What the commanding guard had to show you, dear dead, was a prisoner. Near the center of the camp, the packed snow growing dull and muddy. You stopped outside the squat tent doorway, nose wrinkling with the sting of smoke wafting over you. Glaring at you, the commanding guard stepped in first, ahead of Tatter-cloak.

"Hello!" the prisoner welcomed them both, crisply accented, before anyone else could speak. "Have you come to accept my offer?"

You knelt outside the door, peering past the swaying cloak hems of Tatter-cloak and the guard. You amended your opinion; this was no prisoner, despite her hands behind her, tied to the stake pounded through the heart of the tent floor. This was no prisoner, despite her torn uniform, the gray collar singed; despite the bruise lumping her forehead.

"No," the commanding guard said harshly.

"What offer?" Tatter-cloak said, stepping out from behind the guard.

"Is this your monarch?" the non-prisoner asked, shoulders poised. The guard vaguely hissed, hand going to her waist.

"What offer?" Tatter-cloak repeated.

"The Empress," the non-prisoner shook her head several times, the narrow strip of soil-brown hair up the center of her shaved skull flashing about, "would like to offer you a position. You can be the steward of this continent under the charge of the Empress--"

"No," the guard hissed.

"What?" Tatter-cloak said.

"--And in return receive the Empress's protection. For instance," she slowly tilted her head sideways, eyes unblinking, "your frost orchards."

Tatter-cloak's heart skipped. You shifted positions, so the snow melted under your thigh instead of your knees.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tatter-cloak asked.

The non-prisoner, envoy of the Empress, untilted her head and frowned. "Exactly what it sounds like."

"The Empress will protect our continent from being burned, even though before the Empress came here that was never a problem?"

"Tact, monarch," the commanding guard mouthed close to his ear. You caught it by reading her lips.

"And it will never be a problem again," the Empress's envoy said from the floor, boots stained with mud. "As long as you are the Empress's steward."

"Okay, great--here's what I don't understand," Tatter-cloak's arms waved widely, his cloak hem flapping. "The Empress doesn't like any magic. Why should she care if I'm a steward or whatever, if there's still magic she thinks needs burned?"

"The Empress cares not for magic," the envoy stuck her chin forward. "She cares for abominations against nature. Your continent has been freed of those. But if you would rather war against her, she will ravage your cities, your armies, your paltry heritage."

"Paltry heritage?" the guard hissed.

The envoy's fingers moved. Imperceptibly, carefully; you only noticed by her blood creeping about. Your fingers clawed in your lap.

"Okay, so, she'll leave our lands alone, for now. Since she's apparently satisfied. But why would me becoming a...steward," Tatter-cloak mumbled around the syllables, "help the Empress at all? What would prevent her from still doing whatever she wanted, whenever she felt like?"

"The Empress cannot be everywhere at once," the envoy flashed her predator teeth. You narrowed your eyes at her shoulders, her hidden arm, did she have a knife secreted away? "She needs administrators over her territory."

"Ah," Tatter-cloak nodded, shoulders smoothing out. "So you had a steward. It was that king fellow, until we killed him."

"You openly admit to such treason?" the envoy's fingers stilled. Yours clawed further. But wait--would she hurt a...steward person?

Tatter-cloak waved a hand, as if it were no bother, but his blood shifted roughly. "We have the proof, he was never the true ruler. He threatened me and my followers. By law, we did no treason."

"Ah," the envoy nodded. "By law."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you accept my offer?" she asked, smiling as if to reveal all her teeth.

"I would," Tatter-cloak and the guard shuffled closer, possibly whispering, "I would need to think about it," Tatter-cloak said.

"Great," the envoy said. "When you agree, you'll know where to find me."

"We're not keeping you here," the guard's hands went to the blade sheathed at her waist.

"Of course," the envoy exploded into motion, startling even you--she leapt for the back of the tent, limbs a blur, fingers gripping a hilt. "You'll know by following my footprints!"

