"I'm just worried about Gran," said Milibeth.

Alsanna had heard it a hundred times already today, it seemed. Ships had been spotted on the horizon flying Mantle's flag. There weren't many in Halgot who cared enough to fight for Mistral, but they'd all defend themselves and their families if it came to it, or so they said. Not everyone would have the stomach for it.

"You ever been in a fight before, Milly?"

"Broke Tom's nose back when I was little."

"I mean with steel." Alsanna set her hammer down on the anvil, dusted off her hands, then picked up a dagger from the bench set against the wall. She'd only put it together an hour ago. Third one that morning. Everyone wanted swords and spears and axes now, but it was easier to properly fit and weight handles and pommels for a dagger, and people could hide them easier besides. "Show me how you hold it. Don't lock your knees. Relax your wrist a little. Tuck your elbows in, that's the way. Listen, you stick someone with this and they'll have your head the second word gets out. Only use it if you'd rather risk execution than the alternative, you hear?"

Milibeth turned the weapon over in her hands nervously, then looked up again. "You think it'll come to that?"

"I don't know. You're preparing yourself for the worst, Milly. I'm just doing the same."

"Good. That's… good. Thank you. I feel better with this, now. We'll all be okay, right?"

"Right."

"Gosh. I can't be the only one, can I?"

"No. Everyone's nervous."

She nodded. "If I see that apprentice of yours slacking off I'll give him an earful and send him back here."

Alsanna shook her head. "He's got plenty to worry about at the moment. Leave him be. But let me know where he is if you see him."

"If you say so." Milibeth took the small scabbard Alsanna offered her and fiddled with it for a second to get the dagger sheathed. "Thanks again for this, Alsanna. Don't know what I'd do without you."

/-/

Halgot was a town of about two-thousand souls. It was a quiet place set on a peninsula jutting into the eastern side of Halgot Bay, which was really considered more of a bight by the majority of cartographers and geographers. A dozen other villages ringed the bight, from Fool's Cove to the west and Chinju at the crossroads where the coastal road met the north road, but Halgot was the largest and most important. It was the only walled settlement in the area; it had the best inns; its fishermen had the biggest boats and took in the biggest hauls. It had a stonemason and a market square and the bight's only priest. It'd even had an apothecary for a time, though he'd been run out of town as a charlatan after his medicine had left Governor Sei's face scarred and burned.

The treatment had rid the governor of the pox, however.

The inhabitants of Halgot believed themselves better than most, and turned up their noses at the bumpkin lives of the other villages on the bight, and they felt most threatened when anyone or anything came along to disrupt the reputation of their upstanding town.

Alsanna had felt the weight of their disapproval for as long as she could remember. She was ill-tempered as a child. Never smiled. Rarely laughed. And she'd never play with the other children, save for getting into fights. Worse still, strange things happened around her. The wind answered her call, they said, and her eyes scared the other children, and when it stormed even the rain itself avoided her.

When she was six, Father Durance dragged her away from a fight to sit her down and set her straight.

"You're Grimm-touched, girl." the priest had said, first cleaning up the blood where she'd caught a fist to her ear then inspecting the rough, faded scars hidden by her hair before deeming them a non-issue. "I've seen your kind before. Violence and malignance in your soul. Ripped the life from your own mother to enter the world. The divine has given you a trial, and those around you must suffer for it." He'd clutched at his blackbird pendant then, and a sombre mood came over him. "You say your prayers now, girl. Apply yourself well and know your place, and you might yet live as worthwhile a life as anybody else."

Alsanna had never liked Father Durance, but his explanation made more sense to her than anything else she'd dreamed up. At times, the 'malignance' clawed at her insides, but from that day on she never let it out again. Though she remained sullen and embittered, as the years passed people forgot all about the girl whose eyes used to light up with black flames.

/-/

The Mantle fleet weighed anchor in Halgot Bay around mid-afternoon, a hundred ships or more. The watch captain—more loyal to Halgot and the fifty-odd men under his command than the governor or the royal family—met King Faraam on the docks to surrender in person before escorting the king to the town hall to negotiate the formal capitulation with Governor Sei. The town watch's surrender had dampened the threat of violence, but the peace remained tenuous.

Curiosity outweighed Alsanna's better judgement, and, leaving a sign on the smithy door to say she was out for lunch, headed to the square to see the invading king. She wasn't alone. A small crowd had gathered outside town hall.

Traders and travellers from the north called him—with both fear and awe—the war-god incarnate, but in the west they held no love for him. The Scourge of Sanus, they called him. Faraam the Conqueror. Alsanna caught only a glimpse of him before he disappeared into town hall and he certainly looked the part. His armour was finely engraved but had been battered and scuffed with use, and he'd forgone his left gauntlet to keep the hand properly bandaged while a wound healed. In his right hand he held a strange weapon; much like a spear the haft was nearly as long as he was tall, but the head was broad and flat, its edge sharp like a sword. The leather grip looked like a recent fitting, but the blade itself looked ancient, the brass leaf coating the steel chipped and scratched and tarnished.

