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"Logan!" Stiffening out of his relaxed slouch, Albion's young heir apparent blessedly managed to snap his book closed and scramble to his feet without tripping over his own legs. He'd suffered an appalling growth spurt in the past few months that had left him with too-long limbs dangling every which way, and none of the muscle he'd been secretly praying might begin to develop, perhaps impressive enough to offset the spots on his forehead. Rosalyn was no help either, calling him a half-lame fawn every time he stumbled on a set of stairs, but little sisters weren't precisely known for their sympathetic natures.

One day she'd be dripping in lace instead of mud, and mooning over boys rather than whacking them with sticks. If there were any justice at all, she'd have spots as well. The potential for that eventual teasing made Logan almost giddy.

The complexity of sibling retribution aside, he'd hadn't made an utter oaf of himself in this specific instance, which was an incredibly fortunate thing. There, standing in the library doorway with arms crossed and brow raised expectantly, was the Hero Queen.

"Mother," he squeaked, then swallowed thickly before continuing in a much lower register. Upright or not, it certainly wasn't too late to look the fool. "Mother, you— you're back."

Gods, she was smiling at him, just a bare twitching at the side of her mouth, but Logan didn't have the chance to squirm under the weight of her gaze. She beckoned with long, gloved fingers and he came scampering as he always had, falling into step beside her as she turned and began striding down the castle corridor.

She was still in her travelling clothes, he noted curiously, with mud splattered up her well-worn leather boots and wisps of windblown hair framing her face. A resplendent and regal queen, even so.

Perhaps gangly legs weren't all bad— longer strides meant he was nearly keeping step with her, which was a pleasant change from sprinting. Tugging at the hem of his tunic, Logan glanced over at his mother's silent profile. "How was Brightwall?"

Turning a corner, the Queen appeared to be leading them towards the castle's lower levels. Logan knew better than to pester her about the direction of their walk, trusting that the purpose would become apparent precisely when his mother wished it to be. It always was.

"Uneventful," she said, nodding at a pair of guards who snapped to attention as the royals passed. "The Academy is flourishing— next year you'll have to attend the anniversary ceremonies with me."

"Of course," he replied, not making any attempts to keep the pleasure out of his tone. The Academy was one of his greatest joys, a testament to his mother's gifted rule and the prosperity it produced, and Logan could happily get lost in the tomes of grand adventures and heroic histories for days on end. At least until he was allowed to undertake adventures of his own, of course, which couldn't happen soon enough for his liking.

"Mmhm," the Queen hummed with knowing amusement, leading them into the kitchens. The staff froze at the sight of them, but a calming wave of the royal hand managed to ratchet the tension down a bit. "Carry on, my friends," she commanded, her true smile broadening into something bright and charming. "The prince and I won't be but a moment."

Logan found his hands full shortly thereafter, as his mother passed him a cloth-lined basket and proceeded to fill it up with various breads and fruit, and even some smoked fish. Finally, after grabbing a jug of almond milk and a pair of cups, she dipped her shoulders in the direction of the milling servants and started out to the rear garden. Logan followed, eager to escape the stares of the staff, and perhaps especially those of the older scullery maids. Some of them were truly lovely girls, with freckled skin and very pink lips, and he hardly needed his mother bearing witness to his ridiculous blushing.

It was early in the afternoon, and the air was balmy with the promise of a fast approaching summer. When his mother paused, breathing deeply as she surveyed the lushly green gardens before them, Logan took the opportunity to survey her. There were smudges of shadow under her eyes, and hasty, untidy stitches holding closed what looked like a tear in the sleeve of her shirt— Jasper would never have let such a shoddy garment out into the light of day. Shifting the basket to the crook of his elbow, Logan reached out and touched her wrist.

"Mother?" He kept his voice quiet, all too aware of the great gossipy web that existed among all servants, and the penchant of gardeners to hide amongst the shrubbery. "Mum, did something happen?"

He jumped just a little when she barked out an unexpected laugh, but then she was squeezing his fingers affectionately and tilting her chin out towards the garden. "Just a bit of a scrap on the way home, my love. I'll tell you all about it over our lunch, and you can drive your sister utterly mad that you heard the tale first. Teach her the true price of sneaking away from her tutor to go catch frogs."

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"I hate him," Rosalyn muttered, kicking wrinkles in the rather valuable rug under her slippers as her tiny body slumped deeper and deeper into the divan. "Mummy's always so cross after he visits—for days and days after."

Logan may have agreed, but he held his tongue regardless. The sulking of little princesses might be all well and good for another year or two yet, but young princes were more likely to get their ears chewed off for such whining. Instead, he clenched his jaw just a little and did the mature thing. He shut up, and kept pretending to read.

"Logan—" Kick, kick, kick went little feet against the intricately patterned silk. The rug was older than the pair of them put together, a gift all the way from Samarkand, but he'd long ago given up trying to tell Rosalyn anything of the sort. Mother had another one, in any case, hanging proudly on the wall in her chambers. "Your eyes aren't even moving. You're not reading at all, you great fibber."

Letting out the longest, most put-upon sigh he possessed, Logan tilted the book down onto his stomach and glanced over at the aggravating puddle that was his sister. "For goodness sake, Rose, don't you have any more dolls to behead? I know Sir Walter brought you back another toy sword—"

"Shush," she hissed, bolting upright with eyes wide as saucers. "It's not— Jasper will take it like the last one!"

"He wouldn't take it," Logan began, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair and propping his chin up on one palm. "If you didn't try to slay every chicken you happen upon. The cook was furious the last time, and we didn't have any eggs or cakes for a fortnight."

Her glare might have been more effective if she hadn't been sporting the frizziest cowlick in the history of Albion, and it was all Logan could do to keep his face composed. As hilarious as her mild sulk and frightful hair might be, it would hardly be worth the laughter to wake up with beetles trying to eat his toes again.

It only lasted a moment anyway, after which she threw herself back onto the divan and began moaning in earnest. "He's terrible and mean, and I hate him. You're the prince; tell him to go."

If only things were that simple. "Well you're the princess, little sister, and you've got yourself a sword. You tell him to go." He stopped himself just before adding and give him a good whack if he refuses. No need to give her ideas, after all.

The ensuing silence was tense, with true concern for their mother simmering just under the surface, and with a soft grunt Logan dragged himself up to his feet. A bit of shuffling later, and he settled comfortably onto the divan with Rosalyn curled up against his chest.

