“You don’t need to give me a command to get me to listen to you,” says Lark.

Tenar shakes her head. “I can’t give you a command. Not anymore.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

Lark stands and walks over. “Yes. Tonight, it is.”

“If tonight was all I had to worry about, I wouldn’t be sitting up in the windowsill.”

Lark looks at her helplessly. Tenar turns back around. She feels her hesitation, and she hates it. It reminds her too much of all the helpless, hesitant looks Lark has given her these past months. All the pain that has tainted the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Lark’s hand falls on her shoulder, steady and warm and so familiar that it hurts.

“You give too many apologies for someone who has saved the world time and time again.”

“And who was it we had to save the world from?” Tenar asks, even as Lark squeezes her skin—in comfort or in scolding, she isn’t really sure.

“Not you,” she breathes. She leans in closer and wraps her arms around Tenar. “Never you.”

-

Tenar stays silent as she picks at the tray of food that’s been brought to their chambers. Across the table, Lark does the same, sipping her tea and looking over a stack of papers. She should really be in one of the studies, or in the council room even—she’ll be in there most of the rest of the morning, anyway—but she insisted, as always, on having the start of the day to herself.

“Really, they’re lucky I’m even awake at this hour,” she grumbles to an unresponsive Tenar.

If things were different, Tenar would tease her for her bedhead and her sleep-riddled voice, and for the grumpy way she moves about the room even though it’s already nearing mid-morning. Instead, she watches from across the table, studying Lark’s profile in the soft morning light. And Lark waits, letting herself be watched.

But eventually, she has to break the quiet.

“I’ve decided to go.”

Lark looks up slowly, zero surprise in her gaze. “Do you know where? When?”

Tenar shakes her head. “I just—I need to.”

Lark only smiles, understanding in the most painful way.

“I know.”

-

Tenar might not have sat in on a council meeting in months, but she still knows when they occur. And so she knows when Arren is skipping them to follow her around the castle grounds.

He’s easy company, at least. He falls quietly into step beside her, only asking questions about what she’d like to do or where she’d like to go and if she’s eaten yet, because if not he really must insist they at least stop by the kitchens so Lark doesn’t throw him in the stocks for letting Tenar waste away.

He’s easy company, but it does nothing to change the fact that she’s terrible company, staying silent and answering even his kindest questions with little more than a twitch of her head.

“Take your time, Tenar,” he says when he drops her off near her chambers at the end of the day. She pauses and looks at him.

“Isn’t that what I’m doing, wasting my days like this?”

“If you consider it wasteful, then no.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it productive.” Her tone grows harsh, sharpening with every word. But Arren just smiles and shakes his head.

“I know better than to argue with you,” he says, not unkindly. “Sleep well, Tenar. Call on me if you need anything.”

She forces herself to exhale, willing some of the tension out of her jaw as she does.

“Good night, Arren.”

-

Tenar has to dig through her jewelry boxes to find them, but the cuffs fit over her ears exactly the way she remembers them: cool, stiff, and false. She pulls them off again and rubs at the cartilage there, lost in thought.

“They might not be necessary,” Lark says from behind her. “The cloak hides your ears better. And more people will recognize you now regardless.”

“But some won’t, and I’d like to have the option of disguise whenever possible.”

“Then take Ged,” says Lark, not for the first time. “He has spells to disguise you both.”

“Ged can’t go, the mages need him here.”

“Arren, then. He’ll watch your back, the same way he did all those years ago.”

Tenar shakes her head. “He’s your best friend. Your right hand. You need him.”

“Not if you need him more.”

“No, Lark. I’m going alone.”

“You’re not. You can’t.”

Tenar scowls and looks up enough to meet her eyes in the mirror. “It’s not your decision.”

But Lark’s gaze is patient—more patient than Tenar has ever seen her. It knocks the fight out of her immediately.

“It’s dangerous,” Lark says. “Even with him gone. And you deserve companionship. It’s not an exile, Tenar.”

She looks down again. “I know that.”

“…what about Moss? She’s been itching to get out of the city, anyway. It will be good for both of you.”

“She has a life here, too.”

“Yes, but you’re a part of it. A very important part, you know.” Lark walks up behind her and runs her fingers gently through Tenar’s hair. “Talk to her about it, at least. See what she says. Please?”

-

“It’s not all bad, you know,” Moss tells her. She’s much more relaxed than Tenar is, her arm hooked loosely around her knee, her other leg dangling from the stone wall they’re sitting on. “You’re the one who’s always said you hate spending your days cooped up in the council room.”

“It’s different,” says Tenar. “It’s not by choice.”

Moss frowns. “That’s not entirely true. You could take the throne again. No one would object.”

“Plenty of people would object.”

“No one who matters.”

She shakes her head. “They matter. They might not understand, but their suspicion still matters. It’s not unfounded.”

“Yes it is. You were never their enemy.”

“Moss.”

“And you know what else is unfounded? This guilt you hold. It wasn’t your fault—”

“Moss—”

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for what he did to you—”

“Enough,” Tenar snaps. It silences her. For a moment.

Then,

“See? Still sound like a queen to me.”

Tenar turns away from her. “A queen, or a tyrant?”

“A queen,” Moss says quietly. “Always a queen.”

Tenar looks away from her. She tilts her head down, looking at the street running along the wall of the watchtower they sit upon. They’re high enough that it’s hard to make out the details of the cobblestone beneath them. She wonders, if she slid off, how long she would fall. If she’d land on her back or her arms or directly on her head. If Vecna could have healed her had she broken her neck. If—

“Tenar,” Moss says.

She blinks and looks up again. Moss’s eyes are sad. Weary. She looks older than Tenar remembers.

Whatever she wants to say, Tenar suddenly can’t bear to hear it. She swings her legs back over the wall and stands.

“It’s getting late. We should head back, before Lark starts to worry.”

She hears Moss’s sigh behind her, but she doesn’t look back to face it.

-

Tenar thinks of a dozen different ways to ask Moss to travel with her. She considers asking Lark to talk to Moss for her. She thinks about bringing it up to Ged to get another opinion. She wonders if a formal request is best, because then Moss will surely mock her for it, and things will feel somewhat normal. Then she wonders if she shouldn’t beg—confess to Moss her fear of what she’ll do if left on her own, the harm she could bring to others if something goes wrong.

She runs through all her options, all the words she could say, again and again. She plans a walk around the palace to give her time to work up her courage. But when the moment comes, Tenar barely has to speak before Moss replies with, “So where are we going first?”

“Anywhere, I suppose,” Tenar says when she recovers. She takes a breath. “Anywhere that’s far away from here.”

-

“Not that I’m complaining, but you’re usually a much more stubborn patient than this.”

Tenar closes her eyes as she feels Ged’s magic sinking into her skin. It’s not an entirely new sensation—she’s been on the receiving end of his spells far more than the others. But the healing spell is new. Another responsibility he had to shoulder in her absence.

“I’ve made life hard enough for you,” she says into her pillow. She feels pathetic, curled in bed like this. She misses Lark—away all day in meetings with captains and counsellors. She’d still feel pathetic lying beside her, but at least she wouldn’t be lying alone.

“I take it back. You’re as stubborn as always, you’re just sitting still for once.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re under strict orders to stop apologizing to us.”

“Why? You hate this, and it’s my fault.”

Ged falls silent. She hears the quiet hum of magic, and the breeze whistling by the window, and nothing else.

“I don’t hate this,” he says after a while. “This magic is odd to me, and it’s not my preferred specialty, but I don’t dislike it.”

Tenar shakes her head as much as she can with her face pushed into the bed. “I remember how you were, when you and the others first brought me back. You hated every second you spent healing me.”

There’s a pause, then, “Is that really what you think?”

“I saw your face. I was out of it, but I remember more than you think.”

“Oh, sure, you remember me frowning when I saw you beaten blue and bloody, but you don’t remember the hours Moss and I spent lying with you while you recovered? All the time I spent awake at your bedside, watching over you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” Ged says, heated now. “For someone so smart, Tenar, you’re acting like a fool. How long have we known each other? And you think I take issue with caring for you?”

“You never should’ve had to.”

“No, I shouldn’t have. But that’s his fault, not yours. I hated it because I hate what he put you through, and I hated that I had to patch you up and watch you run out to take more. But I could never hate you. I’m insulted you would even consider the thought.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—” He stops, then sighs. “Just don’t, Tenar.”

She stays still and quiet. After a long moment, he sighs again and continues his work. Neither of them speak again.

-

It doesn’t take her long at all to pack. It’s almost frustrating, how easy it’s been to fold a couple of her outfits and a pair of gloves and a spare journal from Ged into a bag and realize she has no need for anything else. The kitchen staff has already set aside a bag of food for them. Her sword is already constantly strapped to her hip. She and Moss could have been out of the city an hour after making the decision. All this time, and that’s all it would have taken to just leave.

Except even now, with her bag in her lap and nothing else in the room but her hollow expression looking at her in the mirror, she can’t summon the strength to get up and walk out. She can’t even bring herself to move.

Not until a knock on the door cuts through her numbing thoughts.

“Tenar?” Lark asks, hovering in the threshold as she eases the door open.

“You can come in,” Tenar says quietly. “These are your chambers, too.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to be alone. You won’t be able to, for a while.”

Tenar stares up at her. She has long preferred being alone with Lark over being alone with herself. She thinks Lark knows that—she knew it once, at least. She wants to tell her it now, to make sure she still knows it, but she can’t even fathom how to begin. So she just looks at her.

Lark gives her a sad, half-hopeless smile, and Tenar doesn’t know what she sees, but it’s enough that she steps fully into the room and closes the door behind her again.

“I saw Moss. She says she’s ready to leave whenever you are.”

“Okay,” Tenar says.

Lark walks over to the vanity where she sits. She eyes the bag in Tenar’s lap. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Nothing that I can think of, though it doesn’t seem like much.” She pulls the bag to her chest, cradling its light weight.

“Well, even if you have forgotten something, I’m sure you can either buy it or find it out on the road.” Lark laughs softly, then, “A queen and a street rat—the two of you will be just fine, wherever you go.”

“I’m not the queen.”

“I did not say the queen.”

There’s a shifting then, and the sound of a belt clasp. Tenar turns from her own numb reflection and faces Lark, who is pulling her small sheath from her waist. She looks up, cradling her dagger in her hand, then holds it out.

Tenar just stares. “What are you doing?”

“Take it with you.”

