Page 7 of The War Queen's Daughter

After almost a week of travel, the world I know has given way to buildings, to towns that grow steadily larger, their houses packed closer together. The air fills with the smell of more people, more smoke, more sound, more activity. I ignore most of it aside from scanning for threats, acutely aware that fate awaits ahead and I don’t want to miss it.

And then, fate appears. The shimmering haze on the horizon slowly resolves itself into a colossal stone wall, crowned with glittering spires.

Winderose, the star of Protoris, shining jewel of the Overkingdom.

It beckons, welcomes me.

It takes far more effort than it should not to turn Gorgon around and run the other way.

Chapter 5

I do not. Iwillnot. I swear it. Though the temptation remains as Winderose rises to the sky beneath the mountain that backs it, swallowing the land beneath, a sprawling city spreading before it like a skirt of smaller buildings that look like toys at the feet of a giant. We’re still hours away from the capital, and it’s all I can see.

My breath catches in my throat. The sheer scale of the palace itself feels overwhelming. The walls are not just tall, they are impossibly thick, constructed of white stone that gleams in the sunlight, studded with towers that pierce the blue above. They are intricately carved, etched with symbols of the Overking’s reign, not grim and functional like Heald’s fortress, but ostentatious, proclaiming power with every chiseled detail. The closer we ride, the louder it gets, the distant clang of metal, the murmur of thousands of voices, the incessant bustle on a scale I’ve never imagined as we pass into the beginnings of the outer city. It’s a sensory assault that I thought I’d prepared for on the ride here. I was wrong. Everything is wood and stone without a hint of green, buildings packed together. And though the street we ride is wide, it’s filled with people and carts and animals calling, with vendors hawking wares and women leaning out windows above offering their own sort of custom.

I have to remind myself this time to keep my eyes front and stay at attention, Gorgon’s measured pace the clomping commitment of a warhorse who’s trod on the fallen to reach hisdestination without a moment of pause. It’s he who carries the day, who keeps me going, unimpressed and duly diligent in his relentless stride, and preserves my honor with his own.

Oh, to possess the lack of care of a Healdean warhorse.

The weight of all that stone, the volume of the crowd, the rich scent of spices and foreign foods mingle with the stink of refuse and too many bodies, and suddenly I’m terrified I really am going to turn and run.

Or just throw up. Neither of which I’ve ever done in the face of an enemy. Ever.

I’m numb by the time we pass the bulk of the outer city and approach the main gate. It’s not a good state for a soldier, but I’m struggling to adapt, to compartmentalize this shift of reality. The gate isn’t helping, a truly colossal archway flanked by two immense guard towers. Carved griffins with wings spread wide adorn the keystones, their eyes seeming to watch our approach. Compared to this grandeur, my small, dusty contingent feels insignificant. My leather armor, appropriate on the battlefield, suddenly feels out of place, coarse and rough in this shimmering, polished world. I run a hand over the scuffed leather molded perfectly to my thigh, a prickle of self-consciousness finally waking me again.

Silly child. I am a warrior. A raw, untamed thing, a princess of Heald. And I will not be bowed by a city or any sense of reduction that city might impose upon me.

We halt before the gate, where two guards, resplendent in polished steel breastplates that have never seen an honest fight, and bright blue cloaks untouched by the stink of a battlefield, stand at attention. Their armor gleams with a blinding brilliance, reflecting the sunlight. They look… soft. Theyaresoft. Their posture is perfect, but their hands are clean, their faces unscarred, movements dull and without precision. They haven’t seen a real war, I realize, not like I have.

I’m suddenly no longer anxious, whether that’s a good thing or not.

“State your business,” one of them says, his voice flat, his gaze sweeping over my mud-splattered boots with a dismissive air. He doesn’t even bother to look up at my face. He sees only a provincial warrior, not the daughter of a queen.

My jaw tightens. “I am Remalla of Heald,” I say, my voice ringing with the authority of my station. “I am here by summons of Overking Gyster to marry Overprince Altar of Protoris.”

The guard’s eyebrows rise slightly, his gaze finally flicking up to my face, then to the Heald banners. His companion snorts, a small, derisive sound. “Another one, eh? The Overprince will have his pick of the litter.”

My blood runs cold. Another one? The dismissive tone, the crude remark, unbecoming a soldier, let alone addressed to a princess. My face flushes with indignation despite myself. This is a blatant disrespect, not just to me, but to Heald.

“You will address me with the proper deference,” I state, my voice dropping, the battlefield’s chill seeping into my tone. “I am a daughter of Heald, and queen’s heir. And you will not make light of my presence here, nor the Overking’s summons.” I feel a flash of the temper that often burns in my mother, a hot, unwelcome surge.

Today, if I must be like her, I claim it, and gladly.

The guard’s smug expression wavers. He has to see the threat in my eyes, the rigid set of my shoulders. How my hands hold my reins with ease, the sword at my hip. The other guard coughs, shifting his weight. “Right. Apologies, highness. Just… been a busy day.” He gives a stiff nod. “Proceed. The Citadel doors stand at the end of the High Street, straight ahead. You can’t miss it.”

I nod once, sharply, and urge Gorgon forward through the massive gate. The sheer scale of the city within is overwhelming,but I am grateful for the clod of a guard. He has reminded me that those who live here are weak, untested, and that I am a princess.

Who will never show fear because I amnotafraid.

Here, the buildings rise several stories high, some with intricate carvings, others painted in vibrant colors. The streets are a river of people – merchants showcasing their wares just as in the lower city, just more elegantly, their cries echoing through the narrow alleyways while nobles in silks and jewels, their rich perfumes mingling with the earthy smells of the common folk, linger. Children weave through the crowd, their laughter bright and fleeting. The taste of dust and a thousand different scents, both foul and fair, fight for attention. It’s loud, vibrant, and utterly disorienting, but I’ve faced such input before, forced to focus on a battlefield far more dangerous than this simple street.

I’ve been hiding behind my anxiety and the uncertainty like one of those children. Time to face head-on all obstacles. This might not be what I was raised to do, trained to do, but surely my experience maneuvering a deadly warzone will be sufficient to manage a life like this.

And yet, I am a fish pulled from a cold mountain stream and dropped into a bustling, if stagnant pond. I am so out of place that my assurances to myself struggle for dominance over the returning unease.

We navigate the chaotic streets, my guards forming a tight half-circle behind and beside me, their expressions flat and level, and now I understand why my mother chose them. Not to hurt me—at least, not entirely. But because, from their reactions, it’s clear to me that yes, they’ve been here before, with her, as I suspected. Where my soldiers might have been overcome as I had been, these three don’t falter when I need their presence most. And while I would trust any of my company to have myback, I admit I take comfort from this trio’s knowledge and experience beyond my own.

While I fight with this new world I’ve found myself in, they are there to support me.

---