It was irrational and useless to entertain notions of protecting such a remarkable, capable woman as his mother, but the thoughts lingered nonetheless. She was still his mother, and he'd witnessed the darkness these visits left in her eyes too many times. Why she allowed that scoundrel to waltz about the castle as he pleased was an eternal mystery, and Logan refused to consider the salacious rumours that occasionally flitted about court as anything more than rubbish.

There were many more tongues wagging, and more often, about romance between his mother and Sir Walter, and the prince knew those stories were complete twaddle. Tales of a beautiful, solitary queen's possible dalliances were forever popular, but the public loved their Hero too much to tolerate much slandering.

Logan could hardly think of anything more insulting than the idea his mother might take such a snake to her bed. Reaver might be a Hero, but that didn't mean he wasn't a villain as well.

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"Do try to keep up, my boy!" Cursing under his breath, Logan pushed himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against for no more than a heartbeat, forcing his legs into action again. There were gory, stinking carcasses littering the cave floor all around him, and the gash on his forehead was stinging like a brand, but taking a few moments to catch his breath was apparently out of the question.

Not that he was complaining, particularly. This was bloody brilliant fun.

"More?" At his question, his mother looked back from her perch on a nearby jut of rock, the pistol in her hand still trailing pale smoke.

"There are always more hobbes, love." She grinned as he clamoured up beside her, then jerked her thumb at the clockwork rifle strapped across his back. "They're going to come around that corner very shortly, and we're going to blast them to bits. Extra points for head shots, and you lose points if any of the blighters get through."

"Yes, Mum." Glancing around quickly, Logan hopped off the rock and sprinted backwards a few yards, ducking behind his own bit of cover. He still had a clear sightline down deeper into the cave, but a bit more space to use his rifle to its full advantage. Damn it, if she'd told him they'd be hunting underground, he'd have packed a pistol instead.

Speaking of his secretive, cagey mother, she was preparing to make her own stand as the sounds of growling and chattering began to echo nearer. He watched her dab the cuff of her coat against the slight sheen of sweat under her nose and at her hairline, and felt a surge of pride that he could actually keep up with her. She was the Hero Queen, and despite the grey that had begun to lighten the hair around her temples, she looked more like a woman of thirty than one nearly eighty years old. She still fought like a holy terror, as well, which was something she was more than willing to prove against these hoards of hobbes. Truly, Hero blood was an incredible thing.

There were strange mushrooms growing all over the cave walls, and the faint green light they gave off meant that lamps weren't necessary to make out the hobbes' dumpy little shadows as they approached. Moments before the first of the brutes appeared, he caught a flash of white teeth in the dimness, and glanced over just in time to see his mother favour him with a cheeky wink.

Well that settled it, then. Hero Queen or no, she was still his mum, and he wasn't about to let her beat him at this game without a fight.

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Jerking awake with a snort, the sound of a girlish yelp startled him more than the unexpected, squirming guest currently inhabiting his bed. He'd retired alone, he was quite sure, and now he was decidedly less so.

Logan might have been concerned, if a flash of lightning hadn't illuminated his sister's wide, frightened eyes at that very moment.

"Rose?" Rubbing at his sleep-numbed face, Logan sat up enough to draw the small girl closer just as a heavy, thunderous growl echoed through the night. She was trembling, and he wasn't entirely conscious, but he at least had the presence of mind to pat her back and mumble soothingly. "Hush, now. It's all right, little sister. Just thunder."

Rosalyn was unsurprisingly mute, as she so often became in times of stress. Still, the bite of her tiny hand clutching at the side of his neck alerted him that his attempts at comfort hadn't been especially effective. Swallowing a groan, Logan scooted back a bit until he could lean somewhat comfortably against his headboard.

"Mummy's not in her room." The reedy, whispered voice was nearly drowned out by the heavy pinging of rain against the windows, but the fact that she had her face pressed up against the front of his nightshirt meant he managed to hear her.

The information made him frown, a bit uneasy, but Rosalyn's attention was elsewhere. Schooling his features in case of further lightning, Logan kept his mild disquiet to himself.

"She said she'd likely not be back until tomorrow morning, Rose. You wouldn't want her travelling in this rain, would you?" He hugged her tighter for just a moment, and the room was illuminated with another unearthly flash. The thunder was quicker in answering this time, and Logan had little doubt that the storm was sitting right over Bowerstone.

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The first time Logan saw his mother kiss Sir Walter, he was seven years old, and he hadn't meant to be spying at all. Truly, it was well past his bedtime, but Jasper slept like the dead, and if Logan were extraordinarily quick and quiet he might be able to make it to the kitchens without being caught by a guard. There were cakes and soft cheese left from supper, he was utterly certain of it, and his stomach had been gurgling for eternity. If he woke anyone up, he'd be relegated to a bit of bread and milk, and that simply wouldn't do.

So he'd pulled on his slippers and snuck off down the corridor, mindful of every creak and quiet noise that could so very easily be a patrol around the next corner. He hadn't expected to see light shining from under the library door, and he should have legged it back to bed immediately at this first very clear indication that the castle wasn't quite so silent and still as he'd hoped, but temptation froze him in place.

It was the same kind of temptation that made him disregard the threat of no pudding for a week just to have a cake now, except at this moment it was propelling him forward, toward the glowing keyhole. Careful not even to breathe too loudly, Logan slowly pressed his face against the door and peered inside.

It took a moment for his eye to adjust to the golden flicker of the firelight, but he could immediately make out the quiet words he had been utterly deaf to so shortly before. A gruff, familiar voice— Sir Walter.

"—boy needs a father," the man was saying, and Logan could feel his heart stutter. He'd dreamt of having a father, a real father, but had never been bold enough to mention it to his mum. Any time the subject had been broached by well-meaning nobles or chatty servants, the Queen had dismissed the notion kindly but firmly. Logan had long before noticed the way her eyes hardened, though, and it was not an expression he ever wanted to put on his mother's face if he could help it.

The room came into focus, and Logan barely felt the sting in his fingers as they squeezed the cool wood of the doorframe. Sir Walter was on one knee before the Queen, which was what men were meant to do when asking a lady for her hand. Sir Walter would be an amazing dad, Logan was sure of—

"Walter, please. Don't do this." Eye darting up towards his mother's face, Logan bit his lip. Her eyes were not hard, but they were damp, and it all amounted to the same thing. At least Sir Walter looked almost as distressed as he should, having hurt the Queen. He didn't retreat, however, which was a small wonder even from the bravest knight.

