“We have teams of warriors ferrying stones from Vyrinterra as we speak,” he says. “The sentinels are in agreement with the generals that we need as offensive a strategy as possible. With the citizens in the Keep or in rooms in their homes, warriors and warriors-elect will take the lead.”

The king puts a hand to his brow. “And there has been no word from Balmora.”

Who the king is addressing doesn’t matter. It is a statement and not a question. None of the warriors we sent have returned from Balmora yet. Why would they? We sent them far and with the belief that they had more time.

“Not yet, Your Grace,” I answer finally. Someone has to. “By our count, the warriors should be reaching the human capital today or early tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Lady Shirene.” The king turns to the Chief Healer. “How many are in your care now?”

The woman bows her head low. “Twenty-nine sick, and seven have died.”

“All children?”

“Yes, my king.” She raises her voice. “I beg the sentinels to do more about the citizens. To tell them what is going on. They already know that children are dying. Even those without young kids will not sit long in the Keep without getting restless.”

“We are all upset at the children’s sickness,” I say. “But we are doing all we can. Families with young children are already sheltering in their homes and not the Keep. Healers are checking on their condition several times each day. The teams have been sent. We must wait and have faith they will return.”

“Save your words, Sentinel Shirene” is her response. “You have said the same script to the citizens.”

My stomach tightens like a knot pulled on either side. She is right. Last night, we’d updated the city on the situation—how we wanted the older, vulnerable citizens to make their way to the Keep, while others were instructed to shelter in the most secluded parts of their homes away from windows. The sentinels had prepared my speech together, but I had to deliver it. Someday, I’ll forget the desperate cries, the demands to know more. But we kept the message as steady as the sun’s path in the sky: help is on the way; we just have to be patient.

“And what of the city falling?” Lyreina asks, shifting attention to the Chief Scholar. An elderly man thrice my age, his eyesight is beginning to fail him, but his wits remain sharp as arrows. So much of our history is carried in his heart and mind. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“My lady, the city falls as the prince gets worse,” the Chief Scholar replies. “Apologies, my king, for being so blunt.”

The king waves him off wearily.

Lyreina presses further. “Do you think it will fall entirely?”