The winter had struck hard in Arctra this year. It was not ideal weather for an army to move in, and yet, that was the only choice. If they left their move until spring, Velasca would have had the time to dig into her position in Loscar; she would be impossible to remove from the capital city without a siege that might go on for years. Knowing as they did of the Skarran mercenaries and wizards that were swelling the ranks of the Usurper Queen's army, there was no guarantee that such a siege would not become a battle on two fronts as their longtime enemy attacked from the sea. No, the only choice was to march in winter and keep her from bedding in.
And so it was that the army of the True Queen, Ariana, moved south through the deepening snows, growing larger as lords and peasants flocked to her standard. Under the command of Liam O'Connor and his generals, order was kept rigidly tight, their first priority the protection of the last of Arlan's line. As they passed through the realm, the Wild Ones came to join them, and for the first time, the Arctrans began to realize the sheer numbers of the nomads they had looked down on all their lives. Though not all the clans had joined the fight, there were enough to equal a third of the army proper, and many of them were more powerful than the Skarran wizards they would soon oppose. The Goddess drew Her hand over Ariana's army, together with the Nine Gods. No one was prepared to abandon this best, last hope of restoring order to their land.
As the deepness of winter fell upon them, the great mass of humanity were obliged to make camp to wait out the worst of the snowstorms, and for the first time in their known history, Arctran and nomad worked side by side to ensure their survival. Magic warmed them, a gift from the Goddess; training honed their skills, the offering of the Arctrans to their wilder kin. Ariana watched them building those bonds, and she felt stronger for it. Arctra had been split asunder for too long; it was time she was healed.
But the nights were hard, even for those who had been given tents and braziers, filled with the biting cold of winter, and the gnawing fear of what was coming. Nightmares stalked the young queen's sleep as she struggled to reconcile who she had been with who she was, taking on the burden of blame for the lives that had been and would be lost in her name. Tonight, with the worst of the storm passed, she had finally fallen into a fitful slumber, tucked tightly beneath blankets and furs in her tent, golden hair spread over the pillow attesting to whose daughter she was. The darkness pressed in as the camp slept, the guards' work hindered by the flurries that still fell in the gloom.
Beside her lay a boy, not much older than the queen, on the cusp of manhood. He had once been the prince's closest and truest friend. They had loved each other like brothers, or so they'd thought, until it was revealed that the prince was no prince but a princess, and the pair at last had realized they loved each other in a very different way. They had promised their hearts and lives to the other, in full witness of the court, though those vows were not to be completely consummated until the time was right - until the false queen had been defeated and they were formally joined in marriage. A war camp was no place for such things - not for a queen, not for Ariana - and he had promised to be patient a little while more.
That wasn't the reason for his restlessness, though. There was something that didn't feel right to him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He'd shared his concerns with both the Commander and his Second, and the guard had been doubled, but still Rory felt uneasy, though he wasn't sure why. And yet, so long as Ariana lay safe and resting peacefully beside him, that was all that really mattered.
Though her own dreams were restless, filled with blood and pain, the vicious cruelty of Valeyna's laughter and Velasca's half-mad eyes, Ariana slept on as the night grew darker, always aware of her beloved Rory beside her. He was her chosen Consort, and when they had won this fight, she would make him her husband, wanting no other to stand by her side through all the years to come. At some point during the night, she rolled away, her back to him, one hand reaching back to hold his even in slumber, neither one of them aware that death stalked their camp that night, with royal blood on its mind.
He had not only promised her his heart, but his life, and he had not made those promises lightly. Whatever title they wished to bestow on him - Royal Consort or another - his first and foremost loyalty and duty was to Ariana, not only because she was the True Queen of Arctra, but because he loved her with all his heart. To that end, he remained close, day after day, night after night, whether she was awake or asleep. If any of their enemies wanted to do her harm, they'd have to go through him first. Restless as he was, he rolled sideways along with her, shielding her with his body, fingers tangling with hers. He lay awake late into the night, listening to the sounds of camp around them, until there was nothing to be heard but the sound of the wind in the trees and the snow against the tent. He tucked the furs around them both to keep them warm and at long last, let his eyes drift closed, one arm wrapped around Ariana to keep her safe and warm.
