Thalia Thornbreak's Arc

Chapter 7 of 9

The wyvern set Thalia down on the court steps at dawn. She slid from its back and nearly fell. Her ribs screamed. Her legs shook. Blood had dried black on her sleeve, and dust caked her face. Through the tall windows she saw the court already filling. Nobles in bright silk. Her parents on the high seats. If she walked in like this, half-dead and swaying, they would name her too weak to rule. The antler in her arms would mean nothing. "You look like a corpse the wolves left behind." The voice came from the shadow of a carved pillar. Sylvara stepped out, white hair braided with fresh leaves, bare feet silent on the stone. The priestess who had sealed the objection that dragged Thalia here. Thalia's hand went to her blade on instinct. "Peace," Sylvara said. "I gave my word in writing. But writing won't help you stand." "Then help me stand," Thalia said. Sylvara studied her a long moment. She reached into her belt and drew a small clay pot. "This will dull the pain. Not heal it. You'll pay for the hour later." She smeared bitter paste along Thalia's ribs. The fire in Thalia's side faded to a dull ache. "The blood, though. They'll see the blood and call you broken." "Let them see it." Thalia straightened. An idea cut through the fog. "They expect me hidden and ashamed. So I won't hide it. I'll wear it." Sylvara's eyes sharpened. She understood. Together they worked fast. Sylvara pinned Thalia's torn cloak back so the wound showed plain. She wiped the dust from Thalia's face but left the dried blood on her hands. Thalia gripped the antler high against her chest. She drew the jeweled blade and held it point-down before her, both hands on the hilt like a warrior at rest. "Walk slow," Sylvara said. "Slow looks like strength. Fast looks like fear." The great doors opened. Thalia stepped into the court. Every head turned. She saw the whispers start, then stop. She did not stumble. She let them see the wound, the blood, the blade, the antler. She climbed the long floor one steady step at a time, her chin level, her eyes on her parents. She stopped before the high seats. She lifted the antler and set it ringing on the stone. "I killed the beast that made this," she said, loud enough for the far walls. "I fought your riders and passed them. I come to you bleeding because I earned every drop." The court went silent. Her father half-rose. Her mother's face had gone white. No one laughed. No one called her weak. She had turned her wounds into proof. Then her father found his voice. "Bold words," he said, cold. "But the coronation is halted. The priestess objected in writing. By our own law, no crown can be given today." He smiled thin. "You marched all this way to claim a throne no one can grant you."