“But you—”

She’s cut off by Lark grabbing her hand and placing the sheath and dagger in it. Tenar can only stare at it. The leather is old and plain, its only designs coming from the scratches that have been worn into it over time. The dagger itself is almost as simple—a straight, simple handle wrapped and rewrapped in a thin leather cord by Lark’s own hand.

But it’s a strong blade, tried and true. Tenar has seen firsthand how it’s saved Lark’s life—and her own, and that of all the others—time and time again.

Lark folds Tenar’s fingers over the sheath, then lowers herself to her knees before her.

“I will carry your blade for as long as you need me to,” she says. She presses both of her hands around Tenar’s and looks up at her, and Tenar sees tears in her eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall. “But it means I can’t go with you, so please, Tenar, carry mine, too.”

Tenar takes a shaky breath, and it’s too loud in their quiet chambers. She lifts her hand, her fingers shaking in the air between them, and rests it on top of Lark’s.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“You’re not.”

“But what if I do?” She closes her eyes, and her tears do fall. She feels Lark’s hands twitch beneath hers, and she tightens her grip, keeping her in place—refusing to let her reach up and wipe them away, to offer the comfort. Comfort she doesn’t deserve, because the next thing she asks is, “What if I go, and I realize I can’t come back?”

Silence, long enough that she has to open her eyes, even if it’s just to ache at the pain on Lark’s face.

But she doesn’t, because all that she sees on Lark’s face is patience. Steadiness. The same unshakable loyalty that she saw when she first realized she loved her.

“Then carry me with you.” For all her steadiness, though, her voice trembles. She squeezes Tenar’s fingers around the sheath. “Carry me with you, and go where you need to go.”

A choked cry escapes her, and this time she can’t stop Lark from reaching up and cupping her face. Her thumbs brush across her cheeks, and she rises on her knees to press her lips to Tenar’s brow.

“I love you,” Tenar whispers, wet and broken. “I haven’t told you, not since you freed me, but I—Lark, I—”

“I know,” Lark breathes. “I never doubted it.” Another soft kiss, then, “And I love you, so please, do what you have to do. Worry about you. Care for you.”

Tenar gives a small nod, her face rubbing against Lark’s palms.

“And if you can stand to do so, let Moss care for you once in a while, too.”

It makes her smile, just the slightest bit. Lark presses one last kiss to her forehead, then pulls back and meets her eyes.

“Okay?”

“I will.” She takes one of Lark’s hands and holds it against her face. “I promise.”

-

It’s late enough that even Tenar feels her eyes starting to get heavy, but she makes no move to get up and leave the study. The armchair is comfortable, even if she’s not, and Lark’s presence behind the desk in the middle of the room is difficult to leave behind, even if neither of them have spoken for hours.

Lark works diligently, reading through a hefty stack of letters, organizing meeting notes, gathering information from the reports sent from the outposts across the kingdom. It’s busy work, mostly; she doesn’t invite Tenar to sit with her for the heavier things. Not anymore, at least—not since they both realized the proximity to her old responsibilities only added to the weight across her shoulders.

She can handle this, though, if only because the shuffling of papers, and the scratch of Lark’s quill, and her low hum when a new thought occurs to her is familiar enough to be soothing.

Still, she’s tired, and even though Lark is working hard, Tenar hasn’t turned a page of her book in at least twenty minutes, and she knows they’ve both noticed. She wills her eyes to focus back on the words, but she barely makes it through a paragraph before her thoughts start to wander, settling in that low, numb place she tends to occupy these days, capturing and conquering her attention again.

Tenar bites back a sigh. Maybe she should just give in. Get up and bid Lark a near-silent goodnight, then drift down the halls to their chambers and lay awake in their bed for another few hours alone.

A knock on the door interrupts her plans. Lark looks up, rolls her shoulders, and sets down her quill.

“You may enter.”

A young, well-dressed man steps into the room, a thick envelope tucked beneath his arm. His shiny boots clip against the stone floor, and the feather in his cap flutters as he ducks into a quick bow, then straightens and lifts his chin high.

“I come from House Vayne, Queen Regent, to deliver notes from the survey of the city earlier this week. My lord sends his apologies that it’s so late.”

“I’m sure,” says Lark. Tenar looks over and catches the wry curl of her lip. It makes her want to smile, almost. “I’ll take them, thank you.”

“He included a personal note, Your Majesty. My lord wishes to express some, ah, concerns, that have been weighing on his mind as of late.” There’s an edge to his voice now, thin but cold. Tenar turns toward him just in time to see his gaze dart away from her. “I was given strict orders to deliver it to you and only you.”

“And so you have,” Lark says. The edge in her voice is sharp, blatant. “So hand it to me, and tell your lord that I will give his concerns all the consideration they are due.”

The man passes he envelope to Lark, then ducks his head and hurries out, effectively cowed.

It doesn’t matter. Lark is already looking at her by the time the door shuts behind him, but Tenar avoids her gaze as she closes her books and stands.

“I’ll retire for the night.”

“Tenar—”

She leaves before Lark can finish.

-

The weather is kind to them as they leave the city. The sun is out and the breeze is cool, and the people they pass are in good enough spirits that no one pays them any mind.

Tenar doesn’t think much about any of it. She grips her horse’s reins and keeps her eyes firmly on the road, too lost in her thoughts to register much of anything beyond Moss’s occasional comments.

“We still haven’t decided where we’re going,” Moss says halfway through the first day.

They’ve followed the main road through the outer villages, but it’s growing dustier now, cobblestone dwindling into dirt as the city fades into the horizon behind them. It will split off soon, one path heading south toward the coast, the other winding north.

“North or south?” asks Moss, seemingly reading her mind. Tenar looks over at her, but she can’t summon the energy to break through her own muddled thoughts and answer. Moss nods a little. “Alright. North it is.”

They head north, but only for a little while. When Tenar remains silent in her saddle, Moss takes the opportunity to lead them down thinner and thinner trails, until the paths they’re taking are little more than spots of flattened grass worn into the ground by habit alone.

The sounds of carriages and horses and chattering travelers fall quickly away. The breeze turns fresh, carrying the scent of miles of rolling fields and wildflowers in early bloom. The sun looks brighter without the shadows of buildings or the clouds of kicked up dust from the road.

Tenar finds no warmth in it, though. She sits stiffly and stares ahead at nothing as Moss leads them further into the wilderness. Her ears are already aching in her cuffs. They’re far enough out now that she could probably get away with removing them. She could lower her hood at the very least, except she takes some hollow comfort from the shadow it casts over her face. By the excuse to duck and hide—from the sun, from the people they pass, from Moss’s sideways glances.

So the day passes quietly, and ends with a small fire and their horses grazing and both of them on their backs, staring up at the stars, saying nothing.

The next day goes by much the same. They pass a hunter and his cart, newly emptied from trading at the village up the road. He tips his hat at them, then startles and leans forward in a bow instead as they pass. Tenar nods in return, her knuckles white around the reins as she resists the urge to look away.

They come into the village not long after that. A couple people recognize her here, too, some pausing their work and bowing their heads, others following suit, but with their gazes lifted, scowling, tracking her movement as she and Moss ride through the main road.

Moss notices a particularly nasty glare sent their way. She turns in her saddle as they ride past, mouth opening—

“Do not,” Tenar mutters.

Moss glares at her instead. Tenar ignores it. They continue on, out of town and into the fields beyond, where most people they pass are too busy tending to livestock to care about them one way or another.

They come to a lakefront on the third day. Moss leads them confidently through the trees until they reach an outcropping. The water shimmers with the breeze, the reflections of the trees dancing along its surface.

Moss looks at Tenar, a question in her eyes, and when Tenar says nothing, she shrugs, gets down from her horse, and begins unpacking their bags.

Tenar follows suit, too stubborn not to make herself useful, but it’s Moss who sets the snares, and builds the fire where the breeze from the lake won’t bother it too much, and finds softer ground to lay their bedrolls.

They stay the next day, too. Tenar perches atop a small boulder near their campsite, knees to her chest, and watches Moss as she whiles the hours away basking in the sun, and jumping in the water, and eating berries from the bush. She’s in her element out here, and even though it’s quiet between them—Tenar answers Moss’s questions, her sarcastic jabs, every attempt at conversation with the same absent hum—there is a freedom to her body, her voice, the very way she takes up space that Tenar hasn’t seen for quite some time.

Moss writes a letter that evening. It’s slow going, her gaze constantly drifting toward the treeline, or the water, or the sunset, or anything that isn’t her parchment. When she does focus, she does so with such a frown that Tenar is sure she’s working under Lark’s specific orders.

But she finishes, and when she does, she hands both the pen and the parchment over to Tenar.

“If you want to add anything,” she says.

Tenar looks over her writing. There isn’t much. The name of the village they passed through. A remark on how the horses are faring. A brief story about a camp Moss and Lark and the others had made on the riverfront once, and how the lake reminds Moss of it.

She reads it again, and then a third time, but she can’t summon the words or the energy to add anything else. She scribbles an I love you at the bottom of the page and signs beside Moss’s name, and then she sets the letter aside and follows Moss’s gaze across the water.

The lake has turned warm and pink beneath the sun. Even the rocks and the trees glow in the golden light.

It’s beautiful. She knows that, logically. Beautiful, and peaceful, and Moss looks so at home in all of it.

Tenar looks across the lake, pulls her knees up to her chest, and feels nothing at all.

-

One thing she and Lark have always had in common, even back when the two of them and everyone they knew thought they would never do more than tolerate each other, is the need to act.

It comes from different places—of course it does, it always does, with them. But the urge, the discipline, is exactly the same. They must remain busy. Must be helpful. Must work and care and protect for as long as there is work to be done, things to care for, people to protect. They will not—cannot—abide sitting still.

So it’s no surprise that, when Lark retires early in the evening to join a Tenar who has yet to get out of bed, she’s clearly terrified.

Not that she shows it. Tenar can feel her eyes on her as she unclasps the belt around her waist and lays her dagger on the table, but when she looks up, Lark’s gaze darts away, busying herself with her layers and her boots. Then she crosses the room, going to the window and pulling the curtains open for the first time that day. Tenar winces in anticipation, but the light that comes through is soft, tinged blue with the ghost of a sun that’s already dipped below the horizon.

“I asked for food to be brought up in a bit,” Lark says. She lingers at the window another moment before turning around and finally facing the bed. “Apparently Ida’s made stew.”

Tenar says nothing. She hadn’t quite raised her head at Lark’s entrance, but she lets it fall deeper into the pillows now all the same.