She spotted Drummond, her 'apprentice', up near the perimeter set up at the bottom of the steps leading to the doors. Scowling, she slipped between the onlookers and sidled up next to him, grabbed his arm, and dragged him back into the crowd.

"Hey!"

"You should be inside," she hissed. "If someone recognises you—"

"Nobody's going to give me a second look unless you kick up a fuss," he said, then smoothed out the wrinkles in his sleeve as she let him go. "Think the governor will give up?"

"Hope not."

"Why's that?"

"If he lets his pride get in the way he'll only get himself killed," said Alsanna. "He can't fight this. Nobody'd stand with him."

"There are plenty here who'd fight."

"Not as many as you think."

"I would."

"Then why haven't you?" Alsanna scoffed. "You'll do no such thing."

"We'd have a chance if you helped. And you'd have to follow me."

Alsanna's nostrils flared. "This isn't the capital and I'm not one of your toy soldiers."

"But—"

"Go back to the workshop. Do not speak to anybody. Don't even look at anybody." She folded her arms. "I'll be there soon. If anything interesting happens I'll let you know."

/-/

When Alsanna was nine she'd fallen ill and her father had taken her to the capital, where they'd hoped to find a healer. She'd been confined to a bed in the doctor's attic for three days before the fever broke, and had rested for two days more before being allowed to leave.

Before their departure back to Halgot they chose to stay for the city-wide celebrations in honour of the birth of Drummond, the newest member of the royal family.

Not that anybody really cared about that down in the lower city. It was just an excuse for people to enjoy themselves. It seemed that on every corner there was something being roasted or fried or baked. In every house and every inn ale was poured, and where people gathered they'd occasionally mumble "Hail Drummond," before forgetting about him again and returning to their festivities. Alsanna and her father found themselves in an inn where the cause for celebration wasn't quite forgotten, though there was still little respect for royal station.

The king was a fool, said one, but it aint a bad thing. Back before he caught her highness' eye we seen him juggling and singing and harping on the corner for pennies, we did. Wouldn't have thought he's her type, but can't say I blame her. Pretty little voice, he's got. Taken to the court like duck to water, but seems he's not forgotten his roots. I went up the hill for a hearing last month, saw some lady bend down and kiss his royal toes! From the look on his face I think if I'd shot him he'd-a thanked me.

The queen's a dour one, said another. Best word for it. Dour voice, dour eyes, dour scowl. Wouldn't want to meet her in a dark alley, guards or no guards. Day she smiles it'll be the front-page headline. Wouldn't want anyone else in her place, though. We need someone like her at the top these days with all that malarkey up north.

The queen-mother though… oh, she's a right wicked one, they said. Rumour is she killed her own father. Some said with steel, others with poison, others that she'd set a curse on him that sapped his strength and that even now he lived but hadn't the will to do anything but breathe.

"Oh, I don't know she's that wicked," said the old man staring into the fireplace, and the whole tavern fell silent to listen to his every word—or so Alsanna remembered it anyway. He chuckled and swivelled his wheelchair around to face the crowd. "Old King Hastur desired a weapon with the power to kill a god. The church and the divine queen—understandably—thought this unwise, but the reward he offered was temptation enough for many to try their luck. They looked to the old legends, to the Lord of Sunlight, to the First Queen, and to the Gravetender: stories of gods long ago slain and of the people who slew them. They sought out the sunken city, delved beneath Old Oasis far to the west, and crossed the sea north in search of the king's prize to no avail.

"But there was one lowly blacksmith who, instead of seeking out the old, decided instead to create something new, and after much trial and error he forged a blade that could cut through aura. King Hastur, hearing of this achievement, gathered the wisest metallurgists and scholars and priests in the kingdom to aid the blacksmith in his work. The blacksmith laboured for three years, researching and experimenting but—always—falling short, until our beloved witch-queen visited him and revealed that quenching the steel in Grimm's blood would strengthen it beyond measure.

"She lied, of course. None present when the sword was brought before the king survived, and I know not what became of the sword. But—"

"Oh shut it, Grandahl," said one woman with a weathered face, who seemed to be on good terms with the barkeep. "Swear you've always got yourself some tall tale to tell. You just like being the centre of attention. If no-one survived how'd you hear all this, huh?"

"And you always wait until the very end to interrupt me," said the old man. "Tall or not I think you enjoy my tales."

"Dunno if I'd doubt it," said a young man of barely twenty years in the corner. "Saw her out in the woods behind the farm a few months back, on the equinox. She's a witch or I'm a cat named Timothy. Wind that night was fierce. And she called those lights down from the sky, I swear it."

"They're called stars, you boob." The woman guffawed. "The queen-mother's going traipsing alone around your farm at night? Don't think so."

"She wasn't 'traipsing', and I know it was her. She had the church guards with her."

"Maybe you're a cat named Timothy."

"I saw what I saw. Something's off about her, and there ain't much divine about it."

"God and dog are a coin-toss away," said Grandahl. "The difference between divinity and savagery may be smaller than you think."

/-/

The sun had set by the time Alsanna returned to the smithy. Drummond was out back testing his sword on the dummies.

