Shava returns to her place in front of me, and Riszev's Aunt Varziy leans over to murmur something soft and sincere in Retran. Shava presses two fingers to her lips, like half of their salute, and just holds them there for a moment. Varziy's eyes drift closed as she repeats the gesture, and I pull my shawl tighter. My heart trembles watching the two strangers mourn. Even so, I'm grateful Shava asked me to stand with their party.

Queen Selenia takes the center of the courtyard. Her clear tone rings over the crowd, but all I hear is the shuffling of feet, the muffled cries of mourners, the voice of a child. The lively wind whispers through us all, and I drink in every bit of it I can. For what time I've been awake these last twenty-four hours, my mind has been stuck on what-ifs. What if I hadn't come, or Riszev hadn't come, or if Vihnzeirre hadn't come and then left me? Would we still have broken the siege? Would we both be alive? Would she stand here in my place?

But this isn't about me or my imagination or what could have been. Today is about what is. We mourn the price, but we do not reject the gift. They bought us life and freedom and hope.

I drink in the wind.

They light a fire for the soldiers and wizards. Not to burn them on, but to remember them by. Here in the courtyard of the Queen's pyre, with the whole castle present, these men and women receive the respect of royals.

Across the flames, Aster shifts, head down. The wind tossels his hair, and he sways gently with it, almost like he can't find an equilibrium. But who could expect him to? Who could fault him for standing ragged and worn after the storm of the last month? After losing so many people, after seeing his hometown made a battle ground, after injury and treachery and slander, he stands. No matter the condition, no matter the scars, the prince still stands among his people.

Selenia has the musicians play for the dead soldiers and wizards just like they did for Riszev and the Queen. Aster's eyes flick toward the music, and I see his face in full for the first time since we entered the tunnel. His cheeks are thin, eyes hollowed out, but grief softens the edges of his features. He may stand, but I wonder how often he stands alone.

The music ends, and everyone's heads drop in respectful silence. After a moment, Queen Selenia comes forward again and starts talking about compensation for the families of all those lost. She calls Varziy forward and presents her with a gleaming sword. Her voice rings too smoothly amidst the broken crowd. "For the family of Princesse Consort Riszev, this gift will be the first recompense of many in Morineaux, the beginning—"

Varziy pushes the sword back. Selenia jerks as if burnt by the metal.

Words thick, Varziy says, "We do not want. She was not hired soldier, not slave. She was daughter and hero. We take no money for her."

She turns and walks through our party as the Queen stares at her slack-jawed. The four guards fall in behind her, and Shava folds the hands of her robe as she leaves as well. I glance, flustered, at Aster, but he's not watching.

"Come," Shava murmurs as she passes me. "We have paid our respects."

Torn, I follow the Retrans out of the courtyard. They march through the halls, heading back up toward their rooms, and the glow crystals whisper their ever-present dirge as we pass.

The Morineause families could use the money, I'm sure. But I wonder how many of them will feel like Varziy, that there is no price that can match the value of their loved ones. In front of me, the priestess and princess discuss in quick, serious Retran. At one point, Varziy glances at me with sharp eyes, then turns back to Shava and nods brusquely. Their discussion continues up the stairs but seems to reach some conclusion by the time we reach their rooms.

Varziy enters hers, two guards settling outside her door. Above her veil, Shava's eyes flick to me. "Come." She turns without further word, the other guards following her. Confused, I obey, and she takes me to Riszev and Aster's suite. "Do you still have the key?"

I search my pockets and pull it out. We enter, and the guards close the door behind us. Shava sweeps into Riszev's room. Her bag is still open from where we pulled out her armor, her dirty clothes still in the corner, her brush on the nightstand. My chest tightens.

Shava's robed hand trails over the bed frame before she turns to me. "Do you have family here, girl?"

"No." My hand finds my necklace. "I lost my family many months ago."

She hums. "Riszev was very fond of you."

"We only knew each other for a week."

