She left the washroom and returned to where the Emperor and Aldrik waited. Both men looked her up and down. The Emperor leaned back in his chair.

“It will do,” he said, rubbing a finger against his lips.

“What is your name?” Aldrik asked her.

“Serien,” she replied without hesitation.

“Serien, what is your family name?” he questioned.

“Serien Leral,” she said and realized the moment he recognized her name.

Aldrik struggled to keep his composure. “Where are you from?” His jaw set firmly.

“A town called Qui. It’s a mining town that I hope you never have to go to,” she recited. Her story had been built for her.

“Where is Qui?” The Emperor leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees.

“It’s about halfway to Norin, if you take the old roads.”

“Your parents?” Aldrik asked.

“My father was a miner, and a drunk. My mother was a broken woman who left her home in the East because she thought it was love. They died when I was young, and I worked in the mines.” Despite her small changes to account for her eyes she wondered if the Emperor would see the source of inspiration for her story. She smiled coldly; of course he wouldn’t. Larel had meant nothing to him, she doubted he even remembered the girl his son saved from the silver mines of Qui.

“Why are you here?” The Emperor questioned her confident gaze.

“For a better life, to serve the Emperor,” she said easily.

“Well done, Miss Yarl.” The Emperor sat back in his chair.

She stared at him curiously. “Miss Leral,” she corrected.

The man simply chuckled.

“Your armor is here.” Aldrik stood to the side and allowed her to approach the table that was behind them. Basic plate and silver chainmail was displayed upon it. Vhalla was stunned a moment, one of the women would be wearing the armor Aldrik had made for her. No, she reminded herself, Aldrik had made that armor for Vhalla Yarl, and she was not Vhalla Yarl.

She scooped up the chainmail. This was Serien’s armor, simple and unadorned. It was the kind of armor that would slip into a mass of soldiers and be undistinguishable from the next. Aldrik silently assisted in showing her how to strap on the plate. It was heavier than her scale, and the weight made her favor her uninjured leg as she pulled on the gauntlets.

He turned and presented her with a sword. Thankfully, it strapped over her left leg, her good leg, so she could draw it with her right hand. She shifted, adjusting to its weight on her hip.

“Any questions?”

There was a notable pause and their eyes met. She wondered what he saw in her then, who he saw then.

“Serien?”

The name was strange to hear coming from him, addressed to her. But if anyone could say it and make her believe that it was her new identity, it would be Aldrik. She shook her head no.

“Good, you’ll be reporting under the Golden Guard. You are dismissed.”

She nodded. Her eyes reflected the empty distance she saw in his. Grabbing her canvas bag off the floor, she turned and gave a brief salute. Her knuckles were white from attempting to walk down the stairs wearing armor with her injured leg. She was determined, but mindful not to rip her stitches.

It was almost sunset when Serien left the hotel though a backdoor.

THE RIGHTS OF the fallen were held at sunset so the Mother could usher the souls of the dead to the Father’s eternal realms. Serien attended with the masses in the central square of the Crossroads, though none looked at her twice. She stared at the carefully crafted platform that held five bodies shrouded in red cloth.

One of them was Larel Neiress, the woman whom had spent countless hours putting Vhalla Yarl back together after the world had broken her. But this time, her hands had not been there, and Vhalla Yarl shattered into three pieces.

The crown prince stood before the bodies, stoic as a hooded crone sang the funeral dirge. Serien grit her teeth and walled her heart. She would not cry. She could not cry for a woman she had never met.

But her eyes were attentive and she saw as the crown prince was fixated on the fourth body. She felt the way his flames moved toward it at a base level that could not be explained away. She finally stepped out of the crowd as her stomach began to knot.

She was a drifter, a loner, the specter of the Crossroads with nowhere to be and no one to look for her. Serien perched herself under an archway of one of the many buildings, returning twice after being shoo’ed away. Eventually the owner finally stopped trying.

She watched the crowds move, blissful as life returned to normal. She saw a messy-haired Southerner go to the hotel with three large windows four times, returning to a familiar inn dejected and alone each time. The twinge of sadness crept up the back of her throat, which she quickly squashed—emotions of another woman.

When the army finally amassed in the square, prepared to march, Serien was an exhausted husk of a woman. She had barely slept out of fear, fear of what her treacherous mind may concoct and fear of sleeping in the open. She had no mount to speak of but instinctually fell into place in the center of the column. It was odd being surrounded by so much silver plate, but she quickly worked to accept it as her new normal.

Cheers erupted for the family Solaris as they left the hotel in full regalia. Six steeds had been lined up before the hotel, three were for the royals, the other three were for the dark-cloaked figures who walked at their side. Three women, almost identical in stature, with black hooded cloaks shrouding their faces walked next to each one of the royals. On the backs of their cloaks was a silver wing. It made for a beautiful target.

With vapid interest she watched one mount a black steed that had a white strip running down its face, like lightning. The woman was situated to the right of the crown prince, and Serien watched as the prince glanced at the woman before trotting toward his place in line.

“They could have at least tried to hide it,” one of the soldiers around her remarked.

“Not very hard to tell which one is the Windwalker,” another agreed.

“As if the Fire Lord would let his dark darling out of his sight.”

Serien didn’t join in their speculations as to the real relationship between the crown prince and the Windwalker Vhalla Yarl, but her ears heard. Most seemed to be in agreement that there was something between the two, but their theories were wide-reaching. Two men and a woman joined the younger prince as he fell into line with the hooded Windwalker.

“That’s enough, shape up!” an Easterner commanded.

Serien stared up at him as his horse found its way near her. The man with the golden bracer glanced down, meeting her stare. His eyes squinted slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something.

“Daniel, what is it?” a Southerner to his left asked.

Serien quickly returned her attention forward. She shouldn’t have picked the center of the column. Serien tried to bring her hands together to fidget but it was difficult in the heavier gauntlets. She bit her lip instead.

“Nothing,” the Easterner replied. “Sorry, it’s nothing.”

Keeping up with the horses was difficult as they marched double-time in full regalia, leaving the Crossroads. Serien’s calf screamed in pain, and sweat poured off her from the exertion of smothering her cries. Even when the call to slow was made, it wasn’t any easier. She was certain she had ripped her stitches.

Serien kept her eyes forward the whole day. The Great Imperial Way was going to stop soon. They would reach the last outpost before the North, and then it would be dangerous territory. Her somber mood didn’t match any of the other soldiers’, and she remained in her trance until the call to stop.