By the time the sun fully clears the horizon, I can feel the weight of a hundred voices pressing against my skin.
Rumors do not walk. They run. They sprint down patrol lines, across mind links, through back corridors and guarded council rooms. They carry my name into mouths that have never seen my face.
Queen.
I hear the title for the first time that morning, spoken in a shaking whisper near the border gate.
“The Queen who heals rogues. I saw her myself. She put her hands on them and the sickness left in seconds.”
I sit near a line of stones with my back to a tree, knees pulled close. My body still feels like a hollow shell after the healing. My veins ache. My bones hum with quiet, brittle exhaustion. My rogues have formed a loose circle around me, giving me space but never distance.
