Page 23 of She Who Holds My Wrath

Tears blur my vision, my nose stinging from the unshed tears. “Thank you,” I whisper, stroking her one last time.

With a powerful sweep of her wings, Vesindiyah launches upward, scales shimmering beneath the red lightning flashes as she climbs higher into the powdery blue sky. She circles once, as if in farewell. She’s a fiery silhouette against the horizon, before vanishing beyond sight. I turn back, pride swelling in my chest. Every single guard is frozen, mouths agape, and eyes wide as they stare at me.

Aran, of course, is smirking like a smug bastard as he cocks his head at the guards. “This,” he says, voice thick with pride, “is why you never question your queen.”

The rest of the walk is uneventful, only broken by the occasional villager bowing as we pass. By the time we reach Cinderspine, the difference in atmosphere is startling.

The village hasn’t yet caught the weight of war. It bustles with life, chatter spilling from doorways, the clang of hammers against steel ringing from the forge, and the laughter of children sounding in the distance. The banners from the coronation are still strung high across posts and houses, faded slightly by the sun but still bearing both mine and Korithax’s sigil. My chest flutters at the sight, painful yet warm, but I force a polite smile as the village residents nod and wave in greeting. I know exactly where I want to go to first.

As we weave through the pathways, passing merchants and children darting about underfoot, déjà vu slams into me. I’m right outside the school when a small body barrels into my legs. I stagger, a small oomph leaving me as I steady myself before glancing down. My heart stutters at the sight of the familiar face. The little hellion who once crashed straight into Korithax. He looks up at me with wide, bright orange eyes, then gaps so loudly I almost laugh.

“DAISY!” he shrieks, joy bursting across his face as his little body vibrates with barely contained excitement.

I crouch instantly, and he leaps into my arms like he’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. I hug him gently, breathing in the dusty-sweet scent of childhood. “Hey,” I murmur with a smile. “Still running into trouble, I see.”

He giggles, and I set him back down, ruffling his blonde hair. “Sorry,” he beams with an all-toothy grin. “Look at my horns! They’ve grown so much since last time!”

I widen my eyes theatrically, placing a hand on my heart. “They have gotten so big. Oh my goodness, they’re almost as big as Aran’s!”

He bursts into laughter, delighted by my reaction as he gives me a twirl to show them off at all angles. He points at Aran’s horns, then at his own and nods as if in agreement.

“THEODUS!” a high-pitched voice calls.

An older woman hurries towards us, her cerulean horns gleaming, silver hair frizzing around her worried face. She stops just short, bowing so fast I worry she’ll topple. “Your Majesty, I’m so sorry—please forgive him. He’s impossible to keep in line.”

I wave her apology away, smiling warmly down at the boy. “Please. It’s no bother. Me and Theodus are old friends.” He straightens a little, clearly proud at the statement as he puffs out his chest. “Go on,” I say gently. “Back to the schoolhouse. I’ll be here again before you know it, and I want to see just how much those horns have grown!”

His smile returns, wide enough to show his little elongated fangs that gleam in the sunlight. He darts forward, hugging my legs tightly before sprinting off, calling at the top of his lungs, “I hugged the queen! The queen is my best friend!” My laughter follows him down the path. The teacher bows awkwardly once more before scurrying after him, clearly not amused by his outburst. The warmth fills me entirely, overtaking the grief. This. This is why I’m doing this.

I turn back down the path, leading the way through the heart of the village. And then, a smell hits me. Rich and sweet, my mouth instantly waters. My stomach actually growls, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me. Without thinking twice, I follow the scent straight to the little bakery like one of those little cartoons that float in the air when they smell something delicious. The door creaks as I push it open, the warmth and scent of fresh baked goods wrapping around me like a blanket.

Marta’s head snaps up from behind the counter, her eyes widening. “Oh, Daisy,” she breathes, almost sobbing.

