"Sunshine all the time makes a desert." - Arab Proverb

˖𓍢ִִ໋𓇼⋆

The Eastern wind swept across my face like whispered sorrow, caressing my cheek as I turned my face toward the setting sun. Far beyond the city walls, buttes and mesas jutted out of the ever shifting sands, steadily growing smaller until my eyes rested on the pink hues of the horizon. Perhaps it would be my last time to look out over my kingdom.

Would Father truly send me away without considering my own answer? I wanted to fight him on it. I wasn't a pawn, something to be forced into place for others needs. My people needed me here to protect them, save them, better them. Would I turn tail and run at the first sight of danger?

Father's advice was wise. In my heart, I knew it was. Then why did I struggle so? Was my own pride blocking my path?

I forced myself to turn away, feeling the pain in my chest as I turned to face my home. My fingers traced over the smooth walls, feeling the stone beneath my fingertips. My heart twisted around itself. How many times had I walked this path as a child, guided by my governess to my studies? A small smile curled my lips. She had been a kind woman. Gentle. Caring. I stepped away from the wall, drawing my gaze upward to study the sun-faded murals.

My eyes were drawn to one in particular, though. One that my governess would often tell me of, the Stormbreaker.

The mural stretched across the curved stone wall, its colors faded yet still vivid enough to capture my breath. A queen stood at the center, robed in the deep reds and golds of Sigyn's sands, her expression set in that familiar blend of determination and sorrow. She stood alone, poised at the edge of a great storm—a churning mass of darkness and sand that threatened to engulf her entirely.

I placed a hand over my heart, tears welling in my eyes as I drew in a ragged breath. The beauty and meaning of the mural still struck me even to this day, no matter how many times I had seen it. Today it seemed to strike truer still, like the first sting of a soothing salve as it is rubbed onto a wound.

In one hand, she clutched a dagger, its blade gleaming against the shadowed storm as if she might carve through it with sheer force of will.

In the other, she held a scroll, half-unfurled, its script blurred and ancient. An oath, a promise to protect those behind her, a pledge made at great cost. The faces of her people lingered behind her, their expressions a mixture of fear and hope as they watched her stand against the coming tide.

She faced the storm alone, her back to her people—yet every inch of her stance spoke of defiance. Her feet dug into the sands, and her robes whipped around her like flames caught in a desert wind, as if she were both a shield and a torch in the growing darkness.

I traced the worn edges of the scene, the swirling strokes of the storm, the sharp lines of the queen's stance, and wondered how many times I'd passed this mural without seeing the fear hidden beneath the queen's unyielding gaze. The dagger, the scroll, the choice between battle and promise.

A knot twisted in my chest, and my throat tightened. How many times had she wished to run, to refuse the impossible task before her, yet still she stood there, unbroken against the storm?

I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. This wasn't just a story painted onto stone. It was a reflection—a reminder that the path forward often meant choosing to face the storm, even when every instinct screamed to flee. And perhaps that queen had known, as I now did, that sometimes survival meant stepping into the unknown.

I lifted my chin, letting the strength in the queen's stance seep into my bones.

Someone's feet brushed against the floor as they stepped closer. "Ah, the Stormbreaker."

I closed my eyes, pushing away the tension that threatened to sharpen my words. "Father."

My hand dropped away from the wall as he moved to stand beside me. He smiled warmly up at the mural, dark eyes glittering. "I remember when your old governess would take you through these halls, telling you of our history. Oh, how happy you were back then, running barefoot everywhere you went."

"Funny," I mused, casting him a sidelong glance. "I was just thinking about that."

He hummed, head tilting as he studied the mural. "She was a beacon in her own time. A testament to the power of Sigyn. She is...is what I envisioned for you." He turned to me, gaze softening as he reached out to take my hands. "Ilaria, if I could have it any other way, I would. You know I would. You are my only daughter. My beloved's child." He blinked away tears.

I shushed him, squeezing his hands. "I understand, Father. I do not think ill of you, because of the choices of others. We are both doing what we believe is best for our people."

Father blinked away his tears, relief washing over his face. "I am concerned, Ilaria, for you. The reckless move on the tower...how far will you go for your people? You know not of the world and its ways."

Oh, the countless times he had told me so. How the world was a bitter and cruel place with no love. Again, I squeezed his hands. "I will go, Father. Have no fear regarding that. I will go without quarrel."

"Then," he said, pulling out of my grasp and withdrawing something from his robes. "Allow me to give you this."

My eyebrows lifted as my gaze dropped, mouth parting in a quiet gasp.

