◆ VAMIR ◆

Very quickly I realized I had not traveled by land—and this far away—for many years. The last time was over a decade ago, long before there were even airships in the Glass Empire. The family had an invitation to celebrate Ettrian's fifteenth birth day, an important coming-of-age rite for highborn Alphas.

I remembered the trip to be arduous, with father and Isarrel getting sick through the entirety of the journey. This current trip of mine is not so different then, save perhaps for the absence of raucous company.

The first several hours in the carriage was uneventful and quiet, save for the sounds of the galloping horses and the wheels rolling over the cobblestone road. General Barandir led the entourage to a narrow path that wound up the side of a steep precipice from River Beren that divides the kingdom of Ilialana from the Duchy of Lorraine, a dukedom ruled by one of the sons of King Estel of the Dusk Court.

As we made our way up the hillside, I felt the wheels leaving the cobblestone roads, turning into a worn, rocky path that tossed us about in the carriage. For miles, I saw nothing but a vast stretch of water and valley. No signs, no markers, nothing but the dirt road, trees, and bushes.

For a long time, Orrian remained quiet, hands clasped together, squeezing and loosening as he absently stared at the clouds of dust in the road. But as the carriage carefully cut its way down the hillside, my steward blinked up at me as if trying to gauge my mood. I cocked my head and tried to coax a smile from him. It was then that he grinned wryly and sat down next to me.

For a moment, we said nothing to each other. Orrian's warmth next to me was strangely calming. A steady, soothing presence radiated out from him.

As a comforting silence settled between us, I closed my eyes and hummed a tune I remembered from my childhood. It's a folksong my consort-father used to sing to me when I was sick.

In the howling storm

Descending from his throne

Kiss the bed of roses

Ne'er shall let you suffer,

I can hear him now, and I can never hear the song again without hearing my consort-father's voice. It's a little song of misery and comfort so intertwined it breaks my heart to remember it now. And then, Isarrel's tear-stained face etched into my mind, so frail and small like a babe in his sickbed. Already it feels like something from another time.

"'The Song of the Healing Roses'," Orrian said in a low tone, eyes filled with wonder. "Your consort-father used to sing that to you and the crown prince."

I nodded and smiled, leaning in to nudge his shoulder. "Hello there, my friend. Are you done sulking?"

Orrian balked. "Sulking? I'm not-" His cheeks flushed red as he cut his sentence off and ducked his head. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I did not mean to ignore you. This...I know this is not easy for you." He gestured to the space around us. "I understand that you need time and space to think."

Deciding the moment was right, I looped an arm around my steward's shoulders and kissed his temple. He stiffened in reaction but did not pull away. I do not always express my affection so openly, but I bid Orrian esteem as more than just a servant. To me, he is like a brother.

"You know, I do not think I have thanked you. For staying by my side. For everything you have done and sacrificed for me."

Orrian is Beta, like most other servants and laborers in the Glass Empire. He was a mere six years old when his Omega father, a lowborn Willorion native who worked in a brothel, sold him to a slave trader. He ended up in Ossola, found and bought by my Alpha father who made him my cot mate and eventually, my steward. We have been inseparable since.

"Let's face it. You can never get rid of me, not till your dying day." He let out a breathy chuckle before he pulled away from me. "Unless..." He lowered his head as he placed his hands in his lap, nervously picking at the skin around the nail on his right thumb. He may not be aware of it, but it's a habit he does whenever something is troubling him.

Eventually, he broke the silence and said, "You know, in Cardan, they treat the servants differently than in Ilialana. They make them wear black veils to cover their faces. They are not allowed to leave the palace unless they give account of themselves. They are not to speak without being addressed first." He wrung the sleeves of his coat nervously. "And they are punished by whipping, at the discretion of any royalty in the palace." This time, there was an edge to his voice. "Punished severely for the smallest of things, like spilling wine on a nobleman, or...or for missing out a silly little spot on the floor."

A flicker of fear passed over his face before he turned to me, a silent plea in his eyes. I reached out for his hand and squeezed it gently.

"I will never let anything happen to you, Orrian," I said reassuringly. "Anyone who would wish to do you harm would have to go through me first." I tried to force enough bravado into my voice to soften the raw edge of my steward's fears. And perhaps it worked, because the frown on his face slowly disappeared, a glimmer of a smile edging the corner of his mouth.