Lark crosses the room quietly. A hunter’s walk. Tenar isn’t sure if she’s meant to be predator or prey. She reaches the bed and kneels beside it, and Tenar feels a distant pang of disappointment.

“Are you feeling alright?” Lark’s hand comes to her forehead. Her fingers are cool. They shake slightly against Tenar’s skin.

“I’m fine, Lark.”

“You haven’t left this room all day.”

She closes her eyes. “The staff are nosy.”

“Busybodies, the lot of them,” Lark agrees. “But they care about you.”

Tenar doesn’t respond.

“Please look at me.”

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to see the concern in Lark’s gaze, and she can’t bear to think of whatever Lark is seeing in her own.

Lark sighs, quiet and small. Then, even quieter, “You’re scaring me, Tenar.”

She opens her eyes. Lark is looking down, her brow furrowed. She’s pulled her hand back, and it rests on the bed by Tenar’s head, fingers curled loosely, thumb brushing back and forth over the sheet, the movement small and nervous and likely completely unnoticed by her.

“It’s not him,” Tenar breathes. She musters the energy to pull her arm free from the blanket and reach out, covering Lark’s hand with her own. “I promise it’s not.”

Lark breathes out. “I won’t pretend that isn’t a fear of mine. But...that wasn’t what I meant.”

Tenar frowns. Lark tilts her head up again. She lays her other hand on top of Tenar’s, then leans forward and presses her lips to Tenar’s knuckles.

Tenar can feel her breath against her fingers when she says, “You can’t keep going like this. I don’t want to push you. I never want to force you into something you’re not ready for. But you can’t heal like this.”

Tenar’s fingers twitch between Lark’s. “What if I can’t heal at all?”

“You can,” Lark whispers fiercely. “You can. Even if it’s hard. Even if it takes so much longer than you want. You can, Tenar, but—but something has to change before it can happen.”

“Like what?”

Lark doesn’t respond. Her eyes search Tenar’s, and as Tenar looks back at her, something breaks in her gaze. She drops her head again. Her forehead presses against their joined hands. When she breathes in, all Tenar can hear is the way the air shakes through her chest.

“What if you left?”

She doesn’t comprehend at first. All she can think of is how Lark’s voice is a cry, more tears than words, and it aches enough that Tenar starts to lift herself onto her elbow, intending to wrap an arm around her and guide her up and into the bed.

But then the words sink in, heavy enough to push her down onto the mattress again, and all she can do is stare.

“I’m sorry,” Lark says, wet and shaky enough that Tenar has to focus to understand her. “I don’t want—I can’t—but I can’t keep watching you do this. I need you to be able to find peace again, Tenar, and I don’t know if you can do that here.”

“You want me to go?”

“No.” Lark presses harder against their hands. “I never want you out of my sight again. But what I want matters so little in the face of what you need.”

“I don’t understand. I’m not going to abandon you. I’m not going to abandon Erathia.”

But the words taste bitter. Isn’t that exactly what she did?

“You wouldn’t be. I just—”

“Stop.” She isn’t sure if it’s meant as a plea or a command. Her hand twitches in Lark’s. “We don’t need to discuss this. Not when it’s making you so upset.”

“Tenar,” she breathes. “I’m scared for you.”

Tenar searches her face for a long moment, but all she can see are questions and hopes and worries that she can do nothing with.

She pulls her hand away and, with all the effort her lethargic body can muster, rolls to her other side, turning her back on Lark.

“Ask for dinner to be brought elsewhere,” she says to the empty bed in front of her. “I’m not hungry.”

All she can hear is Lark’s breathing, quiet and trembling. But then the mattress dips. Lark pushes to her feet.

“Just think about it. Please.”

Tenar closes her eyes again. She listens as Lark leaves the room, every quiet footstep a kick to the chest.

-

They stay by the lake for a couple more days—until Moss gets bored by the water, or bored by Tenar, and declares it time to move on.

For a week, the landscape and the setting sun are the only things that change. They pass by people who recognize her, and people who don’t. They sleep in the woods, and in a field not far from the road, and, once, in a cave where Moss occupies herself by whistling and listening to the echo.

Moss starts talking more during the days, questions and comments and snarky little asides that are seemingly only encouraged by Tenar’s passive, wordless answers.

“Do you want to stop by the river and try to catch some fish for dinner?”

“Are you as tired of riding as I am? Let’s get down and stretch our legs for a bit.”

“That merchant was enough of an asshole, he would’ve fit right in with your old council.”

It’s relentless enough that it becomes grating. If Tenar can muster the energy for a verbal answer, Moss will leave her be for a while. But if she can’t, the attempts at conversation just keep coming.

“Would staying in a city be better?” Moss asks one afternoon. They’re at a fork in the road, and Moss has pulled them to a complete stop while she decides whatever meaningless direction to head in next.

Tenar shrugs.

“Shall we just keep walking aimlessly until the horses die of boredom?”

She knows Moss can see the way her hands curl around the reins. She forces her jaw to unclench and says, “Whatever you like, Moss.”

“See, no, that’s not going to work.”

Tenar turns to scowl at her—the first time she’s looked at her all day. Moss is already staring back, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m happy to travel with you, Tenar,” she says, voice even, “but I’m not the one searching for something out here. Whatever you’re looking for, we’re not going to find it through my blind guessing.”

“I’m not looking for anything, I just—”

“You just needed to leave the city so you could stop acting like a ghost. Except now all you’re doing is haunting the roads instead of the palace.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come along,” Tenar snaps. Her horse shifts beneath her, catching her agitation.

“You asked me to.”

“Because Lark insisted!”

“Well, Lark was right, and now you’re stuck with me, so even if you have to close your eyes and point, will you just pick a damn direction?”

Tenar glares. Moss glares back. Unflinching. Unyielding. Tenar grinds her teeth, then taps her heels and angles the reins, starting down the road northeast at a quick enough pace it takes Moss a moment to catch up.

Moss falls mercifully quiet after that, and Tenar doesn’t so much as look at her for the rest of the day.

-

On the days when she isn’t numb, she’s restless. She paces about the castle, going everywhere and avoiding everyone, trying to find the thing that will soothe her agitated mind.

But curling up with a book in the library reminds her of how little she’s accomplished. Practicing forms in the courtyard exposes her to the stares—real and imagined—of the other guards who are out there training. Sitting in a shadowed corner of the hall leading to the kitchens grants her some quiet, but the smell of the roast Ida must be making drifts around her, making her stomach ache, hunger pains and nausea mixing inside of her.

They get a late snowfall, and she stands in one of the castle’s towers, watching the city go quiet and gentle beneath it. People huddle at street corners while children run about the emptied squares, dancing and chasing and trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Tenar leans her elbows on the windowsill and finds herself wincing at every peal of laughter.

She sits in a study with Ged, then leaves before an hour passes. Arren asks her to join him for lunch and she says no. She passes Moss in the hall, but Moss takes one look at her and raises an eyebrow, and Tenar turns on her heel and walks the other way, not wanting to hear a word.

She stands in her and Lark’s room, and her throat aches with a scream. Her chest tightens around a sob. She wants Lark so desperately she can’t breathe, and at the same time, she never wants Lark to see her like this again. She’s so damn tired of doing this to her, to them.

She crosses to the balcony, thinking maybe fresh air will clear her thoughts, but she stops cold at the door—at her reflection in the glass, half-blurred by shadow. She thinks of herself in the void. How weak she was. How alone. How helpless.

How violent.

A scream tears from her throat, vicious and broken and not her own. She staggers forward and strikes at the glass.

It shatters before her. Blood gathers around her knuckles and drips between her fingers, down to the shards now glinting on the floor.

Tenar stares down at it, her breathing heavy. She flexes her hand. It stings.

She staggers back with a gasp. Her ears are ringing. She grabs the bottom of her dress and tugs until she’s able to tear a strip free. She wraps her knuckles haphazardly, then sink to her knees and begins picking up the shards of glass, praying that Lark doesn’t return to their chamber for a while longer.

-

The road Tenar chose takes them into the hills, and it isn’t long before they come across fields of goats grazing, dogs and goatherds walking among them, keeping watch. A young boy with a crook twice his size trots along behind his father, his eyes locked on Tenar and Moss until they round a bend that takes them out of sight.

A half day passes, and they start coming across herds that are fenced in.

“There’ll be a town nearby,” Moss says. This time, she doesn’t even look for a response. “I’d ask whether you want to visit or avoid it, but we should probably get more feed for the horses.”

“I guess you have your answer, then.”

“I’m jumping for joy.”

They come into the town as the sun is beginning to touch the horizon. It’s small, but it must be a market day, because the streets are still bustling with a quiet energy. The stablemaster sells them feed and tells them he has a room to rent if they want to board their horses and stay for the night.

Moss looks at Tenar. Tenar shrugs. They agree and hand him the money and wander further into the town to see if they can find a warm meal before retiring for the night. Tenar pulls her hood up as casually as she can as they slip into the crowd.

She’s never faltered in a crowd before, but the press of people around her—the noise of them, low but relentless, punctuated by a child’s shout, a man’s loud, sudden laughter—rises around her. Or perhaps it’s her own body sinking, drowning slowly in plain slight.

“Tenar?”

She blinks and looks over at Moss, whose impatience dissipates as soon as their eyes meet.

“What?” she asks, genuinely not sure if Moss asked her a question or just called her name. Moss frowns.

“Are you—”

She sees him over Moss’s shoulder. Tall, that helmet, scarred and misshapen, covering his face. Not broad by any means, but imposing, his presence dark enough it demands attention, pulling others in, consuming the light around him.

She sees the drape of his cloak fluttering around him as he strides through the crowd. The whip at his hip, coiled and cruel. The glow of his eye as it finds her—as it stares straight into her, past her body and to the part of her he had trapped, silenced, imprisoned.

Moss appears in front of her, hands out to press against her shoulders as she steps forward.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. Tenar ignores her and tries to move around her. Her hands are shaking. Her entire body is shaking, and she hates the fear he instills in her, even now, but she will die before she lets him hurt anyone in her kingdom again.

“Ten—stop.” Moss pushes again, hard enough to make her stumble—hard enough to break her gaze. Tenar snarls, furious and frantic, trying to find him again, to stop him—

But he isn’t there. In his place is a man. Wrinkled, balding, an old burn scar on his face and neck. A coil of rope at his hip, functional and innocent. A shawl wrapped around his shoulders, protecting him from the slight chill of the afternoon.

Just a man. Not Vecna. Not a threat at all.

“Tenar,” Moss says again. She’s still holding onto Tenar’s shoulders.