In a blur of white braids and flour-dusted skirts, she rounds the counter and flings her arms around me. The moment her arms close around me, something fragile inside of me shatters entirely. Tears spill, hot and unbidden, as I bury my face into her shoulder, her familiar scent of cinnamon and hearth smoke wrapping around me as I clasp my hands tightly behind her back. She hushes me softly, one hand cradling the back of my head as the other waves sharply at Aran. “Lock up the shop,” she orders, leaving no room for argument.

“My sweet, sweet girl,” she whispers into my hair. “I’ve tried so many times to come to you, but those buffoons—” she jerks her chin at the guards “—wouldn’t let me near. I am so, so sorry.”

I sniff hard as she pulls back. She softly wipes tears from beneath my eyes with flour-dusted fingers as her gaze darts frantically over my face, as if she’s checking I won’t crumble into ash right here in her arms. “Come on,” she says firmly, taking me by the arm and tugging me through a doorway draped in a curtain of red and black beads. “Back room. Tea.”

“Eluin,” she calls over her shoulder, “give the guards some tarts while I speak with our queen.”

The boy behind the counter, who looks no older than fifteen, with hair and freckles the colour of buttercups, nods and immediately sets to piling golden tarts into small boxes.

Aran and I follow Marta through the curtain of beads, the strands clicking softly behind us. The room is small, but it feels bigger somehow. Not in size, but in warmth. Low candlelight pools across the walls, casting everything in a golden amber glow. The scent of cinnamon and fresh bread lingers here too, sweeter and deeper than in the bakery itself, mixed with dried lavender, and something earthy I can’t quite name.

The walls are painted a muted cream, though age has kissed them with faint cracks and uneven patches. Framed sketches hang in crooked lines—charcoal drawings of Cinderspine as it once was, flour-dusted children laughing in the square, and a younger Marta standing proudly in front of her ovens. There’s a shelf crammed with jars of herbs and glass bottles of oils, their contents glowing with captured sunlight. A knitted blanket the colour of embers is folded neatly over the back of one armchair, its edges slightly frayed from years of use. A small hearth sits in the corner, not roaring, but glowing with quiet coals that breathe gentle warmth into the room. Above it, hangs a blackened kettle and a string of dried orange slices and cloves, their scent threading through the air. A worn rug—deep red with intricate gold stitching—softens the dark wooden floorboards beneath our feet, the boards creaking as we move.

Marta gestures me into one of the deep red armchairs, and I sink down. It’s soft, but clearly well used, a small worn dip in the cushion. The fabric is velvet, smoothed thin at the arms from years of hands resting there. I run my fingers along the seam without thinking. Aran takes the chair opposite, his steady presence a quiet anchor in the glow of the candlelight.

Marta presses a cup of steaming herbal tea into my hands. The ceramic is mismatched, painted with tiny red flowers that have chipped at the rim. The warmth seeps into my palms, grounding me, anchoring me in this small pocket of peace. She perches at my side, her skirts softly rustling in the silence. She watches me with eyes so full of pity and love, it almost breaks me again.

“I’m sorry my guards wouldn’t let you through,” I murmur, grimacing. “Things have been… hectic.”

Hectic doesn’t even begin to cover it. Meltdowns, endless training, grief, secrets unravelling like threads in a storm. Overwhelming is too soft a word for the chaos I can’t seem to escape. Yet how else could I even begin to explain my life without someone living it beside me? They could never understand. I don’t think anybody does. Not even Aran.

“Don’t fret about that,” Marta says briskly, patting my hand. “You’re here now.” Her voice drops to a low hush. “How are you, sunshine? I’m so sorry about Korithax. I loved that boy like my own.”

My chest lurches. “I know you did. I’m sorry for your loss, too. It hurts. Gods, Marta, sometimes it hurts so bad I can’t breathe. But…” My voice falters. “I don’t have time to hurt. I have to keep going. I have to run a kingdom, prepare for—” I stop, uncertain.