We talked about everything and nothing until at some point, Orrian fell asleep. Outside, the world blurred past in the sprawling afternoon shadows of small thickets of trees and bushes running from the edge of the hill, the sun glittering on the surface of River Beren.

As soon as we got out of the ravine, the carriage slowed and the blur beyond the window resolved into a landscape so entirely novel to me. Beside me, Orrian roused from his nap and followed my gaze out of the window. Soon the path became wider and smoother, leading us to a towering stone gateway, towards the Duchy of Lorraine.

I observed with wonder how the landscape had changed dramatically. The further we drove, the cooler and greener the terrain became. Where the kingdom of Ilialana is an arid and dry land, the countryside is a broad, rolling grassland blessed with trees and a vast array of flora. Dense and lush vegetation grew along the riverbank, with native villages dotted near irrigated fields of berry bushes, bladderwort, and cattails.

The Duchy of Lorraine is a quaint, rather sleepy little town sitting on the high eastern bank of River Beren, strung along the crest of the towering Jagged Mountain. It's a self-sufficient town that finds no need for airships to transport food and medicine. By the time we arrived at the town, the sky had already deepened to a deep purple, with wisps of pink and crimson from the setting sun. From the horizon, the first bright sparks of stars had started winking. A thin shroud of fog slowly rose above the river and meadows, where swarms of fireflies gradually rose in the mist to dance with the stars, and snow-colored flowers shrunk from the chill of approaching nightfall.

We settled for the night at a small tavern that served food and drinks, while the royal entourage pitched to camp outside the town. As I reached my designated chamber, the whole torrent of the day crashed through me. I was ready to settle in for the night.

After a quick basin bath, I changed into my nightgown and crawled into a small, single bed, feeling a sensation of bliss as I was finally able to stretch my limbs. Hungry as I was, I had barely eaten any supper, but as soon as my head touched the cushion, I quickly sunk into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Morning had come too soon, but I felt well rested, filled with an urge to seize the day. Orrian, who had already been awake since before dawn, was in high spirits as well, looking a lot better than he did just a few hours ago. After we broke our fast, Orrian and I once again found ourselves inside the carriage. The company rode farther on our second day than we had the day before.

So it went. The journey was fairly uneventful, save for news of ruffians up in the Jagged Mountain, where the road is hard to approach without being seen. General Barandir and his men made a swift decision to circumvent the mountain road and instead took a lesser known and much narrower trail in the east, which was safer but added several more hours into our already-long journey.

By sundown, we traversed three cities and five towns, only stopping to rest at night in a remote village simply called The Vale. It was then that I remembered Isarrel's coronation. I could only wonder what the Council must have done to bring news of their new king's deteriorating health. Was it a public ceremony or did they hold it in the privacy of the throne room, where only noblemen are permitted to witness my brother's ascension to the throne? Have they prevented the citizens from knowing altogether? More importantly, was Isarrel strong enough to be taken out of his bedchamber, or has his condition only gotten worse?

For the rest of the night, I was swarmed with thoughts of my brother and of home, my imagination dark and parasitic. The silence of my chamber gnawed at me as I tossed and turned in the darkness, weeping silently until the first light of dawn turned the sky a color more blue than black.

I slept a broken, shallow sleep. I dreamed of Isarrel, looking healthy and happy, a slender golden crown perched upon his head. Beside him were our fathers, smiling and laughing and waving and wanting me to say hello. It would have been a happy sight, but Isarrel standing alongside our dead parents could only mean one thing.

I did not know why I knew this; surprised I was even aware it was all just a dream. But before I could demand answers, Orrian's voice shook me from my sleep. He had given me a reproachful look at the sight of my swollen eyes and darker circles under the eyes.

Finally, we are now on our third day-the final stretch of our journey. As the carriage drives off, I try to ignore the low, dull headache that refuses to go away. On and on, the roads dwindle into smaller tracks, but the forest begins to thin at the windows the further we go up north. Occasionally, I see farms and lone taverns, clearings in the woods full of cattle. The scenery passed in a blur, lulling me to sleep.