On the tenth day of Iyer's Valerian root induced sleep, Arynn found herself on the warm floor of the palace's left spire. A chapel had been built into it, with marble floors and ivory statues of the gods. The twelve statues were placed in two half circles, facing each other, at the back of the space, where the light of the oculus didn't reach them. The Creator, the Protector, the Destroyer; and across from them, the Sun, the Moon, the Huntress, the Inescapable, the Healer, the Avenger, the Stormbringer, the Uniter, the Victorious.

The solstice had passed, a day that was longer and hotter than the rest, with no Coronation. The other festivities for their wedding had been cancelled as the prince needed to rest—needed to wake up from deep sleep he was in. The whole kingdom held its breath as the hours turned into days, and the days turned into a week. If Iyer died from the wound, so would her chance of an easy ascension—an ascension without backlash. If Iyer died on that bed, Withian would ascend the throne as King in his stead.

Arynn's eyes flickered open to stare at the feet of Belinda, the Healer, whose hands were wrapped around a bouquet of lavender. Ivory doves made of stone sat on her bare shoulders, staring judgingly at her crumpled, silent form. "You've been staring at that statue for two hours," said Withian from behind her.

She'd learned to find the telling lilts and pitch changes that differed his voice from Iyer's. Withian's voice was deeper and rougher, like uncut rock. Iyer's was soft and smooth like silk. Iyer's voice could lull her into a dreamless sleep, while Withian's crashed into her like a wave of an angry sea. "Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to pray?"

"I don't know what to do," she answered.

"There isn't much you can do," said Withian as he came closer, boots scuffing the marble floor. "Iyer is already under the care of the best physician in Icark. We can only hope that he will make it out alive." When Iyer died, all things lovely and kind would die with him. Arynn dreaded the day.

"No," she said, as her cheeks heated.  "I mean I don't know what to do now. I've never—I've never prayed before. It feels like I'd just be talking to the walls." She cast a look over her shoulder, too embarrassed to catch his eyes, so she looked at the laces of his boots instead. "And if the gods aren't listening, I feel I'd be out of my mind—talking to ivory statues." She scoffed.

Withian made to take another step and halted. "The gods are always listening," he said, "always watching. There is nothing the gods don't see—nothing the don't protect us from. I hope Belinda was able to figure out what you've been trying to pray to her all this time. She's all the hope we have left."

Arynn's tongue became heavy in her mouth as she bitterly said, "I wish they'd protected Iyer from that arrow." They could've saved Iyer from the pain he was in now; could've saved him from tunnelling to his death. The though frightened her enough that she rose to her feet and straightened her tightened the laces of her breeches. Since the day the parade had gone to shit, Arynn was back to wearing tunics and armour. She'd missed the heaviness on her shoulders and the tightness on her ribs; had missed the weight of her sword hanging from her belt.

She had changed into pants and chain mail after she'd arrived at the palace, with Iyer's sticky blood still coating her hands. "I hear there's talk of replacing me," she'd said to the Rattlesnakes, when she'd interrupted their sparring. The fighting had come to a halt as she stalked past them. "Come forth and fight me to prove that I don't deserve to be in charge."

Three men, whose names she hasn't cared to remember, had come forward, slick with sweat and hands at their swords. She'd unfastened the scabbard from her belt, and let Alaris clatter to the floor. And she'd hammered into them, scratching at throats and gouging out eyes, in a fit of rage that consumed her whole. She was a whirlwind of darkness and glittering steel and blood, and her wrath was inescapable.

"Let it be known," she'd said as the men bled from their wounds, and she bled from a cut in her lip, groaning from their spasming muscles. The soldiers stepped away from the pools of blood, but Arynn didn't move, didn't flinch, as it soaked her feet. "All of those who would question me will die screaming. The blood of the serpents flows through my veins. The Rattlesnakes are my birthright."

"Where are you going," asked Withian.

She grabbed her scabbard from the altar at the door and fastened it to her belt. "I'm going to save Iyer's life," she said. "Or better, I'm going to find someone who will save Iyer's life." She had contacts in the House of Downward in Solaris—scholars and physicians who would come to her aid if need be. She could call in favours—she could save him.

Withian tried to reason with her, arms spread wide. "The best physicians have tended to him. There's nothing else mortal hands can do for him. We can only wait and hope the gods—"

"Your gods," said Arynn as her voice became thunderous, echoing in the dark corners of the chapel. "Do not care for you as you think they do—in fact, they don't care for you at all. Their existence is debatable like that of dragons and even sirens." She held up a hand that silenced him. "But I can tell you this, princeling. If I ever see one of your gods on my descent to Reix (Hell), I will make them bow."

She left Withian behind in the chapel, arranging her sleeves as he gaped at the place she'd stood. "Sail to Solaris and being me Yresa," she said to August, as she barged into his room, and didn't blink at the scars marring his back. She'd seen the ugliness wars left in its wake far too often to flinch away from it now. "Tell her I'm calling in a debt."

August turned around with a raised eyebrow and pulled a tunic over his chest. Arynn's eyes fell to the angry red on his stomach, from he'd had to remove a shattered rib. "The life debt she owes you," he asked. "The one you can only use once? Why are you using it? Are you unwell?" August didn't look or sound concerned as he spoke, never straying from his always sceptical expression and monotonous voice. Arynn sometimes wondered if he was hewn from stone and enchanted to speak in the most uninteresting way.

"It's not for me," she said as she picked a biscuit from the tray on his desk, and hissed when he slapped it out of her hand. "It's been almost two weeks since Iyer's been bedridden, and from what I've heard he's not showing any signs of waking up soon. They won't listen to me when I tell them not to give him anymore of the Valerian root, but they dismiss me. They can't help him, but Yresa can. She can fix him. Bring her to me."

"You're using her debt to you on him," August clarified.

Arynn hummed.

The scepticism shifted to amusement, which left Arynn stunned. He pulled her fingers away from the tray of biscuits as they crept closer again, and asked, "Do you think you've perhaps grown to care for the boy?" His eyebrows raised in curiosity at her answered as he brought one of the biscuits to his mouth.

She scowled. "I have not," she grumbled and picked one deposits his protests and growls. She rolled her eyes as she bit into it and licked sugar from the cut in her lip. "If Iyer dies, the crown passes down to Withian. An ascension with minimal backlash will be foolish dream if that happens. I need Iyer to live if I'm going to be Zefrim (Queen). I've already married Iyer," she said, thinking of the petals and chains inked into her back. "I can't marry Withian as well."