Lyrua tied her long brown hair back in a low tail. Her bangs still swung awkwardly before her eye, but she liked the look of it, and it matched her son Athen’s. She examined herself in the mirror, appreciating how she looked in her new nightgown. Blue, embroidered with interlocking gears along the hem. A bit too frilly at the collar for her taste, but it was very pretty.

A crack in the mirror reflected the budding resentment she felt towards her own vanity. She jostled the table and the mirror clanged against the wall, startling her servant girls and knocking loose a tiny triangle of glass. Some part of her found satisfaction in the tiny mote of chaos she had created.

Tonight, she had planned a late meeting with her retainers to discuss abandoning all of it; it was beginning to set in how pointless the pretty clothes and expensive jewelry were. What was it about gold and silk that was supposed to make her happy? Or her son happy? He found greater joy by teasing the noble daughters or reading historical tales than by dressing up.

Lyrua Kirkegaard, High Queen of Nythyemere. The grandest empire in Ankermune, spanning the entire continent of Daggry. It had never meant anything to her. Her own blue eyes staring at her from the mirror made her remember her mother, and her heart twinged with shame. She was a descendent of the Second Goddess, Caitilie Kirkegaard, who had created Ankermune for her children. A fact that also meant nothing to her. Her husband the King, married to her when she was sixteen, did all the ruling. She preferred it that way.

She stepped out of her dressing chamber, full of enough outfits to clothe a village, and perhaps large enough to shelter one. A servant bowed to her in the main room, and waited for her to step completely away before rising to shut the heavy metal door behind her. Her husband resented her now, so she took this room away from him, tucked away on the opposite side of the Citadel.

Brilliant green rugs disguised the drab steel of the floors. Her walls were draped with tapestries of Daggry’s natural marvels. The Glass Desert where dracolisks soaked the land in light from their horrible eyes and turned it into a sea of glass. The Unclimbable Mountain, a volcano descending from the clouds to unleash a torrent of lava into a sea of fire below, and the Miragewood Forest where dragons reigned.

Her bed was solid oak and wide enough for four to sleep without disturbing each other. It was covered in blankets so embroidered with flowers that a new servant once mistook it for a real flower bed.

A clang from the depths of the Citadel rang through her walls just loud enough for her to hear, a remnant wail of the derelict Soul Forge. The Archangels, the servants of the Gods, built the Forge to create their own servants. Manataklos had been built for that purpose. But they failed, creating not angels, but Children of Iron. They abandoned the city with indifference, breaking the hearts of their children, and leaving it to become infested by humans. Now it was hers, but the memory of their work still groaned in the walls to wake her at night. She should have chosen a better place for her room, but perhaps it would not matter soon.

She tucked her feet into a pair of slippers and approached the massive steel door to her room. Requiring no word or signal a slender servant woman bowed gracefully and took the lever with both hands. She used the weight of her entire body to pull the lever down. As if it were heavy. Gears ground together in the wall as the door slid away, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. The Queen stepped out and the Spellwards at the door bowed politely to her. They were not required to do that. She gave them only a glance in acknowledgement. As she walked down the hall she heard the lever being pulled from the outside to re-seal the room.

As the Citadel interiors were made of dull black steel, she made sure any halls she needed to travel through were well decorated. Triangular alcoves held small orbs of glass, enchanted with a Light spell by the servants to warm the halls with a gentle glow. Beneath them of course there were pots of fresh flowers; daffodils in her favourite colours. The walls wore more paintings of nature and the green carpets changed to blue as she passed into the outer halls.

The outer halls, at least, had windows carved into them to let in natural light during the day. At this hour they had dark curtains drawn over them. She was glad for that. Something about the darkness that shrouded the city from this height unsettled her. Every so often there were more guards, but only the ordinary ones. Spellwards would be in front of important rooms, or on patrol.

Approaching her tea room, the paintings opposite each lamp were of her ancestors. They were not grand, but tasteful depictions that made people she had never met feel more real than those in the sprawling tapestries of the major halls. Tonight the paintings made her feel uneasy. Perhaps they judged her for what she conspired to do?

She stopped to see the portrait of her mother. Claire Kirkegaard; a powerful High Queen, feared by the nobility and loved by the commoners. That fear had been her end, but the love had brought retribution. Ten years later and Lyrua still felt her stomach churn every time responsibility reared its heavy head. She could never figure out how her mother did it. But then, her mother had not become High Queen at fifteen either. They could not be more different, except in their looks.

She turned mournfully away from her mother’s image to face the end of the hall. There were no guards directly at the tea room, but her retainer Lander leaned like a tower against the wall, tapping his metal foot against the floor impatiently. He was a Child of Iron, descended from the original rejects of Manataklos. A living machine, though most could not distinguish between the hulking armoured shell and the true man inside. His smooth head turned to her as she neared, looking small on his wide frame. It had only the vague shapes of ears and no analogue for hair. He prodded his tricorn higher on his head so she could see the orange orbs of his eyes watching her.

