In a way, they were a broken and scattered people—always hiding in their swirling mist, veiled from one another, held together only by the faintest tendrils. They were tentatively anchored in their storm, and, belatedly, Mauja realized that he had not been enough to keep them together. If anything, it had been the land that kept them tethered and from drifting, not he. Slowly, his ears fell back. He hadn't been much of a Queen. He hadn't been much of anything—just a coward running from his demons, and drowning in the sea of duty instead of the one of darkness.

Being a leader had done him nothing—it had been like ice on a wound, creating a comfortable numbness, but not fixing anything. A pain suppressant, coolant on a burn; his eyes drifted along the outskirts of the meeting. Elsa. Glasgow. Nyx, having popped her babies out; the colt was absolutely disgusting, prancing around in a trail of flowers and blood. Mauja's dark muzzle wrinkled in distaste. Unsurprising, but still fucking gross.

But like ripping a band-aid off he had torn himself from the drug that was duty, and here he stood in the midst of a herd no longer his own, victim of a few curious stares. He didn't meet them, just stood there. Now, there was only him, and the weight of grief he bore.

Well—only him and Naerys, soft, cold feathers almost brushing his pale flank. Slowly his blue eyes fell down to her, and he offered her the slightest of smiles. It was all he could give her. It was the only thing he could give her, because the ache in his heart was like melt-water in spring, threatening to spill over in a reckless cascade. She was too beautiful, too precious; would life destroy her? Would darkness send its hounds after her, until the softness of her soul gave way to scabs and gravel and iron? Would he corrupt her with his own sorrow? The thought made him want to walk away, to leave her before it was too late, but instead he shifted closer, bringing his shoulder to touch her wing. He needed it. A tether.

“I call this meeting in the face of both tragedy and change.” Mauja's eyes drifted along those gathered again, noting many who were not there. Was it in defiance of Tembovu? Had Helovia swallowed them, like she did so many others? Or did they simply not care?

Slowly, anger ignited in his belly. Tembovu was the finest fucking King the Edge had seen since Mauja had ruled here six years ago—and how dare they not hearken his call? Black nostrils flared, and ears flattened. Morons.

Tembovu went on, seemingly unfazed by those missing, calling out for warriors, and waiting for someone to step forward. Then, crafting. Thieves and spies. Healing. Faith. The words were a blur around his ears, a whispering, murmuring current, but not a single one of them made sense.

And then, there was silence. Mauja turned his head without thought, nose ruffling Naerys' forelock, lips tugging at a few strands of hairs. He felt like a failure—a coward, standing silent when there had been a call-out for the members to pull their weight, to turn their lives to something useful. And he had said nothing. Had not stepped forward. His bones knew how to fight, but his spirit was broken.