“Moss,” she breathes. “He—”

People are watching them now. Whispers are taking over the hum of the crowd, tension rising as more and more people realize something is happening and fall still to watch. The man notices Tenar and pauses, his head tilting, eyes searching her curiously, and then knowingly.

“Okay, come on.” Moss pushes her again, gentler this time, turning her around and placing a hand on her back to guide her out of the crowd. Tenar closes her eyes and moves blindly to wherever Moss guides her. Her hands come up to her hood, pulling it further down, fingers digging into the fabric until it’s pulling against her neck.

“Here.” Moss’s voice is distant now, muffled by the ragged breath in Tenar’s ears. She feels the hands on her move, and then she’s leaning back against a wall. She presses against it, feeling the brick through her shirt, trying to get it to scrape against her skin and wake her up.

“Tenar, you need to breathe.”

“Leave me alone,” she snaps, but it comes out gasping. Desperate. Moss moves closer to her, and she flinches back into the wall.

“No. Now open your eyes.”

“Just—”

“Open your eyes, Tenar.”

She does, if only to glare at Moss. They’re tucked back along a side street, far enough away from the market that she can’t see anyone else. The buildings around them are close enough that they’re shaded from the sun. Moss is close, too, her back turned toward the main road, shielding Tenar from view should anyone wander this way.

Tenar sinks further against the wall. She coughs once, tight and strained. Tenar, you need to breathe.

Somehow, it’s Lark’s voice she hears.

She breathes in, and then out, and then in again. Moss’s stance relaxes, though she stays close. Her eyes search Tenar’s face.

“Do you want to explain why the fuck you looked like you wanted to kill a random man back there?” The words are sharp, but Moss’s voice isn’t completely unkind.

Tenar breathes in again. “He looked like—I saw him, Moss.”

“Saw—oh.” Sympathy creeps into Moss’s gaze. Tenar looks away. “He—it wasn’t him.”

“I know.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know.”

“You killed him.”

“I—” Tenar cuts off and stares at her.

“What?” Moss shrugs. “You did.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but when it comes down to it, it’s an irrefutable fact.

Still, she looks away again and mutters, “I killed for him, first.”

“Tenar—”

“Did you still want to find a meal? We should do so before night falls.”

Moss sighs. “No. We have plenty of food with us, still. Let’s just call it a night.”

Tenar nods. Her gaze slides past Moss, staring at the road again. When Moss leads them away—further down the back street, away from the market and the crowd—it takes a long moment for her to find the strength to push off the wall and follow.

-

She dreams of the dark and the cold. The ripple of water around her.

She dreams of her kingdom burning, the cries of her people echoing from afar, screaming her name, shouting at each other to run.

She dreams of Vecna’s voice in her ear, coiling around her mind, dripping down her spine, spreading to every muscle in her body, bidding her to march forward and draw her sword.

She dreams of Lark’s voice, and when she opens her mouth to call back, no sound comes.

In the void, her demon looks down on her. Chin raised. Eyes black. Her scrapes and bruises reflected on skin that isn’t her own.

It isn’t the terror that jolts her awake, but the grief. She wakes to the sound of her own sob, and when she opens her eyes and sees only darkness, she cries out, thrashing, searching for that demon.

“Tenar!”

Lark’s voice, low but urgent. Arms around her, too much and not enough. Tenar lashes out, but Lark holds on, pressing closer, her voice in her ear as she continues reaching for her.

“It’s me, it’s just me. You’re safe, Tenar. Everyone’s safe. It’s okay.”

The words sink in, but all Tenar can do is cry. Wretched and violent, even in this, she curls into Lark’s arms and lets anguish overcome her.

-

“Do you want to talk about it?” Moss asks the next day.

They’re back on the road. Thick gray clouds hang heavy in the sky, blocking the sun and threatening rain to accompany the chilly breeze that follows them through the countryside. She pulls her cloak tighter around herself, telling herself it’s the cold, and nothing else, that has her shrinking.

She doesn’t answer, and this time, Moss doesn’t push.

They keep going, and the rest of the day passes silently.

-

It’s still too early in the season for real warmth, but the sun shines brightly enough on the grounds to keep most of the chill at bay, especially once Tenar starts moving.

She forces herself to move through her warm-ups, the scoldings of Ged and the castle’s healers ringing in her ears. But she doesn’t have the patience for much more to that. She has work to do.

It’s a long road to recovery. A road that’s become familiar to them all over the years. Arren’s back still twinges from time to time, forcing him to stop and brace himself with a hand to the scar at his waist. Lark’s knees ache in the cold. Sometimes she’ll wake with the blankets tangled around her legs, her body remembering the ruins of the tower pinning her to the ground.

Familiarity doesn’t make it easier, though. Tenar can’t stand the strain in her muscles, the way her limbs give out hours earlier than they did before. The ache that never quite leaves her bones. The raking of her breath in her chest, reminding her that she doesn’t even have the strength to fill her lungs the way she used to.

She adjusts her grip on her sword, forces a deep breath in, then raises her blade and swings, slow and measured, her body falling into a practiced rhythm.

She’s never forgotten a form, not even as a child. Placing a blade in the princess’s hands was frowned upon, and only her father and a handful of the younger, more rebellious guards in the barracks would permit her to practice. Time with a weapon was short; she had no interest in wasting it trying to remember steps.

She has all the time in the world now, supposedly, but her body has abandoned her. She moves slowly through her steps, breathes too hard when she holds her stances. The edge of her blade sways, unsteady, uncertain, unreliable.

Unacceptable.

It’s been weeks, now. Weeks, and everything still hurts. She’s still so weak.

She doesn’t understand. She was never this weak under him. She was capable of dragging her scarred, broken body into the fray for days on end if he commanded it. Even with broken ribs, and a week without sleep, and her blood dripping fast and hot into the grass beneath her, it still took both Lark and Arren to subdue her.

Now, she can’t even spend twenty minutes in the training yard before her knees start to shake beneath her.

She isn’t doing enough. If she doesn’t regain her strength, she won’t be ready for the next terrible thing that befalls her kingdom. She won’t be able to defend her people. She won’t be able to protect her family. She won’t be able to stand at Lark’s side and face whatever comes for them together.

She straightens, grits her teeth, and forces herself to begin again.

It’s hard work. That’s something she’s always reveled in. The effort, the struggle, the rush in her chest when she finally gets it right.

Now there’s only a burn. In her chest, and in her side, an old cut that protests every time she swings her sword. She ignores it and keeps going.

Strike high. Duck low. Plant her feet, but don’t become stagnant. Motion, balance, speed, ferocity.

Her arm shakes, her blade refusing to stay steady in her grip. She growls under her breath and tries again.

Strike high. Duck low. She stumbles through her footing, and her knee buckles for a second before she catches herself.

“Your Highness,” someone calls from the edge of the yard. “Can I bring you some water? A towel?”

“No—thank you,” she says, the pleasantry barely making it through her teeth.

She drags her sword back up into the air. Strike high. Duck low. The cut in her side is searing, every ragged breath setting it alight.

“Your Highness—”

Strike high. Duck—

Her leg gives. She catches herself on her knee, the bone cracking against the stone. Her sword clatters beside her. Spots dance in her vision.

Weak, she snarls at herself. She digs her knuckles into the ground until they sting, too. When she lifts her hand, it comes up bloody.

She drags her leg in until she can push herself up. Her knee throbs. Her side—

She places her hand at her side and feels the blood seeping through her clothes. She brings it up to her face to confirm. Her fingers are stained with it. They’re trembling.

“Call a healer!” someone shouts. Tenar curls her fingers into a fist, nails digging into her palm, trying to stop the shaking.

“Your Highness.” Voices around her, kind and gentle and far too close. She bites back a scream as she feels hands on her, trying to support her, trying to guide her back inside and to the ward. She closes her eyes, shoving down the part of her that thrashes and snarls in response, and she keeps herself rigid, refusing to lean into their touch, as they lead her away.

-

Moss pushes, and then she doesn’t. She needles away at Tenar until something snaps—until she’s forced to back off, neither of them having broken through anything.

They find a market to trade in. They drop their most recent letters off with a courier. They spend a day at the edge of a creek, letting the horses rest, Moss pretending not to watch Tenar while Tenar pretends to sleep.

Three days go by. Five. A week.

Tenar wakes with a gasp, a familiar glowing eye fading into the stars overhead.

“Tenar?” Moss mumbles from her bedroll a few feet away.

Tenar rubs a hand over her face. No tears—that’s something, at least. She runs her fingers through her hair, catching on a tangle and tugging harshly. The sting wakes her a little more.

“Go back to sleep, Moss.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Ten—”

“Leave me be, Moss. I’m trying to sleep.”

She can feel Moss’s glare, but she doesn’t look over to meet it. She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up to her chin, and stares dully across the grass until the sun rises.

And it does, slow and pale and condemning. Moss is still watching her when they rise and wordlessly start to pack their things. Tenar’s head starts to ache—from the lack of sleep or the way her jaw has been clenched for hours, she isn’t sure.

A thin, endless layer of clouds overtakes the sky and stays there as morning crawls on, turning the entire world gray. They follow the road straight north. Tenar moves them silently through every crossroads, refusing to give Moss the chance to question her.

Midday comes and goes, and the road widens around them. They fall in with more travelers—people driving wagons, or walking alongside a horse-drawn cart, or riding, like them, if their clothes are finer. And countless people on foot. Travelers and traders at first, and then others, people without heavy packs or serious weapons.

The city comes into view as the meager light of the day starts fading. Moss tugs her reins and moves to ride closer to her. Tenar tells herself not to mind it—it’s courteous, after all, as the crowd grows around them—but her hands still tighten around the reins.

A scoff tells her that Moss notices.

“We can change course, if you don’t want to be in the city,” Tenar says, voice low and even.

“Can we? I was under the impression your goal was to keep walking north until the road ended. Maybe step off the face of the earth without another word.”

“As if you could keep your thoughts in long enough for that to happen.”

“You’re lucky I’m talkative, Highness.” Moss hisses the title under her breath, baring her teeth when Tenar turns to glare at her. It’s the first time they’ve met each other’s eyes all day. “Otherwise you’d have gone mad out here days ago.”

“Just make a choice: do we keep going or not?”

“Why should I decide? Aren’t you leading us, today?”

“Choose, Moss.”

“That’s right. You’re not leading—you’re running.”

“Excuse me?” Tenar’s arms jerk, pulling her horse to a stop. Moss halts, too, raising one eyebrow at her—a challenge. Tenar feels very suddenly as if she’s walked into a corner.

