Page 77 of The Dead Queen

I look to Tristan for input, but he’s staring down the road toward the village. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t decipher. It looks like a mix between distrust and resignation. When he sees me watching, he shrugs and turns his horse down the village path. Hunter sighs, then clicks for the mare to follow.

The village isn’t what I expected. It’s more ruin than town, having been abandoned a long time ago. Despite the pounding rain and rumbling thunder, the street is eerily quiet. The houses, once sturdy with timber and thatch, now stand in various states of decay. Roofs are caved in, walls are covered in creeping vines, and gardens are long-overgrown. Water drips from broken window sills and gutters, adding to the somber atmosphere.

I feel a chill that has little to do with the weather.

We pass through cautiously, looking for a shelter that’s still standing. The village is speckled with hints of the past. A wagon lies overturned in the mud, its paint faded and peeling. A shop’s sign swings creakily in the wind, the words barely legible under layers of grime.

Eventually, we find a stone hall that could have once been a temple or a town meeting place. Its thick walls have withstood the test of time better than the wooden homes and shops around it. When we approach the door, I jump down from Marigold’s back and land on something lumpy. At my feet, there’s a soggy rag doll that’s so filthy and sun-bleached it matches the road. My heart sinks for the long-ago child who left it behind.

Hunter jumps down after me, and I lead Marigold to the safety of what used to be a stable. One wall has completely collapsed, but the other side is standing and, importantly, dry. Marigold neighs with thanks as I remove the soggy saddle and blanket from her back. But when I drop them to the ground, something catches my eye.

Scorch marks mar the wood beams. This village wasn’t just abandoned because of failing crops or poor harvest. Something more sinister happened here.

Tristan walks up behind me and follows my gaze. He squints through the rain at the other buildings. I don’t know how I missed the signs before: doors are broken off their hinges, wardrobes block the windows, and weapon gouges pepper the walls. In a nearby garden, piles of blackened, charred remains stick up through the tall grasses like death daisies.

Tristan approaches a broken mace that pokes out from under a pile of decaying debris. His frown deepens. It’s oxidized green, the copper long-since tarnished.

“These were your beloved soldiers,” he says.

“No.” Hunter appears behind us now. “That can’t be. That must’ve belonged to one of the townspeople here.”

Rain streams down Tristan’s temples as he gives Hunter a long-suffering look. “And how do you suppose a farmer got ahold of advanced weaponry?”

“I … it’s …” Hunter stumbles, unsure. “We can’t know what happened here.”

Tristan searches the garden, pushing aside tall, soggy weeds as he goes. He picks up a heavy bronze longsword, half-buried in the dirt. It’s old and green with oxidization, but the hilt still bears an unmistakable emblem at the end—a tarnished copper fox.

Tristan raises an eyebrow at Hunter.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I reply, shaking my head. “We’re already in the south. Why would Llwyn soldiers attack their own people?”

Tristan’s expression is grim. “This wasn’t always a southern town, Red. Territories were drawn and redrawn, again and again.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hunter says.

But it isn’t.

How many times did I move camp along the border? Six? Seven? And how many questions did I ask about those “advancements”? None. Like everyone else, I didn’t question the generals who worked for my father. I didn’t see maps or documentation laying claim to the land we were squatting on. As far as we knew, it was all a part of Llwyn. Stolen long ago by the Dead Queen’s army and recently reclaimed.

My eyes won’t break away from the fox on the sword’s hilt. The idea that borders could shift so drastically, changing the lives and loyalties of those living within them, is unsettling. It makes me wonder how many other villages suffered similar fates, caught in the crossfire of my father’s political games.

Beside me, Hunter’s face is devastated. He can see it now too. The lies he’s been fed, the manipulation. He turns to me with a ferocity in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.

“I’ll get you your crown someday, Sienna.” He walks toward me with determined steps. “Someone must take Llwyn and fix this. All of it.” He grabs my hand and holds it to his chest. “You are the true heir to the Fox Throne.”

I look around to see if Tristan can help me talk sense into Hunter, but he’s gone. Vanished into the rain.

“Hunter,” I whisper. “You know I’ve never⁠—”

“Wanted the crown?” He squeezes my hand. “Yes, I remember. But that’s exactly why it has to be you. You’re the only one who won’t use your power to torture, steal, manipulate …” He lets out a frustrated sigh.

I don’t know what to say. He’s staring at me with so much love, so much hope. I don’t know how I can live under the weight of such expectations.

“Things are different now, Sienna,” he says, sensing my hesitation. “I know you. You wouldn’t leave your people to suffer at the hands of a monster like your father.”

I shake my head. “My new brother will reign someday. My father can’t sit on the throne forever.” Fear laces through my voice like a needle threaded with dread.

Why have I always been so set against the throne? Why have I always refused to even entertain the possibility of being the Fox Queen someday?