Phosyne shivers, then pushes up. Plants her hands beneath her and lifts her weight. As Voyne looks on, she drags herself the last few inches closer and sags against the throne.

She lets her head fall against Voyne’s knee, and lifts one hand.

“A miracle?” she whispers.

“A miracle,” Voyne agrees. “From the depths of you. I know you know the way.”

Phosyne nods and settles her hand in Voyne’s. Her eyes close. She focuses, and outside the keep, the winds still to a bare hush. The floor ceases its rocking. Everything is still, a held breath.

“To you, Ser Voyne, I give the mastery of me,” Phosyne whispers. “For I hold within me dominion over every life within this castle, and relinquish them to your care. And any strength that yet lives in my bones, I give also to you, so that you may direct it to where it is most needed.”

A smile twists her lips.

“I could use the help,” she adds, opening her eyes.

Voyne smiles down at her. “I accept,” she murmurs.

And slowly, gently, the world rights itself.

It starts with an exhale; the throne room gasps, and the burning heat of summer flees, replaced with the calm coolness of an autumn day. Through the windows, no longer blocked by hungry beasts, Voyne can see the guard tower settling once more into its moorings. The world rushes to right itself. Or perhaps it is her: her knowledge of how Aymar is meant to be, its defenses, its weaknesses. Her rigid certainty that, for better or worse, the world endures human suffering. That it is worth it, to restore order, instead of breaking and beginning anew.

Carcabonne, after all, was rebuilt. The lives were lost, the suffering cannot be erased, but Carcabonne continues. Aymar will as well.

Phosyne’s eyes close, and her head grows heavy against Voyne’s lap, but a quick touch proves her heart beats still. Treila’s throat clicks behind her as she swallows. Rests her cheek against Voyne’s head, in place of any iron crown. Outside, the sun shines down clear upon the yard, and Voyne can hear the soft sounds of other lives. Not of feasting, or of terror, but of instinct. Bodies moving to the light. To water, of their own accord. To each other.

They will have so many questions. They have lost so much.

Voyne closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the throne with a sigh. One of her hands curls into Phosyne’s hair. The other lifts to touch Treila’s arm.

“Is it real?” she asks them both. “Or am I dreaming again?”

“It’s real,” says a fourth voice.

In an instant, Voyne is on her feet. Her blade is in her hand, put there by Treila, who stands beside her, lips curling in a snarl. Even Phosyne stirs, braced against the throne, bleary eyes taking in their visitor.

The Absolving Saint gazes back at them.