The crowd parts around them, people grumbling and shooting them dirty looks as they brush past. Tenar works her jaw and forces herself to turn away from Moss. She doesn’t want to argue with her, and she definitely doesn’t want to argue with her on the open road.

“City it is, then,” she mutters before starting forward again. She hears Moss’s impatient sigh, but ignoring her seems to be the easiest path, so Tenar keeps her gaze stubbornly ahead.

They board the horses at a stable on the outskirts of the city and continue in on foot. They pass a handful of market stalls, and the blistering heat of a blacksmith’s forge, and an inn with a worn front path and double doors propped open, warm light spilling onto the road. The crowd thickens around them as they head into the central square, then thins again as they reach the far side.

The sky grows darker. The streets grow quieter.

“What are we even looking for?” Moss asks.

Tenar just keeps walking. She has no answer, and both of them know it. But moving is better than stopping, and moving forward is better than thinking about any other directions.

Perhaps Moss is right. Perhaps she’ll just keep going until she reaches the end of the world. Whatever land lies beyond Erathia, or whatever mysteries are beyond that.

“You’re not going to even pretend to know?” asks Moss. She laughs when Tenar stays silent. The sound is harsh. Impatient. “It’s strange. We’ve been through a lot together, but I never imagined I’d ever see you being a coward.”

That gets her to stop. She turns on her heel, and she knows she’s going to see that same knowing, raised eyebrow again, knows she’s playing right into Moss’s hands, but she can’t bring herself to care this time. She rounds on her, and she steps forward, fists clenched and jaw tight as she struggles to keep her voice low.

“And just how am I being a coward?”

Moss doesn’t flinch at her tone. “Like I said before—you’re running. From me. From whatever nightmare woke you up last night. From making a damn decision about where to go or what to do—you’re afraid of all of it, and you know what, that’s fair. But for the first time in your life, you’re letting that fear win.”

“You have no idea—”

“No, I don’t.” Moss’s voice is infuriatingly calm. Tenar steps back, anger heaving in her chest, burning up the back of her neck. “Because you won’t share it. Because you’re afraid of that, too.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You wouldn’t be this angry if I was wrong.”

Tenar bites back a growl. She turns away again. “I’m not having this conversation with you. Not like this.”

“Of course not. Coward.”

“I mean it, Moss—”

“Yeah? Then do something about it.” Moss grabs her arm and yanks her back around. “Prove me wrong. Make me shut up, at least.”

She tugs her arm free. “Shut up.”

“That’s not good enough, Your Highness, and you know it. You know you’re running, and you hate it, so fucking face me already!”

“I said shut up!”

“Because damn it all, Tenar, I know you aren’t just numb all the time! I know you’re terrified, and I know you’re furious, and if you ever want to actually figure this shit out, then you need to get the fuck over yourself long enough to feel it, even if that messes with your perfect royal image or—”

“Shut the fuck up, Moss!”

She shoves her, hard enough that Moss stumbles, nearly losing her footing. Hard enough that the few people still within earshot all pause and look their way. Hard enough that the triumph on Moss’s face flickers, revealing a concern so earnest Tenar feels it lodged in her throat.

“It’s okay,” Moss says.

Her entire demeanor has changed. She almost sounds like Lark. The tightness in Tenar’s throat turns to a sob.

Moss reaches for her. “Ten—”

“Don’t.” Tenar stumbles back this time. Her eyes are stinging. Her hands shake as she bats away Moss’s touch.

Moss is right; she is a coward.

But then, they both knew that.

She turns away again, and she breaks into a run. She ignores the way Moss cries out after her. She ignores the way tears blur her vision, blinding her as she tears through the unfamiliar streets. She ignores the startled shouts of people she runs past. She ignores it all until her lungs burn and the old cut in her side stings and her legs tremble so viciously she has to catch herself on the wall as a sob finally shakes out of her.

But the tears don’t come. She beats her fist against the wall, feeling the cold scrape of brick. She wants to cry. She wants to scream. She wants to do something with this tightness in her chest, rising and rising until it threatens to throttle her.

She coughs, just to ease the pressure, and suddenly she can’t stop. She heaves, gasping and choking on nothing, desperation scraping against her throat until her arm gives out and she collapses fully against the wall, pressed against the brick.

But the brick doesn’t give. It stays steady beneath her, and eventually, the fit passes. The dark at the edge of her vision clears, and the alley comes into focus around her. A breeze flutters past, cool and gentle on her heated skin. Tenar sighs, gives another weak cough, then turns to press her back to the wall.

The street around her is empty. Empty and dark, completely hidden from the lights of the main path. She wonders, vaguely, if she should feel unsafe here. If other young women would walk through an alley like this and feel uneasy.

She doesn’t. Few things pose a threat to her these days, and the ones that do—well, there’s nothing she could do to stop it, anyway. Nothing here can harm her.

Nothing but her own isolation. Tenar closes her eyes. Lark had said this wasn’t an exile, and it isn’t, but maybe that’s what Tenar deserves.

Maybe it’s what she should do. Keep walking until she reaches the end of the world. Let Moss go so she doesn’t have to keep putting up with her. Let the kingdom go so she can’t fail it again.

She straightens, pushing off the wall and stepping forward.

She could. Moss won’t find her—not if she really tries to disappear. People might recognize her, but only for a little while. She can keep her hood up until she reaches the kingdom’s borders. Or she can cut her hair short like a man’s. It would be harder to hide her ears, but perhaps with her cuffs, people won’t know what to think of her.

She pulls Lark’s dagger from her waist and unsheathes it, staring down at the blade.

Carry me with you, Lark had told her, and go where you need to go.

Tenar curls her fingers around the handle, feeling the soft flex of the leather, molded to Lark’s grip. She tightens her hold on it and imagines Lark’s fingers against hers.

Worry about you. Care for you.

She could leave. She could set off on her own, disappear for good. She’d survive, but that’s all she would do. And what kind of existence would it be, alone in her self-exile, isolating herself with her grief, her guilt, her hopeless longing for all the things that have been torn away from her?

Footsteps press softly into the dirt, walking up from around the corner. Tenar keeps her eyes on the dagger as Moss appears beside her.

She pauses, and Tenar can feel her gaze darting over her. But then she steps forward until she can lean against the wall next to Tenar. The silence hangs, impassive, as they both stand there.

Then,

“If you’re going to hurt yourself, you shouldn’t do it with Lark’s blade. It will haunt her forever.”

“I’m not going to hurt myself.” The words are quiet, barely there, but her voice is steady enough. She slides the blade back into its sheath and holds it to her chest, closing her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”

“What do you want?”

So many things, all of them out of reach.

She wants the nightmares to stop, wants to never see his face in her memories or her imagination again. She wants to be free of the fear. The grief. The shame. She wants her mother’s wisdom and her soft touch. Her father’s courage and his warm laugh.

She wants to be able to meet Moss’s eyes without it feeling forced. She wants the easy laughter she used to have with Arren. She wants to feel at peace beside Ged again.

She wants Lark so badly—her warmth, her rough voice, her gentle hands. Her humor and her smile, her freckles and her messy hair. She wants to hold her again and feel like she can actually protect her, can actually be worthy of everything she has given to her.

She wants and she wants and she wants so badly that it forces her a step back, and she feels her shoulders hit the cool brick of the wall behind her again. She shivers. She wants to be out of this cold. She wants to sleep in an actual bed tonight. She feels an ache in her stomach, and she wants…

“I want to get a room at the inn we passed,” she says. “I want a bowl of soup, and warm bread, and then I want to sleep.”

She looks over. Moss is already watching her, an eyebrow raised. This time, Tenar just breathes in, letting her look.

After a long moment, Moss shrugs.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

-

The staff in the ward are polite enough not to scold her as they tend to her side. They avoid her gaze instead, dropping their eyes as secure a fresh bandage and press a cup of something warm and earthy into her hand and tell her to rest.

Ged, however, has no such restraint.

“You’re an idiot,” he says as he strides into the private room they’ve placed her in.

She doesn’t have to be here, of course. She had just been considering leaving—rest is the last thing she needs to waste her time on—when he walked in. But Ged crosses his arms over his chest and lingers in the doorway, as if he knows what she’s thinking.

“Does Lark know?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Not yet, but I’m sure she will.”

She looks away from him. After a long moment, she hears his sigh.

“How’s the pain?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re lying?”

“It’s nothing of consequence.”

“It shouldn’t have happened at all. What are you trying to prove, anyway?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Maybe it is—I just didn’t think you were that much of a fool.”

“How is it foolish to want to be strong enough to protect Erathia?”

Ged scoffs. “It’s not. It’s just foolish to think that strength will come from ignoring what your body needs.”

“It’s been weeks—”

“And it will take weeks,” he snaps. “What would you say if it was Lark pushing herself to the point of collapsing in the yard?”

“It’s different.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes it is, Ged,” she says, raising her voice. “I was never this weak, not even when he had me on death’s door, and now I’m lying here broken because of a training form—this isn’t right.”

“Don’t you dare—” Ged snarls out the words, then stops, gathering himself. But his voice is still sharp when he tries again, “Don’t you dare compare yourself to when you were in his grasp. You could keep going then because he forced you to.”

“Then why can’t I force myself?”

“Because now your body is able to protect itself again.”

Tenar lifts her head, frowning. Ged sighs. His arms drop. He steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed beside her.

“The body’s greatest feats of strength come from the greatest moments of danger. There’s a story I read once, years ago, in some healing tome—it doesn’t matter, the point it, there’s this story about a woman whose child was pinned beneath a fallen tree. They were too far in the forest to run for help, and no one was around to hear her shouting. So the woman lifted the tree herself, and her child was able to crawl free. But in doing so, she tore her muscles and caused irreparable damage—damage she didn’t even feel until after her child was safe.”

“Sounds more like fable than fact.”

“Even if it is, it’s based in truth. The woman was capable of strength she should not have possessed, but only because such extraordinary circumstances forced her body past its limits. That’s what Vecna was doing for you—breaking down your boundaries, cutting off feelings of pain and self-preservation so he could push you to your absolute limit.”

She scowls down at her hands in her lap. “I don’t like that only he could get me to that point.”

“Who’s to say that’s true?” Ged says, and his voice is light again. Casual, like he’s discussing a book with her. “But right now—and, hopefully, for the rest of our lives—you have no reason to push yourself that far.”

“We’re never that lucky.”

