As Rosslyn strode toward the audience chamber, dressed in full royal regalia, a door opened in the hall.

  Out of the corner of her eye, the Princess saw a male figure begin to move through the open door—then freeze as the person laid eyes on her. Then the head that had stuck out almost immediately pulled back into the doorway.

  Rosslyn did not need to turn her head to recognize that it was Frederick she had seen. At this point, she knew his body language well enough to identify him in peripheral vision.

  She hardly batted an eye, just kept walking and maintained her stoic, expressionless silence.

  The last few days had been a little awkward. She had not avoided the brothers, precisely, but nor had she tried to see them. She had been busy, and neither brother had sought her out. She didn’t know what they were up to, exactly, but they had apparently found ways to pass the time.

  And Frederick’s behavior over the last thirty seconds showed that their distance from her was no accident.

  At least that suggested William was embarrassed about how their outing to the orchestra had gone. That was a good sign. Right?

  Should he be, though? Should he be embarrassed? Maybe you made too big a deal out of it. Maybe you should have let him—

  She shook her head and cleared the thoughts away.

  Rosslyn was not going to relitigate her feelings on that evening again. Not right now, at least. She knew she was inexperienced in affairs of the heart—and on this subject, it showed.

  The Princess had gone back and forth in her mind about how she might best have handled that situation—and about how she truly felt about it. If William was potentially to be her husband, she should want to kiss him. She had read widely as a young girl, and she remembered that was how love stories in novels, poems, and plays often went—stolen kisses, unchaste thoughts, secret rendezvous.

  It was something she had never spent much time focusing on, ever since—ever since when? Almost since puberty, she had been devoted to the Kingdom. She’d had romantic thoughts, and even sexual ones, but the man of her dreams was never a real, tangible thing she could imagine.

  Only in her dreams—on the rare occasion when she dreamt of such things—could she envision such a man. But even then, she could never recall a face the next morning.

  Now she wondered if that meant she was broken or defective in some way.

  Rosslyn took her seat on the throne, the sword at her side clanking gently as the hilt struck the metal armrest.

  “Show the first petitioner in, Oran,” she said in a quiet, dignified voice of command.

  The head butler bowed low, showing the bald spot in his wispy gray hair.

  The Princess thought she caught a slight smile on Oran’s lips as he unbent and turned toward the audience chamber doors and signaled for the guards to open them.

  Rosslyn knew Oran well enough to guess what he might be thinking—that he had never expected to live long enough to see Rosslyn on the throne. She supposed it was a silver lining to the dark clouds that continued gathering, but the thought made her frown.

  Her father was out of commission, still in his healing coma, and the upside to that was that Oran got to see Rosslyn acting in his place.

  Just thinking about her father’s condition was painful, and it was also irrelevant to how she would resolve today’s petitions. She focused on the present moment.

  “Your Highness, petitioner Errol Tyre, chief administrator of the Logan Museum, begs the honor of addressing him.”

  Rosslyn resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow and instead nodded.

  “Send him in.”

  What does he want? she wondered.

  The doors swung open, and Tyre walked in, dressed in fine silk clothing that made him look almost noble, particularly combined with the arrogant air he wore about him like a coat.

  He locked eyes with the Princess, suppressed a brief look of surprise at seeing her face, and then dipped his head in a shallow bow, never breaking eye contact. Slightly impertinent for a commoner, but that was Tyre all over. At least he had a good eye for art.

  “Your Highness,” said Tyre. “What an inexpressible pleasure to behold your beauty again!”

  “Errol Tyre, your flattery is as reliable as ever,” Rosslyn returned, smiling thinly. Even if the compliment was insincere, such words were never completely unwelcome.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I had thought I might be speaking with your father today,” Tyre said, trying to smile disarmingly. “I know he likes to handle matters with our museum personally.”

  Tyre was wrong about that; her father had long delegated matters relating to the Museum to his advisors. But Rosslyn did not bother to correct his misunderstanding. Tyre had no way of knowing how the palace ran things, and there was no reason for him to be informed on the subject now.

  “Unfortunately, you will have to make do with me,” Rosslyn replied, smiling unpleasantly at the man, her eyes cold.

  Tyre swallowed nervously. “Of course, Your Highness…”

  He tried twice to engage the Princess in different varieties of small talk after that, until she brought him to the point of why he had come to the palace that day. The administrator hemmed and hawed and finally admitted he was there to request more funding for the Museum.

  “We will take your request under advisement,” Rosslyn replied solemnly, hiding her annoyance under a thin smile.

