Page 6 of The War Queen's Daughter

My life in Heald is over.

I don’t look back. The stone walls of the powerful fortress silhouetted against the rising sun is already in my mind.

Turning to say goodbye feels like consent to my forced departure.

We ride out from Heald, the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke gradually fading behind us. The first day, we traverse the flat, empty lands far from the border of the river, staying clear of our neighbors to the west. While we’re not in active aggression with them this year, we have been in the past, and our forays into Granthenod, while increasing our small slice of the whole, barely grant us the necessary forests we need for building and industry. I know this well, like I know the history of the formation of the Overkingdom of Protoris, the safety and security the Overking brought when he formed this land.

Granting larger swathes to some than others. Mother’s endless dissatisfaction with our allotment has turned from old bitterness into greed. I don’t blame her for her ambition, I’mwell aware of the reason behind it. And knowing her as I do, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised by this turn of events.

Except she’s never once suggested this fate to me. It’s her thoughtless delivery that hurts the most.

I will not dwell in misery. My fate is yet to be written, and I have committed to doing what I’ve been sent to do. Honor and power to Heald.

That doesn’t mean I can’t at last say farewell to the country I love so much. The grasslands turn to low hills and scrub as we ride for the border to the headland, the center of everything a small, roughly circular core to the splayed and divided kingdoms that surround it.

It’s not until the fourth day, when I wake to the wind whipping past my face, carrying the smell of pine and distant mountain streams, that I have to fight tears, blinking as I saddle Gorgon. He snuffles at me for sugar, groaning softly as I tighten his girth and lean into him to hide my grief.

I’ll miss my freedom.

I know when it happens, our shift over the border, not just from the markers on the road and the Overking guard station that waves us through after a moment of speculation. There’s a strange, invisible line that guards the headland from the rest of the kingdoms, as though some power protects the Overkingdom seat. That’s ridiculous, of course. Magic died with the last of the dragons, and though their human descendants, the drakonkin, remain, magic does not.

Still, I feel it in the air as it changes, growing subtly warmer, the fresh scents less wild, more mundane. The landscape shifts, too, manicured and tended, all wildness disappearing behind us. Here, the roads are wider, paved with smooth stone, and maintained with a meticulousness Heald can only dream of. The forests we ride past have been cultivated, density thinned, giving way to rolling fields of golden grain being harvested and orderlyorchards heavy with ripe fruit. We’re suddenly passing through towns and villages instead of avoiding such places, the buildings larger, built of finely cut stone and timber, with neatly thatched roofs and filled with curious people who come out to watch us pass.

Not a few of the women squint at me as they wipe their working hands on their aprons, and I can guess what they see when they see me. The banner of Heald snaps overhead, but rather than sending them scurrying, it generates scowls and distrust.

We’ve earned it, and I will not apologize for it.

I note the changes with a soldier’s eye. The people we pass on the roads seem well-fed, their clothes clean, their faces unlined by constant worry. The land itself seems to breathe with prosperity. There’s no sign of the petty infighting or the border skirmishes that plague our own territory. The scent of woodsmoke here is cleaner somehow, mixed with the sweet aroma of baking bread and ripening crops. It is a world far removed from the constant struggle of Heald.

As we travel, reactions keep pace. Locals eye our Heald banners, our worn leather armor, and our stern faces, but now with a mix of awe and reverence. The further we ride from the border, the less animosity we seem to face and the more curiosity instead. Whispers follow us like shadows that I ignore, snapping at the soldiers to do the same when they turn to look.

“Heald warriors,” “The war queen’s daughter,” “Fierce, they say.”

“Eyes front,” I growl, and am obeyed. Let their eyes linger on my armor, on the sword at my hip. The reputation of Heald as powerful warriors precedes us, a reputation earned through generations of hard-won battles. Who is it that the Overking calls on in times of war? Who does he depend on for combat-ready troops when the pirate queen of the Landlow Isles threatens his shores?

It’s strange to lean into pride mixed with unease. I can’t afford the first, and the second is a constant companion now. It’s clear the headland’s residents respect us, yes, but there’s a tremor of fear, too.

Will that serve me when I become their Overqueen?

“They whisper, highness,” one of my mother’s guards, a battle-tested veteran named Tundor, murmurs to me that night at camp. We’re a single day now from the capital at Winderose, and I’m distracted, running scenarios and vulnerabilities while knowing such a strategy won’t help me. “About the queen. About our campaigns.” He gestures vaguely to a cluster of villagers watching us pass, their faces a mixture of curiosity and something less welcoming. It’s clear he’s unhappy about those whispers. “We’ve heard them before, aye, but…”

But, they’re usually with my mother, not me, and no doubt that brings comfort when my presence cannot.

I nod because I take no offense. There remain still hints of resentment, a subtle tightening of smiles, a wary shift in shoulders despite my initial thoughts otherwise. Heald’s ambition, and Mother’s relentless push for power, are clearly well-known throughout the Overkingdom. It seems we are celebrated for our strength, but perhaps also feared and resented for our aggressiveness.

“We are not here to acknowledge their nosy curiosity,” I say, and the three soldiers grunt in turn. “Mind your own.”

“Of course,” he says. “For the queen.”

If he says so.

We settle in, our camp outside a village for the night our standard protocol in a foreign land. Trust is a thin commodity in Heald, my mother’s contingent adhering to a strict training. We never stay in towns or inns, seeking out secluded clearings,setting up our own tents, building small, easily extinguished fires. We eat cold rations or simple, quickly cooked meals. The nights are filled with the hoot of owls and the rustle of leaves, a constant reminder of our isolation, our need for vigilance. Danger and threat can come from any direction, even in the most cultivated of locations.

I will be well served to remember that when I arrive in Winderose tomorrow.

The ground feels cold beneath my sleeping furs, a sharp contrast to the warmth of a hearth, but I prefer it, honestly, the softness of a mattress almost foreign to me after years of campaigns and sleeping where I can, when I can. My senses are heightened, always listening for the snap of a twig, the distant murmur of an unseen voice like in any wartime scenario. Riding to wed or to fight for Heald, it’s all the same to me.

This wariness is still a familiar battle, fought not with steel, but with constant vigilance.

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