I swoop down low and take my human form on the Heroes’ Path. The paved trail twists along the sheltered side of the palace ridge, where the strong northerly winds can’t reach it. It’s here we keep records of our past, both in statues and inscriptions in bronze. Citizens, especially older ones, walk up the path as I walk down. Some carry flowers, food, and other baubles in their arms to leave them at the feet of the great Leonodai who came before us.

I know each statue and story well. King Exin brandishes a long spear that points toward Balmora, an ever-present sign of defiance to the humans. Scholar Islaine’s hand—made of pure gold—shines from wear. She copied the entirety of the Leonodai’s oldest texts so that they’d withstand the test of time. To this day, new scholars in training still gather at her statute to touch her hand as a blessing.

I pause in the shadow of a woman dressed in the simple, practical clothes of a healer. Queen Rowyn, my namesake. Mother says she always preferred the other spelling. Queen Rowyn is known as the Soul of the Heliana, a queen who aided her husband as his mind deteriorated early into their reign. Loyal to the end, she is said to have humbly dressed as a healer so the king would not fear her after he’d forgotten her name, their love, and any echo of his former power.

A touch on my shoulder pulls me from my reverie. “Callen.”

“Hi,” he replies. Strands of light brown hair have escaped the bun at the back of his head, leaving him looking as defeated as I feel. “I know you said you would find me. But that was … before.”

“I know.” I turn away from Queen Rowyn and her watchful gaze and meander down the path. “It’s okay. What did the sentinels have to say?”

“We have until the eleventh bell,” Callen replies, following. “But I saw you didn’t fly off with the rest of the warriors-elect. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

Skies keep him, I know in my gut that Callen is not talking about our exchange in the grotto earlier. It isn’t the first time we’ve had a fight—if you can call what happened a fight—and it isn’t the first time we’ve both silently agreed to ignore it because of where we are or who we are around. He just wants to know how I’m doing after the news.

“Of course I’m not okay,” I say, then lower my voice to a whisper. “How could I be?”