have negotiated with the Varak—and we have reached an agreement."
Gasps and cries of disbelief rose from the ramparts. "What is the meaning of this?" men shouted, outrage spilling like fire.
"Silence!" she bellowed, her voice turning harsh, cold, a whip of command cracking through the night. "Do you question my judgment? Do you dissent against your queen?"
The uproar faltered. The walls grew still.
"Beside me stands Prince Rakhal Karthan of Clan Varak. Second son of King Draak Karthan." She let the titles hang, heavy with consequence. "He has shown me his intentions with sincerity and with honour. Together, we have forged an agreement. The war will end."
Disbelief rippled again, low and uneasy. She caught it with a glare sharp enough to cut. The murmurs died.