Ged huffs. It sounds almost like a laugh. “No.” Then he pushes to his feet. “You’re banned from training for the rest of the week, by the way. And when you do return, light forms only. And a wooden sword.”

She frowns at him. “The staff didn’t say that.”

“No. I am.” He starts to walk out, then pauses in the doorway and turns back to her again. “For the record, I wouldn’t say your greatest feats of strength came from him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your body survived him. Your mind overcame him. That’s more impressive than any feat in battle. If you ask me.”

He turns and walks out, leaving her staring at the doorway, lost in thought.

-

“I knew it was coming before it actually happened.”

Tenar speaks the words into the morning air ahead of her. They’re traveling again, cutting through a field of wildflowers, both of them too tired to deal with the crowds coming and going on the main road out of town.

She sees Moss turn to her out of the corner of her eyes. She feels her gaze linger even as Tenar stares stubbornly forward, but it isn’t as heavy as it has been the past few days. After a moment, she turns to look straight ahead, too.

Tenar lets out a breath. It’s easier, then, to keep talking.

“I knew something was coming, I should say. I didn’t know what, exactly. Not yet.”

“How could you? No one knew.”

“Still. I felt it. And I—I was afraid.” It hurts to admit, the words banging against her chest, her throat, her teeth on the way out. “Lark was the only one with me. I didn’t know what I would do to her if—so I locked her in the room, and I ran.”

“I remember. We couldn’t find her at first, after—after you disappeared. Arren was terrified.”

“Sometimes I wonder, if I hadn’t—would she have been able to stop me? Stop all of it?”

Moss doesn’t respond at first. They keep walking, the sound of the wind in the grass and their horses’ slow, measured steps filling the space between them.

“She would have had to hurt you to stop you,” Moss says. “And she wouldn’t have been able to hurt you. Not then.”

Tenar closes her eyes. That’s what she’d thought, too.

It’s odd, though, hearing that her instincts were right. That she did one thing in all of this right.

“Is it—” Moss stops, and Tenar can hear the frown behind her words. “Is it better or worse, having felt it coming?”

“I don’t know,” she says truthfully. “But I still think about it, sometimes, those moments leading up to when he took over. I could recognize it, but I could do nothing to stop it.” She opens her eyes and glares ahead. “If it happened again, I wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

“I don’t know,” Moss muses, her voice much lighter than Tenar’s. “You broke free from the void. And once you did, you didn’t let him claim you again. Maybe you would be able to stop it—or at least buy enough time for us to help you stop it.”

Tenar considers it, and as she does, something in her chest loosens. “That’s…a comforting thought.”

“Really? Because that would kind of entail one of us knocking you out. But hey, if that’s what you need, I’m happy to take a pommel to your temple anytime.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tenar laughs.

She’s startled by the sound of it. By the way Moss looks over at her, she is, too. But then she looks ahead again, making no comment. Tenar smiles a little.

They carry on, conversation giving way to companionable silence before coming back to conversation again.

And so it goes as the days continue to pass. They sit in their saddles and look ahead as they talk, or lie on their backs and stare up at the stars. Moss asks questions quietly, her voice soft with thoughtfulness, and yet always wrapped up in something casual. Slowly, with every one, it becomes easier for Tenar to answer.

Moss passes her the latest letter to sign one night, and Tenar reads through it, looking for a record of their conversations. She’s written about the inn they stayed at a few days back, and the apple tree they picked breakfast from yesterday, and the big, fluffy dog that trotted alongside them for half a mile as they rode today, but there’s no mention of the way she’s managed to pry Tenar open just a little more. Tenar wonders if she’s keeping her confidence, or if she’s just giving her the excuse to tell Lark herself.

She lifts the quill to do just that, but like always, the words refuse to come.

She wants to. Oh, how she wants to. She wants to tell Lark everything, every minute of every day that’s passed since they saw each other last, and all the ways Tenar has missed her during each and every one of them.

But when she presses the quill to the parchment, the only thing that comes out is her usual I love you, followed by her name.

She sets the letter aside and bids Moss an early goodnight. She doesn’t look to see if disappointment crosses Moss’s face when she leaves. She just walks over to her bedroll, turns her back on her and the fire, and does her best not to think about it as she wills herself to sleep.

-

It isn’t late enough that Lark will be free yet, but it’s close enough—and Tenar has been gone from the castle long enough—that someone will surely be looking for her.

She can’t bring herself to turn around and take the main thoroughfare back up to the castle district, though. She doesn’t want to worry them—really, she would love for them all to forget about her entirely, at least until nightfall—but she just can’t summon the energy to drag herself back home.

So she keeps walking, hood up and head down, weaving anonymously through the streets the way she used to as a girl, quick and daring and eager to give her guards the slip.

She was never quite as successful as she wanted to be back then, so maybe it’s inevitable when she fails now, too.

She’s grabbed an apple from the stall at the corner of the market. The bucket is nearly empty, the price crossed out and written over as the owner—a short, redheaded man with stubble around his chin—attempts to sell the last fruits of the day. Tenar drops the morning’s full price into his hand anyway, murmuring a thank you under breath as she does.

“Sure, Your Highness.”

She stiffens and looks up at him, finding nothing but vitriol on his face. Tenar ducks her head quickly and turns away.

“Have you nothing to say?” he calls after her, louder now. “You’re content to just spend your days wandering idly through the city?”

It gets the market’s attention. Tenar pulls her cloak tighter around herself, but it does nothing to deter their stares. She pauses, her feet suddenly rooted to the cobblestone. A hush falls over the crowd, and his next words ring out, cruel and clear.

“While you enjoy yourself doing nothing, Your Highness, the rest of us are still struggling to get by after the destruction you caused.”

Tenar closes her eyes, but she lifts her hand and pulls back her hood. She turns back toward him, forcing herself not to flinch at the hatred in his eyes.

“Queen Lark works day and night to give Erathia what it needs to heal,” she says. Her voice comes out clear, too, calm and steady despite the way her hands are shaking.

It doesn’t matter. The man stares her down all the same.

“And what is it that you do?”

Tenar drops her gaze.

He makes a noise of disgust, then spits at her feet. Tenar watches it hit the stone.

“Thought so,” he mutters.

“You hold your tongue!”

Arren.

Tenar turns in time to see the crowd parting for him. He marches toward the man, sword half-drawn, a fury she’s never seen pointed at ordinary townsfolk painted across his face.

“How dare you—after everything she—”

Tenar steps into his path and catches him by the elbow before he can reach the man.

“Don’t,” she says, quiet enough that, for a moment, Arren seems like he’s going to pretend not to hear it. But then he stops. He slides the sword back into its sheath, but he doesn’t quite let it go as he continues to glare over her shoulder at the man.

Tenar doesn’t look back at him—doesn’t turn to see if he’s staring defiantly or quaking in his boots at the sight of Arren. It doesn’t matter. Not when every word he said is true.

She pushes at Arren’s arm until he relents and lets her turn him around. The crowd splits for them both this time, and she can hear the chatter of the market slowly rising again as they move through the streets and make their way back toward the castle.

-

They spend the night at another inn, in a village so small Tenar is a little surprised it even has an inn. They pay for their room early and, with nothing else to do, settle in a corner of the dining hall downstairs.

It’s easy enough to keep to themselves. Tenar’s hood is drawn, and Moss sits close enough to her to mutter under her breath to her whenever some man at another table gets too rowdy. Her comments have Tenar smirking as she watches the room.

It’s a nice place, that table of loud, increasingly drunken men aside. There’s a quiet game of cards happening on the far side of the room. A young couple sits close to the fire, curled up together, waving and greeting most everyone who walks through the doors by name. An ancient-looking woman sits at the bar, smiling and writing in a journal as another traveler sits beside her, telling her story after story.

The owner’s daughter flits from table to table, dropping off plates of food and freshly filled mugs with a charm and a competence that earns her quite a bit of coin even without the hefty handful of gold Tenar had given her when they ordered their meal.

Her smile slips when she passes by that table of men, though. It’s only for a moment, but it happens every time, her expression falling and her body tensing until she makes it past them and approaches her next table as if nothing happened.

“Creeps,” Moss mutters. Tenar glances her way and sees her eyes locked on the table—on the way a couple of the men turn and watch the poor girl as she crosses the room and ducks back behind the bar.

“They ought to be kicked out,” says Tenar.

“Yeah, but in a town this small, they might just be half the reason this place stays open.”

“Still.” Tenar watches the girl walk by them again, giving herself an extra couple feet of space as she drops off three mugs at a table nearby.

Moss hums in the back of her throat. She’s looking at Tenar, now, but Tenar barely notices. The girl is walking past the men’s table again, and this time, one of them leans back in his chair, holding his arm out to grab her by the waist as soon as she’s within reach.

Tenar stands, the scrape of her chair against the floor drawing some eyes from around the room. Not theirs, though.

It doesn’t matter. Her fingers are already wrapped around the hilt of Lark’s dagger, and a second later, the blade is embedded in the table, inches from the hand of the man who stopped the girl.

The entire inn falls silent.

Tenar strides across the room. She meets his eyes, and he has the good sense to drop his arm and shrink back in his chair. She reaches the table, yanks the dagger free, and turns her gaze to each of its occupants, staring every man down in turn.

“The next hand that reaches for this girl loses a finger.” She spins the blade around and sheathes it again, then fixes her glare back on the first man. “You’re lucky you’re getting that much of a warning.”

He clears his throat, his eyes turned down. “R-right, of course, I’m sorry, Miss. Too much drink. Won’t happen again.”

Tenar’s fingers flex around the blade. “See that it doesn’t.” She turns to the girl and tilts her head, beckoning her away from the table. Once they’re out of earshot of the men—and once the low chatter of the other patrons starts to fill the room again, she says, “I’m sorry. I can pay to fix the table.”

“No need,” the girl says. There’s something like laughter in her voice. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve seen all year.”

An hour later, she’s up in the room with Moss, who’s still cackling about the way the men had left generous tips before shuffling out, their heads down, flinching away from Tenar’s gaze.

“You realize you’re going to be a local legend, now,” Moss tells her as she flops into bed. “The mysterious cloaked woman who taught the town bums a lesson. And they’ll never even know who you are. Fuck everything else you’ve accomplished, Tenar, that was the greatest thing you’ve ever done.”

Tenar rolls her eyes, biting back her smile. She settles into her pillows, listening to Moss’s lingering laughter and the warm, muffled sounds of the patrons still in the hall below. She turns on her side and looks at Lark’s dagger, sitting in its sheath on the table beside her bed.