“Sorry I’m late.” His voice was low, tinning as metal reverberated in his throat. He grinned at his own humour.

Her eye twitched at his sarcasm. “Do not start that with me,” she warned. There was a reason most of the nobility—her husband the King especially—did not like him around. A giant lowborn man who would not honey his words was the perfect combination to stoke their ire and inflate their petty insecurities. But he was loyal as anyone had ever been and that was why she needed him now.

His shoulders grated as he shrugged. With one heavy arm he turned and pulled the lever on the door. He held one hand on his sword as it opened. It was the standard length of a straight sword; a single piece of metal shaped with his odd ability to bend his armour into new forms, but it looked tiny in his hands.

As the door clicked open he pulled down the brim of his hat to shade his eyes and scanned the room, then relaxed the grip on his sword and stepped inside. “Nothing dangerous here, Queen,” he lowered his voice, “except perhaps the decor.”

Lyrua frowned at his back as she followed him into the room. It was decorated similarly to her bedroom, but with the delicate scent of real flowers that adorned each and every surface. The wall was covered in tapestries depicting some of the Sealed Lands. A small brick fireplace flickered in the corner. Her handmaiden, the ravenfolk Ove, stood glaring up her beak at Lander. She was Athen’s size, which made her just over half as tall as Lander, but she bristled and puffed up the feathers on the back of her head as though she wished she were bigger.

“If you think I’m no threat, metal man, then go ahead and turn your back to the shadows.” Ove snapped.

Lander’s chest clanged with laughter. “That toothpick you call a sword can’t hurt me, crow. The enchantment on it might as well be bad breath against my armour.”

“I’ll put sand in your joints, you—” Ove clacked her beak shut as Lyrua waved towards her chair, eyes locked on Lander.

“Lander,” the Queen said, allowing Ove to pull out her cushioned seat at the large oaken tea table, the closest to the warmth of the crackling fire, “if you insult my taste again, I will have you melted into spoons to make you behave.”

“Ah.” He stood perfectly still for a moment as though trying to decide whether or not she was serious, then bowed slightly. “You know how bright colours irritate my eyes, my Queen. I apologise.”

So he would honey his words for her it seemed. If the threat was enough. “Keep it to yourself. My tea room was not decorated for you.” In truth, his comment bothered her very little. He was not the first to express an aversion to her taste. The bright natural colours she preferred sought to imitate the beauty of a natural garden because she could not always be outside, but most seemed to believe the likeness fell short of accurate and crossed the line into tacky. Or so they whispered when they believed she could not hear.

“Tea, my Lady?” offered Ove just as Lyrua settled in her seat. The scrawny raven held a steaming pot of freshly brewed tea buffered by a cloth on the bottom to protect her delicate hands.

“At midnight? Absolutely not.” She tried to look incredulous at the offer, but she was a bit thirsty. It may even wake her up a little.

Ove nodded. She was an odd woman. Her kind, resembling various animals and birds, rarely ventured far from the forests they were born in. “Yes, my Lady.” She craned her entire body, stretching to reach properly without spilling and poured the Queen a cup of tea over a small dollop of honey. Lyrua stifled a sigh. Ravenfolk were known for their empathy and Ove could read her like a children’s book. Ove filled her own cup next, but Lander did not drink unless he was making steam.

As the Queen accepted her drink, Ove climbed onto a chair of her own, and curled up with her winged arms wrapped around her knees. She had met Ove after her banishment from the Puppeteering Guild years ago. They had beaten her savagely over a controversial puppet she had made. But she had committed no crimes, so Lyrua took pity and had the forsaken little ravenfolk healed. After years of devoted service she was now Lyrua’s most trusted servant. Watching her scramble into a seat always reminded her that, despite the healing, her limbs remained stiff, though she hid it well.

Lander, who would crush her chairs with his weight, instead turned his gaze on his sword to reforge it with his mind. It only worked on metal of a kind with his body, bound to him by his soul. His orange eyes flashed eerily as he glared at the blade. The glow of the firelight danced around the curves of his body and the sword softened like clay, glowing red and trailing wisps of steam. It morphed into a very rough, square stool, before fading to its natural colour as it cooled. He dropped it with a thud onto the red rug and with all the grace of a plank of wood, dropped himself onto it. The stool croaked in protest and bent slightly under his considerable weight. Lyrua sighed quietly; he could make a proper seat if he used his armour.

The dishes on the table rattled and Ove eyed him disapprovingly as a drop of her tea spilled from her cup. Then she turned to the Queen, “Pastry, my Lady?” She asked the question with one arm reaching into her cloak.

“No thank you,” she replied. “It is far too late for desserts, and we have important things to discuss.” Even as the words left her mouth, she regretted it. A hot apple tart would do wonders for her mood. She sipped her tea carefully instead. “As both of you know, I carry another child, a sister for Athen. As she grows, it is becoming difficult to hide.”

Ove withdrew her arm from her cloak and as she did, the Queen could see the two pastries she held coming not from a pocket somewhere, but the very shadows in the cloak itself. She plated the apple tart and set it gently near the Queen’s teacup, and kept some sort of nutty scone to nibble on herself.