  Make it through regular channels next time, and do not waste twenty minutes of time in which I could have been dealing with normal citizens’ pressing concerns. She knew there were rumors circulating in the city about the possibility of war. Rumors grounded in fact.

  Given the circumstances, it was a bit ridiculous that the Museum had finagled an appointment to request funding at a moment like this, especially using some of the limited time the palace regularly allotted to hearing from ordinary citizens. Surely there were people afraid their country might be attacked, and Tyre was robbing them of the opportunity to ask questions or seek reassurance.

  The administrator took a moment to realize he had been dismissed, forced a smile, and then dipped his head in another bow, even shallower than the first.

  Finally, he left the way he had come.

  Rosslyn and Oran exchanged a look of shared annoyance, before Rosslyn shook her head.

  The Princess thought that, on reflection, she might want to think about reducing funding to the Museum, if she adjusted it at all—or else investigating Tyre for possible fraud. The Royal Family had never stinted on the arts, yet she thought there had actually been very little new on display in her last visit to the Museum. Though on that occasion, she had been distracted by William and Frederick, she imagined that it was likely that few fresh pieces were being acquired because some of the palace’s funding was being diverted. Perhaps into Tyre’s pockets.

  “Your Highness?” asked Oran from her left.

  “Yes, I am ready for the next one,” she said. She made a gesture to her right, and the cupbearer who stood to that side poured a goblet of wine for her.

  She took it and had a long sip, then handed it back. This was going to be a long day, if the other petitioners were people like Tyre—men who had probably bought their way onto the palace’s schedule.

  Must not fall further behind. Tyre had already wasted enough time trying to butter her up.

  “Your Highness, petitioner Devon, a shepherd, begs the honor of addressing you,” announced one of the guards.

  She nodded and tried not to smile. That was a pleasant surprise. This one was a shepherd. Someone of no particular influence in the city, presumably.

  The doors opened again—and the first impression instantly confirmed Rosslyn’s suspicions.

  A small, quivering man dressed in sheepskins entered and crossed halfway across the room, visibly unsure of himself, then prostrated before the throne. She could smell him from ten feet away. He was definitely a shepherd—definitely a man who worked outdoors and rarely bathed.

  “Y-your Highness,” he said, raising his head.

  “You may rise, Devon,” Rosslyn said, giving him her full attention. “What brings you to the palace today?”

  “Your Highness, I b-beg your pardon. I-I live in the outskirts of the city. Our problems are perhaps beneath your concern. We should not bother you—”

  “No, please tell me why you are here,” Rosslyn said, interrupting.

  For some reason, the man appeared to be terrified of wasting her time—which was counterproductive, since she guessed he had an actual problem.

  “Yes, Highness.” He bowed again and lowered his eyes as he spoke. “In the area near where my flock grazes, there are creatures—foul beasts, I know not what else to call them—not normal animals of the plains—”

  “Monsters.” Rosslyn spoke firmly and looked directly at where the man’s eyes were.

  After a moment, he met her gaze, then nodded.

  “Yes. I lost a couple of sheep, and I do not have many, Your Highness,” he said.

  “I see,” she said.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I do not come here to complain about that,” he added hastily. “Only to request that there be some protection, some barrier, please, between the houses nearby and the source of these, er, monsters. I can guide my sheep and keep them away, you see, but my wife and I, we have little ones. She has been afraid that something might carry them away.”

  Rosslyn frowned. “Of course,” she said. “I will see that something is done.”

  I had no idea the monsters were already leaving the confines of their dungeon…

  “Thank you kindly, Your Highness,” the man said, his whole body sagging with relief.

  “How many sheep did you say you lost?” she asked.

  “Just two, Your Highness,” he said, forcing a smile. “We will get along with the other six.”

  “The Lord Treasurer will see you compensated for the standard market price,” Rosslyn said.

  Devon looked surprised and delighted.

  “Th-thank you, Your Highness.” He bowed repeatedly, and Rosslyn had to restrain herself from smiling too much, lest the peasant think she was laughing at his earnestness.

  She nodded to Oran to escort Devon to the Lord Treasurer, and then she called for the next petitioner.

  Over the next few hours, she heard complaints great and small. Someone was worried about cracks in the city wall near his house; she ordered a knight dispatched to investigate. A concerned citizen suggested that there was a recent infestation of rats on the Street of Songs; Rosslyn instructed the Palace Ratcatcher to go and give the matter a look. The Princess approved a privateer’s commission for a young man who wanted to become a pirate hunter, granted a divorce to a woman whose husband had apparently run off with the neighbor’s daughter, and pronounced a young couple who had eloped to the city husband and wife.

