"Cyr," a brown blob of a face appeared in front of him. "We have to run."

He swiped his hands against his cheeks. His fingers came away wet. It cleared some of the haze in his vision, though. His gaze landed on his mother's familiar face, smiling down on him as if there's nothing wrong.

But everything was wrong—starting from the clamoring around him, screaming for more men, for more weapons, for more luck that wouldn't come. Their King has just passed on to Pidmena's embrace. It's over.

Warm hands cupped his cheeks. As if reading his mind, his mother leveled her eyes at him. "As long as we're here," she said. "Nothing's over."

He sniffed and was about to open his mouth to answer when another tapered bullet rushed towards them. His heart leaped to his throat, arms flying to push his mother out of the way. A solid crack and the sound of brittle glass shattering covered most of the heavy thuds their forms made against the singed grass.

Cyrdel rolled off the Queen, and she gripped his hand. The Russet commanders and the surviving estate soldiers rushed past, driving back the thickening sea of black creeping towards their royals. Somehow, they made it inside the maze and figured out how to get to the middle. What did that mean for him?

"I'll handle the enemies," his mother was saying as she yanked him up and started running. His legs refused to work but he coaxed them to. "I just need you to be somewhere safe."

Safe? There was nowhere he could run as long as the Sovereign and the Heiress were going out and about. He didn't know what made them tick and start rampaging against the Temple of Souls and now, Alkara, but whatever it was, it made them unstoppable. He didn't have the heart to tell her that. She has enough heartaches for a day.

He let her pull him into the maze, going deeper until the roads he took were no longer familiar. Cyrdel knitted his eyebrows. Somewhere, somehow, his mother took a turn he didn't foresee or know beforehand and ended up here, in a forgotten path. But he recognized the contour of the sights beyond the tailored hedge. They're heading back to the estate.

He stopped his mother, startling her into submission. She frowned at him. "What are you doing?" Cyrdel demanded, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, anger, or everything else combined. "The estate is a lost cause. It's overrun."

His mother pursed her lips. "It's a chance I'm willing to take," she said. "There's a way out of the city and it's inside. I've already made arrangements."

He shook his head. "I have to find Ravalee," he said. "She's somewhere in here."

"She's in the city," the Queen replied. Now that a semblance of calm descended on him, he noticed how her crown and most of her jewelry had slipped off in the chaos. What remained was her torn, dust-streaked court dress. Dear Nira, he hasn't even realized she was barefoot all this time. A Queen, running through protruding splinters and shards of shattered stone. "She'll meet you there. We just need to get out of here."

Cyrdel looked back at the eternal struggle of Russet and black. "What about them?"

The hard truth presented itself through the regretful look his mother gave him. "They'd have to find their own way," she said. "We have ours."

He opened his mouth to argue, but his mother beat him to it. "It's not a place to argue, Cyr," she said, calling him by the same nickname Ravalee came up with. She's right, though. Running was hardly a place for discussion of whether to do it or not. Not when they're already in the middle of it. "Our people will have to save themselves," she continued with a grim frown. "We can't save everyone, but we can try saving those we cared about."

That's what your father did to you. The word hung between them, unspoken but understood. And what I'm doing to you now.

But that's what Cyrdel was now? Someone to string along and someone to protect and save? What if he wanted to save those dear to him too? He knew the answer to that, though. He couldn't even force his father to go back to the damned barrier. If Cyrdel didn't leave, his father wouldn't have followed, risking his life and his crown in the process. Cyrdel might have been the one who drove the stake deep into his father's heart.

Wasn't that what he's been doing all his life with every harsh word he threw his father's way? Ravalee had told him to consider his father's side, and he had grown tired of hearing it every time they'd end up in an altercation. Now, he couldn't even have a disagreement with his father. Not when he's not here anymore.

It's not like he missed the King. He wasn't glad Alkara and Penleth stood without a king either. It's just...nothing.

So, he had no choice but to follow his mother as they wove back to the place he fought so hard to escape from. The flames had eaten everything it touched, leaving a trail of ash and embers. Stone crumbled, the stumps and debris scattered around them the only reminder of how great they once stood. The estate—once the pride of Depandes and the pearl of Alkara—had been reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble whose dust waited to be blown into the passing breeze. Crimson and dark earth streaked the ground, the ruins of the wall which once protected them, and the Russet armor left behind by their owners strewn around the expanse like abject toys.

