The young woman returned the basket of laundry after hanging the line. She was just tired. And she knew that even that was a paltry, emotional exhaustion. She went to bed troubled, but slept hard. It was one conversation among this long, enduring siege.

——

Aside from Princess Seraphel du Marquin, Lady Risel, Lord Lantal, and, arguably, Cara herself, no one had a kind word for the [Singer].

Not even Culin or Sasi. Even they felt betrayed by her. Violetta didn’t speak to Cara; the young woman was given work because she was a free pair of hands, but she was a pariah.

Perhaps that was how it should be. Cara certainly didn’t run from the silent or overt scorn of the others.

She deserved it.

However, her sins were unintentional, or so Lord Lantal had decreed. If she had erred, it was by accidents partly out of her design.

Hers was not incompetence. Not…sheer failure. There was a difference, and one man knew it in his bones.

His bones, covered by that golden armor. Battered in places though it may be, it still shone like gold, like the rising sun over his kingdom. A kingdom he represented with every breath, the leader of the Thronebearers of Calanfer in this place.

Ser Dalimont of Calanfer knew true failure. He saw it in his weakness. He stared down at his broken leg and knew he was no fit man for the walls. Even so, he asked.

“You could place me on the edges of the fighting. If I support myself, I can swing a sword…”

The man he was talking to was one of the keep’s guards, Meltain. The man barely listened.

“We cannot, Ser Dalimont.”

The [Knight] hobbled after him in a makeshift crutch. The others were heading down the hill towards their morning positions along the line. They were exhausted. Dalimont struggled to keep up and knew that was a reason in itself.

“Yet one more arm—”

Meltain turned to face Dalimont. His face was blank. He delivered his words without grace or nuance, like a hammer. Dalimont was trained to deliver a ‘no’ from a [Princess] to a suitor with all the grace of a butterfly landing upon your hair.

Meltain had no need for such wordplay. He used a spear and fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, not like a [Knight], alone against a number of foes. His entire personal equipment set probably cost less than one of Dalimont’s greaves.

Yet…Dalimont felt inferior to him in almost every respect. The [Armsman] retorted wearily.

“We cannot risk you, Ser Dalimont.”

Dalimont blinked stupidly.

“For Calanfer’s wrath? I assure you the crown would understand the dire…”

“No. We cannot risk you dying and turning into one of the undead.”

Meltain snapped, and Dalimont recoiled. Meltain raked a hand through his ragged hair.