Nemesia, my General and the only person who would dare address me so curtly, crouches down beside me and places her calloused warrior’s hand on my back. Voice softening, she adds, “I know you’re tired. I know you’re grieving. We all are. But if we lose this battle, it might be the end. Our only option is to keep pushing forward. We need a plan, Laurel.”

I stand and look down upon the battle from the hilltop where our command is set up, desperation and fear threatening to consume me. Fae soldiers clad in armor fight in the Valley of Moormyr below me, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, the wild thayar flowers crushed beneath their feet.

Just five years ago, my parents brought me to a festival held in this very valley. Now, the crimson petals and dark green leaves are indistinguishable from the blood, mud, and other gore of a three-day long battle. No one prepared me for the stench of war, or the mess of it, and I’ve learned the hard way in the last two months what endless skirmishes, raids, and battles do to the once picturesque landscape of my kingdom.

Grief stabs my insides, sending me to my knees again as I remember my parents and the festival that was their favorite event in Thayaria. Tears run down my face as I crumple, curling myself into a ball. I’ll never be able to finish this war, will never live up to the legacy of my parents. They ruled Thayaria for three hundred years, providing our kingdom with three centuries of peace and prosperity—how could I possibly replace them? I’m nowhere near ready to rule, not at only twenty years old. I was supposed to have centuries of training and preparation before I inherited their throne. With the long lives of the fae, my parents should have lived long enough to pass the throne to me gradually, staying on as advisors until I was ready to rule on my own. Now I’m alone, with no one to guide me or tell me how to end this war.