"That sword's much too rich for Halgot. You'll get caught," she said.

He ignored her.

She tapped her foot impatiently. "That means get inside."

He shot her a dirty look. "Paranoid," he sulked, but stomped past her back through the workshop and up the stairs to her home nonetheless.

Alsanna followed him. She hoped she'd never been so dramatic in her teen years.

"If anybody asks, your name is Edmund. You're from Fool's Cove. You're here as my apprentice. That is your entire life story."

"Why Fool's Cove?"

"Because you're a wee bit simple," she said. "Say it back to me."

"Fine. I'm Edmund from Fool's Cove. I'm your apprentice."

"Good," she said, then set about making herself a cup of tea.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Governor Sei's in prison. He punched Faraam in the face."

"We're going to break him out, right?"

Alsanna's eyes rolled so hard she gave herself a headache. "What did I just say?"

"I only thought—"

"Say it again."

He sighed. "I'm Edmund. I'm from Fool's Cove. I'm your apprentice."

She gave him a withering stare.

He glared back for a moment, but his resolve faltered before hers. "And I'm a wee bit simple," he said reluctantly.

"Exactly," she said. "You weren't sent here to wage some kind of guerilla war. You're not a hero. You're a child. They sent you to me because we all thought he'd ignore Halgot and land further south. They thought this was where you could cause the least trouble." The door to the smithy opened downstairs, and she heard footsteps below. "Stay here. I'll see what that is."

Two Mantle guards had been posted by the door; another man was idly inspecting the forge. He was a noble, most likely. He wore the pelt of some large white animal as a cloak, and the sword at his side had a hilt shaped like two entwined heads of a King Taijitu. He glanced up as she came down the stairs.

"What can I do for you?" she asked. The workshop would be closed by now even on a normal day, but she figured that refusing to assist would only land her—and Drummond—in trouble.

"Lord Fay, former squire to the king," he introduced himself. He produced a gauntlet from the satchel at his side and set it down on the anvil. "The king needs his armour mended, but it seems you work more with horseshoes and pitchforks."

"I'm sure you must have brought your own smiths."

"He died of scurvy."

"Hm. Pity." Alsanna picked up the gauntlet. It was lighter than she expected. It wasn't plated on the palm or the inside of the fingers, only on the back of the hand, the plates connecting to a thicker vambrace. The vambrace had an arrow hole in it, and the metal on the last joints of the index and middle fingers had been warped by an impact, preventing them from straightening out fully.

"Come back for it tomorrow afternoon," she said.

"You have until dawn."

Alsanna narrowed her eyes. "This part won't take long," she said, moving the fingers of the gauntlet, "but I can't just mend an arrow hole. If I welded it I'd be likely to ruin the heat treatment. I'll have to take the plate off the glove, patch the leather, forge a new plate, and fit it on. That takes time."

"Heat treatment?"

"Have you studied metallurgy, Lord Fay?"

"I have not."

"Then you'll just have to trust me when I tell you what needs to be done. I have neither the time nor inclination to teach you."

Fay folded his arms. "We march south at dawn. The king will need his armour."

Alsanna glared at him. He wore a self-satisfied smile, and she imagined how pleasant an experience it would be to tear his head off.

But that wouldn't help anyone.

"I'll work through the night," she said.

"You'll be well-compensated."

"I'm sure I will be."

He nodded, pleased with himself. "Bring it to the camp when it's done. King Faraam will want to thank you in person."

/-/

Alsanna learned her trade back down in the capital, apprenticed to a seasoned old blacksmith called Ed. The workshop was on Underwood Lane just inside the second wall, where—between the shadows cast by the wall and by the mountain itself—the sun rarely shone, and braziers up and down the length of the street burned from dawn until dusk, suffusing the air with the smell of burnt cherry and oak and peach.

One day in the fourth year of her apprenticeship, an old man in a wheelchair came to the smithy. He introduced himself as Grandahl; Alsanna remembered him from her first time in the capital, though she didn't say as much. He wouldn't remember her in the slightest.

He said he'd come to commission a cane.

"But you can't walk anyway," Ed said.

"Oh, it isn't for me," he dismissed, laying out the schematic on the bench. "I just want something to pass down. Something… ornamental. Yet sturdy. An heirloom, if you will. It's much too late for me to make any use of it, but perhaps someone else will. I enjoy the irony."

Ed glanced over it. "No gold."

"Hmm?"

"No gold bits. You want it to last, you use something a bit more durable. We can polish up some brass instead."

"I'll trust your judgement." He set a large purse down on the table. "Is this enough?"

Ed blinked in surprise, then opened it up and peered inside. "Come back in three days. We'll have it ready."

After he left, Ed passed the work on to Alsanna. "Looks finicky," he said. "Too much for my old hands."

The cane was designed to extend and retract from the handle with the knuckle guard doubled as a lever to activate it. Usually when somebody commissioned a piece and brought their own sketches it wasn't hard to find some glaring issue, but this one seemed fine aside from his suggestion to use gold for the gears. Ed had already annotated it in his shaky handwriting to use brass instead.