It was in those dangerous moments of first sleep that death struck. From outside the tent came the quiet sound of first one body falling, then another - both lowered to the ground rather than allowed to drop in a clatter of armor and weaponry. The heavy leather flap of the tent was undone, and a dark-clad figure slipped inside, holding to the shadows as the inhabitants of the bed shivered in the unexpected rush of cold air from outside. Only when he was certain they had not woken did he creep forward, drawing a blackened blade from his belt. He knelt beside the bed, studying the sleeping face of the young queen, the last of Arlan's line, even as his blade crept toward her throat.
Perhaps it was the minute creak of his leather boots, or the cold radiating from the assassin's knife, but something woke Ariana in those crucial moments. Blue eyes snapped open to find that hunched figure reaching toward her, and years of her old swordmaster's training broke through her terror. She twisted in the confines of the bed, thrusting both feet toward the man's stomach, feeling the double kick land hard enough to knock him onto his backside. The same motion jerked her backward into Rory's chest, sending them both toward the far side of the bed as she let out a strangled cry of shock.
It wasn't the rush of cold or the creak of leather that startled Rory awake, but the crash of Ariana's body against his chest and the sound of her terrified scream shattering the silence of the night. He was awake in an instant, eyes snapping open, hand reaching for the dagger he kept nearby, just as the two of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and blankets.
Though the scream was enough to alert other guards who had survived the assassin's trek through the camp to something amiss, there was little to send them in the right direction. For now, at least, the True Queen and her Consort were on their own, tangled together in blankets and furs on the thick rug that lined the floor as the assassin rose to his feet, rounding the bed toward them. "Death to Adare!"
By some miracle, Rory managed to untangle himself from both Ariana and the furs, placing himself between her and the assassin. Though he was no knight or warrior, like he'd dreamed, he had learned a thing or two about fighting and wasn't about to let anyone harm Ariana if he had anything to say about it. "Guards!" he shouted at the top of his lungs as he took a firm grip on the dagger in his hand, one arm outstretched to make sure Ariana remained safely behind him.
And so it was that the army of the True Queen, Ariana, moved south through the deepening snows, growing larger as lords and peasants flocked to her standard. Under the command of Liam O'Connor and his generals, order was kept rigidly tight, their first priority the protection of the last of Arlan's line. As they passed through the realm, the Wild Ones came to join them, and for the first time, the Arctrans began to realize the sheer numbers of the nomads they had looked down on all their lives. Though not all the clans had joined the fight, there were enough to equal a third of the army proper, and many of them were more powerful than the Skarran wizards they would soon oppose. The Goddess drew Her hand over Ariana's army, together with the Nine Gods. No one was prepared to abandon this best, last hope of restoring order to their land.
As the deepness of winter fell upon them, the great mass of humanity were obliged to make camp to wait out the worst of the snowstorms, and for the first time in their known history, Arctran and nomad worked side by side to ensure their survival. Magic warmed them, a gift from the Goddess; training honed their skills, the offering of the Arctrans to their wilder kin. Ariana watched them building those bonds, and she felt stronger for it. Arctra had been split asunder for too long; it was time she was healed.
But the nights were hard, even for those who had been given tents and braziers, filled with the biting cold of winter, and the gnawing fear of what was coming. Nightmares stalked the young queen's sleep as she struggled to reconcile who she had been with who she was, taking on the burden of blame for the lives that had been and would be lost in her name. Tonight, with the worst of the storm passed, she had finally fallen into a fitful slumber, tucked tightly beneath blankets and furs in her tent, golden hair spread over the pillow attesting to whose daughter she was. The darkness pressed in as the camp slept, the guards' work hindered by the flurries that still fell in the gloom.