You considered, for a breath. You could stop her by her blood, easily. Soft flaking ashes. Then the army would tie her up in another tent, station guards around her, and the stories about you would ring the same--terrifying death mage, possessing the bodies of the living who opposed her.

Maybe it was selfish. But you let her run. Twisted the palm clinging to a blade, so quick she might've taken it for a sudden muscle twitch. The weapon clattered to the snow, but she kept running.

"Chase her!" Tatter-cloak exclaimed. "Wake--"

"Or don't," you rose to your feet. The back of the tent rippled with an uneven tear, wide enough the envoy had probably been slicing away most of the night, and only had to punch through the weakened fabric. "What are you going to do with her if you catch her?"

The commanding guard glared at you. "Some bodyguard you are," she withered.

"The monarch was perfectly safe," you whispered. The envoy didn't have that weapon to assassinate Tatter-cloak--the Empress was in need of a steward. Really the guard was in more danger. Maybe she shouldn't have gone in the tent. She was lucky the envoy only wanted to escape.

You grinned, at that, at the texture of the envoy running through the camp, sprinting hard. She must have expected you to chase. Let her sprint, then.

The commanding guard glared at you. And planted fists on her hips. "You're an awful bodyguard."

"Yes, thank you," Tatter-cloak ducked out of the tent. "Except now we have a problem."

"The Empress wants to go to war with us?" the commanding guard hurried out after, leaving the tent door open. It wasn't her, then, that would be taking care of the broken tent. Apparently that wasn't what commanding guards did.

"I don't know that she wants to go to war with us," Tatter-cloak hopped over the muddiest mounds of snow, stomped through slush. "She believes she has already won. Our options are to become a dependent territory, tossed about by her whims, or attempt to battle her and her armies," Tatter-cloak sighed, shoulders bowing. "I hate being monarch."

"That sounds familiar," you muttered after him. "Several months familiar."

The commanding guard marched squishily past the two of you, walking like she was leading both of you across the muddy camp.

"I hate being monarch," Tatter-cloak sighed again.

Slowly, you walked through the packed snow, legs cold inside watered-through leggings, side by side with Tatter-cloak.

"On one hand, war is a terrible idea," Tatter-cloak waved his hands, "we don't have the ability to stand against an empire, even if the Empress is dead--the Empress you say led all the wars. On the other hand, accepting partial rulership, a monarchy under a monarchy, is..."

"Hardly a monarchy?"

The commanding guard glanced over her shoulder, interrupting, "it's worse than that. You read us the queen's book where it says the warlord Empress died. But the warlord Empress already did her job--landing the empire here. It's the other Empress, the one who's still alive, who's the administrative one. She's the one who's held the whole empire together, turned it into, well, an empire. A cohesive, continent eating creature. We have to figure out how to fight against her."

"We have options," Tatter-cloak ran a hand through their fuzzy hair. "I hope. I'll return to your tent after I've had time to think about it, and we can discuss as a whole council. We may also want to consider moving elsewhere. Get a little further away from..." his gaze flicked back to the yawning stretch of black.

"Of course," the commanding guard nodded, "last night we merely thought it better to stay close to you."

"Excellent," Tatter-cloak smiled. "I appreciate that. But now we should consider returning to the palace city."

"The city?" her eyebrows rose. "That's hardly strategic. The Empress already burned..." she pointed vaguely back toward the frost orchards.

"The frost orchards?" you suggested.

"Did you hear the prisoner?" Tatter-cloak's voice dropped, and he quit walking, in the center of a wide intersection of clean snow, clusters of tents on three sides. You and the guard stopped too. "She said all the abominations of this continent have been removed. She didn't include the palace city. That means the Empress only knew about the frost orchards. She doesn't know the city is magic wrought."

You frowned and blinked. Frowned at the word "abominations," blinked because Tatter-cloak had been terribly tactful in that tent after all.

"Monarch," the guard breathed, " you are a genius. I will inform the others, and we'll wait for your return to begin planning," she trotted off, down the cleanest snow path.

