Each bed is made up and the pillows fluffed, ready to send the Storm’s End classes into sweet dreams. Well-loved stuffed toys are delicately propped up on some of them.

“Mother,” I whisper. This is a new pain. My mother loves to teach, loves to have kids under her wing. But now I envision her fussing with the pillows and blankets, unsure of how to fill her time without the kids actually there. Storm’s End is never supposed to be this immaculate, or this quiet.

Without waiting another moment, I turn and climb the stairs two at a time. I knock twice on her office door before entering. When she doesn’t answer, I let myself in.

Talla An’Irina stands with her gaze turned to the balcony. Just as I carry her name, she carries her mother’s. It is the Leonodai custom to trace lineages through matriarchs. Light glances and twists off the glass panes of the balcony window as the summer wind makes the curtains flutter.

“Mother?” I say, and she turns to me finally. We meet halfway across the room and linger in a firm embrace as long as we can. “When did they tell you?” I ask, my question muffled in the folds of her shawl.

“All of the children were sent home yesterday afternoon for the holiday,” she replies. “The sentinels came by here this morning to let me know not to call them back.”

“The sentinels said there were two children who died,” I say. “Were they…?”

“Yes,” she says. The crack in her voice breaks me in two. “They were both my girls. Such sweet kids.”

I tighten my arms around her, but it’s she who lets go first. My mother keeps quiet for a moment longer, then beckons me close. She draws her arm through mine and pulls me in tightly. I lay my head on her shoulder.

“We haven’t been preparing for this,” my mother counters. “We’ve been preparing for a war where every Leonodai has a lust for battle and the desire to protect what is ours. We haven’t readied for one where little ones die.”

I frown. “This could help us fight. To remember how much is at stake.”

“Or it could blind warriors to reason,” she counters. “Desperate people make bad decisions. I’m glad the king is keeping warriors-elect here. He’s being careful in case we are attacked.”

I open my mouth to retort but close it again when I realize just how right she is. It’s the same thing Bel said in the Tower. She turns from me, and I imagine the wheels of her mind flying ahead to what she must do.

“We must burn their things. Their blankets, their spare clothes. Just in case.” Her gray-streaked hair, piled onto her head and fixed with a beaded cord, shows her age, but it doesn’t shake the strength rooted in my mother’s soul.