I stood in the greenhouse.
My mornings were better spent here, among the roses that still carried her scent.
Being here brought me closer to Kathera, almost like the Soulfated bond still tugged faintly between us.
A familiar pull anchored me in front of the blooms, as if she might step out from behind them at any moment.
“Sire!”
Gylrin’s shrill voice shattered the quiet. He barreled down the pathway toward me, panting.
“The water moves!” he gasped. “Ships are sailing in, bringing food!”
A breath tore out of me. Relief. Hope. Something dangerously close to joy.
“By the Gods,” I whispered. “Let’s give people food.”
I turned to run, already imagining the docks, the crates being unloaded, the look on my people’s faces when they ate a real meal for the first time in a century.
Gylrin cleared his throat loudly.
“Sire,” he said, stepping in front of the stairs, “you cannot possibly think of going down there.”
I halted mid-stride.
“You are needed here,” he pressed. “It will be chaos at the docks. People will riot if they see you. Please, allow us to handle the distribution. We will ensure fairness.”
I studied him.
Too eager.
Too forceful.
Too rehearsed.
Something inside me, the part Kathera once teased as a leader’s instincts, tightened with suspicion.
So I forced a slow, agreeable smile.
“All right. You are right.
Best not to dirty my hands.”
His shoulders sagged with relief.
And that told me everything I needed to know.
I went to my chambers, grabbed a cloak and my bow, and slipped out of the palace.
At the docks, the ships had just rolled in. Men unloaded crates of grain, fruit, root vegetables, and life itself.
Three lines were already formed.
A golden flag over one.
A bronze flag over the next.
A silver flag over the last.
My stomach turned.
Class division.
Here.
Now.
In a land barely breathing.
Kathera would never have allowed this.
And neither would I.
I watched as the gold-line citizens received the first and best of everything.
Then the bronze.
Then the silver — the scraps.
This was not survival.
This was corruption.
And there, at the center of it all, was Gylrin.
I walked straight toward him, dropped my cloak to the ground, lifted my bow, and tapped an arrow against his shoulder.
He froze.
The crowd went silent.
A single scream cut through the air, sharp and terrified.
“This is not right,” I said, my voice ringing across the docks. “We are all Celentrian people.”
Gylrin dropped to his knees.
“Sire... I did not know you would oppose…”
“Yes,” I said, my voice turning cold, “you did.”
I lowered the arrow to the base of his skull.
Every instinct in me begged to release it.
To end him.
To stop this injustice at its root.
But when I looked at the faces around me,
starving, grieving, exhausted, terrified,
I lowered the bow.
“We are the people of Celentra,” I called out, my voice carrying over the restless water. “We are stronger than separation. Stronger than class. Stronger than fear. We are one people, every one of us, regardless of where we stand.”
I lifted my chin.
“We are here by Fate’s design. And if we question our darkest moments, if we turn on one another instead of standing together, then are we truly faithful at all?”