When she closes her eyes, it’s Lark’s amused smile that she sees.

-

“You should’ve let Arren hit him.”

Tenar sits at the foot of bed and watches Lark pace back and forth, crossing in front of her with every loop. She’s agitated, her hands flying, tugging at her clothes, running through her hair, moving to fiddle with a bow that isn’t there. And she’s glaring, her brow pulled down into a scowl so fierce Tenar knows she keeps staring at the floor just so she doesn’t point it her way.

“It’s not a crime to speak one’s mind.” She aims for calm as she says it, but the words come out too dull to really work.

Lark scoffs. “Is it a crime to be so ignorant?”

“It’s not his fault, Lark.”

“The fuck it isn’t! He wasn’t there, he didn’t risk his life to stop Vecna—he has no idea what he’s talking about, and so he has no right to speak against you.”

Tenar looks down. She runs her fingers along the quilt that covers their bed, watching the fabric ripple beneath her touch.

“Tenar.” Lark’s voice is quieter now, but there’s still something strangled behind it. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You know that, right?”

She curls her fingers into a fist and lets it rest atop the blanket. “He spoke as if the city were in ruins. As if most of the destruction didn’t happen outside our walls. As if you haven’t spent every waking hour serving him and everyone else in Erathia. Everything you’ve done—”

“Everything we’ve done.” Lark kneels before her, forcing Tenar to look at her again. She reaches out and covers Tenar’s hand with her own. “He would not be out there, selling apples and being an asshole in complete peace and safety, if you hadn’t protected this kingdom yet again.”

Tenar inhales slowly, but she can’t summon the breath or the energy to object. It doesn’t matter. Lark frowns up at her, and Tenar knows she hears her disbelief.

“I know it’s easier to believe him,” Lark says softly. “I know he only said what you’ve been telling yourself this whole time. But I’ll keep telling you the truth, over and over again, until I’m louder than those voices you’re listening to.”

“Lark…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tenar. It was never your fault.”

-

They send another letter off before they leave town. Moss finishes writing it as Tenar packs their bags the next morning, and then they switch, Tenar sitting with the quill to sign while Moss sits at the edge of her bed and tugs on her boots.

She smiles a little as she reads it over. The entire last page is just a description of the inn—and of Tenar intimidating those men.

Without really thinking about it, she writes, You’d have enjoyed the looks on their faces.

I miss you dearly, Lark.

Love, Tenar

If Moss notices anything different, she doesn’t say a word as she seals the letter. Together, they grab their things and make their way out of the inn.

They decide to follow the river south out of town. The next few days are spent by the water, passing travelers and fishermen and one decent sized port town, where the river widens enough to need a more formal crossing.

But the water has narrowed again by the end of the week, and they’re the only ones around when they decide to stop for the evening. Moss sets about making a fire to cook the fish they’d traded for earlier that day. She shoos Tenar away when she tries to help, so Tenar goes to sit at the edge of the water instead.

She watches the lazy drift of the river for a few minutes before her mind and her gaze start to wander. By the time Moss wanders over, she’s on her feet again, focused entirely on the flat, smooth stone in her hand. She tosses it, and it skips twice before veering off course and spiraling into the water with a splash.

“Weak,” says Moss. She bends down and picks up another stone, cocks her arm back, and throws. It skips three times across the river before landing in the shallow water on the other bank.

“Impressive.”

“Lark taught me. She’s even better at it.”

“I’m not surprised in the slightest.”

Moss writes to Lark again that night, but the sky is cloudy overhead, and the wind is just strong enough to keep their fire low, so she gives up with a huff after a few minutes and hands Tenar a much shorter letter to sign before going to bed.

Tenar sits with the parchment in front of her, reading and re-reading Moss’s words. She hadn’t said anything about the last city they passed through, or the fisherman they traded with who walked around with a cat on his shoulder, or even Tenar’s poor attempt at skipping stones.

She looks across the fire to where Moss is sprawled across her bedroll, her hair already a mess around her head. She smiles a little, then picks up the quill.

She writes about how the market at the port smelled entirely of fish, and how a child who couldn’t have been older than six tried to scam her in a dice game, and how that fisherman’s cat had stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes the entire time they were trading. She tells her that Moss showed her up when she tried to skip rocks, and before she knows it, she’s written about how she and Lark will have to sneak out of the city one day so Lark can teach her how to do it properly. She even tries her hand at sketching, doodling wildflowers and a crooked tree they saw yesterday and that cat’s intent eyes.

She writes and she writes and she writes, until her hand is cramping and her eyes are itchy and she’s shivering a little, squinting in the glow of the embers as she signs it:

All my love,

Tenar

Three days later, they pass a father and son on the road. The boy sits in front of his father in the saddle, a fur hat that’s much too big for him sitting so low on his head he has to keep jerking his chin to keep it off his eyes. He grins at Tenar and Moss as they pass, and he reminds Tenar so much of Ged—baby-faced, bright-eyed, beaming Ged, the way he was when they all first met—that she’s tempted to pull out a sheet of parchment and start a letter to Lark as they ride.

They stop at a tavern that night, and when Moss pulls the ink and parchment from their bags, Tenar takes them from her before she can even start writing. Moss shrugs and leaves her to it, and Tenar pretends not to notice the pleased grin she can’t quite hide.

-

When Tenar wakes, she does so suddenly and silently.

She isn’t sure what causes it. Not nightmares, for once—or at least, not ones so vivid that they linger after waking. There’s no noise in the room, no light or movement or presence that puts her on alert. She is simply awake. Thoroughly and completely awake, the fuzzy warmth of sleep vanishing from her mind the second she opens her eyes.

Beside her, Lark lies peaceful and unaware. Tenar watches her for a while, willing herself to be lulled back under by her soft, even breaths.

It doesn’t happen.

She rolls onto her back instead, careful not to disturb Lark. There are patterns in the canopy of the bed, intricate, beautiful designs carved into the wood, but they’re nearly impossible to make out in the darkness.

She closes her eyes, but her jaw is tight. Her limbs ache with a pain she can’t quite name—the same pain that echoes through her chest.

She rises carefully and lingers at the edge of the bed long enough to ensure Lark stays asleep, and then she slips out of the room as quietly as she can.

The halls are frigid, the stone floor frozen beneath her bare feet. She wraps her arms around herself and keeps walking, her feet carrying her through the castle without a plan. At least, that’s what she thinks. But then she rounds the corner and finds herself facing a corridor lines with portraits, and she wonders if maybe this is what’s been keeping her from sleep all along.

She still remembers the first time she learned the importance of this place. Her father had lifted her up into his arms and carried her slowly down the hall, pausing at each painting and holding her so she could look her ancestor in the eyes as he told her their name, their title, the greatest things they’d accomplished.

Somehow, she feels much smaller now, standing on her own two feet, short enough that she’d have to tilt her chin up to look any of them in the eyes.

She doesn’t. She keeps her head down as she drifts down the hall. But she still sees them in the corner of her vision, illuminated by moonlight. Men and women who look a little bit like her, and a lot unlike her. Pointed ears. Fair skin. Regal postures. Accusing eyes.

She comes to a stop before she even sees them. They’re together in their portrait, both of them standing, side by side. Equals, though many kings and queens before them posed differently.

Tenar lifts her head, but her eyes stay down. She sees her mother’s rings. Her father’s sword. Their hands intertwined.

Breathless, she forces herself to look up all the way.

Her parents look back at her. Their eyes are kind. Their faces are just how she remembers them, standing before her on that last morning. Her mother telling her how proud she is. Her father laughing at something she’d said.

“I’m sorry,” Tenar breathes, and they both just stare impassively back at her. Her knees buckle, and she stumbles forward, barely catching herself before she falls against the canvas. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I—I miss you.”

She sinks to the floor, unable to look up at them again. But she can’t leave them, either. So she curls up instead, her back pressed to the stone wall, her knees pulled up to her chest. When she cries, it echoes down the corridor. A dozen generations hear it, and none of them can do anything to make the sound less lonely.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before Lark finds her there. All she knows is that she’s frozen stiff, tears still drying on her cheeks when she looks up at her.

Lark’s eyes flicker up to the portrait of her parents, then back down at her. She nods a little, agreeing to something Tenar can’t even begin to voice, then steps forward and slides to the ground beside her. She reaches out wordlessly and gathers Tenar into her arms. Tenar presses her face into Lark’s neck, selfishly letting her keep the cold at bay once again.

-

They leave the river and wander through a stretch of forest, where Moss proves she’s better at climbing trees as well as skipping stones.

They come across a theater troupe performing in the middle of a bustling city square, and Moss spends the entire show whispering snarky comments that only Tenar can hear.

They spend an hour on the road riding beside a man who boasts endlessly about his swordplay. When he challenges Tenar to a duel, Moss has to stifle her laugh with a cough. Tenar bests him easily, and they somehow part ways without him ever realizing who they are.

They’re on foot, letting their horses graze in the meadow on the edge of a small village, when an older woman walks straight up to Tenar, bows low, and says, “Your Highness, what an honor it is to see you again.”

Tenar tenses. Moss does, too, throwing a concerned glance Tenar’s way but hanging back.

“You probably don’t remember me,” the woman says. “But oh, Your Highness, you haven’t aged a day.”

Realization aches in Tenar’s chest. She opens her mouth to respond, but she feels suddenly breathless. No words come.

“Mother,” someone calls. Another woman, much younger, runs up to join them. She links arms with her mother, relief flashing across her face before she looks at Tenar, and recognition fills her eyes instead. “Y-your Highness.”

“My daughter Fina, Your Highness,” the older woman says. “Oh, she was just a little thing last time you were here. Fina, do you remember?”

“Mother,” Fina says, looking apologetically at Tenar, “This is Queen Tenar.”

“Oh?” The woman’s face crumples, confusion flashing poignant and painful across her features. But then her expression clears. “Oh! Oh, yes, I apologize, Your Majesty, I—I forget things, sometimes.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Tenar manages to finally say. She does her best to swallow past the ache in her throat. “And I am not—Highness is fine. Tenar is fine, even.”

Moss and Fina watch her, concern and wariness and awkwardness floating in the air around them, but the old woman shakes her head and steps forward, no such hesitation to be found as she reaches out and takes Tenar’s hands. Her fingers are bony and cold, and they shake a little as she squeezes them around Tenar’s.

“You look so much like her, you know,” she says, so gently that Tenar is helpless against the way her eyes start to sting. “Your mother was an extraordinary woman. Even we could tell, way out here in our village.”