  Besides Tyre, this was not so bad after all, Rosslyn found herself thinking at one point.

  The afternoon ended on a somber note, however.

  “Sir Oliver Holt, to see Your Highness,” a guard said.

  Rosslyn frowned. He is not a petitioner? Where do I remember that last name from?

  “Send him in,” she said.

  The doors opened once more, and a knight in full armor entered the room. His plate was noticeably dented and dinged, and a chunk of the side of his helmet was missing as if it had been torn away. There was a large, purple bruise underneath the missing area of helmet.

  He removed his helmet and knelt. She saw a late twenties or early thirties man, in the prime of his fighting years. Then he rose and began speaking quickly.

  “You Highness, may I address you alone?” he asked, sweeping back a long mop of sweaty brown hair that dropped unevenly around his face. Some of the hair on the side of his head near the missing chunk of helmet appeared to have been torn off.

  “That is rather irregular,” began Oran, stepping toward the knight.

  But Rosslyn raised her hand to signal the butler to stop.

  She assessed the knight briefly. He did not look weak. She assumed he was not strong enough to threaten her, but she was more on guard against any potential assassination attempts than usual lately.

  One cannot be too careful…

  “Everyone but the two guards by the doors, please leave,” she said. The guards who stood at the entrance were two knights who ranked highly in terms of their relative skill compared to the rest of the Wayn barracks.

  The knight seemed satisfied with that. The corner of his lip on the non-bruised side of his face turned up slightly.

  When everyone was gone, Rosslyn spoke up again.

  “So, Sir Oliver, what happened to you?”

  “Your Highness, we were attacked on the border,” he replied instantly, looking her steadily in the eyes. “The demons. They overwhelmed the fortress at Holt Pass—rather, they will have overwhelmed them now.” The man choked off a sob and took a few deep breaths before he resumed speaking.

  That was where I remembered the name from, Rosslyn thought.

  “What happened to your father, Sir Oliver?” Rosslyn asked.

  Should I be calling you Lord Oliver now?

  The man clearly had to resist the impulse to cry.

  “He has likely given his life in defense of the Kingdom,” Sir Oliver said. “Or will in the next day or two. My party was the last group out of the fortress before they barred the gates. He wanted us to deliver the bad news to Your Highness—well, to your father, but to your family—so that you could prepare.”

  We are already preparing, but this is certainly sooner than we had expected…

  Sir Oliver imparted further details—mainly expounding how all but one of his companions had been killed or left behind on the mad rush toward the city, as they attempted to evade their pursuers from the Empire—but the bottom line was clear. The Empire had besieged his father’s holdfast with a large force, though Sir Oliver could not give numbers other than something in the thousands at least; the Empire were certain to take it and either destroy it or use it to garrison troops; and once they had control of the fortress, their main force would advance toward Wayn.

  After he had finished speaking, Rosslyn thanked him and invited Oran back into the room, then ordered that accommodations be provided for Sir Oliver and his companion in the palace.

  When the knight had gone, Rosslyn considered the position the Empire’s forces had seized.

  Assuming they seize it now, roughly around the time it took him to ride here, they should need around two weeks to get their army to Wayn, she estimated.

  Lord Holt might draw the struggle out longer, knowing that every day he bought would increase the country’s odds of survival—but not for much longer.

  Her mind turned to her father. The King was unavailable, but she wondered what he would do. Raise the alarm, of course. All the vassals would gather even more quickly once the messages went out. But what else could she do? It felt like the world was closing in.

  Father, we need your strength right now, she thought. Rosslyn took a deep breath and cleared her mind. No, I am ready. I can do this.

  Rosslyn’s mind shifted to Adon. When will he come back? Are he and the spiders all right? It was silly to think of them ending up in the path of an invasion force—the Empire would not even know their importance, probably—but she would feel calmer if Adon had not just taken his friends on a hunting trip.

  The butler stepped back into the room.

  “Sir Oliver has been take care of, Your Highness,” he said.

  “Thank you, Oran,” she replied. “Next, and with utmost secrecy, please dispatch our fastest messengers…” She listed off the names of a dozen key nobles in different regions who she judged would be able to raise a significant number of troops and alert their neighbors to the dangerous situation.

  Hopefully they can make it here before it is too late.

  The capital was the most logical place to make a stand, the most populous region of the country and the only walled city in the Kingdom. It was also the key site the Empire would want to capture.