Three days passed. Alsanna finished the work, but Grandahl didn't return.

A few days later they received a large order from the city watch for chain-mail and worked late nights to get it done. On the last night before the deadline Ed sent her home when her hands were shivering too much to link the rings. It was well after dark by that point, and the fires had been long since put out by the frost. Outside the relative warmth of the workshop the cold seeped right through her clothes, setting her teeth to a chatter. She drew her coat close around her and trudged through the snow back to the boardinghouse on the corner.

It was only some ten minutes' walk, but by the time she made it back to her room her eyelashes had frosted and she could hardly feel her fingers. She tossed her coat aside then crouched by the fireplace with the tinderbox, trying and failing to produce a spark. Gods, she wished she could afford some dust. She had an awful headache and her hands wouldn't stop shaking and her nose felt like it'd freeze right off her face.

She stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, pressed on her temples, then picked up the tinderbox and tried again.

It didn't work.

"Fuck!" she swore, and threw the tinderbox against the wall. Heat rushed through her, and black fire roared to life in the fireplace.

She stared at it in surprise. Then, with a quick flick of her wrist, she put it out again.

The curtains were drawn, and it was the dead of night. Surely nobody had seen. She retrieved the tinderbox and used it to coax the fire back into being. Now her hands were steady, but her headache was made worse by a gnawing fear that somebody, somehow, would know what she'd done.

Ed didn't seem to notice anything amiss the next day, though to be fair to him he didn't seem to be aware of much at all, having not slept a wink. It was a slow morning, with Ed nursing a cup of coffee while Alsanna worked on the last piece for the order.

Around midday they received a visit from a guard with a blackbird emblazoned on his uniform: the symbol of the church. Alsanna had just finished riveting the last few links, but she pretended to still be busy and did her best to make herself seem as small and unnoticeable as possible towards the back of the workshop while Ed spoke to the man.

"You want something?" Ed asked gruffly.

There was a long pause. Alsanna didn't look up, afraid that she'd find the guard's eyes fixed on her.

"I understand a man named Grandahl commissioned an item from you," he said at last. "I'm here to retrieve it."

"Old man didn't mention you," said Ed.

"He passed away a few days ago. The queen-mother sent me. They were friends for many years."

Ed fumbled for the cane under the counter. "He said he wanted it as an heirloom. Dunno if he has family."

"I'll inform the queen-mother. She will know for whom it's meant. I believe Grandahl paid in advance?"

"Mm-hmm."

Alsanna heard the clink of a few coins being placed on the counter. "For your trouble, then," said the guard. Then came the click of the cane's mechanism being activated. "This is quality craftsmanship. You should be proud."

Ed huffed.

"Are you not proud?"

"It's my apprentice's work. Alsanna!"

"I'm right here, Ed." She looked up and offered a polite smile, even though she wanted nothing more than to find a deep dark hole to bury herself in where the church would never find her. "Give the queen-mother our condolences as well."

"Of course." He collapsed the cane and hooked it to his belt then—to her relief—returned his attention to Ed without giving her another thought. "Thank you both for your time," he said, then exited back out onto the street.

"No need to be all snippy with me," Ed said.

"I wouldn't if you didn't yell," said Alsanna.

"Hmm. Headache again?"

"No," she lied. "It's just rude to shout."

"Sure." He set his mug down on the counter. "Take your break. Have some water, stay hydrated. I'll finish that up."

"It's all done."

Ed paused halfway out of his chair, then shrugged and sat back down. "Guess I'll just sit here. Wake me if I fall asleep."

The air grew colder and her headache got worse. At night even when she felt herself drifting off to sleep she felt as if she was being watched. The fireplace stared at her, judging her, and when she stared back she could feel the echoes of power racing through her.

Restlessness and migraines weren't new to her, but they were worse now than ever, as if they'd once been held back by a dam that had now cracked and longed to burst. The guard's visit had reminded her of the story of the queen-mother traipsing out beyond the walls and calling the stars down from the sky, and the idea filled her with a strange yearning.

The sleepless nights wore her down, and reluctantly she decided to sneak out under the next new moon—when she was least likely to be spotted—to try it for herself.

/-/

The sun had yet to rise when Alsanna left her workshop, the gauntlet in her hands still warm from the forge. The guard at the town gate was expecting her and escorted her to the camp's perimeter, where another guard guided her through to Faraam's pavilion. All he said to introduce her was, "Blacksmith's here, your grace."

"Send her in."

The king either hadn't slept or was an early riser; he was already pouring over a map laid out on the table by candlelight, and he seemed half-dressed for battle already in a heavy green gambeson. His dark hair was cropped short, and he maintained a full beard. He raised a candle to get a better look at her.

Alsanna bowed as she entered.

"You spoke with Lord Fay, correct?" he asked.

"Yes, your grace." She didn't want to accidentally offend him, or to say anything that could land her in hot water. Especially as tired as she was, it was safer to keep her answers brief.

"I thought to put him in charge of the Halgot occupation, but I want your opinion before I make up my mind."

"My opinion, your grace?"

