Chapter 2: Ysolde: War Prizes

The chains bite colder with every movement. Fortunately we are not required to carry Roderick’s litter for long. Once clear of the city, the litter is lowered and Roderick remounts his horse. My daughters and I are kept in shackles, with the added indignity of waist chains locking us in a coffle.

The human soldiers fasten the chain around my waist with deliberate slowness, as if savouring the moment a queen becomes a prisoner. They wait for me to flinch. I do not. A queen does not tremble for the amusement of her captors.

Aelwyn stands behind me, rigid as a drawn bow. Next comes Elenora. She is pale, her breath too quick, her magic flickering around her like a frightened pulse. Lyralyn is at the rear looking scared and lost.

“Steady, little star,” I whisper towards Lyralyn. “We endure.”

The soldiers shove us forward, along the trails through the forest that was once ours. The air is wrong. The wards that once shimmered above the city and forest like a dome of living starlight are gone, leaving only the faint scent of burnt ozone and the echo of their collapse. The forest looks exposed, stripped of its ancient serenity. Without the barrier, the world feels too large, too loud, too sharp.

Smoke rises from a small elven village to the south. The humans have already begun burning the our homes. The scent of charred cedar stings my throat.

I do not look back at the palace. I cannot bear to see what remains of the place where my daughters laughed, where Cyran and I danced under lanterns woven from moonvine blossoms, where the heart of Thaliryn once pulsed with magic older than memory.

Instead, I lift my chin. The humiliating parade begins. A triumphal procession with my daughters and me as the war prizes of a victorious campaign.

We turn onto the road leading east towards the mountains ruled by the dwarves. The road is long and winding, cutting through the remnants of our forest and into Dwarven territory. The dwarves have cleared much of the forest over the years, but pockets of silverleaf trees remain ... tall, elegant, their leaves shimmering faintly, even in grief. They seem to bow as we pass, as if mourning the end of an era.