Night arrived with a whisper of snow. It seemed like the fortress had carried Mazarine’s words from earlier that day, delivering them down the winding corridors and slipping them under doors like notes. The end draws nigh. Because all of us appeared in the hall that night, dressed in our finest and armed for the unknown.

Mr. Wolfe was present with Nura and Olivette, who was much recovered, although her arm was still bandaged. Mazarine sat at one of the tables loudly crunching her chicken bones, much to the countess’s chagrin. The countess sat at a table on the opposite side of the hall, close to the dais, of course. Lennox was at her side, pale faced and sullen, the wound in his shoulder bound in swaths of linen. His arm was in a sling. A rapier sat on the table between them, in addition to a crossbow. Phelan was pacing, lost in his thoughts. The duke stood in one corner draped in shadows, as if he was keenly uncomfortable witnessing a nightmare manifest. I caught a glimmer behind him, and realized it was a weapon of some sort, which he must have pilfered from the fortress armory. And then my parents and Imonie. Mama and Imonie took a seat before one of the hearths, but my father remained standing, his gaze expectantly fixed on the dais. Waiting for the throne and his brother to appear.

It seemed to take forever, but I suppose when you are waiting for something to happen, the minutes feel as long and heavy as years.

I stood between shadows and firelight, looking beyond the windows, where the snow froze like lace.

A bittersweet thought crossed my mind.

This might be the last waking nightmare I faced.

As soon as I came to terms with that truth, time flowed swift and true once more, and the throne materialized, limned in firelight. It quietly beckoned to us all to come, come and claim me until a door opened in the wall behind it, and Emrys stepped onto the dais, coming to a rest beside the chair.

This dream arrived gently. I smelled it first—sweet mountain wind, summer grass, cherry galettes still warm from the oven.

A mountain cottage unfurled around us, the walls made of stacked stone, lichens dangling from the thatched roof. The windows were open, inviting rivers of sunshine into the small, simple chamber. There was a kitchen nook with pots and herbs hanging from the rafters, and a worn table that held bowls of abandoned porridge. A few tattered pieces of furniture sat around a hearth. Books were stacked on a mantel, as was a vase of wildflowers.

I heard the sounds of children playing. Fighting, more like it. One boy laughed, the other began to sob.