Page 55

From the ragged peaks of the misty pine forest, the Gilded Palace rose like a bad dream.

Pale and gray, framed by four tall lookout towers and an enormous wall that still carried the echo of its former sigils, the palace was a reminder of what had once been, and what it refused to fully give up. Like Orpheus, magic had fled this place, leaving behind the scar of its former power, healed but for the memory it left behind.

Memories Fenrir hadn’t thought would be so hard to relive.

Where scaffolding had once webbed the length of her entryway walls, murals now replaced the sad gray. Remnants of Lore’s influence remained in the scenes the artist had chosen to depict: a woman at the crest of a hillside, overlooking a sun-drenched valley that represented her domain; and the shadowy place where the Rim spilled beneath a rising sun, little embers burning at the edge of its chasm while a dragon rose from behind a pyre of violet fire.

And most uncanny yet, the silhouette of a man standing over it all, so small Fenrir almost didn’t notice him, arms stretched out wide as if to welcome a new tomorrow or fling himself into a great unknown.

“Is that…”

Beside him, Vera trailed off, staring up at the same painting Fenrir did, the likeness to Orpheus undeniable. But it was the figure that came after that froze Fenrir in place. All golden hair and a raised sword, a blue herald cloaked him—the same cape Farris had gifted him—while a crown perched firmly atop his head.

“I’m sure they thought it was funny,” came out rougher than he intended. Farris likely approached Red with the idea, entirely serious. Red absolutely pitched the artist tongue in cheek. Now, the image soured something inside him, settling in his gut like a bad meal.

The rest of the palace was mostly unchanged. The remaining hallways were the same austere gray, the cement floor polished to a liquid shine, and the windows high and narrow, unbarred from the outside world by metal or glass.

Then, he reached the throne room, and for all the palace left untouched, this change he could not escape.

“Lord of the United Empire, Hero of the Wasteland, Child of the Rim, His Majesty Fenrir Rawkner!”

“Your Majesty,” the nobility greeted in unison, the people of the court taking to their knees, supplicant in a way they’d never quite achieved with Lore. Or, maybe, Fenrir simply hadn’t noticed or cared.

Before him, dozens bowed their heads, crowded at either side of the room to reveal the throne ahead. A throne Lore had barely bothered with. A throne representative of so much in his life that had gone to shit that Fenrir found himself frozen at the base of the dais it waited upon, achingly aware of his mother at his back and the fact that the court’s attention was entirely upon him. Him and his hesitancy. Him and his missing arm. Him and the empty place at his side, a place meant for Orpheus, an open gaping wound that hurt worse than the stump that was his sword arm.

You need to be strong for them. You’ve always been strong for them.

But what if that strength was a lie, because now when he needed it the most, it was nowhere to be found?

He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t meant for this.

But who else could stand in his place?

The world began to tilt, and Fenrir stumbled. Two hands gripped his elbow, steadying him, Vera’s shoulder butting up in a way that only those closest could see. She guided him towards the throne through a claustrophobic quiet, the nobility parting like a sea of hungry snakes.

You can do this. Even if he didn’t want to. Gotta at least make sure Orpheus has a home to return to, ignoring that the only home Orpheus cared about was the one where Fenrir laid his head.

And what about me? What do I care about?

Fenrir had thought he’d cared for it all—Orpheus, but also the Empire they’d saved. Now… I can do this. They needed him to. He needed to for himself, otherwise what was the point of being here? What was the point of staying behind? What was the point of the choice he’d made?

You didn’t make that choice, Red did.

Fenrir…Fenrir had made a promise.

He glanced at Vera, and her pursed lips and flicking fingers meant one thing. Talk to them.

“Welcome,” he said, less awkwardly than he felt. “It’s an honor to stand here before you,” was a lie but one easy enough to spin. “We all remember Lore and what this court was like under her hand, and I can assure you, from this day forward, things will be different. They will be better. They will be however we want them to look, as long as we decide together.”

It wasn’t a great speech. It was hardly a good speech. But from the back of the crowd, a voice asked, “Are they coming back?”

Again, the vertigo rose.

“I don’t believe so,” didn’t sound half as convincing as it needed to. Fenrir swallowed, tried again. “But our army is already marching. Wherever they came from, we’ll find it.”

“And then go to war again?” Someone asked. “Over Master Orpheus?”

“I already lost two sons!” another noble added, voice shrill. “I can’t lose any more!”