"Don't do what, damn it," he rumbled, and hauled himself to his feet. There weren't many people as tall as the Queen, but Sir Walter certainly made a go at it, and Logan felt a flicker of hope when his mother didn't shy from the man now standing less than an arm's length away. They were holding hands… that meant something good, surely. "Just listen, will you? I already love him as if he were my own blood, and I love you—"

His mother's hand pressing against Sir Walter's mouth effectively silenced the man, but Logan was practically vibrating in an attempt to stay quiet as well. His mother was terribly stern-looking, and it did not bode well.

"This cannot be," she said, stiff with the kind of formality she reserved for official pronouncements, but the steel began to bleed from her tone when Sir Walter stepped closer. "I cannot marry you. I was off fighting in the Crucible when you were still in nappies, for goodness sake— and would you stop laughing—"

"Kiss me, you gnarled old crone," Sir Walter replied, still chuckling even as he tugged her hand away from his face. "That would definitely shut me up."

As much as he dearly wished for a father, Logan was the tiniest bit relieved when his mother did not take Sir Walter up on his offer at that moment. Kissing was weird, and it couldn't possibly be anything but scratchy with such a bushy moustache involved.

"I cannot marry you," she said again, and a cold stone settled in Logan's stomach. He wondered if Sir Walter recognised her voice, the one of that's final and very disappointed in you, but the man was still smiling a little, so he doubted it. When his mother stepped back, turning to face the shadows rather than the light of the hearth, Logan had to strain to hear her as she continued speaking in nearly a whisper.

"—bargain, years ago. For the survival of Albion, we cannot be without a Hero. The strongest possible Hero. What I… What I want can't matter—"

The rattle of arms and armour approaching from out in the corridor made Logan dart away from the door, slipping behind a tapestry and willing himself to melt into the shadows. A pair of guards trundled slowly by, and Logan held his breath until the only sound he could hear was the rapid thudding of his heart. He waited a few silent moments longer, then tiptoed back to the waiting keyhole.

There was nothing but an empty room framed through his tiny brass window, but a shuffle of movement off to one side made him slide over to the other door. There, just within the scope the keyhole allowed, Logan could see his mother's hands on Sir Walter's back. They were kissing, he could see over the man's broad shoulder, and while it looked just as icky as he'd feared, Logan was strangely comforted by the gentle way Sir Walter held his mother's face.

Months before, Logan had found a baby bird, alone and crying under a tree in the castle gardens. Sir Walter had been with him that day, keeping him occupied with stories and muddy games while his mother was in meetings with some visiting diplomats, and mere moments after Logan announced his discovery, Sir Walter was picking up the tiny creature with astonishing care in his huge, weathered hands.

They'd found the chick's nest hidden amongst the high branches, and Sir Walter climbed up to return the little thing to its home without hesitation. Logan visited that tree nearly every day for weeks, and he vividly remembered the warmth of Sir Walter's hand on his back when the nest had eventually emptied. The three little birds had gotten so big, his bird included, and he had tried very hard not to be sad when they were gone. Sir Walter had hugged him anyway.

Sir Walter cradling his mother's cheek reminded Logan of that bird, but then the Queen was ducking out of the kiss and stepping away with absolute refusal clear in her expression, and a familiar sting of loss began to prickle in his eyes.

Why couldn't she give him a father? Sir Walter was the best, the bravest man in the whole world— Logan couldn't stay any longer. He nearly burst into the library, nearly grabbed hold of his mother and begged her to reconsider, but then a sob hiccupped loud and unexpected out of his throat.

Panic tore through him, stupid fear at being caught, and without any thought at all, Logan ran quickly back towards his room. The shadows were all blurring together, and he could feel his tears flowing freely now, and it was purely good luck that he made it into his chambers and under his quilts without stumbling into a guard.

It wasn't fair, wasn't right, and Logan wept bitterly into his pillow until sleep quieted his disappointment.

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"—thousand gold pieces. Not a single coin more." The Queen's voice was hard, and cold as a Mistpeak morning in the dead of winter. Logan felt his own spine tighten at the sound of it, but her glacial displeasure blessedly wasn't directed at him. Both of the nobles standing before the throne visibly wilted, even the baron whose claim of injury and desire for financial restitution she had supported. It seemed bleeding a small fortune from one's rival lost a bit of satisfaction when faced with an unfriendly monarch.

Shifting his feet ever so slightly in his attentive pose beside her throne, Logan allowed his gaze to wander around the room. The Queen had been seeing petitioners for hours, some legitimate concerns and others useless squabbling, but the day was beginning to wear on. He prayed silently that his mother might send the rest away to be seen tomorrow, not just for a relief from the tedium, but because he was nearly positive he'd seen a familiar, loathsome figure lurking about at the back of the queue. Reaver would make a scene, very likely, and trading barbs with the scoundrel always ended poorly.

It wasn't that the Queen couldn't hold her own against him, for she most certainly gave as good as she got, but she did suffer under a disadvantage. His mother had decorum and a sense of propriety, which was something Reaver was more than willing to exploit.

Logan stood stoically through two more rulings, barely listening— Reaver was clearly next in line, as it were. He'd persuaded his way to the front of the room in some cleverly despicable way, drawing little attention but leaving those now skittering out of the room behind him pale and frightened.

Dressed in an impeccable blood-red suit, the man somehow managed to exude a sense of utter boredom while still keeping his dark, penetrating gaze fastened firmly on the Queen. It made Logan's knuckles ache, trying with all his might not to reach for the sword at his hip.

His mother, to her great credit, barely batted an eyelash. As the final petitioners bowed and retreated, the Queen very casually drummed her fingers across the arm of her throne and regarded her fellow Hero with the blandest of looks.

"Reaver," she drawled, then dipped her chin briefly. "You may speak."

With a predatory smirk curling the corners of his mouth, Reaver cocked his hip and dropped into an insincere, shallow bow of his own. "Thank you, my dearest Queen, but I feel I must beg your indulgence for a private audience." Pretty words, of course, but dripping in innuendo. The few citizens who remained in the chamber began to whisper amongst themselves, and Logan made no effort to hide his glare.

It was clear his mother was about to dismiss the cad before the situation could begin in earnest, but then Reaver raised one mildly mollifying hand and continued. "I've received some terribly interesting news from the Northern reaches that you simply must hear, my dove. Shall we abscond, or will you be waiting on the dubious reliability of your own couriers? And before all the ineffectual commanding and arguing begins in earnest— though how I adore the repartee, darling— do know that I'll not speak of it here. That I promise."