A fennec fox carving lay nestled in his outstretched hand, no larger than a plum. Crafted from a piece of desert alabaster, its smooth, cream-colored surface gleamed with a faint, warm glow in the lamplight, like the last rays of the setting sun.

Its shape was delicate yet precise. Each curve and line meticulously hewn, as if the artisan had poured their soul into every detail. The fox's ears, tall and alert, tapered into fine points, as if listening for the faintest breath of wind across the dunes. Its body curled in a resting pose, legs tucked beneath it, tail wrapped protectively around itself, created a sense of quiet vigilance. Yet there was an alertness in the way its head was tilted slightly upward, with eyes that, though unseeing, seemed to hold a secret, a glimmer of life waiting to be understood.

Running a thumb across the tiny carved fur patterns on its back, I could feel the smooth grooves and rough ridges, the contrast between the desert's harshness and the gentle care taken to shape this gift. It was a piece of home, a symbol of survival and cunning, a reminder that even the smallest creature could find its way in the most unforgiving of places.

Father's voice, low and gravelly, broke the silence. "Take this, Ilaria. It has kept its way through many storms. So can you." His eyes softened as he placed it in my hand, closing my fingers around the little fox.

It was a silent blessing, a wish for me to remember my roots and the strength of my people as I faced the unknown in Zospery.

I held it tightly to my chest, barely managing to keep my tears at bay as I smiled. "Thank you, Father."

His gaze flickered past me, and the emotion drifted from his face. "Lord Alaric."

My back stiffened, turning around slowly to face my new protector. His gaze was fixated on the mural behind us, expression passive as he considered it. "Pardon my intrusion. I was acquainting myself with the palace."

Father bowed his head. "Of course. I will leave you two to talk. There are matters I must attend to."

I bowed my head as my father left, clutching the figurine behind my back. We were both silent as we waited for my father to leave. I waited until he was out of sight before I joined Lord Alaric in admiring the mural.

"Is your mind set, Princess?" he asked after a few moments, eyes narrowed at the depiction before us.

"It is." I nodded, running my thumbs in circles over the fox.

A low, contemplative noise rumbled in the back of his throat. "You're called the Beacon of Sigyn." He nodded to the mural. "Is there any correlation between that and the woman depicted in the mural?"

My fingers stilled on the fox carving, heart heavy with the weight of his words. The mural loomed large above us, a testament to the struggles faced by the ancient queen. "I suppose there is," I admitted, meeting Lord Alaric's gaze. "She was a symbol of hope, yet she wielded her own daggers, didn't she? I am not sure I can be both."

"Perhaps that is the challenge of your station." He shifted his weight, the light casting shadows that deepened the lines of his face. "You're caught between daggers and oaths, Princess. Promises made in the safety of your palace mean little when blades are drawn. Learn to walk that line—or it will cut you down."

I frowned, the sting of truth piercing through my bravado. "It feels like I am being thrust into a role I am not prepared for. How can I embody both the beacon of hope and the warrior that fights for it?"

"The queen in that mural didn't merely inspire; she fought for her people, even when the odds were against her," Alaric replied, his tone shifting to one of conviction. "You must understand that peace is not always the absence of conflict. Sometimes, it requires ruthlessness to protect those you love."

"Ruthlessness?" I echoed, eyebrows arching. "I refuse to believe that the only way to secure peace is through bloodshed. You may wear the mantle of a warrior, Lord Alaric, but I have seen the cost of violence. My people deserve compassion, not a tyrant's blade."

His expression shifted, eyebrows pinching together. "And how many more will suffer while you cling to your idealism? Hope is a fragile thing, Princess. You cannot shield it with soft words alone. It takes strength to wield the sword."

"You would rather destroy than negotiate," I said, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Was this the man I would have to be protected by for the foreseeable future? "You see the world in black and white, while I believe in shades of gray. Compassion is strength. It's about finding a path that doesn't lead to war."

"Compassion is a luxury when faced with imminent danger," he countered, his eyes narrowing. "The queen in that mural learned this truth through hardship. You're standing on the precipice of war, Ilaria. You have to be willing to make sacrifices, to choose who lives and who dies."

My chest tightened, the mural's depiction weighing heavily on my mind and the emotional turmoil my father had sent me into muddled my thoughts. "We will have to agree to disagree, Lord Alaric. I fear we do not see eye to eye."

He squared his shoulders, gaze returning to the mural. "Be prepared to leave by morning light. We have a good distance to travel to reach Zospery in two days."

"I will be ready." I turned and departed the room, jaw tight.

How could I survive?