The river whispered beside her—soft, constant, uncaring. Its spray cooled the blood on Lira's lips as it pooled along the stones. She tasted iron, earth, and the faint sweetness of moss crushed under her cheek. The world tilted strangely, like a painting slipping from its frame. Sound drifted in and out, warped by pain and the thick fog rising behind her eyes.
But she could still see her children.
Aaron's silhouette—bent, trembling, jaw clenched—stumbled through the ravine's haze. Neria's small form clung to his back, arms draped over his shoulders like wilted ribbons. Her tiny hands hung limp. Her cheek rested against him, stained with dirt and half-dried tears.
Lira watched them go.
Her vision blurred, then sharpened again in flickering fragments: Aaron's boots slipping in the wet stones... the way he adjusted Neria's weight to protect her broken limbs... the faint, pained whimper Neria made each time he jolted.
Her boy.
Her baby girl.
They were moving away—getting smaller with each step. She tried to lift a hand toward them. Her fingers twitched. That was all.
Her ribs shifted beneath the pressure of the collapsed carriage wall—bone grinding against bone. She knew that feeling. Knew that hollow, sinking cold. The weight that pinned her hips downward was merciless. It anchored her to the stones as if the earth itself refused to let her rise.
She could not feel her legs anymore.
Her breaths came shallow, thin as thread. Each inhale stung her chest; each exhale shuddered and spilled warmth across her lips. She swallowed, and more blood slid down her throat.
Aaron glanced back once—just once. His eyes shone wet even from this distance. He clutched Neria tighter and forced himself onward.
Good.
Go.
Lira closed her eyes briefly as another wave of pain rippled through her. Not sharp now. Not urgent. Pain was softening at the edges, dulling—pulling her with it.
No.
Not yet.
She forced her eyelids open again. The world swam, but her children's shapes were still barely there ahead, blurred shadows moving toward the bend in the ravine where the river cut deeper into the stone.
Aaron paused at the edge, chest heaving. He leaned against a boulder to steady himself. Neria whimpered, and he murmured something she couldn't hear. His hand stroked her hair. He pressed his cheek to her forehead.
He was shaking.
Her brave, terrified boy.
The sight cut her deeper than the splintered beam crushing her.
A rock shifted near her ribs, and another void of sensation spread through her belly. She breathed in—and the inhale caught, snagged, stuttered. Something inside her gave way with a tiny, final pop. A warmth flooded her abdomen, thick and spreading.
Too much.
Too deep.
Her time was narrowing like a funnel.
She gathered what breath remained and forced her voice to carry, even if only in her own mind: Go, my loves. Go.
The fog at the edges of her vision crept inward. She blinked hard, fighting it back.
She wanted—needed—one more look.
Aaron stepped into the shallows, boots splashing in the current. The river's mist clung to his hair. He turned sideways to shield Neria from the spray, murmuring soft promises against her ear. Lira knew the tone even if she couldn't hear the words.
He was lying to her.
He was trying to be strong.
He was sixteen.
A child carrying a child.
The beam over Lira's hips settled deeper as the broken carriage shifted again. A low groan traveled through the wood. The stones beneath her were wetting with her blood now, warm against the cold riverbed.
She coughed, and the world snapped painfully clear for a brief second.
A shard of the sky appeared above her—just a torn scrap of cloud drifting lazily between the jagged teeth of the ravine walls.
She wanted to call out to Aaron again.
To tell him she loved him.
To tell him Neria would need to be held through the night because she was afraid of thunder. To remind him to boil water before giving it to her. To warn him that the southern villages would test him with questions before they trusted him.
To say she was sorry—so sorry—that she couldn't walk beside them.
Another breath slipped out, weak and thin.
Aaron looked back again. Their eyes met across the distance—his wide and red-rimmed, hers half-lidded and fogging. His mouth parted as if he wanted to run back to her.
She couldn't speak loud enough for him to hear.
But she mouthed the words anyway: Go.
He stared at her for three trembling heartbeats.
Then he nodded—just once, sharp, determined—and turned away.
He followed the curve of the ravine, disappearing behind a boulder the size of a cottage. Neria's small hand dangled at his side, swinging with each step.
The moment they vanished, something inside Lira cracked. A sob rose in her chest but never reached her throat. It pressed against the shattered cage of her ribs and dissolved into warmth.
The sky above blurred into watery smears.
Her breath trembled again.
And she whispered into the cold air—though no one remained to hear it: "Be safe..."
Her voice broke.
"Both of you..."
Her fingers curled slightly, gripping nothing but wet stone.
A shadow flickered on the rocks behind her. For a second she thought it was the beam shifting again, but then she heard it—the faint crunch of boots on loose shale.
More footsteps. Soft, controlled. Too controlled.
Not Aaron.
Not Neria.
The assassins.
She tried to lift her head. Pain flared hot, then faded back into numbness. The air around her darkened with movement—shadows leaning over the ravine's lip, descending the slope in sleek, coordinated silence.
Lira swallowed.
Her breath fluttered.
She tried to rise—absurd, impossible—but her body didn't answer. Only her eyes moved, following the shapes as they descended like carrion birds.
Five.
No—six.
Six figures in black-grey leathers, blades sheathed against their thighs and backs. Their cloaks blended with the stone. No sigils visible. No colors. The Queen's assassins were never meant to be recognized.
The lead man landed lightly on a rock just above her, his boots leaving barely a sound. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a mask covering the lower half of his face. His eyes were ink-black, reflecting nothing.
He surveyed the wreckage without emotion.
Another assassin crouched beside one of the shattered beams, fingers brushing the gouges left by the fall. He glanced toward the river where fragments of the carriage floated away like broken leaves.