His mother snarled, actually snarled, with bright blue light suddenly pulsing under her skin, and every other living person in the room including Logan himself shrank back just slightly. Reaver, on the other hand, chuckled.

"Ah, still such a spitfire. And here I was, worried you'd begun to tame, Sparrow—"

Quickly enough to draw gasps from the lingering spectators, the Queen was out of her throne and looming at her full height on the dais. Her posture screamed danger and pain, and Logan couldn't have stopped himself from stepping towards her even if he'd wanted to.

"Mother," he murmured very quietly, but not quietly enough to keep Reaver's attention from shifting in his direction.

"Such a serious little fledgling as well. My word, how disappointing." Without being given any sort of permission, the man took two long strides up to the dais, pointedly ignoring the sudden shuffling of the guards and the dozen rifles levelled in his direction. Logan didn't miss the way Reaver's hand rested casually on the butt of his pistol, however, and years of his mother's stories meant he understood the true odds despite the difference in firepower.

"All of you stand down, damn it," the Queen snapped, just as Reaver extended his unoccupied hand, palm up and audaciously expectant. It was all Logan could do to resist gnashing his teeth at the arrogance, the utter gall of the bastard, but then the Hero Queen was sweeping her ornate robes away from her feet and striding down the dais stairs unaided. The Will lines trailing up her neck flared brighter when Reaver did not immediately step back, and Logan had no trouble imagining the wildfire of rumours that would soon be blazing through the castle.

The Heroes were nearly touching, squared off chest to chest. It was tense and deeply uncomfortable, and Logan desperately tried to convince himself that the faint pinkness blooming on his mother's fair cheeks was born of anger and nothing else.

Then they were gone from the room, the Queen storming off towards her private chambers with Reaver barely a pace behind, and Logan choked back the sour bile crawling up his throat.

His mother had always been warm and loving to her children, but it still took nearly seventeen years for Logan to realise he'd only ever seen her cry on one occasion. Only once before, and he couldn't remember ever feeling more like a naughty child than at that moment, peering into his mother's chambers to find her sitting alone beside the hearth, weeping quietly.

Regardless, she was a battle-hardened Hero, and it shouldn't have been so surprising that before he could quietly retreat, he was pinned by her reddened, teary gaze.

Excuses and apologies for the intrusion began to stammer out of him, but trailed off as she motioned him to come closer. He obeyed, of course, moving to kneel beside her chair and taking her hand in both of his when she offered it.

She made no attempt to hide the streaks of tears glittering on her cheeks, and when she bent to press a kiss against his forehead he felt his own eyes grow gritty. Despite the heat of the fire, which was already quite warm against his back, his mother's fingers were icy to the touch.

She looked older than he had ever imagined— there were faint spidery lines visible just at the corners of her darkened eyes that he had never noticed before, and her impressive stature seemed to wither into the cushions of her chair. She was, for the very first time in his living memory, so very small.

It terrified and enraged him in nearly equal measure.

She didn't speak, silently stroking the hair at his temple and tucking it behind his ear, and it would be two days before Logan discovered the reason for this great misery. In two days, when his mother threw on her travelling cloak and pistol and stood with a small contingent of soldiers in the front courtyard of the castle. It was early enough that the grass still laid heavy with dew, and it was in that pale pink morning light that the Queen gripped Logan's forearm firmly in a warrior's grasp.

"I've left some instructions for you on the desk in my study, along with the key to my private files. I will be back in a few weeks." Her voice was quiet but unwavering, and it was also the most he had heard her utter since the fiasco in the throne room. The wicked whispers of torrid affairs had begun almost immediately, of course— Reaver brought poison wherever he trod. "Take care of your sister, listen to your advisors, and try not to start any wars."

It was laced with threads of humour, but there was a kind of gravity to this farewell that Logan could not ignore. He was being left with the responsibilities of regency, and perhaps it wasn't meant as a test, but it certainly felt like one.

"I'll make you proud, Mum," he replied with all earnestness, squeezing the thick leather of her bracer and feeling rather good about the surprised yet pleased quirk of her mouth. Suddenly, there was a commotion just inside the foyer, unusual for the time of day, and then a small white blur was flying down the stone steps and ploughing into the Queen's legs.

Rosalyn was still in her nightdress and barefoot, but the Queen scooped her up into a tight embrace regardless of propriety. A quick glance upwards revealed a red-faced Jasper panting and leaning on the balustrade, but Logan was more interested in the half-dozen men accompanying the Queen on her journey to the depths of the Northern Mountains.

With his mother preoccupied, arms full of a nearly squalling daughter, Logan took the opportunity to slip away and approach Sir Walter. Walter, for his part, did not seem at all surprised by this.

"My prince," he rumbled quietly, folding his arms loosely before his chest. "I know it seems impossible, but try not to worry about your mother. I'll keep an eye on her, much as she'll allow."

"I do not doubt that, Sir Walter." Squaring his shoulders in a way he secretly feared might look ridiculous, but prayed it might appear at least a little regal as well, Logan nodded gravely at his fellow man. The soldiers did not snicker at all, which was extraordinarily reassuring, and Walter even dipped his head in a shallow bow.

If he were still merely a boy, the Queen would have appointed someone else to oversee the realm in her absence, but she had not. That was nearly enough to distract Logan from his deeper concerns, but not quite.

Still, he wasn't about to pry into Walter's opinions in the middle of the courtyard. There was only one thing in the North of any great significance to the Hero Queen, and Logan spared a brief wish for the well-being of the giant, kindly woman he recalled meeting years before.

The grief still haunting his mother's eyes said otherwise, but Logan found himself inclined to cling to hope.

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Logan kicked his foot impatiently, eager to make certain his mother was as healthy and hale as Jasper had said. Not that he didn't trust Jasper, but Logan still wasn't entirely certain how a baby brother could come from the massive bulge of his mother's stomach without some… awkwardness.

Liam, one of the newest pages in the castle, said that his mother had actually died when she'd tried to have another baby. The thought had haunted Logan for weeks, but he'd left such fears unvoiced— none of the adults seemed terribly concerned, and the Queen was usually quite vocally opposed to keeping her son from unpleasant truths. Logan couldn't remember a time when his mother had ever told him that he was too young to knowsomething, no matter how others had tutted.