"Yes, your opinion. In times of war there is nobody better suited to reading the fears of the community than the local blacksmith. Nobody turns to the town watch when the enemy are already within the walls. They turn instead to their own weapons, the true last line of defence. So tell me: do you think he'd assuage Halgot's fears?"

Alsanna shook her head.

"No?"

"He's prideful and smug."

"Elaborate."

She huffed. "People around here like to think they're better than everyone else, so I don't think they'd take kindly to someone so far up his own ass."

"He used to be my squire, you know. He remains a very dear friend of mine."

Alsanna bowed her head and bit her tongue.

King Faraam stroked his beard. "It would be good to have him by my side on the road south."

"Very good, your grace."

"I'm neither gracious nor particularly graceful," said King Faraam. Then he beckoned her closer. "Show me."

She handed him the gauntlet, and he held it up to the candle to inspect it. After a moment, he slipped it onto his hand.

"Well done," he said simply. "Has business been good?"

She nodded.

"You are in a unique position by virtue of your profession that you profit from war," said King Faraam. "Does that weigh on you?"

"It's not something I've ever really thought about."

"Humour me."

"Mercenaries profit. Scavengers profit. Kings profit. Does it weigh on you, your grace?"

She clamped her mouth shut but too late. She kept her head lowered. There was spite in her words and they both knew it, and it was unwise to overstep her bounds even once, let alone twice.

"I was raised for battle, not kingship," he said quietly. "I do not fight for wealth, so no. It does not weigh on me," he said, then looked her in the eye. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine."

Alsanna swallowed nervously. "It's like you said. Weapons help people feel safe. And a sword can be wielded against a Grimm just as well a person. I like to believe the best about what people do with the tools I sell them."

"Does it work?"

"Mostly."

He nodded, satisfied. "You may go. The guard will pay you," he said.

/-/

Alsanna left the boardinghouse an hour or so after dark. The moon hung high in the sky, a dark circle amidst the stars, only a few faint shards of its shattered surface giving off any light. There were no clouds in sight but there was a strong wind, and though she drew up her hood she could feel the air stripping her cheeks red.

The gate at the second wall lay open in times of peace, and the sentry atop the gatehouse paid her little mind as she passed through. The outer wall was guarded against the Grimm, and she had no intention of explaining her journey into the wilderness. Still, it was meant to keep intruders out and not to keep her inside, and at the changing of the guard she dashed up the steps onto the wall then slipped over the parapet, strong hands gripping the stonework as easily as a blacksmith's hammer.

Vast fields stretched out beyond the city limits, dotted with farmhouses. Now in the dead of winter the ground was barren, but even late at night firelight flickered in the windows of some dwellings. She drew her cloak around her and hurried away from the wall, across the fields and beyond the houses, and further still into the woods beyond. The queen-mother had been seen by a farmer. She didn't mean to make the same mistake.

The ground grew steadily rougher beyond the treeline until she found herself stepping almost knee high to pick her way through the snow and the undergrowth. But soon she discovered a small game trail and, following it for a time, came to a clearing. Above the trees to the north the dark silhouettes of cliffs rose on the horizon.

Her breath misted in the air, only to be carried away by the wind.

She didn't know how far she was from the city. Only that the lights from the farmhouses had disappeared long ago. This would be the place. It was as good as any and better than most.

Not knowing how to begin, she raised a hand and tried to pull the stars down to her.

Nothing happened.

She hummed impatiently and thrust her hand skyward again. Again, the stars remained fixed in their places.

She frowned in annoyance and gathered up a clump of snow to hurl into the air. It fell back to the ground with an unsatisfying splat.

"Come on," she hissed. Try as she might, no amount of flapping her arms or hurling abuse at the heavens garnered any response. At length she exhausted herself and fell to her knees, glaring up at the stars.

This is stupid, she thought, then closed her eyes.

The divine was testing her. Rage and frustration were the trial, not the solution. Though they'd fuelled the fire before, now they were impotent.

She drew in a deep breath, then opened her eyes again.

"Please?" she whispered.

The stars were too distant, but it was as if their light answered, appearing from the inky black sky and flowing around her like a river, shimmering gold and blue and purple and green.

"What are you?" she asked. It seemed neither violent nor malignant. She reached out to touch it—

The wilderness gave way to a snow-soaked city. A crowd of a hundred or more gathered around a brazier in a courtyard that burned with black flame. Her gaze was drawn to an old, frail woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

A shiver ran down her spine and she turned around. Beneath an archway leading onto the courtyard stood a pale man in armour. The emblem of the blackbird was engraved on his breastplate, though it had faded over the years. His attention was fixed on the old woman, and his right hand rested on the narrow sword sheathed at his side. Cruelty and fear were written on his face in equal measure.

Then the vision was gone, and the wilderness returned. The lights had disappeared, and she was alone.

The wind too had grown stronger. Leaves rumbled and trunks creaked. Her hood was blown back and it howled in her ears, tore at her hair, rubbed her skin raw. Her hands were numb but adrenaline set her mind abuzz. She was afraid and angry: she recognised the old woman in the vision to be herself, and knew that even though she'd live to a ripe old age it would be a man of the church who'd come for her after all.

