For a brief moment Vhalla wondered if she had been one of the masses reaching for him, would he have recognized her from their meeting in the library months ago.

Vhalla looked back to Aldrik. He stood as still as stone, his face offering as much emotion. His hands were folded behind his back as he looked down upon his younger brother, who was slowly making his way forward. Vhalla briefly recalled the unceremonious return of the crown prince. There hadn’t been a single cheer for him.

The cry slowly evolved into a unified chant as the main host entered the gates.

“Solaris, Solaris, Solaris.”

Everyone around her had given into the cry as the Emperor himself, clad in white and golden armor with a cape draping off the back of his horse, entered the stage area. On the back of his cape the golden sun blazed. He rode all the way up to the first step. Dismounting, their ruler strode toward his family, his walk steady and easy for a man of his age. Prince Baldair had taken his place next to his brother. The Emperor kissed his wife chastely and then greeted his eldest son with a firm handshake.

Vhalla saw nothing in Aldrik’s cold gaze and was becoming frustrated at being so far away—and at her eyes continued refusal to focus.

The Emperor turned to face the crowd; all the people, young and old, fell to their knees before their leader. Vhalla was no exception.

“My most loyal subjects,” his voice rang clear through the hushed area, “we have returned from our campaigns in the North with many victories to recount.” A cheer rang out again, then quickly stilled.

“The Northern Capital, Soricium, holds out, but they will fall in time. Their country is in shambles before the blazing might of the Sun.”

For a brief moment amidst the cheers Vhalla wondered, if the Mother Sun was truly a loving Goddess, then why did she send her people to kill and die?

“We will bring the spoils of war under one unified banner.”

People rose to their feet, and Vhalla returned to leaning against the wall. If Aldrik had moved she couldn’t tell.

“With this, let a most grand Festival of the Sun begin!” The Emperor raised his hands and a few explosions rang out, fireworks entering sky. Everyone turned their gaze skyward, save for Vhalla and the crown prince. He continued to stare forward, motionless.

Vhalla closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. For a moment, the pain in her head subsided. The world slowly rebuilt itself around her in astounding clarity. She looked forward—but not with her physical eyes— and saw him, a distant point of light. She pushed her vision closer, to really see if his face looked as it had from a distance.

He looked tight-jawed and cold-eyed. Even though he stood among hundreds of people, he might as well have been standing on an island. She didn’t understand. They were beginning a festival; this was a time for happiness.

Don’t look so sad.

His head quickly snapped in her direction, and Vhalla’s eyes opened wide. She cried out, pressing her palms to her face. The sunlight was like fire on her brain. Behind her eyes burned a blazing white light that threatened to rip her apart. She shook her head and stumbled into someone. Vhalla thought she heard a man talking to her, but it was distant and faint, barely registering over the roar in her head.

Lunging forward, she clung to the wall as though it was the only thing grounding her to the physical world. She wanted it to stop; she would do anything to make it stop. There was a hand on her back, and she tried to stand, squinting open her eyes. The cannons fired again, and Vhalla saw the second round of blazing fireworks shoot toward the sky right before her knees buckled beneath her and her body gave out.

SHE FLOATED IN the air. No, not floated, she was being carried. Her right ear rested against a man’s chest, a frantic heartbeat underneath. Why were they going so fast? Vhalla wanted to tell him that it was all right, that he could slow down, but nothing seemed to be connected to her mind. It was as though she was trapped in her own body.

But wherever she was, it was warm and the pain had gone. That was good enough for her. Deciding she was tired again, she went to sleep.

She jolted back to awareness when she felt her body being put down. She heard talking again, but she couldn’t quite seem to get her ears to work. The man was asking her something. What could he possibly want? Didn’t he see she was in no position to give anything? Then he was gone. She could feel that he was gone, something in her just knew.

More darkness and silence. Vhalla sat in the confines of her own mind wondering how she got here. Her body still refused to obey her.

“I’ll be back with help.” That’s what he had said, her mind put together. More people were coming. He was going to bring more people. She had to wake up. But it was too late, they were already here. More familiar voices, rushed speech, who were they this time?

There were hands, more hands, different from before but not completely new. A woman’s hands this time. She was carrying her to another location. Vhalla wanted to feel terrified at the prospect, but she found herself unable to feel much of anything.

The world shifted around her, the air changed. It was once more different, yet strangely familiar. She’d been here before, even if she didn’t know where here was.

She was placed on another bed. Trapped within her mental prison, Vhalla rallied against the silence. She slowly stretched outward, and the world built itself before her.

The room was unfamiliar, but Vhalla instantly recognized the dragon molding near the ceiling; she was in the Tower. There was a wardrobe, Vhalla had expected it to be black but it was a gray, ashen-colored wood. A small desk, chair; her eyes fell on the bed, and Vhalla panicked.

She was there. Motionless, hardly breathing, Vhalla did not know if she was alive. The foreign room aside, Fritz’s and Larel’s presences ignored, Vhalla stared at her corpse-like form. Dead, she was dead, and this was the start of the afterlife.

“We need to get the minister.” Fritz pulled at his hair, pacing.

“She’s breathing. She doesn’t look pained. Check her Channels.” Larel remained calm, situating Vhalla’s legs. The rise and fall of her chest was so minimal it was almost invisible, but Vhalla was relieved to hear it was there. Whatever was happening she wasn’t dead, yet.

Larel? Vhalla whispered. Fritz? Neither seemed to hear her wispy words.

“No, I can’t. I’m not a magical healer, Larel. My lessons have only—” Fritz was leaving himself breathless in his panic.

“Check her!” Larel demanded sharply.

Fritz finally obliged. His hands rested on Vhalla’s throat, fingertips behind her ears, delicate and gentle as though she was made of glass. With closed eyes he ran his palms over her shoulders down her arms, flat against her stomach.

“I can’t find anything wrong.” Fritz shook his head.

The slamming of a door, echoing from the hall beyond, momentarily paused all response from Larel.

“Check her again,” the dark-haired woman demanded before dashing out the door.

Fritz returned to his duty. His palms slid down the outside of her thighs and down to her feet. Suddenly Larel’s door was thrown open so hard it almost bounced against the wall.

Aldrik stood in the doorframe, both commanding and disheveled. His white coat was unbuttoned and hung loosely around him, a plain shirt underneath. His cheeks were flushed, and his breathing hard. Even his hair looked less than perfect, long strands hanging over his eyes.