The explosive tirades had stopped, but that didn't mean the onslaught was done. Cyrdel felt like a cleret being smoked out of a colony with a promise of a worse life out in the wild. Where in the city would his mother take him? The Depandes bleeding beyond the crumbled wall was nothing but a gallery of punched-through roofs, obliterated wares, and abandoned streets.

Nothing waited for them beyond the hedges.

The entrance the servants used in going in and out of the estate and the garden sped into view. So far, no one has found them, and Cyrdel reminded himself it wouldn't be the case for long. The Queen was privy as well, with how her footsteps, no matter how dainty, scratched against the smooth floors. Black soot combined with spots of wine-red liquid stained her clothes, and Cyrdel's heart wrenched at the sight. How low have they sunken and how much lower would they have to sink? This was the Sovereign's punishment. This was their retribution. Cyrdel was sure of that now.

The belly of the estate wasn't any better. The same chaos he departed greeted him as a ghost. Instead of lingering at the damages and the sentimentality of the place, the Queen pulled him along, striding towards the wing designated for her. The carpets. She hated getting them dirty. When they got there, she wasted no time ogling at her lifelong collection and pride. Instead, she dragged her grimy form through without recoiling.

Cyrdel had never been to the Queen's wing since he turned six and has been instituted as the official Crown Prince, but it shocked him that nothing has changed. The tapestries still displayed the same stories and depictions of goddesses. The walls were still painted with the same shade of taupe. The room at the end of the corridor was still flanked by a pair of ornate laxonis carved out of porcelain. He recalled being scared senseless of the way their lifeless eyes seemed to follow him around whenever he visited.

Instead of going there, his mother pulled him into an earlier room. It must have been a drawing room of some kind with the slanted tables pushed to the walls to make space for something else. His gaze landed on the swirl of lines and circles sketched on the marble floor. Wasn't that...?

"How did you know this?" he whirled to his mother who had plucked a satchel similar to his own from the folds of her skirt.

The Queen flashed him a flat look. "You're not the only one dabbling in atypical listris," she said. "Step into the circle."

Cyrdel moved but stopped when he noticed his mother didn't start towards the transport circle. "What are you doing?" he asked, his tone laced with uncertainty.

She gave him a sad smile then. "Someone needs to stay and take care of the mess," she said. "I've always been detached from the things you and your father worried about, so let me atone for it now."

"No," Cyrdel said. Tears started flowing once more. He's not ready to lose another, just a few minutes or hours after the previous one. "You're coming with me. I have to save you too."

The Queen opened her mouth but the shadows around her swirled in dangerous vortices. "Watch out!" Crydel cried just as a sword tip burst out of the nearest swirl. His mother whirling away at the sound of his voice was the only thing saving her from being pierced through. He stuck his fingers into his toolbelt and drew the first trinket he could grab. He made to step out of the circle when the Queen stopped him with a gesture.

"Stay there!" she screamed, eyes wide with fear and chest heaving with the unexplained fear of doing something violent. Like the rest of the population, she wasn't saved from it. "I-I'll do something."

Two more swords pierced the shadows humming with foreign energy. Three to two. They could even the odds with Cyrdel's gadgets—things they haven't seen before used in battle. "I won't leave you!" he yelled. His foot skittered over the circle but thumped against an invisible layer. His breath hitched. Did that mean—

The Queen grunted as she skirted away from the first slash, then blinked out of existence to avoid the second. The third soldier growled and started hacking at the air in her immediate radius. Cyrdel was still spooked out of his mind whenever Airene did that so it's impossible seeing where the Queen vanished to and what she's up to.

The air rippled behind him. The Queen put a finger to her mouth. "I put a containment clause inside the circle," she said. "It can only transport one soul. Nothing more. I wasn't...strong enough."

And yet, Cyrdel was able to transport hundreds, if not, thousands at once. What did that say about him? What did that say about his mother who smiled at him as if she hadn't just betrayed her own son?

"I'll unravel this circle," Cyrdel pressed his hands on the invisible barrier separating him and his family. "Just you wait. We can get out of this together."

The soldiers noticed them talking and rushed towards the circle. His mother flicked a stream of powder into the circle, throwing the incantations like curse words. She lunged at the first soldier who reached her and clawed at their masked face. His mother—the Queen who knew nothing of fighting and spilling blood—wailed at her attackers while maintaining the transport spell.