"Looks recent," he murmured.
The leader said nothing.
One of the younger assassins—a boy, maybe eighteen—pointed toward Lira's pinned form. "There. Survivor."
They approached her.
Lira's heartbeat stuttered. Her throat tightened. She sensed the pressure of their presence even as her vision shimmered at the edges.
The young assassin knelt first. His eyes widened slightly; he hadn't expected her to still be breathing.
"Lady Lira..." he whispered, voice flickering with something like pity. "You shouldn't be alive."
Her lips twitched. A faint smirk—or the ghost of one.
"Believe me," she rasped, voice cracking like frost underfoot, "I'm... aware."
The young man's throat bobbed.
The leader stepped past him, crouching beside her with calm, unhurried precision. He rested a gloved hand on the fallen beam, not to move it but simply to examine the scene.
"She's finished," he said quietly. "Crushed from the waist down. Spine shattered. Internal bleeding. Minutes left, if that."
The others gathered around.
One tilted his head. "Should we end it?"
A pause.
No birds sang in the ravine. Only the hush of water and the labored rasp of Lira's thinning breath.
The leader regarded her with a neutrality colder than the river at his feet. From this angle, Lira could see the faint scar under his right eye—a thin line disappearing beneath the mask.
She recognized him.
A memory flickered—dim, distant—a banquet hall three winters ago, a group of masked figures trailing behind Queen Rina like shadows. She remembered those same hollow eyes.
She tried to speak.
Her throat filled with blood.
The leader leaned in, his voice a whisper meant only for her.
"Your children survived the fall."
Her pulse quickened. She hated that he could see it.
"We saw their tracks," he continued softly. "The boy carries the girl. Heading south along the river."
Lira's breath hitched. Pain surged. Her fingers clawed weakly at the ground.
He studied her like she was a puzzle piece he was deciding whether to pick up or discard.
"They won't get far," he said. "The girl's injuries will slow them. We'll find them before nightfall."
Something inside her sharpened. A last pocket of strength flared, fragile but scorching. She forced her voice through the blood, through the break in her chest.
"You... won't... touch them."
The leader's head tilted slightly, almost curious.
"Won't I?"
"They're children." Her voice cracked. "Innocent children."
"They're threats to the throne," he said simply. "The Queen has made that clear. As long as they live, the succession remains unstable."
Lira's vision darkened at the edges. She dragged in a shallow breath, feeling the world slipping through her fingers like water.
Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of iron:
"Aaron... will protect... his sister... even if the world burns."
Her final message—pushed out with everything she had left. A command, a plea, a blessing. She could not shout it, could not reach Aaron's ears—but she hurled it into the world nonetheless.
The leader watched her for a long moment, then straightened.
"Touching sentiment," he said. "But irrelevant."
Her fingers twitched once.
Her chest rose—
—fell—
—rose again, barely—
—then stilled.
Silence fell around her body.
The assassins stood motionless for a moment as the river washed foam around the stones.
The young assassin swallowed, his jaw tightening. He reached out and gently closed her eyes with his fingertips. "She's gone."
The leader didn't respond immediately. He studied her face for a moment longer, as if memorizing it.
Another assassin scanned the ravine. "The prince isn't here."
"He carried the girl," someone added. "Tracks leading south. Must have moved quickly."
The young one frowned. "Should we confirm before we pursue? What if they doubled back?"
The leader rose to his full height. He brushed a fleck of blood from his glove.
"No. They ran because they couldn't fight. The girl's injuries will slow them." His voice held no haste—only certainty. "Spread out. Sweep the ravine first. Make sure there are no other survivors. Then split into pairs and follow the river path."
A ripple of motion—boots stepping, gear shifting.
"Find them," he said. "The Queen demands proof. No survivors from the gold line."
He turned away.
But the young assassin lingered, glancing down at Lira's still face. He hesitated—too long.
"What about her?" he asked quietly. "Do we leave her for the crows?"
The leader glanced back. His eyes narrowed, unreadable above his mask.
"She's dead," he said simply. "That's all that matters."
The young man shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, but—shouldn't we at least—"
Before he finished, the leader drew his blade in one silent, fluid motion.
Silver flashed.
A single stroke.
The blade passed cleanly through flesh and bone.
Lira's head rolled to the side, dark hair spilling over the stones like ink across parchment.
Blood splashed the river's edge.
The young assassin flinched, jaw clenching. "Was that necessary?"
The leader wiped the blade with calm, deliberate precision.
"The Queen will want proof," he said. "A body can be questioned. A severed head cannot."
The younger man stiffened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "And the children?"
"The same." The leader's voice was flat. "When we find them."
"But the girl is eight years old—"
The leader's gaze snapped toward him, cold and sharp as a drawn arrowhead.
"Queen Rina's words are absolute," he said quietly. "The girl is a threat as much as the boy. You will do better to remember that, or you'll find yourself questioning orders you have no business questioning."
The young assassin swallowed hard and bowed his head.
"Understood."
"Good." The leader sheathed his blade. "Now move. We've wasted enough time."
The assassins spread out, ghostlike shapes vanishing into the twisting shadows of the ravine, hunting the path Aaron had taken moments before.
One assassin wrapped Lira's severed head in cloth and secured it to his pack.
Another checked the wreckage one final time, ensuring nothing of value remained.
Within minutes, they were gone.
Behind them, the river tugged gently at Lira's blood as it began its slow journey downstream—carrying the last remnants of a mother who died protecting her children.
The ravine fell silent once more.
Only the water remained, whispering its endless song to the stones.