Page 30 of The Crown's Awakening
Uralish had been in the Avanki desert when the messenger finally arrived. The outpost clung to the western edge of Alarna, a place most nobles avoided entirely. It was too dry, too quiet, and far too close to Thren territory for comfort. Uralish preferred it that way. News reached the desert first, along with the men sent to train under him. The Avanki soldiers were forged here in long, relentless days that began before sunrise and stretched well past its fall.
He was sitting on a low wall outside the stable when the courier rode through the gate at a hard gallop, the horse lathered and breathing hard in the cold morning air. Uralish watched him dismount without moving. “You look like you’re about to ruin my day,” he said.
The courier bowed quickly. “News from your southern network.”
That made Uralish sit up. "Go on,” he muttered, already reaching for his flask. “Is this about the Veynar king or the Thren king again? I hear they’re both unfit these days.”
Alarna may have its wards, but he’d be damned if he stayed without information or access to the outside world. He would not be kept prisoner in his own country.
The courier swallowed. “The Queen Heir has been found. She is being escorted to Alarna.”
Uralish stilled. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he tipped the flask back and took a long drink. "So the silence is finally over."
His page stepped closer. "My lord. Does that mean the rumors were true?"
"It means the rumors were very true." He capped the flask, stood, and pulled his cloak around his shoulders. "General Trophi." A man in uniform broke from the training yard without hesitation. "You're in charge until I return. Keep them alive."
"Yes, Commander."
The boy hurried after him toward the stable. "But if she's back, wouldn't that be good for Alarna?"
Uralish snorted. "In theory."
He swung into the saddle. They cleared the gate and turned east, the long road stretching toward the distant capital.
"Half the court has been waiting for her return," he said. "The other half has been hoping she is either dead or never arrives." He took a drink. "The Opens want the Thren bond completed. To them it means freedom, the wards finally loosened. They need her alive long enough to complete it.
He takes another swig from his flask. "The Lights want none of that. They want us warded and neutral, isolated but safe. Theyhave spent years getting comfortable with the silence and intend to keep it."
He wiped his mouth. "One faction needs her. The other would rather she had stayed lost."
The boy swallowed. "That sounds bad. But surely she is strong enough to fight them all. She is your niece, after all."
"She has been hidden half her life. Raised by some provincial baron, then married off to a prince."
He glanced east toward the faint outline of Alarna's towers on the horizon. "It means she has probably never had reason to use her lightcraft. And Alarnan lightcraft without proper training is useless at best, bloody at worst."
"The boy frowned. "But she has a protector. The Thren prince she must bond to, correct?"
"Teorin Rathmor." Uralish said the name like one might say poison. "He has no interest in protecting anyone but himself. And now Alarna has conveniently produced a princess for him to use."
He huffed. “Their Queen Heir, as they like to say.”
A ridiculous title. Either she’s a princess or she’s the fucking queen.
He rubbed the pendant beneath his coat. It had a twin. Years ago he had sent it across the sea to his sister. Her reply had come months later.
I love it. I am with child, and she will love it too.
He had wondered ever since whether she had given it to the girl.
If what is mine ever comes to Alarna, promise me you will protect it.
Uralish hated promises. Unfortunately, Asharanis would soon be surrounded by courtiers who would happily see her dead if it improved their political position. He lifted the flask again. "She is most certainly in danger."
The walls of the capital were growing clearer now. Which meant the palace wasn't far behind.
And inside that palace, his estranged wife. Venya, the bitch. Uralish grimaced. He would rather sweat in the desert for a few more decades than be around her.