The door to his mother's chambers eased open with a quiet creak, and the sound snapped Logan's head up to attention. Sir Walter, leaning next to him against the wall, was straightening up as well, and the pair of them stared expectantly at the rather harried looking midwife.

"Go," the woman all but sighed, motioning back towards the room. "She's asking for you both."

To his great credit, he did not run. Rather, he kept his pace as dignified as possible despite the nervous tingles shivering up his spine. Fresh air was rustling the heavy curtains, but the room still smelled funny— then his mother wiggled her fingers in a tiny wave from her place in bed, and Logan forgot all about it.

There was a baby in her arms, all wrapped up in a blanket, and suddenly everything was a bit scary. Still, he was a prince, and he would meet his new brother no matter how strange that chubby red fist looked as it rested on their mother's chest.

"Come here, darling," the Queen said softly, patting the duvet near her hip. "Say hello to your little sister."

"Sister?" The disappointment was crushing; girls were no fun at all. Logan had been hoping for a cohort in adventuring, not some frilly—

"Yes love, a sister." His mother was smiling warmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement, and it nearly made the whole situation worse. It wasn't funny that his plans for a proper henchman had been thwarted. "Crown Prince Logan, Sir Walter, allow me to introduce the Princess Rosalyn. Rose—" In what looked like a very slow, very careful move, the Queen turned the bundled baby until Logan could see a squished, pink face and a shock of hair the same inky colour as his, unlike their mother's lighter braid. "You can trust these men with your life, sweet girl. Keep them near, and you will always be safe."

"Too right," Walter chimed in, but his voice was rougher than usual. "She… she is beautiful, your Majesty."

Finally stepping forward, just close enough to touch the edge of the bed, Logan shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other. The baby had her eyes closed, and she seemed mostly unremarkable. At least she wasn't squalling yet, but when she started to twitch just after he'd had that thought, Logan braced himself.

There was no crying, however. Just a wiggle of her tiny flat nose, and then her eyes were blinking open, looking intently up at the Queen with an expression Logan had to investigate. Mindful of the warnings he'd received from Sir Walter about delicate babies and sensitive mothers, he crawled slowly up onto the mattress.

Up on his knees, Logan leaned in until he could see tiny white bumps just between the baby's peering eyes. He hadn't quite meant to draw attention, but when Rosalyn's eyes rolled in his direction… well, it wasn't quite as boring as he'd feared.

With any luck, she'd grow up to be a lady like their mother— strong and brave, and willing to join him on all his grand adventures.

Though, maybe not so much like their mother that she could beat him at races.

"Hello, little sister," he whispered, and the baby sneezed.

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"Where is she?" Logan fought the urge to clutch at the screaming, painful stitch in his side; he couldn't seem to bring in enough breath, and the edges of his vision were dark, but it had been hours since that started, perhaps days, and he wasn't unconscious yet.

The guardsman shifted nervously, not quite reaching out to offer aid to the panting and sweating form of a distraught crown prince. "Your highness, perhaps you should—"

The crack of his fist against the fine wainscoting of the corridor wall was jarring, particularly since he hardly felt it. His voice, a sudden snarl that was harsher than he'd ever heard it, echoed voluminously. "Where is she?"

The guard jerked back, as if struck, and answered swiftly. "Chambers, my liege. The Queen is in her chambers."

The castle was a blur around him— it was a minor miracle that he avoided bowling anyone over, though he would not realise it until much later. Were he at all within his right mind, Logan would never have barged in to his mother's bedroom like a mad bandit on a raid, but the letter he'd gotten from that damned courier was burning through the breast pocket of his doublet and searing away all reason as it went.

Your mother has fallen gravely ill, was scrawled across the parchment in Jasper's neat, boxy script. I truly fear the worst. Return home with all haste.

His mother's bed had always been a massive, luxurious thing. Years of hard living had instilled a craving for comfort in the Hero Queen, and while it was often tempered by fierce common sense, here among the down duvets and velvet coverlets, his mother had allowed herself some indulgence. Logan had fond, vivid memories of burrowing beneath the mounds of blankets, building forts and being read to on particularly chilly winter nights.

Now though… now the bed loomed around the near-motionless woman ensconced within its vastness, and its size was overwhelming. His mother was pale and small, and Logan felt as though the entire world had dropped from beneath his feet.

Sir Walter was there, standing grim-faced near the window, while Jasper was wringing out a washcloth in the wide, porcelain basin that had been moved to the vanity. Both men looked up at the intrusion, but Logan had very little attention to spare.

Rosalyn was tucked up next to their mother, apparently lost to the half-sleep of distraught children, with braids untidy and cheeks gone blotchy red. She looked exhausted and so utterly forlorn— Logan would have bristled at the lack of sense, would have sent his little sister away to spare her all this suffering and trauma, but the hand gripping her small shoulder gave him pause. Their mother was holding her daughter close, resting her chin on the girl's hair, and Logan desperately, desperately needed to be told this was all going to be all right.

"Logan," the queen rasped, once hawk-like eyes fluttering open to reveal a fevered, murky gaze. "You— you're back. Oh, my darling. My boy…"

Her skin was ghastly, the yellowed pallor of sun-bleached parchment, and a sheen of sweat glistened across her face in the bright light streaming through the window. It should not be so beautiful a day, such a perfect summer's day, when inconceivable misery was tearing the heart from his chest.

The tremble in her hand as she lifted her free arm towards him was pronounced, the strain twisting her face apparent, and Logan rushed forward without thought. The mattress sunk slightly under his weight as he sat, clutching clammy fingers with the utmost care, even if he wished fervently to grab hold like a drowning man. This could not be happening— it made no sense—

He'd thought her hands might be cold, but even her fingers were unnaturally hot with fever. She was shivering, though, despite the blankets pulled nearly to her neck. Rosalyn began to sob quietly, brokenly, and Logan could do nothing but press a soft kiss against his mother's hand.

"Mum," he whispered, holding her knuckles to his cheek. "How— what has happened?" No answer was forthcoming, just a brief, wordless humming. Tearing his eyes unwillingly from his mother's drawn face, he turned to Walter. "How can this be? Can no doctor—"

"The doctors are stymied," was the gruff reply, and as the man stepped closer Logan could see his own anguish mirrored. "A sudden wasting, they said, moving like wildfire, and they've no damned idea—"

"Hush." Jasper's hiss was nearer than Logan expected, and a glance back found the man leaning over to place a damp washcloth across the queen's brow. Motioning to the princess, Jasper kept his voice to the softest of murmurs. "Speak of it outside, if you must."