Beside her lay a boy, not much older than the queen, on the cusp of manhood. He had once been the prince's closest and truest friend. They had loved each other like brothers, or so they'd thought, until it was revealed that the prince was no prince but a princess, and the pair at last had realized they loved each other in a very different way. They had promised their hearts and lives to the other, in full witness of the court, though those vows were not to be completely consummated until the time was right - until the false queen had been defeated and they were formally joined in marriage. A war camp was no place for such things - not for a queen, not for Ariana - and he had promised to be patient a little while more.
That wasn't the reason for his restlessness, though. There was something that didn't feel right to him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He'd shared his concerns with both the Commander and his Second, and the guard had been doubled, but still Rory felt uneasy, though he wasn't sure why. And yet, so long as Ariana lay safe and resting peacefully beside him, that was all that really mattered.
Though her own dreams were restless, filled with blood and pain, the vicious cruelty of Valeyna's laughter and Velasca's half-mad eyes, Ariana slept on as the night grew darker, always aware of her beloved Rory beside her. He was her chosen Consort, and when they had won this fight, she would make him her husband, wanting no other to stand by her side through all the years to come. At some point during the night, she rolled away, her back to him, one hand reaching back to hold his even in slumber, neither one of them aware that death stalked their camp that night, with royal blood on its mind.
He had not only promised her his heart, but his life, and he had not made those promises lightly. Whatever title they wished to bestow on him - Royal Consort or another - his first and foremost loyalty and duty was to Ariana, not only because she was the True Queen of Arctra, but because he loved her with all his heart. To that end, he remained close, day after day, night after night, whether she was awake or asleep. If any of their enemies wanted to do her harm, they'd have to go through him first. Restless as he was, he rolled sideways along with her, shielding her with his body, fingers tangling with hers. He lay awake late into the night, listening to the sounds of camp around them, until there was nothing to be heard but the sound of the wind in the trees and the snow against the tent. He tucked the furs around them both to keep them warm and at long last, let his eyes drift closed, one arm wrapped around Ariana to keep her safe and warm.
It was in those dangerous moments of first sleep that death struck. From outside the tent came the quiet sound of first one body falling, then another - both lowered to the ground rather than allowed to drop in a clatter of armor and weaponry. The heavy leather flap of the tent was undone, and a dark-clad figure slipped inside, holding to the shadows as the inhabitants of the bed shivered in the unexpected rush of cold air from outside. Only when he was certain they had not woken did he creep forward, drawing a blackened blade from his belt. He knelt beside the bed, studying the sleeping face of the young queen, the last of Arlan's line, even as his blade crept toward her throat.
Perhaps it was the minute creak of his leather boots, or the cold radiating from the assassin's knife, but something woke Ariana in those crucial moments. Blue eyes snapped open to find that hunched figure reaching toward her, and years of her old swordmaster's training broke through her terror. She twisted in the confines of the bed, thrusting both feet toward the man's stomach, feeling the double kick land hard enough to knock him onto his backside. The same motion jerked her backward into Rory's chest, sending them both toward the far side of the bed as she let out a strangled cry of shock.
It wasn't the rush of cold or the creak of leather that startled Rory awake, but the crash of Ariana's body against his chest and the sound of her terrified scream shattering the silence of the night. He was awake in an instant, eyes snapping open, hand reaching for the dagger he kept nearby, just as the two of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and blankets.
Though the scream was enough to alert other guards who had survived the assassin's trek through the camp to something amiss, there was little to send them in the right direction. For now, at least, the True Queen and her Consort were on their own, tangled together in blankets and furs on the thick rug that lined the floor as the assassin rose to his feet, rounding the bed toward them. "Death to Adare!"
By some miracle, Rory managed to untangle himself from both Ariana and the furs, placing himself between her and the assassin. Though he was no knight or warrior, like he'd dreamed, he had learned a thing or two about fighting and wasn't about to let anyone harm Ariana if he had anything to say about it. "Guards!" he shouted at the top of his lungs as he took a firm grip on the dagger in his hand, one arm outstretched to make sure Ariana remained safely behind him.