"Go now, darling," she screamed through the stark streak of silver aiming for her head. "Varakonsorda!"

The circle flashed pink, slapping his eyeballs enough to make white spots dance in them. He shrieked, calling for her through the haze. His vision cleared in time to see a sword thrust forward, and the Queen took it in from behind.

No...

He reached out, squirmed against the circle's cruel hold. Maybe he was screaming, maybe he was doing something else, but his heart had fallen to the ground and broke into pieces. Nothing could repair it now. The light swallowed him in time to see the Queen slide off the bloody sword and topple to the floor. She turned into a clump of clay before she hit the ground.

He couldn't breathe. As the lights burned from pink to gray to red to white, air wasn't kind enough to grace his lungs. He gasped, chest aching to the point of driving weak sobs from his lips. When the spell subsided, he collapsed face-first to the ground that found him. Strength no longer gripped his muscles. He wanted to lie there and wake up from this nightmare. Maybe it had been one all along. Or maybe this was real life and this was truly happening.

He didn't know. Not anymore. He didn't want to know.

Cyr, a familiar voice tore through his head. Orange light tore through the darkness in his vision until it was bright enough to see a welcome sight.

"Rav," he croaked. His voice came out as a rasp. His throat felt like it was scrubbed clean with a rough bark. "Where..."

Airene's boots edged into his periphery as soon as her voice did. "Let's go," she gripped him in the arms and hauled him up. He stumbled forward but Ravalee's arm supported most of his weight. He didn't want to walk. He didn't even want to keep striving to live. Why bother running when they're all going to be skewered soon enough?

A wagon waited for them in the back of this circular house the spell dropped him into. Did...did his mother make arrangements with Ravalee and Airene to get him out of the estate? And these two didn't bother telling him? He should be angry. He should be blaming them for everything that went wrong, for every soul their secrecy cost, but nothing remained at the bottom of the barrel called emotions. It's just...nothing.

The floor of the wagon slapped against his shoulder after he was thrown inside like a bag of flour. Someone climbed in after him and their world was overcast by a tarp. Like cargo about to be transported. That's how they would get him out. But it's only fitting. Cyrdel was nothing but baggage anyway.

I'll get you as far as Zalgend. You and Ravalee can contact Xanthy or Reeca there, came Airene's urgent message through his head. He swiveled to find Ravalee lying next to him, an arm slid under his head. She smiled at him as if she didn't hear her aunt's instructions. Avenge your people. I'm sure the Virtakios will be perfectly capable of that.

Anger colored the older woman's tone. It confused him. Instead, he turned away from the voice invading his head and focused on the rumble of the wagon's wheels against the otrite pebbles paving the roads in Depandes.

Without saying anything, Ravalee snaked her other arm over Cyrdel's waist and pulled him close, pressing his face against her shoulder. He should be the one doing this to her, but instead, he was being cared for. Always. The fingers running down his hair, smoothing out the tangles and dirt out of his scalp—the sheer gentleness of it—made tears start anew.

He melted into Ravalee's embrace—the only warmth left in his cold world—and she held him, never letting go. It didn't matter how long they stayed locked together, but it calmed him down. Made him think everything would be alright. Ravalee did all that without exerting a drop of her magic.

Then, a number of footfalls increased. Cyrdel tensed against Ravalee's hold. Airene grunted and cried out. The sound of a blade being unsheathed hissed through the muffled air under the cloth. Both of them stayed still, each one locked in the other's embrace. With every breath stolen against the silence, they listened to the scuffles happening outside the wagon.

A rock hit the side, the impact driving Ravalee deeper into him. He gritted his teeth to avoid gasping as her elbow dug into his stomach. Still, he tightened his arm around her. He's not going to let go, no matter what. Boots scratched against otrite. It's impossible to know who was winning or if they're being attacked at all.

Shadows fell over them, shielding the setting sun shining through the parchment-thin tarp. The cloth rustled and edged away from them. "Aire—" he started. His voice was cut down when his neck flared in pain. As he flopped back to the wagon with his consciousness struggling to remain, he saw Ravalee drop next to him and the one responsible was an arm clad in nothing but shadows. It wasn't Airene.

Which begged the question: where was she?

And why did she abandon them?