The Weight of a Kingdom on a Balcony

“Flitterwing, may I ask you something?” Jianna said as they reached the landing at the top of the winding staircase. Blynn had already vanished into his assigned room, professing a deep exhaustion and an urgent need for sleep. The Feyan himself had been about to enter his own chambers when Jianna’s voice stopped him.

Flitterwing turned back, allowing the door he had just opened to swing gently shut. “Of course,” he said. “What is it?”

“The Returned,” she began, needing an answer to the question that had been echoing in her mind. “What does it mean?”

His gaze drifted down the stairwell, toward the path Malakor had taken, before he shook his head with a somber air. “I am sorry, Jianna, but that is a story for Malakor to tell, should he ever wish you to know it. Suffice it to say that to become one of The Returned is the highest honor one can achieve. Yet, the state of being one of The Returned is a fate that can render you less than a slave.”

His cryptic words, ringing with a grim finality, left her momentarily speechless. She almost missed his next question. “Was there anything else?”

“What?” she asked, her mind elsewhere. When he repeated the query, she finally processed it. “Oh. Yes, actually. Just before we left the Council chamber, the demon queen—whatever her name is—was looking at Malakor and said something about a ‘fracture.’ Do you know what that was about?”

At this, Flitterwing shrugged, his ignorance seeming genuine. “I have no idea. It is common knowledge that when demons die, their physical forms crumble to dust. Perhaps Queen Lyraxis was merely checking Malakor for signs of decay.”

“Decay?” Jianna repeated. “But Malakor looks so young.”

A small, wry laugh escaped him. “That is the trouble with demons, and The Returned most of all. It is nearly impossible to tell their true age. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I cannot stand to be this filthy a moment longer.”

With a faint laugh of her own, Jianna allowed the Feyan to disappear into his room before she entered hers.

She found it difficult to believe this was merely an “always empty” guest room. It felt more like a royal suite from some grand palace. The entire space was decorated in opulent shades of crimson and gold. The coverlet on the immense, four-poster canopy bed was a deep rust-red, interwoven with intricate patterns of delicate gold thread in what must have been a work of magnificent, painstaking artistry. To one side, a large bathtub, deep enough to nearly swim in, was sunken into the marble floor. She was drawn to it instantly, possessed by an overwhelming need to wash away the grime and exhaustion of the last few days. The tub was encircled by a semicircle of tall mirrors stretching from the high ceiling to the floor. She grimaced at her own reflection, a fresh wave of mortification washing over her at the thought of having appeared before the Council in such a disheveled state.

Well, that, at least, was easily remedied.

The tub’s function was reassuringly familiar: a single spout and two knobs for hot and cold water. After a moment of adjustment, the basin began to fill with steaming, fragrant water. From a wide assortment of soaps, oils, and perfumes arrayed along the rim, Jianna took her time selecting the perfect scent, ultimately choosing a strawberry-infused shampoo and a gentle, melon-scented soap. She had always been partial to the smell of fruit.

Before long, the tub was full. Jianna shed her clothes and slipped gingerly into the welcoming heat, feeling a flicker of self-consciousness at bathing in such an unfamiliar, lavish setting. The moment she settled into the water, a great sigh of pure, unadulterated relief escaped her. She allowed herself to drift for some time, content to simply float in the comforting warmth and feel the tension seep from her muscles. Only when the water began to cool did she rouse herself to wash, taking special care with her hair. When she was done, she pulled the plug at the bottom of the tub and watched the water spiral slowly away.

Finding a towel took only a moment. She wrapped the enormous, fluffy cloth around her body, using a smaller one for her hair. Upon returning to the bedroom, she was startled to find that her old clothes, now freshly laundered and dried, had been neatly folded and placed on her bed. A shiver of unease traced its way down her spine at the thought that someone had crept into her room while she bathed, completely unnoticed. She tried to reassure herself that in this world of magic, they probably hadn’t needed to enter at all to retrieve her things. Of course, that thought only sparked a deeper, more profound disquiet; if they could take her garments without ever setting foot in her room, what else could they take? Thoughts? Secrets?

Shaking off the feeling, she dressed quickly in her clean clothes. A brief survey of the room revealed a vanity table laden with a brush and various jars and vials of what she assumed were cosmetic supplies, though none looked familiar. She brushed out her hair slowly, working gently through the tangles with her fingers. The soap had left it a little dry, as she had expected, but it felt manageable once she had secured it away from her face with her trusty old hair tie.

Her exploration led her next to a door that opened onto a balcony. She stepped out onto the small stone patio, into the cool evening air. To her left was Blynn’s balcony, and to her right was Flitterwing’s. When she made the mistake of looking down, her stomach lurched and she gasped. The height was staggering; the people in the bustling marketplace far below were little more than vibrant specks scuttling across a canvas. Tearing her gaze from the dizzying drop, she tilted her head back to the sky, enjoying the gentle breeze that tossed her still-damp hair.

And that was when it hit her.

In her bewildered shock, she had absorbed the Council’s pronouncements while focusing more on her companions’ strange behavior than on the actual implications of their words. Now, alone in the quiet of the evening, the full weight of their conversation crashed down on her—hard and fast, with the inescapable force of a tidal wave.

They expected her to save the world? With powers she had used only once, in an incident she couldn’t even remember? Could she even use them again? They expected her to single-handedly face Lady Zovira and whatever army she commanded. How could she, a simple girl who had only just learned magic existed, possibly do that? And what made them think she was capable of murder? A wave of vertigo swept over her, and her legs suddenly felt weak. She braced her hands on the cold stone of the railing, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Oh, gods,” she whispered, her words lost to the wind. “How did I get myself into this? I just want to go home.”