VEILED (plaguecharming)

Finest of Steels

May the spirits of the fallen watch over you.

We never used to say that.

Not when the people traded all they had at the market—not when the shoemaker shined his last shoe of the day—not when the kids cried over spilt drinks and spoiled flowers, before they cried about death.

And Evnaress was a kingdom of peaceful unity; sure, sometimes engaged in war--but often, our enemies evaded combat, as we'd plundered millions into our military. All because of the king's intriguing interest in specifically intricate, incredible weapons.

King Sterling was a connoisseur of the finest shivs and daggers. He paid every weaponsmith triple their original wage if they worked for him, and oh good lord, did they flock. They came with their sharpest blades, their most shiny tools, and their hearts of steel. Because they had a passion like no other, and that was what my father loved most about weaponry.

Not the war, not the combat, not the anticipation or exhilaration or adrenaline. But the weapons. Because, "Emma, you can wield any sword, any dagger, any bow, any knife, but unless it reaches your heart, you will never use it right."

And I never understood that.

I watched him pick the finest of steels, guide the weaponsmiths to make daggers beyond their imaginations, put their soul into their work and create an armory to be proud of. Because we were Evnaress. Because we were the kingdom, the people, and the heart of both.

Now that's what we used to say.

We were the kingdom, the people, and the heart of both.

Now our flags of victory are ragged. Dusted wind smokes across the abandoned, pebble paths. And the castle has fallen.

I am on horseback, the lost heir. The plague doctor's cheeky tone made me no less somber, but at least he promised me this: the Veiled Death will face its end.

His hand squeezes mine where it rests over his abdomen. It's reassuring, but also devastating.