They don’t have much time to save the rest.

Treila pushes open the door, and Voyne carries Phosyne over the red and white and yellow paint that has dried tacky on the stone. The hive behind the throne has collapsed in upon itself, black now, blighted, bloated from too much weight, too unnatural an energy. There is no hum of bees as Voyne kneels and deposits Phosyne, gently, on the floor. Rises and steps over her, goes to the throne.

Sits.

Feels the echo of hands upon her scalp, a circlet of iron, a promise fulfilled.

Treila looks at her above Phosyne’s shivering form, then skirts around her, comes to the side of the throne. Behind it. Her feet crush foulness, break it open, spill Jacynde’s defiance back out into the world.

When Treila settles one hand on Voyne’s shoulder, leaning the rest of her weight against the back of the throne, it feels right and good. Voyne tips her head back. Smiles.

Treila’s lips quirk in response.

“You had better know what you’re doing,” she warns.

She is magnificent. Tested and honed and entirely herself. That the False Lady ever stole her from Voyne’s eyes is a travesty that can only be rectified by another decade’s fond appraisals.

“Do you trust me?” Voyne asks, voice catching, hopeful. “Because I trust you, to the ends of the earth.”

“You killed my father,” Treila reminds her. “Sentenced me to starve. And taught me how to fight, and made me hope for better things. Yes, I trust you.”

Voyne nods. Looks back at Phosyne.

Watches as her spine arches against the stone.

“Come here,” Voyne says. “Please, Phosyne. Just a little more.”

“It’s too much,” Phosyne gasps, convulsing.

“I know,” Ser Voyne murmurs. “But I can bear it. Give yourself back into my care, Phosyne, and I will bear the weight for you.”

Phosyne must come these last few inches on her own, but Voyne believes in her.

She holds out a hand.

Phosyne stares at it, shivering half out of her skin.

“I’d like that,” Phosyne whispers.

“Then come. Kneel before me.”

“Swear—fealty?” Her lips twist, and then her eyes close again and she shudders, her whole body quaking. She flickers in and out of nothingness, transparent for just a moment, and then distorted, elbows tugged unnaturally far from her body, limbs attenuated.

“And in return receive protection,” Voyne affirms. “A give-and-take. Not just once, but ongoing. A relationship we can negotiate.”

Treila makes a considering, pleased noise behind her. “That could work,” she agrees. “A reordering. Back to how it should be.”

And in those words are the weight of Carcabonne, and her father’s house. Treila understands as well as she does.

She, too, reaches out a hand.

“A little farther,” Treila murmurs. “I don’t think you are fresh out of miracles, not yet. One last one, and then you can rest.”