8 Voressan, Year 431
The desert of Fitria gave no shade. Wind scored the sandstone tower, where seventy of the Queen’s men still held after weeks without relief. Their water stores were rationed to a cup a day. They drank silence with their salt meat and cursed their loyalty in whispers.
Gasparru watached Baron Zirominu. A prisoner had been brought down from the tower the night before—caught attempting to sneak through the lines with a signal cloth sewn into his sleeve. He was clean-shaven, sunburnt, and smirking.
“You’ve delayed us,” Zirominu said. “Congratulations. You’ve bought your Queen a few days.”
“She is Queen,” the prisoner replied without flinching. “You call her something else?”
Zirominu struck him—backhanded, sharp. The prisoner spat blood, but didn’t look away.
“Where is her army?”
“I’d tell you,” the man said, licking his lip, “but I don’t know. Honest.” He laughed. “Do you?”
Gasparru stepped forward, arms behind his back. “You’ve held out longer than most expected. I’ll grant you that. But you’re not fighting for ground anymore. You’re fighting for a story. Do you think she’s coming to finish it?”
The prisoner looked at the sand under his boots. “I think she would have.”
“Would?” Zirominu snapped.
“I think… something’s wrong. I think she’s not where we thought she’d be.”
Gasparru exchanged a glance with the baron. The tower still stood. But the signal fires hadn’t burned in days.
The sky churned with dust.