Tenar blinks. She wants to pull away. She squeezes the woman’s hands tighter, instead.

“She was.”

“And we can tell that she raised an extraordinary daughter. I’m so very sorry for your loss, Queen Tenar.”

Tenar nods. She feels Moss’s hand at her back. After a moment, the woman smiles and lets her go, and her daughter bows before leading her gently away.

Through it all—through every up and down, every person they meet, every wondrous or ordinary thing they see—she writes. She tells Lark of all of it, sometimes smiling to herself as she recalls it all, and sometimes wiping her eyes hastily so as not to wet the parchment.

And then there comes a day where they’re not doing much of anything at all. They’ve made camp by a small pond and have spent the hours lying in the grass, letting the horses graze while they talk about nothing.

Tenar sits with a half-written letter on her lap, and even though the sun is fair and bright overhead, and the breeze drifts by with the smell of wildflowers, she can’t bring herself to finish it.

“I don’t want to finish this,” she says out loud.

Moss looks over. “Well, you have to, because I’ve gotten too used to you doing it, and if we don’t keep sending them, Lark will be after my head when we get back.”

“Not if we return before this letter would arrive.”

She can see the way Moss tries to hide her smile—tries not to overwhelm her with her hope. Tenar has to bite back her own smile in response. It makes her grateful. She feels flooded with affection for Moss—for her quiet, relentless understanding, for the way she has stood unwavering by her side this entire time.

For the way she tilts her head, quirking an eyebrow as she says, “Are you sure? We’re having fun out here—and you just can’t get peace and quiet like this in the capital.”

“It is nice out here,” Tenar agrees slowly.

Moss nods. “It is. And I mean, I know she’s your wife and all, but is she really worth leaving all this behind?”

Tenar narrows her eyes. Moss is outright grinning now. She leaps to her feet right as Tenar lunges for her, her yelp turning to a laugh as she darts away through the grass.

She doesn’t stand a chance, though. Tenar ducks low and grabs her, hooking Moss over her shoulder as she stands upright.

“Truce!” Moss squeals as Tenar walks with her to the edge of the water. “I yield! Put me down, you madwoman!”

Tenar grins and steps into the pond.

“No, wait—”

She drops Moss into the water. Moss shrieks, then comes up sputtering. She scowls at Tenar and lurches forward, and Tenar can’t wade out of her reach in time. Water splashes around them as they both go down. They scuffle back and forth, pushing and slipping and laughing so hard Tenar’s ribs ache by the time she and Moss stumble out of the water and plop down, chests heaving, on the grass.

Moss wrings out her bright red hair and looks over at her. This time, she lets the hope shine through in her eyes.

“So…we’re going home?”

Tenar nods, letting the thought spread warm across her chest.

“We’re going home.”

-

She’s by the window again, looking for the moon in the blackened clouds that coat the night sky, searching for an answer other than the one she’s been avoiding, when she hears the bed shifting behind her.

“You’re awake.” There’s no question in Lark’s rough, tired voice. No surprise in the slightest. Just a quiet recognition, and an offer.

One that Tenar has forgotten how to accept.

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

She hears the rustle of the blankets being thrown off, then soft footsteps padding toward her.

“Exhaustion must be clouding your thoughts, if you think I’m just going to ignore you.”

“You need your rest. You have a busy day ahead of you, Queen Regent.”

Lark touches her shoulder. Even through her nightgown, Tenar feels the strength of her arm. The tremble of her fingertips.

“I have dealt with much worse on much less sleep,” whispers Lark. “And I will gladly do so again, if that’s what it takes to make sure you’re alright.”

Tenar’s shoulders slump against her will. Lark moves closer, wrapping her arms around her, and she gives in just enough to lean back into her.

“I’m not,” she breathes. “We both know it.”

“No one expects you to be. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

“But that’s just it. My whole life has been expectations, and now there are none. No image to project. No duty to uphold. No purpose—”

“That isn’t true.” Lark’s voice is firm. More awake now.

Tenar closes her eyes and gets lost in it. Certainty is a luxury that was torn from her—one she’s not sure she’ll ever enjoy again. She can’t help but revel in it when she hears it.

“You have a purpose, Tenar. You work toward it every day.”

She shakes her head. “I let them all down.”

Lark doesn’t ask who. Her kingdom, her people, her closest friends. Her family, her parents. Lark doesn’t ask, because she knows Tenar means all of them.

“You haven’t,” she says instead. “Not until you’ve given up.”

“It feels as if there’s nothing left to give up.”

Lark sighs. “You know, this is why…”

Tenar tenses, and Lark’s arms tighten around her. Acknowledgement. Or an apology, maybe, because she continues voicing the thought, anyway.

“It would be good, I think. If nothing else, it would get you out of the castle, where all you can do is sit idly, watching all the things you cannot do yet.”

“Yet,” Tenar echoes. “You have more faith in me than I do.”

“It works both ways,” Lark reminds her. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be carrying your sword.”

Tenar says nothing to that, but she feels Lark’s lips press against the side of her head, and she relaxes, just a little, again.

“But even if you’re right, Tenar, and you never take the throne again, it wouldn’t make you a failure. It wouldn’t mean you’re giving up. And maybe that’s what you will learn out there.”

“You want me to travel the kingdom and realize I’m not meant to be queen?”

“I want you to realize that, whatever meaning is before you, it’s yours. Whether you’re meant to be queen, or advisor, or just plain Tenar. You have a purpose, and it’s the one that you find meaning in, no matter what expectations you or anyone else might have.” She presses her forehead to Tenar’s temple. “I want you to be able to breathe again. To sleep again. To be at peace again, in whatever way that will look for you. And I’m afraid you’ll never be able to do that if you stay here, bandaging all your wounds with guilt.”

Tenar shakes in her arms. The tears that fall feel heavy, and shameful, but Lark kisses them away with the same care and devotion she’s shown her for years.

“I don’t want to leave you again,” Tenar whispers.

“I would go with you in a heartbeat. All you have to do is ask.”

“I can’t.”

Lark’s grip on her tightens, and she nods against Tenar’s head. “Then I will stay for you, too.”

Tenar twists so she can bury her face in Lark’s neck. She closes her eyes and breathes her in, relishing her strength, her steadiness. Her.

“You don’t have to make any decisions tonight,” Lark tells her softly. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore, if you don’t want to. We can just stay here until you’re ready to come back to bed.”

Tenar nods along, a silent, shaky agreement. But in her mind and in her heart, the decision has already been made.

-

When Tenar sees her city rising over the horizon, she can’t help herself; she urges her horse into a gallop, leaving Moss to call out and laugh and hurry to catch up with her.

They have to slow again as they reach the outer villages and fall into the crowd moving up the main road. People recognize her much more easily here, so with a shake of her head, she gives in and lets her hood fall back.

Some wave at her. Others avert their gazes. They all fade to the background as she and Moss reach the bridge that stretches over the river and brings them to the city gates.

“Your Highness,” the guards murmur, bowing their heads as they let her through.

They’re met immediately with all the colors and sounds of the main plaza. Tenar lets her gaze wander over the vibrant market stalls. She closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of warm pies and freshly baked bread coming from the bakery that sits at the start of the main thoroughfare.

There are so many people milling about, just moving contentedly through their day as she and Moss pass them by. The city is louder, and busier, and brighter than she remembers. She takes it all in, and she doesn’t realize she’s smiling until she looks over and catches Moss watching her fondly. She rolls her eyes, feeling the tips of her ears grow warm.

Moss laughs. “Come on.”

The buildings get larger as they follow the main road up through the districts. The disparity in the state of the thoroughfare—the fountains and parks, the places to find quality food and shelter—has diminished since Tenar first met Lark and the others, but there is still, always, work to be done.

But then they reach the wall surrounding the castle district, and all thoughts of progress and plans fall away as the guards let them through.

Ged and Arren find them first, the two of them walking across the grounds together, bickering back and forth when they spot them handing their horses off to stable hands.

Arren freezes, but Ged runs forward with a shout and tackles Tenar in a hug. Tenar laughs, and he wraps his arms even tighter around her.

“I missed you, too,” she says, holding him back just as fiercely.

“Easy, let her breathe,” says Arren, coming up to them. But he’s a hypocrite, because he pulls Tenar in the second Ged lets her go. She smiles, settling easily into his warm embrace, a soft, calm feeling that she’d nearly forgotten existed spreading through her chest.

When they part, Arren reaches up and touches the ends of her hair. “It’s so good to have you back,” he says, voice thick with emotion.

Tenar smiles and takes his hand, threading their fingers together for a moment.

“Where is she?” she asks.

Arren’s eyes dance. “In her study. Reading your latest letter—it arrived just this morning.”

She’s moving almost before he’s finished speaking. She hears all three of them laughing behind her, but she pays them no mind.

She pays no mind to the staff she passes, either, letting their calls of surprise or greeting or knowing amusement fade into the background as she runs—runs, undignified and unrestrained, pulled forward by the joyful anticipation blooming in her chest—through the grand entrance hall, up the curved staircase to the second floor. Around the mezzanine to the left, down the corridor lined with the portraits of her ancestors. She holds her arm out as she passes by her parents, her fingers brushing across the canvas—a greeting and an apology and a thank you all wrapped up together in her touch.

She feels like a girl again, feels a giddiness and a joy that she thought she’d never feel again rising in her chest, nipping playfully at her heels, sending her flying down the hallway until—until—

The door to the study stands ajar, and through the narrow opening she can see Lark standing—she’s so terrible at sitting still, really—at the window. She shifts her weight and kicks a toe against the floor, then shifts to lean against the windowsill, then stands again. She’s shuffling pages in her hands. Her head tilts, her brow pulling together, a tired smile making her lips twitch as she brings the letter closer to her face.

“Is that supposed to be a deer?”

Tenar bites back a laugh. It was a goat, actually—a stubborn, angry thing that was loose on the edge of town, standing in place and only letting people approach it if they had greenery in their hands.

She pushes the door open further. “Is that really how you speak of your wife’s hard work?”

Lark spins around. There’s disbelief in her eyes, followed almost immediately by tears. The letter flutters to the ground.

“Tenar.”

She rounds the desk. Tenar steps toward her, opening her arms a second before Lark is there sweeping her up and spinning her around.

“Tenar! You’re back, you’re—” Her voice cracks. Tenar’s feet touch the ground again, and she feels Lark shaking all around her.

She shifts her grip and pulls her close, taking her weight just in time for Lark’s knees to buckle.

Also here are some process sketches