"It isn't fair!" she yelled, and the snow around her began to hiss and steam. Warmth blossomed in her chest and spread like a wildfire, sending pins and needles shooting through her fingers. She lashed out with it, catching the wind and setting it still, stripping leaves from their branches and tearing the tree roots from the earth.

When she was done, her anger was replaced only by a deep sadness for the years she'd spent denying that part of herself. Her mind, though, felt clearer than it had ever been, and she returned to the city feeling lighthearted.

She visited the clearing under the next new moon, the power that had once plagued her having built back up to a gentle hum in her soul. The stars did not reach down to greet her, nor did any vision come over her. The glade still bore the scars of her first visit; one tree in particular that had suffered the brunt of her fury had since fallen, and she made a bonfire of its remains to ward off the dwindling cold, careful not to let the flame spread. A wave of her hand and a twist of her fingers formed shapes in the fire, and she spent a while toying with it, revelling in her newfound—secret—freedom.

By her third visit the snow had melted and the clearing had healed. The ash-fed soil recovered quickly from the frost, and already the beginnings of a verdant field were forming. Green leaves and pink blossoms grew on the trees around her, and she entertained herself by drawing the wind through them and listening to the way they answered.

The fourth time, somebody followed her.

She was lying in the grass, her mind just about made up that it was time to return home, when she heard movement in the treeline. She sprang to her feet, instantly alert.

It wasn't the wind, that much was certain. The air was still now, and she would have felt even a small breeze with her powers. It was darker beneath the trees than in the clearing, and whoever—or whatever—it was remained very still. She closed her eyes and reached out to the wind, listening and feeling for a disturbance.

Some thirty seconds later, she felt it: a breath long-held being let go as gently as possible, but not enough. Her eyes snapped open and her gaze was drawn to it, and now she could see clear as day a cloaked man half-concealed by the underbrush.

She turned and fled the other way.

"She's running!" the man yelled, and though she didn't hear a response she didn't think for a second that he was saying it to himself.

The second she passed the treeline she heard a click as some mechanism triggered. A rope caught her ankle and hoisted her upside down towards the branches. Swinging listlessly she saw the first man stand, brush himself off, then light a torch.

"Nice work," he said. The second was a faunus with a fox's tail. Both wore the blackbird on their uniforms. Fear shot through her when she saw it.

"This wasn't supposed to happen yet," she stammered. "I'm sorry. Gods, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Across the clearing beneath the trees, a second light flickered into existence and moved closer. An older woman emerged, in her sixties maybe, with a stern face and greying hair. A bright flame hovered over her outstretched palm, and golden fire framed her eyes like wings.

"Please," Alsanna begged. "I won't do it again. I'll never come back. I just wanted to feel right again."

"Be quiet." The woman crossed the clearing and stood before her, eyes narrowed. "Do you know who I am?" she asked after a time.

Alsanna nodded. The church guards were in the service of the divine line of queens.

"Good," said the queen-mother. "You've done nothing wrong, my dear. I won't hurt you, but I insist that you mustn't flee. Am I understood?"

Alsanna nodded again.

The queen-mother waved her hand and the guards let her down before backing away a dozen paces to let them speak privately. Alsanna landed on her back, but the queen-mother helped her to her feet.

"Tell me your name, girl," she said.

"Alsanna."

The queen-mother frowned in thought. "You're that blacksmith's apprentice, aren't you?" When she didn't respond, the queen-mother smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's okay. My name is Licia. Tell me, Alsanna: what's your favourite fairy tale?"

/-/

King Faraam left behind two hundred soldiers to guard Halgot when he departed south. They maintained a small encampment just beyond the gate, though as time passed some took to life within the walls. The main fleet soon dispersed, but every few weeks a new ship would arrive from the north with supplies: at first the shipments were heavily guarded as they were offloaded at the harbour and taken through the town to the camp and beyond, but as time passed the soldiers grew more and more relaxed until they no longer cared to guard it on its way through the city, only beyond on the road to the warfront.

A year into the occupation news reached them that the capital had fallen. Faraam remained in the south for another two years longer to establish his rule before returning to Halgot. Where he planned to go next none knew for sure: most theorised he'd be returning to his own country but a rumour spread that there would be another campaign in the west.

He and the main army arrived by land a day before the fleet returned to ferry them onward, and the camp beyond the walls swelled once more while they waited for the ships.

On the evening of their arrival, Drummond burst into the smithy. "They have my grandmother," he said. "They have her prisoner. I saw her from the wall."

Alsanna didn't look away from her work at the anvil. "Is that where you've been all day?"

"Don't dismiss—"

"Does she look well?"

Drummond sounded angry. "She's being held captive."

"Yes, I heard you." She glanced up. "Did anyone recognise you?"

It was a question he'd grown accustomed to hearing, and he didn't care to answer it. "I won't stand idly by this time, Alsanna."

"If you get caught they'd use you as leverage against each other. Having a member of the royal family swear fealty to Faraam would help quell any dissenters."

"I can't just do nothing."