You plucked at a cyan bow that'd come half undone in your hair. "So you are a good monarch," you whispered. "You just determined the Empress will leave the palace alone."

Tatter-cloak laughed bitterly. "Yeah, as long as we do what she says," he shook his head and turned down the path, toward your awaiting snowshoes. "We can't go to war. I want this whole continent freed, but...bluntly, we don't have the firepower. We would all end up like the Aqtilik."

"Yeah," you nodded, side by side. "That makes sense."

"We have to protect people, not throw them away in a war we're bound to lose."

"As many people as possible," you agreed.

"Yes," he nodded. "But...you...know what that means though, right? About..."

"Of course," you said lightly. "Magic--" Your hands fell to your sides.

"--Which is really not fair. Asking you to hide--" Tatter-cloak nibbled their lip.

"It's not your fault," you hugged your cloak closer.

You trod past beating hearts in tents in silence.

"Who wants to tell her that part in the queen's book is only there because of me?" you whispered. "Or how else did she think the author figured that out?"

"I think she just doesn't want to admit it to herself."

"Of course."

You tugged the other cyan ribbon free of your hair. Bundling them both in your fingers and trudging to your house, you didn't ask what Tatter-cloak was going to do about moving to the palace. He'd grown up there, hadn't been there for close to a year, of course he probably missed it. You didn't ask what you were going to do about moving to the palace. From there to the house between two white hills took longer than a day of travel. And the house between two white hills didn't even have a frost orchard to help keep it company if you left.

***

I force my weary body into motion with the red sun: sit up. Brush sand from the ends of my hair. Attempt to examine the scabbing wounds on my backside.

I have no food, but the backpack holds containers of water--I slurp until my lungs force me to pull away, sucking air, then I drink again. I empty a whole clay bottle.

The jet bird must have stirred sometime during the night, she sleeps with wings and head tucked into her body. I lift the backpack from the beach with my sore arms, the motion disturbs her and she squawks weakly, blood like a sea storm dying over land.

I try to carry the backpack on my shoulders, the bird perched atop it. I carry it for only a few steps. It stings the scabs on my back. So then it burdens my arms. I wear a cloak, I wear a spare shirt, I wear bandages; my back still shoots with pain when I walk, like little spreads of ink.

So we trek, shadows stretching sideways towards the water. The plains, dazzled by the dawn, have burned themselves to ashes. Hardy, yellow wood--dead remnants of leafy bushes--reach like bones for air. I trek past one true skeleton, don't deign to give it my attention. Perched atop the bouncing backpack in my arms, the jet bird flutters a wing at it.

We trek, the jet bird and I, off the beach, out across a smoothed quilt of ash where yellow skeletal claws rupture the pattern to scrape for the red sun. As if dripping color could descend to water them.

At the burner wagons, chaotic heaps of shattered wheels and warped beds, I kneel heavily in the dust. A plume puffs up, settles, silently.

My limbs quiver with exhaustion. My stomach aches with hunger. Hence why I am here. If there is any food within easy distance, it will be here. Amidst the carnage of wagon beds at the heart of a bonfire.

I prod the nearest wagon with my finger, the corner of the bed. Bumpy charcoal flakes away, perfectly dry. My nail scrapes something solid and hackles-raising, I recoil and the jet bird flops to the ground, shaking her head, a bird-shaped shiver. I rub my nail in my palm; then, carefully, my fingers flake away more charcoal until they reveal smooth metal.

I don't know much of wagon construction. But it seems strange; covering a metal frame with thick wood. Why dedicate so much to the illusion?

I leave the backpack here, beside the wagon. I follow after the jet bird, who travels in a mix of hops, waddles, and fluttering flights. Pausing near each wagon, I peer inside them for survivors. The non-human kind. Tools. Metal crates. Ceramic pots.

I find black threads of burlap sacks, and exploded glass containers, and half-absent robes, singed ropes. I shiver at the belongings of a burner.

The jet bird stops beside one of the wagons. It shimmers dully, most of the charcoal having flaked away to expose the metal frame. It reflects the red sun, half the base digging into the soil.

