Princess Willowyn's Arc

Chapter 32 of 70

Willowyn rested one night before she could stand. In the morning the messenger led her and Raven up a muddy road. The griffin followed on foot, its silver saddle dull under gray sky. The minx rode inside Willowyn's cloak. Raven walked close, her wand ready, her green fox trotting at her heels. The castle came into view at the top of the rise. It was small, with a single tower. No vines softened it. The bricks were cold and wet, and cracks ran through them like scars. A king and queen waited outside the gates. Both had blonde hair. Both wore royal robes the color of blood. The king stepped forward first. His hands shook when he reached for Willowyn's. "You saved my people," he said. "You stopped the war before it swallowed us." His voice broke. "But I fear I called you too late for the one who matters most." Willowyn steadied herself. "Speak plainly." "My son. My only heir." The queen touched the king's sleeve, her eyes wet. "He lies inside. He came home from the fighting sick and wounded. The healers have given up. We do not think he will live through the night." Raven's hand tightened on her wand. "She just emptied herself holding a river," she said. "She can barely walk. Whatever you want, ask it later." But Willowyn had already taken the king's hands in both of hers. His skin was cold. She felt how tightly he held her, like a man clinging to the last rope over a cliff. "He will live," she said. The king stared at her. "You cannot know that." "Bring me to your son." Raven caught her arm as they passed through the gate. "You have nothing left," she whispered. "Water magic drove you into the mud. If you drain again, you may not wake." Willowyn met her eyes. Raven had crossed an ocean beside her. Raven had caught her when she fell. "Then stay close," Willowyn said. "Catch me if I fall again." Raven's jaw set. She did not smile. She only nodded once. "Fine. But I'm counting the minutes." They climbed the tower stairs. The queen opened a low wooden door. Inside, a young man lay on a narrow bed. His face was pale as ash. A fever sweat soaked his hair. His breath came in shallow scrapes. A dark wound bound in cloth stained the sheets beneath his side. Willowyn knelt at the bedside. Her arms still ached from the river. She did not know if she had enough left in her. She placed one hand over the wound and one over his chest. "Water," she murmured. She reached, not for a river now, but for the blood and fever inside a single dying body. The minx crept from her cloak and pressed against her knee. Willowyn closed her eyes and began.