"You have all the self-preservation instincts of a snail, don't you?" said Alsanna tiredly. "Stay here. I'll find her, don't you worry."

It wasn't hard to enter the camp. One of the guards at the entrance recognised her—she'd repaired his shield only a few weeks prior after a Grimm encounter—and let her pass when she said she only wanted to join in the celebrations. Revellers gathered around great bonfires throughout the camp, being brought food and drink by collared slaves with extra ears and tails and scales.

A prisoner as important as the queen-mother would be kept close to the camp's centre, she guessed, where she could be displayed proudly as a war trophy. Even if she wasn't in the open she'd still be close by Faraam's quarters, where he or his best warriors could more easily intervene in the event of an escape attempt.

She spotted a large tent within sight of the king's pavilion that was guarded even during the celebrations. One young man stood by the flap with a spear, watching forlornly towards one of the nearby bonfires.

Hiding in the shadows, Alsanna closed her eyes and reached out to the flames, taking hold of them and twisting them up into tight knots so that when she let them go, the quick release of tension caused the fire to roar with sudden intensity. It caught the drunken soldiers by surprise, sending them scampering backwards. Embers burst upwards, high into the sky, and Alsanna guided their fall to the small, low tents where the rank-and-file would sleep.

Then she waited.

The fires hadn't spread far by the time the soldiers noticed. A gust of wind fanned them further— and caused a woman to spill her booze onto it, feeding the fire.

The guard at the tent heard their cries for help and—after looking up and down the path warily—set off in search of a bucket.

Alsanna slipped into the tent.

Licia was chained by her ankle to the tent pole. She sat on the grass cross-legged, and seemed surprised to see her.

"Do you really think I wouldn't have broken out on my own if I'd wanted to?"

"Are you okay?" Alsanna asked. She hadn't gotten the key to the shackles but she lifted the chains and began to sap the warmth from them, dropping them to frigid, brittle temperatures.

"Oh, I'm in perfect health, my dear. Faraam and his men haven't laid a finger on me. He wants the maidens alive, you see." She huffed and kicked at the chain idly. "And for divine's sake, leave that thing alone."

"You let him capture you?"

"He has my daughter. If I make one false move he'll send a missive back to Mistral with the order for her execution. You just keep your head down and look after Drummond. If he doesn't know you're the Winter Maiden he'll leave you alone."

"What then?"

Licia shrugged. "When my time comes I do not know what will become of the Spring Maiden's power. My daughter is too old for it, and I have no granddaughters. I'm sure Faraam has some plan for it, and as long as my daughter's life is in his hands I must obey."

"What about Drummond?"

"I don't know." Licia laughed. "I'm old, my dear. Not to take the easy way out, but whatever happens next is up to your generation, not mine. I have no more plans, no more schemes. My only wish is to live out my last days with the knowledge that my family is safe."

Alsanna nodded. "I'll take care of him."

"Don't forget to take care of yourself, child. And give him my love, of course."

Alsanna returned to the smithy empty-handed and relayed Licia's words to Drummond.

He wasn't pleased.

"Look on the bright side," she told him. "It's almost over. You managed not to do anything stupid for three whole years. That's impressive, you know."

"Is this what you're like when you're being nice?" he asked. "It doesn't feel like it."

She shrugged. "What will you do next?"

"What can I do?"

"You couldn't be much of a prince without a kingdom," she said, "and I have to say you've been a lousy apprentice. I don't think metalworking's the right career for you. But aside from that I think your opportunities are just about endless."

"Is this all you plan on?" he asked, gesturing vaguely around him. "Your workshop?"

"All I aspire to do is live a life as worthwhile as anyone else. I didn't want to be the maiden, and I didn't want to get involved with you and your family. Those things just… happened."

Drummond sighed. "How do you do it?" he asked. "How is this enough for you, being who you are and knowing what you know?"

"Say your prayers, apply yourself well, and know your place," she said. Then she pursed her lips. "Well, I used to pray. That… wasn't good for me, in hindsight."

/-/

The ships arrived in the early morning, filling the bay once again, and the camp began to disperse. Faraam left some minor noble in charge with his household guard and the allegiance of the town watch to keep the peace, and the camp this time dwindled to nothing, the signs of hostile occupation gone.

Drummond left in the early morning. When she'd asked him where he was going, he'd simply said, "Tavern."

She knew he was lying, but for better or worse she didn't want to stop him this time. Whatever decision he made was his alone.

She sat out back of the workshop and watched the line of soldiers leading to the ships.

When she heard the clash of steel on steel, she hummed to herself to drown it out.

When a gout of Licia's golden fire surged into the sky from the docks, she closed her eyes.

But then she felt the Spring Maiden's power reaching deep beneath the ground, tendrils of Licia's aura gripping and pulling. The earth shuddered and cracked. Far out in the middle of the bight a pillar of stone rose from the ocean floor.

Clouds gathered, playing host to dancing golden lightning. It came crashing down on the docks, and Licia's power ebbed away. But it was too late.

