As she was led to the washroom, she did not miss the small vial of potion on the counter. The bath was hot, the maidens’ hands were rough, and the heavy fabric of the dress was uncomfortable against her skin. She wanted braids, but Araxia ordered curls. A monstrous necklace was clasped around her throat like a collar, a crown placed upon her head.

A reminder. A statement. A promise. To the Princeps or her, she couldn’t be sure.

The potion was uncorked and placed in her palm. She choked as she swallowed it, the bitterness biting the entire way down.

She turned to face the maidens and did not miss their pitying gazes.

She looked away from them and into the looking glass. The queen’s brown skin, dark hair, and green eyes shone back. The sight warmed her, her heart betraying her mind at the thought of resembling her mother.

Mother.

The word still left her feeling conflicted.

Of course, at the Home, she had always had Mothers – but never one that looked at her the way Araxia did. With eyes that wished her all the good things in this life. One who would rather watch the world burn than have her suffer or labour. Who loved with abandon beyond choice or flaw. Unconditional. Universal. A bond of blood that no force, no magic could cleave.

When she was younger, the word mother had filled her dreams. A silent chant, a kid screaming in the dark, searching. Martia was the closest thing she had ever had. Even if the woman would’ve beaten her senseless for that insinuation.

But now, as she contemplated the word, she half hoped that one day, maybe, it wouldn’t feel so heavy on her tongue.

The peaks of Wilhelma loomed to the north, the highest peak surrounded by grey sky. The jagged cliffs were capped in milky snow that reflected the sun, sending sharp bursts of light at the carriage. The mountain was a holy place, eternal. The Elders had once hiked to the top in a quest for power to build the barrier. For six days, they fasted and prayed to the old Gods to look kindly on their cause.

Only the enlightened travelled to the peak these days. To the west was the Isle of Irobel, a large island floating in the sky, upheld by the very elemental magic that ran through its citizens’ veins. She had read that Vasalis, the Elder of Earth, had once brought the Isle to its knees with an earthquake so powerful that it toppled temples and laid waste to the countryside.

The Gods had punished this abuse of power, weakening the earth bloodline. Many blamed Vasalis, refusing to pray to him. His temples were filled with offerings to other Elders, his altar ignored.

And finally, to the south, she saw the Volta Sea.