Logan might have done just that, if not for the unexpected pressure around his fingers. What had been a limp, weak hold was now an iron band, and he felt the weight of his mother's hard, determined gaze like a physical blow. She was, for an instant, nearly herself again.

"I will speak with my son," she grated, even as the effort to form the words caused her breath to wheeze and rattle out of her chest. "Walter, take— take Rose. See if she'll eat."

It was a testament to his sister's exhaustion that she did not put up an incredible fuss. Instead, when Sir Walter's arms came down around her, the princess clung to him like a limpet, burrowing her face into his chest as her weeping diminished into faint hiccups.

"Thank you, Walter." The queen smiled wanly, but Logan did not miss the tears blooming in her eyes. "Jasper, tea? Please."

The tension in the room was growing ever thicker, a grim reality becoming far too imminent, but still Jasper maintained composure with a short, neat bow. "Of course, your Majesty."

"I'll—" Coughs, wet and dangerous, racked through the Queen as she struggled to raise herself up, and Logan darted around to sit beside her shoulder as support. The cloth on her forehead fell away, warm and useless, and there were small flecks of blood barely visible on her lips as she brought herself back under control. "I'll— uh, balls. Still be here when you return. On my word."

Wordlessly, the men retreated, and Logan was fighting a losing battle against the urge to simply break down. He was not a child.

"I love you," his mother said softly, just after the door clicked closed. Her head was lolling against his chest, enough that he could not see her expression clearly, but he thought she might be smiling still. "My dear, blessed boy. I am so very proud of you, Logan."

His cheeks were wet, but he could not bring himself to care. Drawing her close, Logan closed his eyes. "I love you, Mum. Please... please don't leave me alone yet. I don't—"

"I'm trying, darling." Her blunt nails dug into his forearm, the faintest sting, but it was hope. "I am. Listen now, hm? You must." His throat was too thick to answer, but she must have felt his small nod, for she continued slowly. "Good. Good... Your sister. Care for her, no matter— No matter what. Your Rose... keep her safe."

There was a pause, filled only by laboured breathing, and Logan was about to voice some kind of agreement when his mother began speaking again. "Terrible burden I leave to you... Albion. She is— she demands so much. Take care. You know... I trust you to do well, son. Be a good king." She coughed again, two sharp hacks, then pushed herself away just enough to peer up at him with a glazed, unfocused stare.

"Hard choices," she said, and there was something about the tone in her voice that reminded him of the decades of tribulation his mother had faced, years before he was even born. "Must be made, for good. Sacrifice. I gave up so much, so much pain... For Albion, and you. You and Rose, my loves. No regrets. Tell... tell Theresa, no regrets."

Had it felt less like a final goodbye, Logan might have had the presence of mind to ask who Theresa was. It was a name that echoed dimly in his memory, but such concerns seemed paltry in the face of a failing mother.

It was, as it happened, not quite goodbye. Though she spoke very little else, the Queen held steady until far into the night, just as a soft rain began to patter against the window.

Rosalyn had been put to bed, her sleep fitful but heavy, and Walter returned silently just before sunset. Jasper did bring tea after a time, along with a clear broth that smelled of root vegetables and made Logan's stomach gurgle. The Queen waved off all food for herself, but he could not bear to eat despite the gnawing of nearly two days unfed.

She said a few words to Jasper, sometime near midnight, about whether or not she would have the constitution to try some breakfast the next day. Some affectionate quip the man said, something Logan only half-heard in his own drifting, made his mother chuckle breathlessly.

Sir Walter's hand on his upper arm startled him; Logan hadn't realised he'd nodded off until he was awake again, looking up into blue eyes he'd never seen look so tremendously sad. He was struck suddenly by a yearning he'd not entertained in years. A father would have been such a comfort, just then.

"She's gone, lad." In the haze of sleep, the words made no real sense, but still Logan felt a bolt of terror slice into his chest. His mother was a solid weight against his side, her hand still clutched between his own— how could she be gone when she was still right there?

Then reality descended, like a terrible, unstoppable blade.

Chapter Text

Logan scrubbed his hand over his eyes, utterly determined not to cry. It became more difficult every time Jasper blotted the wet cloth over the bloody scrapes along his leg, or clicked his tongue in that disappointed sound, but Logan was trying.

His elbows and knees were torn up and burning, his nicest green tunic was ripped, his new trousers were completely ruined, and he had a cut on his lip that was swollen and throbbing. None of it felt as bad as seeing the look on his mother's face when she'd grabbed him and Patrick by their collars and dragged them apart, though.

Nasty, mean Patrick, who was just horrible to play with, even if he was a baron's son, and who'd tried to hit one of the castle's cats with a rock for no reason, and had actually called Miss Julia an ugly old cow when she'd brought them a tray of lemonade and sweets—

"There," Jasper said suddenly, distracting Logan from his spiral into anger at wicked Patrick. The blood and dirt had all been wiped away from his skin, now clean and raw-looking. "Now for bandages."

The salve from the brown jar stung so dreadfully that Logan would have bitten his lip if it hadn't been so sore already. He squirmed a little, eager to have this torture over with, until Jasper's reproachful look quelled him.

Everybody was angry with him, and it wasn't fair.

Later in his bedroom, while he was picking at the supper he'd been brought (no pudding; none for a week), an unexpected knock on his door made him flinch. It wasn't his mother come to give him another lecture, however, but Sir Walter.

The man had been gone for nearly a fortnight, checking in on some of the army outposts, and for a moment Logan hoped beyond hope that he hadn't heard about the fight yet.

"Well now," Sir Walter rumbled quietly, closing the door behind himself, and Logan felt his hope fade. He didn't seem angry, but he was frowning. "You certainly took a thrashing, didn't you?"

It was foolish, but Logan bristled just slightly and suddenly he was speaking without thinking. "Patrick was being cruel, and he made Miss Julia cry, and— and he's almost eight years old, and fat, and I still broke his stupid nose!"

No one had listened to him, they'd all just been disappointed and mad, and his knees hurt— with a great huff that was not a sob, Logan threw himself onto his bed and pressed his face into his pillow.

After a long moment, the mattress sunk on one side, then Logan felt a warm hand settle on his back. He turned his face just a little, peeking up at the man out of the corner of one eye.

"Is Mum still mad at me?"