Water billowed outwards as the pillar breached the surface, rising and rising, first picking up detritus from the depths and then the Mantle fleet itself as it surged towards land. It was like no wave Alsanna had ever seen before: a rolling black mountain of foam and splinters and sails and seamen desperately clawing for a surface they couldn't even find.

The sea itself was coming to Halgot.

Not that it was entirely Drummond's doing, but the boy had really outdone himself with this one.

Cursing quietly, she leapt into the air and summoned the winds under her feet, racing down towards the harbour. The tsunami was fast approaching; she spotted Licia lying motionless on a pier, skin smouldering and crackling with lightning. Drummond was trying to drag her away. King Faraam had his swordspear brandished towards the oncoming wave.

Alsanna dove, snatching Drummond away to drag him skyward, up over the water.

"Let me go!" he yelled, and she very strongly considered it. "My grandmother—"

"Shut up!" she hissed. She burned her aura as fuel, black flames trailing from her feet to propel her higher. But they weren't going to make it. The water was drawing closer now, closer still, until—

—with a shock—

—it overwhelmed them.

Drummond was torn from her grasp. The roiling currents spun and tossed her, crushed her chest and pulled the air from her lungs, dragging her deeper, deeper, deeper.

She couldn't tell up from down. But it must have been from somewhere above that the starlight came to catch her and carry her away.

/-/

Artorias was dreaming.

He wasn't entirely sure what gave it away. Maybe it was the goat's skull mounted on the wall where the clock was supposed to be. Maybe it was that Professor June was slumped over three desks down with a knife in her stomach. Or maybe it was that he'd been writing with a red glitter-gel pen. It was probably a bit of everything.

Not that he had anything against glitter-gel pens, but red? Barbaric. It was a nice change from the nightmare of the desert, at least, though the realisation that he was dreaming at all still brought on a small sense of panic.

He didn't remember falling asleep to begin with.

He supposed they were in detention, because he'd been writing lines. I will be okay, they read, and they didn't do much to assure him.

Sitting next to June was a motionless shadow in a helmet shaped like a hound's head. Vernal, maybe. At the front of the classroom stood a suit of golden armour styled like a lion.

Gold didn't seem a very useful material for armour. Inspecting it a little closer, Artorias guessed it was titanium plated with either brass or highly-polished bronze.

"Fascinating," Artorias said drily. "I'd like to wake up now."

The armour didn't respond.

He awoke with a start as the airship lurched. If not for the fact that he'd been sitting on the floor of the hold with his back to the wall it would have thrown him to the floor. Quelana stirred in her hammock but didn't wake. A string of quiet curses emerged from the cockpit.

He followed the voice, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Chloanne was still at the helm, trying to keep the ship steady with one hand while reaching across to a cabinet under one of the consoles with the other.

"Need some help?" he asked.

She glanced up. "Can you get me a mint?" she asked.

"You almost crashed for a mint?"

"I came no-where near crashing. But yes."

He retrieved a small tin from the cabinet and passed it to her.

"Helps keep me awake," she said, popping one into her mouth. She offered him one, and after a moment he took it. He could tell what she meant; it was so sharp it was almost painful. "Always a bit tired by the last leg of it."

"I hear auto-pilot exists."

"Auto-pilot's not nearly as good at avoiding the ground as I am."

Artorias hummed his amusement.

"How far are we?" he asked.

"Only an hour." Chloanne pointed out the windshield. "That's it there."

Atop the cliffs overlooking the bight stood a small city built of stone. A crumbling outer wall stood a half-mile from the outermost building. A bridge starting from the tip of a small rocky outcrop spanned halfway across the bay to an island keep. The citadel stood tall and proud, but decrepit.

"City's mostly faunus anyway, but the Fang's holed up in the citadel," Chloanne said.

"Why? It's a mess."

"Faraam built it for himself," she said. "Y'know, the big old king of the North Sea. It was his capital for a while. Guess it's meant to lend the Fang some air of legitimacy." She shrugged. "When I say 'built' I mean 'he had his slaves build it', so really it should belong to your people anyway."

Artorias shifted uncomfortably. "I guess so."

I was very tempted to leave this chapter as-is with no AN, but given my erratic update schedule these days that may have meant going months without addressing y'all directly which would have been cruel.

Lots of world-building this chapter! Some things got cut, unfortunately—like the exact purpose of Grandahl and Licia's alliance—but the important stuff stayed, like references to the integrated structures of religion and monarchy in pre-Faraam Mistral. Yes, I swear that part's important! Really!

...maybe.

Alsanna, Drummond, and Faraam have come up before in the fic, both directly and indirectly. Drummond ends up serving as the captain of Vendrick's kingsguard and dies during the Great War. Faraam is an incarnation of the Nameless King, and is reincarnated as Lucatiel after his death (then, much later, as Solaire). This should be the first mention of Alsanna by name, but whenever someone's mentioned the 'last known winter maiden', they've been talking about her.

But more on that later! Alsanna still has a shockingly large part to play for someone who's been dead for seventy-ish years.

I know I said this last time, but next chapter we'll catch up with Raime, some Yang/Blake/Osborne sleuthing, a wee bit of Winter/Gil, and quite a bit of Arty/Ana. For realsies this time.