Bedwyr touched a rat skeleton between two graves, and the glow oozed from his fingertips over the entire thing. Then it got up and scurried around.

  Fred snorted behind him.

  "Yes, Fred?”

  "Third skeleton this week. The locals already think you're raising the dead."

  "Good." Bedwyr said. "Keeps them out of my business."

  “You’re so anti-social. Would it be so bad if we made friends?”

  “Friends complicate things. And we already have enough friends.” Bedwyr said, looking around him to see where the skeleton had gone.

  “That’s such a morbid outlook. Friends are wonderful. They bring cheer to my day.”

  "Except when—" Bedwyr stopped as water bubbled in the stream next to the graveyard. Two sleek eel heads emerged from the waters.

  "Newsss," Glimmer hissed, gliding forward. "From the wessstern waters."

  Slip hung back, mouth opening and closing nervously.

  "The dead king," Glimmer continued. "Not dead."

  Bedwyr sat back on his heels. "Explain."

  "Hyena took him. Jaw-ssssnap, blood, feathersss." Glimmer's tone was matter-of-fact. "But Sleech tastesss the under-places. King hiding. Deep Current knowsss."

  "Hiding where?"

  "Safe-place." Slip's voice trembled. "With the... with the empty onesss."

  Bedwyr's chest tightened. Bree's sanctuary. He stood slowly, brushing dirt from his knees. "And Jorvan?"

  "Gathering shipsss," Glimmer said. "Many soldiersss. Sailing for Eldmere with old king."

  "Helmut?" Bedwyr thought, mind already calculating. "Keep watching. Report everything."

  "Can we go to Eldmere? Pretty please?," Fred begged.

  "We wait. See what—"

  "No." Fred stomped his foot, tail swishing once. Final.

  "Fred—"

  The horse didn't move.

  Bedwyr's jaw clenched.

  Fred's ears didn't even twitch.

  Glimmer and Slip slipped back into the water, leaving Bedwyr standing between graves and a stubborn.

  Bedwyr sighed.

  Above, the first stars appeared. Somewhere west, ships were sailing.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Fred kept staring at Bedwyr.

  ***

  Benjamin stood on the platform in the square, looking out at the sea of faces. Four months ago, they'd been starving. Cocky had changed that. He’d stopped the rain and became the king that Eldmere needed.

  "King Cocky—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "King Cocky cared about Eldmere. He didn’t want to be a king. But he became a great king, not because of a prophecy, but because he cared about each and every one of you. Every morning, he woke at dawn to crow. Every day, he did things for you."

  Benjamin's hands tightened on the edges of the podium. "We saved this kingdom together. From starvation. From despair. He was... he was a good king." His voice faltered. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  Movement rippled through the crowd. People turning, murmuring.

  Benjamin looked up. A man in fine crimson robes walked toward the platform, expression grave. Guards flanked him—foreign uniforms.

  The man climbed the steps. Placed a hand on Benjamin's shoulder.

  "A tragedy," the man said, his voice carrying across the square. "I am King Jorvan of Garanwyn. I was there when it happened. In front of my palace, offering friendship to your young king. And that beast—" He shook his head sorrowfully. "There was nothing anyone could do. The hyena struck so fast. So tragic."

  Benjamin's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

  What is Jorvan doing here? This is not good!

  "Eldmere has suffered enough," Jorvan continued, addressing the crowd now. "In your time of grief, Garanwyn offers more than sympathy. We offer leadership. Stability. King Helmut has graciously agreed to return and guide you through this darkness."

  The crowd stirred. Confused. Uncertain.

  Benjamin stared at Jorvan. At the guards spreading through the square. At the soldiers moving through the people. He saw the Garanwyn flag flying in the harbour.

  He remembered teaching Cocky to play Chess. If Cocky were alive now, he’d teach him about the fork. Multiple attacks, no good defense. Challenge the occupation? Soldiers were already positioned. Challenge Helmut's return? The grieving crowd would see chaos, not leadership. Accept it? Eldmere falls without a fight.

  A tear rolled down his cheek at the memory.

  His king was dead.

  And Garanwyn had already arrived

  ***

  King Helmut sank into the mattress with a sound that was almost indecent.

  "Rembrandt," he whispered. "Rembrandt, feel this."

  "I have my own bed, Your Majesty."

  "But feel it!" Helmut pressed both palms into the coverlet. "It's like sleeping on a cloud. A cloud made of silk. And goose down. And... and more silk."

  He rolled onto his back, spreading his arms wide. The fire crackled in the hearth—a real fire, with actual wood, not the pathetic smoking twigs they'd huddled around in that alley. His stomach was full. Properly full. He'd had three courses at dinner and there would be breakfast in the morning, not street food. Real food at a table in a grand palace.

  "These are the Queen's chambers, you know," Rembrandt said, unpacking his brushes at the writing desk.

  "I don't care if they're the stable boy's chambers." Helmut wiggled his toes under the blankets. "There's a mattress. And sheets that don't smell like fish."

  Rembrandt grimaced at the memory of sleeping behind the fishmonger's for a week.

  "Don't remind me." Rembrandt shuddered.

  "Rembrandt, that painting is dreadful, but I’m sure you can paint a better one."

  "I'll start sketches tomorrow." Rembrandt held up a brush, examining the bristles in the firelight. "Proper pigments again." He sighed.

  A servant knocked, entering with a tray. Warm spiced wine and—

  "Is that marzipan?" Helmut sat up so fast his head spun.

  "Compliments of King Jorvan, Your Majesty."

  Helmut clutched the little marzipan castle to his chest as the servant left. "Rembrandt. We're home."

  "Indeed, Your Majesty."

  "I don't even have to go to council meetings. Jorvan said he'd handle all that tedious governing business."

  "Wonderful."

  Helmut bit into the marzipan tower. Outside, in the King's chambers, Jorvan was probably doing something terribly boring and political.

  Here, there was art. And comfort. And not a single responsibility.

  Perfect.