Sir Walter scratched his beard, considering, but the fact that he wasn't quite frowning so deeply anymore was a good sign. "Your mother doesn't like you fighting when there are other options, Logan."

Turning his head a bit more, Logan shifted over until he was lying on his side. "He tried to kill a cat with a rock, and he said I was a baby for telling him to stop. He's terrible."

Sir Walter coughed, but it might have sounded a little like a laugh. Before Logan could consider that too thoroughly, the man was speaking again. "Well, yes, he is an awful little blighter, but you didn't need to hit him… even if he deserved it." Clearing his throat, Sir Walter reached out and tilted Logan's chin up, examining the scab on his lip. "Because you're better than that, hm? You're certainly the better fighter, and I've no doubt you're smarter, but he's the bully, not you. There are times to fight, and times to stay your hand, and it takes a honourable man to both know the difference and act on it."

Definitely not frowning anymore, but the smile partially hidden under Sir Walter's moustache was still a little dim. "That's what your mother wants for you, my boy. You should still defend others, especially those in need, but be smart and honourable about it. You were right to stop that lad from hurting anything, but if you'd told him to go douse his head in the lake and then told your Mum what he was up to, you certainly wouldn't be without pudding tonight. Do you follow me?"

"Sort of." Sighing, Logan thought it over. "You and Mum fought, though, with the army. How will I know when I'm meant to fight, and when I'm meant not to?"

There was pause, but then Sir Walter really did laugh warmly, and Logan began to wriggle as a hand ruffled his hair. "Ah, well, sometimes that's the hardest part."

Chapter Text

Moving into his mother's chambers had been one of the most difficult things he'd ever done, but the room could hardly be left as some untouched memorial. Appearing to cling to such things would have made him seem weak, and simply solidified in the people's minds that while he might be their king, he was not their Hero.

Tossing it all away was beyond his fortitude, however, and so he'd instructed Jasper to find storage for some of it, including the bed. What he needed or could bear to use, he'd slowly integrated with his own belongings— now, months later, it was beginning to feel less like a tomb.

The Samarki carpet still hung on the wall, there were some small statues and other knickknacks from his mother's travels as a younger woman nestled amongst the books on the shelves, and several chests full of documents he refused to move to the study. Some items, like her pistol and sword, were nowhere to be found, but a note tucked away in her journals had explained their absence.

They are enchanted weapons, the note read, scrawled in a painfully familiar hand. And they will be kept safely hidden from all but a Hero. I do not know whether you will ever see them again, Logan, but Hero or no, you do not need them to be a great king. I have such faith in you, my dearest boy.

He was twenty-two years old, and no stronger than an average man. He did not feel the power of Will singing under his skin. He was, perhaps, quicker with a blade and a gun than most, but it was hardly Heroic skill.

It was somewhat disappointing, but there was little use in dwelling on such things.

Winter was barely beginning to give way to the warmth of spring, and wet snow still lingered on much of the ground. The nights, especially, remained colder than usual for the time of year, and Logan found himself shivering as he toed off his sodden boots. Someone had been good enough to keep a fire glowing in his chambers, and the heat of the room was a blessed relief.

His mother had not been an absent or distant queen to either her people or her soldiers, and Logan had every intention of maintaining such a amiable relationship as much as possible. If that meant, on occasion, trudging through slush for hours on end without complaint, so be it.

Stripping down to his shirt and trousers, Logan pulled his dressing gown out of the wardrobe and knotted the belt loosely around his waist. It was late enough that most of the castle was likely asleep already, and even a few weeks before that might have meant sneaking down to the library for his own rest, in some vain attempt to escape the ghosts of memory. Now though, perhaps purely in his own stubbornness, Logan pulled out the key that would forever hang around his neck and bent to unlock the small chest that held his mother's private journals.

They were fascinating things— years of the Hero's life, before and after Logan's own birth— and his curiosity was slowly overcoming both grief and the lingering feeling that he was intruding into his mother's privacy. She had left him the key, after all, when she could have so easily secreted it and the journals away with her weapons.

Such journals would have been extraordinarily valuable, were they to disappear into the underbelly of Albion. Rather fortunately, their existence was far from common knowledge, and Logan was determined to keep it that way. Certainly, the Brightwall Academy would rejoice were such books gifted into their collection, but until he had explored their contents himself, Logan was not prepared to entertain the notion.

At his current rate, he might end up leaving them to the Academy in his will. His mother's words were so infused with her voice, her spirit, that there were evenings he could barely finish a page. It was both a blessing and a curse to have such access to her personal thoughts, and Logan was very aware of the slippery nature of his current slope. He could easily lose himself in these writings, to the detriment of the reality in which he found himself. A reality without his mother's presence.

Picking a familiar volume, Logan padded back towards the crackling fire. He had already made a point of finding the book in which his birth was chronicled, reading back from there in an attempt to discover some clue to his father's identity. There was absolutely nothing. He'd then skipped ahead a decade, but the time surrounding Rosalyn's birth seemed to hold no trace either.

Hindered but not defeated, he'd begun reading from the oldest journals, determined to search the lot. There was other information contained within, insights and bits of her history… it was more than enough, even if he never found the answer he was seeking.

Settling into his favourite chair, tilted around to give him ample light from the hearth, Logan traced the cracked leather cover with one thumb. The Hero Queen had begun keeping journals even before the civil war, starting with recollections of her childhood and her famous adventures against Lucien Fairfax. He had already made his way through much of that, but the inscription within the front cover of this first volume still gave him pause.

"Hello, Mum," he said softly, a little foolishly, and opened the book. The handwriting was much more untidy in these early journals than it had become in her later years, barely legible in places, but the neat, even spacing of the inscription meant she had taken some pains to write it clearly.

To my children, it said, put down in ink more than thirty years before he was even born. I do not know you yet, but you are my future just as this book will be my past. I leave you these memories, in the hopes they will help you on your own journey.

You have a destiny I cannot be part of, and for that I am sorry. Destiny is a terrible, heavy thing to bear. I only hope that you will heed the warnings I have left you in these pages, and that I have taught you what you need to survive.

Good luck, my children. Take care of each other, no matter what the future brings.

Know that I love you, even now.

Sparrow

Chapter Text

Pressing his fingers against his temples, Logan began to rethink this plan for the hundredth time since the squirming little creature had been placed in his arms. It should have been even more distasteful, most likely, to consider buying his sister's good humour with a puppy of all things, but he could see no better option.