She's found a burner's skeleton under the tilted canopy.

I crouch beside her. This burner lies unburned. Mostly. The charred end of the robe, near the ankle, reveals actual skin. An actual shin and leg, sticking from a laced-up boot. Skin, almost green.

I bend away and vomit on the ground. Or try to. Entirely water, the vomit is.

Then I look again, because I haven't comprehended it yet.

There lies the shattered wheel, having dropped the far side of the wagon to the dirt. I carefully poke the unbroken wheel propping the canopy up, it squeaks concerningly at my touch.

There lies a patch of yellow grass, underneath the wagon that offered enough protection from the heat.

There lies a laced up boot, a shin and calf, a robe like the color of dusty bricks. There lies a glove, bigger than my palm. There lies a burner puppet, dead, face up on the ground, but dead for much longer than a day. He's got no blood inside him.

I turn away and swallow down a gag. Not even the jet bird wants this, for the scent of rot so evident beneath smoke and fruity perfume.

The burner kept his skeletons walking about in whole bodies.

I don't bother with the boots, or the helmet of a large fruit shell painted yellow and red like an animal's face. I just crawl backwards until I'm out of the way and tear the skeleton free of the body. I'm weak, the skeleton comes slowly and creakily, clear liquid dribbles out of the shriveled veins. Fingers locking into a fist, I fling the bones through the air, Wild Bones, how could a burner keep the bodies whole, remove their blood, dress them up like living people?

The bones thump to the ash a dozen paces away. My hands shake with exhaustion. Just from that motion. Just one skeleton.

I hope the rest of the burners burned.

***

One wagon. One wagon, near the five of them puzzled and hooked together into a catapult. One wagon holds a metal bin, welded to the wagon frame. It is cool to the touch, it is also locked shut. Sliding my fingers over it leaves an imagined sense of slime so I scrub them on the charcoal wheel.

To the jet bird, I point at the box. I pantomime knocking my fist on it, trying to lift the lid. She understands, I catch that glimmer in her eye, but she flutters only a short height into the air before landing again and flopping sideways, panting.

I lower my hand to my side. "You too?"

She waddles in tiny circles, talons printing unevenly in the ash.

I trudge to the catapult, I take a bone from a heat-cracked skeleton half-buried in the ash. A glinting light catches my gaze--a knife wrapped in skeleton knuckles. I take that too, from the catapult's side, near a giant bowl face down in the direction of the launched boulder. Charred ropes, possibly how the flame spread off the catapult into the grass (did they cut the ropes to launch the boulder, but the ropes were on fire?), lie around the frame, flopped over a few skeletons. Or perhaps one of the skeletons lit their clothes on fire because the burner was busy dying, who knows, no one alive does.

When the catapult creaks I back away, I want to be long gone when the hooks and cords holding the wagons together snap.

Back by the metal bin, the jet bird jabs at the dirt. I stand shakily, holding a knife and a fire-cracked bone, watching. She hops away from the layer of brown soil she's cleared away with her beak. I point my boot between her and dirt. "What is that for?" I whisper.

She flutters, several times, lands beside the soil, and stabs her beak at the ground. Nothing splits like thunder. She caws and flutters, blood an agitated cloud. "Maybe you should rest," I whisper.

I approach the metal bin inside the wagon, working the blade under the lid. The bone I don't even try; it's too wide.

Near the corner of the lid, the blade clicks something, but quickly slides past. I retry, hold the blade under the locking mechanism and lever the lid open with the bone. It slams open against the outer wagon wall. Charcoal flakes to the ground.

I carefully lower the bone. Toss the knife aside to the soft ash.

The metal box contains meat. Salted, uneven strips of dark meat. I wrinkle my nose. The jet bird prances in agitation and since she apparently can't fly I lift her into the wagon. Her talons bite my wrist with beads of aquamarine and she launches herself into the box.

I shuffle from her feast, hunger gnawing at my insides. One wagon.