People were beginning to venture out of their homes, striving to save the parts of the city that still burned, because it was clear no one from the government cared enough to send help. Kiran knew that desperate people, especially ones whose homes had just been damaged or destroyed, would not think twice about giving their descriptions to anyone who came looking if the information garnered them coin or some other much-needed good fortune in this miserable place.

The lot of them could hardly traipse through the city back to their inn carrying an unconscious person wrapped in bed linens without standing out in someone’s memory. They needed to find somewhere close and safe to lie low until the danger passed.

He looked to Aurora then and raised the bundle in his arms slightly. “Do I get to know more about this now? Any chance our guest will be able to carry their own weight soon?”

Aurora’s face grew troubled, and she shook her head. “I can carry her if you need a break,” she said, drawing nearer.

“No, it is not a problem,” he insisted, despite the ache in his shoulders. The burns had mostly grown numb by now anyway. “Just curious as to who she is?”

Aurora lifted a hand, running it lightly over what must have been the person’s foot.

“She’s my mother.”

He looked at her, wishing he’d heard the wrong words, that his tired ears had somehow mixed them all up. But he knew that wasn’t the case. It all made sense now. Her secret journey into the castle against the rebellion’s wishes, and why Jinx would help. The earth witch had lost her mother shortly before joining the crew, and the loss still plagued her.

Holy raging goddess. Kiran was holding a godsdamned queen.

Now, more than ever, they needed to get off the street and somewhere private. There was only one place he could think of, and it would not go over well, but he did not think they had much of a choice.

So he hefted the queen higher in his arms and said, “Follow me.”

“Where in the bleeding skies were you while the kingdom was under attack?” Cassius snarled, slamming the door to the throne room behind him as he approached his father. It did not close properly, undermining his anger, but the hole in the ceiling and the pile of half-charred furniture and curtains and rugs in the center of the room underscored his point well enough.

His father straightened, slowly, lifting one hand off the table he leaned on, then the other. His black hair was scattered with gray, and the wrinkles in his tanned skin settled into grooves as he sneered. “I was busy. I had assumed you had things under control. It seems I assumed wrong. Perhaps I should listen to Casimir. He thinks you’ve lost your edge. Maybe it is time for a little healthy brotherly competition.”