“I spoke to you about this in the gardens already, Lander,” she said, picking up the plate and taking a small bite of the tart. Somehow it was hot.

Lander nodded. “The King found out and is not pleased.”

“Yes. When we married, I was only sixteen. He was a little older and more experienced with politics. For all I was taught, being thrust into power was overwhelming. I was very glad to let him have the power and responsibility.” She bit the tart again. The distinct taste of the crust confirmed that Ove had baked it herself. Ove always baked with oat flour. She washed it down with a sip of tea before continuing.

“When I had Athen… I was so eager to raise him right. To give him a better childhood than I had.” Lyrua swirled the tea in her cup. Her eyes locked on a painting of the Krakensea on the wall behind Ove. One single tentacle protruded delicately from towering waves, scaled only by a diminutive caravel perched on a crest in the foreground. “It was the perfect excuse to let my husband rule, but now he is terrified that our daughter will not.” She shoved the rest of her tart into her mouth to hide her nervousness and gulped the last of her tea. Could she find bliss by sinking into the sea and leaving the pressure of her life to float atop the waves?

Ove looked up from biting crumbs out of her feathers and hopped down from her chair to fill the cup again just as it touched the plate.

“So that’s why you were asking about mounts and routes out of the city. You’re really thinking of leaving the empire?” Lander was always complaining that she never did anything interesting. His eyes gleamed with excitement, casting his deep argent sockets in an orange glow.

“I think that is the best way to avoid conflict while keeping my children safe.” She certainly could not raise children in the shadow of a man who might harm them to protect his throne.

“Or…” Lander smashed his balled fist into the table. Ove squawked with surprise as the cups nearly rattled off their plates. “Squash the bastard like the worm that he is. Give the order, I’ll do it right now. Display his head on a pike as a warning for anyone who dares—”

“No,” she said. Her voice was firm to leave no room for argument. “I am not my mother. Besides, his father is the Duke of Geodome. The last thing that will help is to anger one of the Three Capitals.” She looked him in the eye to be sure he understood. His knuckles creaked as he squeezed his fist, but he kept silent.

Ove rapidly wiped up the spilled tea, chirping quietly under her breath, aggravation driving every swipe of the cloth. “I don’t hate the idea, my Lady, and if that’s what you wish to do, you know I will be there with you. My only concern is your little Athen. He’s a bit of a pampered little pumpkin isn’t he?”

“And whose fault is that?” she growled.

Ove shrugged innocently. “It’s the royal life. And he’s such a sweet boy, every one dotes on him.”

“Most especially you,” she accused, recalling the battle she had had with him that very afternoon. “What possessed you to give him cake before dinner?”

“He asked for cake,” she replied plainly, nipping her scone with her wide white beak. “Very politely.”

Lyrua rolled her eyes. “The important thing is for us to act before my husband does. What if he arranged for my food to be poisoned with bluenettle and I lost the baby?” she shivered. “I can barely sleep most nights from worry and when I do I see things too cruel to be real. But…” she trailed off as the memory of her dreams invaded her thoughts. Her womb carved brutally open, or Athen’s bed pouring with falls of scarlet blood.

Lander nodded in understanding, leaning forward with his elbows planted on widespread legs. “You can toss an Iron egg like a rattleball and only worry about breaking someone’s pottery, but your human babies are so fragile they die from anything. A bit of dust kills them. Or even nothing at all. Whatever the King does, he can explain it away easily.” He sighed, a sound like steam escaping. “If there’s a threat, I will be there standing between you and it, but let’s not wait for one to arrive. If you’re sure this is what you want to do, then make your preparations and we’ll leave as soon as we can.”

She sipped her tea, but it was going cold. She was certain this was what she had to do. She had spent her life lazing about. She gave up all her power to her husband to escape the responsibility that came with it, and now she had none when she needed it. She had become a figurehead. Something to sit pretty and enhance a man’s stature, her character carrying no weight of its own. Her value determined by her relationship with her husband. It used to be the other way. Female Descendents were the only ones who manifested any sort of divinity and that used to afford power to the women of Manataklos.

In truth, she knew of nothing, not a single thing, that separated her from an ordinary woman besides the position of her birth. It was no wonder the paintings of her family seemed to leer at her in the halls. They had all been confident, responsible, women and good High Queens.

But even as she felt embarrassment welling within her, determination burned alongside it. A raging fire that washed away the doubt she had carried for months. With that flame, she could forge a new path for herself. She swallowed the last of the cool tea with one gulp and swung the cup at the bottom edge of the table, starting at the burst of sharp porcelain shards clattering to the floor. She would carry her children on her back to safety if that’s what it took. She would carry them out of Nythyemere, across the Daggry Sea to Morgen and raise them in Marden Teradon.

Ove squeaked in surprise, her eyes darting back and forth. Her hand strayed hesitantly toward her cloak, unsure of whether she should replace the cup. Lander gave the Queen an approving nod, a small smile stretching his rubber mouth.