A sad smile finds her eyes. "She never did something halfway. My words were not a question." She folds her hands, gaze drifting off. "She would want her servant taken care of." My fingers rub my charm as I wait. Her eyes catch mine. "Will you come with us to Retra?"

I draw back. "What?"

"Varziy agreed you could work in the palace—a servant in her and her sisters' wing, not a slave. You would be well taken care of, respected more than almost any commoner. We would provide for your journey there, and I could teach you our tongue. I was the one who taught Riszev yours when she was a girl."

Shocked, I sink onto the footchest. Another new world, but one that actually asked for me. Despite my foreign status, I would no longer be an outcast, someone just scraping by on generosity. I would be accepted, welcomed, wanted.

"Varziy plans to leave soon. As early as a couple days, if we can manage."

Shava saw my wild magic on the battlefield, but she isn't scared of me. I doubt the same could be said if the Morineause soldiers had realized what was happening. Perhaps I should be glad Vihnzeirre left me before too many had arrived.

"Girl?"

Shava watches me intently. I swallow, suddenly uncomfortable. "It sounds wonderful. And I would love to see Riszev's home."

Her eyes narrow. "What is it?"

My hand clenches around my necklace, and I force myself to let it go, straightening out my fingers on my leg. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's terribly generous, and I—"

She waves away the apologies.

My hand presses against my leg. "Morineaux is my home." Spoken aloud, the words feel truer than I expected, and I straighten. "My place is here."

She hums. "There is honor in loyalty, some would say." She strides forward, heading toward the door, then pauses. "I would appreciate if you would pack her things. We would like to take them with us." I nod at her still back, both dreading the task and glad it didn't fall to some stranger.

She glances back, and her face softens. "But, if perhaps there were items from the battlefield that we could not find upon our return... Well, not even Eri could be sure what happened to those."

She leaves the room. My heart warms like greenwood licked by fire. Even though I refused her offer, even though Riszev died for my sake, and even though they have infinitely more claim to her than I do—they're going to let me keep the things she gave me to remember her by.

"Thank you, Riszev," I whisper to the empty room.

I put away her things for the final time.

* * *

When I return to the infirmary, I collect Riszev's coat, dagger, and belt from the stash of soldiers' things by the hearth. The fabric I expected to be sullied, it seems someone has washed. The dagger pulls easily from the belt's loop of cloth, and the flames reflect off its shining surface. When I angle it again, I catch my reflection, the line in the dagger's middle splitting me in two. The high collar of my Morineause dress shows, and though I'm tanner now than I once was and my hair longer, I'm still undeniably me.

Eleaviara Riveirre. Eleaviara Riveaux. Two halves of the same whole.

I slip the dagger back into its loop and carry her things upstairs. They go under my bed, where the rest of my things are splayed. Even with everything out of the bag, the mess still feels intermediary. Nothing has a home yet.

I lie on the bed. Everything feels strangely still. I think about reading, but my storybook is too far away from reality and the wyrds too close. Part of me wonders if I was too quick to dismiss Shava's offer. At least then I'd know what I was supposed to be doing.

But serving Varziy would not be the same as serving Riszev.

I doze off and on. Time stretches and distorts, and I'm pulled out of the haze at some point by knocking. I rub my eyes and open the door.

Ollem stands there, fidgeting with a note. He jerks a nod in greeting. "The Prince sent this for you."

Confused, I take it.

Leavi,

Can we please talk? It's important. We could meet for lunch in my suite.

Thank you.

I read the words and reread them. It's so strange for him to address me so casually after not looking at me for a week.

Ollem shifts, and my eyes snap up. "Oh. Sorry. One moment." Turning, I use my foot to sweep some of the wooden coins out from under the bed. I offer him one. "Here. Please tell him I will."

He stares at the coin. "I'm not a page, Maed Riveaux. You don't have to pay me."

"Oh. Of course. But still." I hand it to him, and he nods his thank-you. When he leaves, I sit back on the bed, holding the note between my fingers. Finally, I drop the paper onto the side table.

The war is over. How could there be anything left to discuss?