Page 150 of Burn

Poet

Did we eventually untie him? Aye.

By then, the miserable shit had gone silent, with his eyes glazed and his fury diluted to the equivalent of a wet rag. This effect would last much longer than a quick beheading, the king’s future as a social and political pariah set in stone not only throughout the continent but in his own court. Already Summer’s knights responded only to Giselle, who ordered her husband’s bulk deposited into a carriage separate from hers, upon Summer and Spring’s departure the next morning.

Did Summer, Spring, and Winter still adhere to the same beliefs? Aye.

Likely that wouldn’t change in the span of decades, much less in a few days. They would enact the dreaded Fools Decree and trade born souls, an exception in which the Seasons would still interact with Summer.

Although Giselle had begged our pardon regarding the spies, and although she despised the lengths to which her bigoted husband had gone, that didn’t mean her mindset diverted from his. She believed as Basil and Fatima believed, as Doria and Silvia believed, and as the Winter heir believed.

Did this dissuade the jester and princess? Fuck nay.

Autumn’s position with Spring had mended. Basil and Fatima invited Briar and me to the next Peace Talks, where the princess and I would renew our mission to sway the Seasons. That Giselle would attend without Rhys equipped us with a perk, one obstacle against our campaign eliminated.

It marked a new beginning, a clearer path. All change began with a spark.

Over the next few days, cleaning up the lower town and reestablishing a connection with the people consumed our clan. Helping to clear the debris and mountains of soot, in addition to donating all the supplies and food we had from the castle’s stores, drained the last vestiges of tension and uncertainty from the denizens. Some still regarded Briar and me like anomalies, yet contrition, intrigue, cautious optimism, and awed respect supplanted the fury. They viewed us differently, the way Briar had once vowed they would.

Repentant glances. Hesitant smiles. Guarded hope.

There was that, plus the promise of more to come. Alongside the people, we set about rebuilding Autumn from the ground up, in a myriad of ways.

Mayhap it had been witnessing us walk through an inferno. Mayhap it had been the moment we’d knelt for this kingdom.

Either way, the change was palpable. This time, for the better.

Outside of the reconstruction, we spent our remaining hours with Nicu, who recovered from the blackout scare quite resiliently. Doubtless, he’d inherited that trait from the princess.

Amid savoring time with him and resurrecting the town, we squeezed in several forums. With the council, our closest armed forces, and the members of our clan, we made plans on where to go from here.

That consisted of instituting a new Masters guild, which allowed every crafter—regardless of their pedigree—to present themselves as a candidate. The structure gave all citizens the opportunity to apply themselves, which won over the public. That was the easy part.

The more difficult debate focused on the treatment of born souls. Briar and I laid out a proposal to remove the people from captivity. We would nurture their trade skills through apprenticeships and pay them in ways that the other courts didn’t: good lodging, plenty of food, and physicians’ care.

As for the mad, anyone deemed hostile—after a series of medical examinations—would be given residence in an outlying village established solely for them, guarded but with humane conditions and doctors. It would be complicated, and sometimes we might misjudge a person’s capacity. Overestimate. Underestimate. Improving on that would take a lifetime of work.

Briar also talked about restoring The Lost Treehouses into a haven. That would require the forest’s blessing, which would require a heap of trust in the wild to keep its occupants safe. Moreover, it would involve a whirlwind of renovations to the enclave, which might take decades to accomplish. But eventually, we’d get there.

At first, most of the advisors opposed our propositions. At which point, Briar, Avalea, and their jester talked the members in circles until they were too dizzy to object, much less recall when they’d last consulted their morals.

The princess scheduled with me a series of speaking tours, which would take us from here to the borders of Autumn. This way, we would reach out to the Season’s greater population, crusading for a shift in tolerance, presenting stories and truths, urging our audience to reconsider the divinity of the Seasons—the continent’s faith in the mystery of nature. We would speak to every villager, every tradesperson, and every noble. We’d hear them out, debate with them, learn, and educate. Slowly we’d inspire not just this court but every acre of this kingdom.

With any luck, the Seasons would join us someday. With Spring, we might have a chance now. Winter, who the fuck knew. Summer, well. Miracles did happen. If they somehow managed to set aside their shit in the future, each court had something to contribute, and we’d have a greater impact together than apart.

In time, we would dismantle the Fools Decree.

Change wouldn’t happen overnight. But with Briar’s tenacity and my tongue, we’d see a new day in our lifetime. More importantly, in Nicu’s lifetime.

One year after another. One word after another.

And did our busy schedules leave less opportunities for more carnal endeavors? Had we ever given that impression? Perish the fucking thought.

47

Poet

Briar’s tranquil sigh floated through the room, the sound tripping into a stunned gasp as my head dipped between her thighs. She’d already been on the cusp of waking up, for I knew her patterns, the slender exhale that always preceded her eyes opening. But now the princess jolted awake, her startled inhale trembling into a moan.

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