The Celestian council chamber was a monument to endurance and patience, both of which Sarisa felt herself running out of.
Sunlight poured through the high, stained-glass windows, throwing rainbows on the table's polished surface, but nothing could brighten the dull ache of a long meeting.
It was the final planning session before Aliyah's fifth anniversary banquet—a celebration that had ballooned, as all royal events did, into a spectacle of protocol, feasts, and diplomatic posturing.
Elysia and Malvoria flanked Sarisa at the oval table. Elysia's fingers traced idle patterns in the condensation on her glass, her eyes glazed with the far-off patience only a mother of a toddler (and the heroine of a continent) could muster.
Malvoria, on Sarisa's left, had her chin propped in her hand, eyes drifting to the windows as if dreaming of a dragon attack to break the monotony.
Across from them sat the queen, upright and regal, barely concealing her exasperation with the council's endless debate over seating arrangements.
Gift exchanges, and the number of guards needed for a banquet where half the guests were family and the other half would probably be bested in a duel by Aliyah herself.
Sarisa did her best to appear attentive, though her mind had wandered by the third item on the agenda—a detailed discussion on the optimal ribbon color for the floral centerpieces.
She wrote reminders in her notes, not about the meeting, but about her daughter's favorite cake flavor, and whether Kaelith would try to smuggle firecrackers under her gown again.
The councilor in charge of protocol cleared his throat for the fourth time in as many minutes.
"Given the number of guests, I propose we add another table in the west alcove, just in case the delegation from the southern provinces sends their full party. Last year, as you'll recall—"
Malvoria stifled a groan and leaned closer to Sarisa, her voice pitched for only the three of them. "If he says 'last year' one more time, I'm turning him into a toad."
Elysia smothered a laugh behind her hand. "Don't give Kaelith ideas. She'll want to practice on the flower girls."
Sarisa bit back a smile, grateful for her friends' presence.
These meetings, with all their formality and empty spectacle, always felt less suffocating with Elysia and Malvoria beside her—even if only for the reassurance that she wasn't the only one finding it all absurd.
"And as for the security arrangements," the councilor continued, "we have stationed guards at every entryway. But there are concerns about recent unrest in the northern villages. Should we—"
At that, Sarisa's attention sharpened, her mind flashing to Lara, who had been gone for a week.
Every day she reminded herself that Lara was capable, that the borderlands were wild but not impassable, and that no news was, perhaps, good news. Still, worry lodged behind her ribs, persistent and cold.
Malvoria noticed the tension in Sarisa's jaw and gave her a sympathetic nudge. "She'll be back. You know how stubborn she is."
Sarisa nodded, pressing her lips together, but she said nothing. There were things she could share with Malvoria, and things she could not—worries that belonged to her alone.
The conversation returned to the subject of the menu: should the dessert be honey cake or almond tart?
Sarisa heard her own voice answer automatically, the cadence of royalty coming from somewhere deep in her chest.
"Aliyah prefers honey cake, and so do most of the children. Let's keep the menu simple."
The councilor bowed, scribbling a note. "As you wish, Your Highness."
Malvoria leaned over again, whispering, "If I ever have to choose between almond tart and honey cake again, I'll defect to the human realm."
Elysia grinned. "I'll join you. We'll open a bakery. No more meetings—just pastries and chaos."
For a moment, Sarisa let herself imagine it—freedom, simplicity, a world where laughter mattered more than lineage.
But the image faded as the councilor launched into a new tirade about the proper order of speeches for the banquet. Sarisa rubbed at her temples, wishing herself elsewhere—anywhere but here.
Suddenly, a commotion sounded at the great doors. Two guards burst in, their faces flushed, breathless from running. Behind them was a young woman, her clothes mud-stained and torn, her eyes wild with fear and urgency.
She barely paused to bow. "Forgive me, Your Majesties. I—I had to come. There's been a—"
Her words tripped over each other as she looked straight at Sarisa. "I'm from the village of Northmarsh. There was a dragon. We tried—she saved us—but she's—" The young woman's hands trembled as she gestured back toward the doorway.
At first, Sarisa didn't understand. The room seemed to close in, the councilors murmuring, Malvoria standing, Elysia half-rising from her seat. Then the guards stepped aside, and another figure appeared—dragged, half-carried by the villager.
It was Lara.
Blood soaked her sleeve and side, pooling on the flagstones. Her skin was pale as parchment, streaked with soot and grime.
Her black hair—matted with sweat and ash—clung to her brow. She was barely conscious, her eyes glassy and unfocused, lips parted as if she'd been muttering all the way from the village.
The world tilted. Sarisa rose so fast her chair toppled, her vision narrowing to Lara and nothing else.
"Help her!" Sarisa's voice was sharper than she'd ever heard it, echoing off the stone. "Get the healer—now!"
Elysia was already moving, swift as a blade, steadying Lara as she sagged in the villager's grasp. Malvoria swept around the table, her face a mask of cold fury and command.
"Clear the room," she snapped. "Now!"
The councilors and attendants fled, dragging the Queen behind them, leaving only the family and the wounded.
The young woman from Northmarsh knelt at Sarisa's feet, voice shaking. "She saved us. The dragon—it was going to burn the village, but she fought it alone. She killed it. She nearly died."
Sarisa dropped to her knees beside Lara, hands trembling as she pressed a cloth—snatched from the council table—against the wound in Lara's arm.
Blood welled through her fingers, hot and relentless.
Elysia pressed a healing charm to Lara's brow, her purple eyes luminous with power. "We need more healers. She's lost too much blood."
Malvoria's voice rang out, steel and thunder. "Guards! Bring every healer in the palace. Now!"
Lara's eyes flickered, struggling to focus. She tried to speak—her voice a ragged whisper. "Aliyah… tell her…"
Sarisa bent close, her heart breaking. "You'll tell her yourself, you stubborn fool. Stay with me. Stay—"
A fresh wave of blood surged from the wound as Elysia tried to stanch it with magic. Malvoria reached for her own reserve of demonic power, weaving a sigil in the air. The runes glowed, but nothing seemed enough.
The room filled with more healers, all talking at once, pressing bandages, administering draughts, chanting ancient words. Sarisa refused to let go, her hands locked on Lara's good arm, her cheek pressed to her brow.
"Don't leave," she whispered. "Don't you dare leave me."
Elysia's magic pulsed, the wound beginning to close, but Lara's breaths were shallow, ragged.
One of the healers pressed a vial of golden liquid to her lips. Lara choked, managed to swallow, then drifted away, her body finally surrendering to the need for sleep and healing.
The adrenaline drained from Sarisa, leaving her empty and shaking. Elysia, ever steady, put a hand on her shoulder.
"She's strong. She'll recover. She just needs time."
Malvoria stood sentinel by the door, her eyes flickering with a fury that promised revenge on the world if anything went wrong.
Sarisa stared at Lara, at the stubborn set of her jaw even in sleep, at the scars old and new, at the blood that stained both of them.
She realized, in that moment, that all the meetings, all the protocol, all the plans for banquets and peace—none of it meant anything if this woman did not wake up.
Aliyah's fifth anniversary was in a few days. Sarisa could only pray that Lara would be there to see it.
But for now, all she could do was wait, and hold on, and hope that the impossible, indestructible Lara would fight her way back again.