The pup was sleeping, finally, after having cried pitifully the entire carriage ride back to the castle and successfully urinated all over Logan's lap. Still, he'd managed to keep the animal a secret even now, hidden away in his room while he changed into dry clothes and assessed the situation.

Rosalyn was going to be furious with him for leaving her behind as he went to explore distant and mysterious lands, he was absolutely certain. The wealth of resources and possible allies espoused in the reports from the expedition he had funded spoke to the necessity of his journey, but he doubted his dear sister would be so easily convinced. Even if Captain Donovan's tales of great deserts rich in metals, gems and fascinating foreigners managed to peak Rosalyn's interest, which it most certainly would, Logan did not relish the thought of telling her she could not accompany the royal voyage.

Legs jerking slightly against his coverlet, the puppy began to chirrup softly, lost in dreams. Logan glanced over at its tiny, restless form, and a smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that the puppy would be enough to convince Rosalyn to forgive him before he left. It would take weeks, perhaps months to prepare a proper expedition force, stock a ship (it would hardly do to bring a fleet; they were explorers, not invaders), and make certain that all his present affairs in Albion were in order.

The Auroran leaders wished to parley with Albion's king, not some hired ship's captain or even a sanctioned envoy. It was a gesture of respect to grant that request, and the young lad all but obsessed with adventuring was cheering uproariously deep in the back of Logan's mind. He'd thought the chance for such daring exploits had slipped through his fingers when the crown had first been placed on his head.

If Rosalyn were a few years older, he might consider leaving her as regent in his absence, as their mother had done for him. In his heart he knew she was still too much of a child, however, so the puppy would have to do. Sir Walter would care for Albion in his stead, along with a handful of political advisors. There was no one else he would entrust with the protection of his country and his sister.

Chapter Text

His heart was hammering, making his head swim and bringing a sour, metallic taste burning up his throat.

Darkness, endless, horrifying— all that waited beyond the small circle of his torchlight was death. The others were gone, taken, and he could still feel their screams clawing in his skull, though the echoes had already faded.

You are alone.

There were forms— terrible, vicious things— following along as he ran blindly through the dark. The sand was shifting, treacherous, under his feet, but it still managed to knock the air from his lungs every time he fell. He had killed hundreds of them, these monsters of shadow and hatred, but it was never enough. Relentless, they came and came, ripping and cleaving until the sand ran thick and red with the blood of his soldiers.

He had been running for so long… if he did not find safety soon, water and rest, his muscles would fail. It was so very cold, and terror was stealing his mind from him, but surely the city must be close. Surely there would be safety there, somewhere, from this nightmare.

He crested a dune, knees dragging through the sand as he fought to regain his feet, and the sight of distant lights on the horizon was nearly more than he could bear. It was— oh, thank the Light— he was nearly—

Something grabbed hold of his wrist, tearing skin and wrenching bone, and he cried out as his torch fell from limp fingers, its flame overtaken by sand and viscous, black corruption. The dark was consuming, absolute, and Logan could smell rot and sulphur pressed close to his face.

"We will have you," the beast hissed into his ear, as frigid talons gripped his jaw and began digging viciously into his lips, prying his mouth open. "You belong to us—"

There was a blinding flash of light, the shriek of something utterly inhuman, but Logan would remember none of that. He knew nothing but blackness as oblivion crashed into him with incredible force.

Death is not your destiny today, boy. There is much more to do.

He lay in the sand, bleeding and shattered, and the first rays of sunlight began to paint the horizon.

Chapter Text

Logan watched his own foot twitching, trying to ignore the dark shapes he could see flickering through every shadow. It wasn't entirely clear whether it was his mind playing tricks on him, or real lingering tendrils of the great darkness he had faced so very long ago, but it hardly mattered.

We are inside you. Your heart, your lungs, your thoughts will all be blackened. We see you, Coward King. Child King.

If the Crawler were indeed in this cell with him, calling for a guard would be a wasted effort. Death, or worse, would come too swiftly to be stopped by mere men, and it wasn't as though the cries of a deposed tyrant would bring prompt help, regardless.

None of it mattered. He had an entire country calling for his head on a pike; a long, healthy life seemed less and less likely.

The small cot was incredibly uncomfortable, with a rickety frame of rough, stinking wood and barely a mattress to speak of, but it was better than no cot at all. He'd been given water as well, in a relatively clean mug, and he hadn't been executed yet.

Not a complete wash, from certain angles.

Pressing one hand over his eyes and dropping his head back onto the musty blanket he'd folded up to serve as a pillow, Logan bit back a wholly inappropriate laugh. It was all so bloody terrible, so unbelievably horrific, and he'd tried so hard to do the right thing. To do as he'd promised, nearly a decade before, when they'd laid his mother to rest deep under the gardens.

It was all for Albion— for his people, and for Rosalyn. To keep them safe, no matter what.

There were no windows in the dungeon, naturally, and he'd never been particularly skilled at reckoning time without a view of the sky or a timepiece. The nausea sloshing around in his gut kept him from suffering any real hunger pangs, as well, and it was impossible to sleep. As such, it might have been merely hours or closer to a day before the sound of heavy footsteps roused him from his silent reflections.

He'd expected guards, but it was Sir Walter who stood just outside the cell bars. The man was haggard, so much more so than when he'd spirited off with Rosalyn in tow, and Logan recognised the haunted look that darkened his eyes. He'd heard his sister had travelled to Aurora, and it appeared her rebels might have found more than they'd bargained for.

Your fear sustains us; your blood sings to us as it drains away. We are coming, for all those you love, for all those you wish to protect. We will feast on your land and leave it desolate.

Shifting himself into a sitting position, with elbows on knees and hands hanging loosely down, Logan waited. The silence was thick, but the sinister voice continued to rasp quietly in the back of his mind. He'd known no peace for over four years; why would it begin now?

What would she think of the beast you have become? Would she weep for her lost son? Would she know you as you are, filled with darkness?

Sometimes it was difficult to be certain what thoughts were his own, and what were remnants of the shadow. As Walter unlocked his cell and pulled him out, a rough hand on his shoulder dragging him up and shoving him forward, Logan was still unsure.

It was time for the truth, regardless. He had been stripped of all control, of whatever power he'd wielded, and in the face of a new Hero Queen he felt strangely comforted by that thought.

You have done such hurtful things.

They will rejoice to see you dead.

Perhaps this was what hope felt like. It had been so very long, he'd forgotten.