The Queen Thief danced on the rooftop, swaying to the music floating up from the courtyard below. The moonlight shone around her and she laughed, throwing her hands in the air to clap with the dancers below. Her husband might wonder where his partner was, but more likely he was still talking with the minister of finance, arguing about whether they could afford to buy more shields. On some other night she might be interested in the discussion, but tonight, the kingdom was at peace with its argumentative neighbors and celebrating the end of their young queen's first year as monarch.
She spun and jumped as the notes flew around her, blown by the fresh evening wind. Even in high summer the rooftops of Eddis were cool in the dwindling dusk, but the Queen Thief had no need for a coat. A coat would only limit her ability to move.
She leapt and landed as gracefully as ever, beginning another turn. But this time, her foot hit a patch of dew already starting to form in the evening chill. Too startled to make a noise, she started sliding down.
The people of the Hephestial Mountains did not tend towards architects. The short, cool summers and long, freezing winters had never lent themselves to an appreciation of much art other than embroidery...and swordplay, of course. Buildings were meant to withstand the cold and winds, not be beautiful. The exception to the rule was the royal palace. While others did have slanted roofs to shed snow, only the monarchs of Eddis could afford the number of gutter-cleaners required to have curled edges on their roofs.
The Queen Thief skidded down the sloped tiles until she reached the side. One foot swung out over the courtyard, a small cloister hidden in shadow that held no guests to see her. The other foot caught on the upturned edge of the roof and held her, balanced on the knife edge.
"My God," she whispered into the night. Half prayer, half plea, half argument. "I cannot die. Not now."
The wind whispered back, You are mortal. You can always die.
"No," she said. "Not now. My father is old. My queen needs a Thief." And my children, and my husband, she added silently, but the gods did not care about such petty things.
"She will have a Thief." It wasn't the wind speaking now but a voice she thought she might have heard in a dream, or perhaps just recognized intuitively. It sounded like laughter and fire, and reminded her of her father when he first taught her to pick pockets. "But he must start now, or he may not be ready when the time comes."
Scenes passed in front of her eyes, some long and some just a flash of an image, or a scrap of speech. She saw her father fall, saw her son––her youngest, her Gen––having it out with his father like they never had before. They both stormed off at the end, so alike in posture and expression. Next thing she knew, Gen was standing in the throne room, covered in dirt and blood, presenting a shining blue stone to Eddis. She wondered if anyone else could see how the glow of the stone clung to him still. A blade flashed, and Gen was curled up in a cell, cradling an arm that ended in a wrist and crying to the gods. She saw the queens he would serve and the enemies he would face, and all that both would do to him. She saw the men he would lead, and the lands he would defend. She saw the mountain explode in flame.
"Oh," she said softly, balanced on the edge of the palace roof. If she leaned backwards and sat down quickly enough, there was a chance she'd stay on. "Yes." She raised her head carefully and called out to the sky she knew wasn't empty. "But not alone, you hear me? Help him. Guide him." She thought back to her son's lessons. "Even if he ignores you most of the time."
A warm wind brushed against her dress, and somehow she knew the voice was smiling. "Of course."
The Queen Thief of Eddis threw up her hands and clapped once more to the music, then fell into the hands of her god.