  What do I do about the dungeon?

  If the dungeon near the city remained active, and there was an outbreak of monsters, the city could effectively come under attack by two enemies at once.

  “And get me Sir Jaren,” she added.

  Oran bowed his head.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Sir Jaren rushed in, slightly sweaty.

  “You wanted to see me, Your Highness?” he asked, panting. “I understood it was urgent.”

  Rosslyn nodded.

  He would know the palace’s defenses—and by extension the city’s—as well as anyone.

  “Sir Jaren, there is a dungeon in the immediate vicinity of the city. I have reason to believe monsters are beginning to get loose, which means there is only a limited time before a larger outbreak may occur. At the same time, I have reason to believe that our country might come under attack very shortly.”

  Sir Jaren’s face paled. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but Rosslyn continued.

  “When and if that happens, the city will be the best place of refuge for as much of our population as can make it here. But the people taking shelter will be vulnerable to monster attacks on their way into the city, and there is every reason to expect the dungeon may contain some monsters that our walls will not keep out. Have I said anything that seems wildly incorrect thus far?”

  The knight shook his head.

  She nodded and kept going. “Do you think we have enough strength to spare among the knights to destroy the dungeon?”

  Sir Jaren swallowed. “Are there no adventurers available? Using the knights on this—”

  “They fled the dungeon and then the city,” Rosslyn said. She grimaced. “They are probably well clear of this war now, on their way to some other country.” It was a wise decision, albeit a cowardly one in her view, given the fact that the country was on the precipice of war. They would have been drafted into service like all the other fighting-capable residents of the city.

  “How long do we have until the enemy you anticipate arrives, Your Highness?” he asked.

  “I do not know for certain.” She shook her head. “A matter of weeks, not months.”

  “There would be every possibility that they fail to clear the dungeon in time. Something about it presumably scared the adventurers away. Perhaps it is a particularly difficult dungeon—”

  “That is a no, then?” the Princess asked. “We cannot clear the dungeon before the Empire arrives?” She gritted her teeth.

  We will be attacked on two fronts. The damned monsters have always historically tended to be more active around the time of an attack by the Empire! This cannot be a coincidence.

  “I do not know if our knights will be capable of accomplishing the mission in time, Your Highness.”

  “What if I go myself?” Rosslyn spoke the words before she had finished thinking them through.

  She was conscious of Matilda’s words echoing in her mind after she spoke.

  You have to find a way to prove you are strong enough to inherit the throne, she had said.

  That is not a consideration, Rosslyn reminded herself sternly. I am purely doing my duty.

  Sir Jaren’s eyes widened.

  “You cannot be allowed to do something so reckless, Princess!”

  Her eyes hardened.

  I am no child, Sir, to be protected from danger. We are in a time of danger, a tempestuous period. I will not be left behind when the storm arrives.

  “Did you say ‘I cannot be allowed’ me to do my duty?” Rosslyn asked. She ground her teeth as she waited for a response.

  “What I meant to say, Your Highness, is that no one would allow you to go alone,” Sir Jaren replied. Additional beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he spoke, and Rosslyn forced herself to soften her glare. This was Sir Jaren, after all. “Anyone who hears about this challenge will insist on accompanying you, even if the idea has more honor than reason to it. So, you had best keep the information carefully contained, to those you want to accompany you, if you wish to go.”

  “Would you insist on accompanying me, Sir Jaren?” Rosslyn asked.

  This time, it was his turn to look hot-blooded. His eyes flashed with passionate feeling.

  “What a question!” he exclaimed. “I, and any one of the knights who serve you and your father, would gladly lay down our lives in the glorious defense of our Kingdom. To die beside you in battle would be my life’s highest honor. Of course I would insist!”

  Rosslyn thought of those who had died beside her in the Deformed Forest.

  I would rather not honor any of my loyal subjects to that extent, she thought, losing a little steam as an image of Sir Jaren bleeding out on the ground pressed itself forward in her mind.

  Then she nodded to herself.

  “We will keep the circle tight on this matter,” she said.

  “I was going to add, Your Highness, that if you were to be still embroiled in the dungeon when the Empire arrives—the number of knights you would have to take with you might compromise our defense.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “We need the bulk of our knights to remain here and defend the capital. I will take only a skeleton crew with me. Whatever can be spared from other areas.”

  Sir Jaren shook his head. “So few individuals to accomplish something that experienced adventurers ran away from—I confess I have doubts about this.”

  “I already have specific people in mind,” Rosslyn replied, donning a grim look.