Catherine pulled her hood lower over her eyes and drew up her skirt, hurrying down the long marble staircase. Her boots hit the stone with a muffled ping, and she looked over her shoulder, relieved that no one appeared to be following her. An unlit iron lantern hung heavily from her fingertips, stinging them with cold.

In the gilded walls, she could see her blurry reflection. The cloak hung heavily off of her thin frame, and the skin over her cheekbones was taut and sickly pale, not unlike that of her mother. She shrank back into herself, wishing that the clothes would swallow her whole so that her physical form would cease to exist completely. 

Catherine stuck to the shadows, hiding behind billowing curtains and dark corners, but it all proved pointless when she did not encounter a single servant on her path through the castle—a testament to her family’s loss of power. It was the first time that she had left the royal chambers in months, and it seemed as though no maintenance had been done in that time: the candles were burnt down to their bases, the wallpaper peeled at the corners, and hairline cracks were forming in the grand white statues. When she passed underneath portraits of her ancestors, she wondered what they would think of her sneaking about at night like a common thief. 

On the first floor, Catherine unlatched a window, dropping down into a rosebush below. Although it was not snowing, it was horribly cold, and the brittle branches snapped against her limbs as she detangled herself.

She hurried through the remnants of the royal gardens. As she passed a decaying fountain, its water frozen in jagged spikes, she mourned a time when the grounds had been less of a graveyard: when she had walked through the vibrant, well-maintained floral displays holding her mother’s hand. 

At the edge of the garden, Catherine used a low-hanging branch to boost herself over the low wall. She let out a choked gasp as she landed on the slick cobblestones, jarring her bony knees. Being trapped indoors had made her frail, and she had to pause to catch her breath, watching as the vapor detached itself from her lips and floated away, pulled apart by the wind.

Though she held the lantern close, she dared not light it as she turned down the nearest street. It was quiet other than the scuttling of pests and the snorting of horses. Apartments loomed over the narrow streets, tall and narrow with slanted roofs. The architecture was unwelcoming, constructed entirely from grey stone, an amalgamation of corners and sharp spires.

A clothesline snapped in the wind, startling Catherine, and she picked up her pace. The foul smell of excrement, both human and animal, made her pinch her nose shut with one hand. The tip of her boot touched something solid, revealing a frozen carcass that she hurriedly left behind.

As she waded deeper into the city, shadowy figures materialized amongst the garbage heaps, their shoulders stooped with hopelessness—harmless drunks, seemingly immune to the curfew. She passed a wraith-like man, his face so gaunt and paper-thin that she thought the wind might pick him up and blow him away. In his right hand, he clutched the neck of a liquor bottle. 

Judging it to be safe, Catherine lit the lantern and shielded it partially beneath the cloak. The streets appeared even more desolate in the low light, and rats scuttled outside the reach of the ray by the hundreds. 

She felt a burst of anguish at the state of the city, her bitterness initially pointed at the Holy Order. But in a burst of clarity, she considered that perhaps it had always been this way, and she had not noticed until she herself had given into despair.

“Ho, there!” someone said, and Catherine jumped, her hand rushing to pull down the hood. Her heart lept into her throat as she identified the man as a religious guard, clad in black fatigues with the symbol of the Goddess’s wings on his bicep. “It is four hours past curfew!”

For the first time, Catherine was grateful that her appearance had changed so drastically. Her fingers trembled as she reached into a pocket of her cloak, pinching a gold coin. Drawing upon all of her courage, she picked up his hand by the wrist and pressed it into his palm.

For a moment, his dark eyes stared down at the coin, and she feared that he would not accept it. Then, he turned without a word, his cloak sweeping in a wide arc as he resumed his patrol. 

Catherine let out a sigh, her relief quickly replaced by morbid glee as she realized that even agents of the Holy Order could be bought with ease. 

She took up the path with an increased sense of urgency. She had sent her maids away, feigning sickness, but it was possible that they would come to check on her during the night. To make matters worse, her clothes were proving inadequate against the cold, and her feet were beginning to feel like blocks of ice. 

As she walked, she remembered a time when she had snuck out of the castle as a teenager, her arm around a servant boy’s; she had forgotten his name, but who he was had always mattered less than what he could do for her. Together they had walked the streets—gone to the market and bought fruits as peasants might. Now, that day felt so far away that Catherine wondered if the memory belonged to someone else and she had inherited it by some happy accident. 

About an hour had passed since she had scaled the garden wall when she arrived at her destination. The clergy house perched like a noble's mansion atop a hill, connected to a gothic cathedral by a brick path. The windows were lit with yellow light, warm and welcoming, and Catherine shivered with longing. 

She extinguished the lamp and watched the compound carefully, her side pressed into the rough bark of a leafless oak tree. A single guard sat on the stoop, a bottle of gin in one hand and a cigar in the other. His head lulled to one side, and Catherine realized that he was unconscious; apparently, power had granted him the luxury of complacency. 

She crossed over to the other side of the hill, where she would be hidden by the cathedral, and squeezed through the iron fence. Her ribs caught on the bars, but she sucked in and pushed through with a pop. 

Once inside, she circled the brick building that served as the ministers’ lodging, finding that the grounds were in considerably better condition than her own. If memory served correctly, the archbishop’s chambers were on the bottom floor: even in her younger years, she had respected that he chose one of the most humble rooms even though he was entitled to the grandest. 

Catherine crouched low, peeking over the sill. The room was lit with a dull glow, and she could see bookshelves against the walls and a small cot in the center. She did not recognize the layout, but then again, it had been three years since she had visited the clergy house. 

She ducked lower as a boy entered, carrying a tray with a loaf of bread and a bowl of soup. He was dressed in the tight-fitting suit of an apprentice, a black tie tight around his throat. He placed the tray on the bedside table, sent a few words in the direction of the bed, and disappeared back through the door.

Catherine lifted herself higher. There, on the white sheets, a figure lay prone with his arms and legs outstretched. He was bony and hollow-looking, the skin yellowed in the light. Her shoulders tensed: somewhere in the face of the sickly old man, she saw the features of the archbishop.

One of his fingers twitched, and Catherine watched in disbelief as it bent and beckoned to her. She glanced behind her, finding no one. After a moment of uncomfortable hesitation, she hid the lantern in the bushes and pulled the window open. 

She climbed through unceremoniously, cursing as one leg thumped against the wall, and scrambled to the side of the bed. Her heart sank as she got a closer look at the archbishop’s face, and she thought that she must have imagined the gesture because was impossible that the man on the bed possessed a single drop of lucidity. 

She touched the papery hand, her eyes welling with inexplicable tears. Her relationship with the archbishop had been purely diplomatic, but he had been polite and so alive—round in the face and belly, with crooked teeth and a kind smile.

Then, suddenly, his fingers seized her own, and she let out a little gasp, trying to pull her hand away. But his grip was strong, and he tugged her closer, raising his mouth to her ear. 

“Cath…erine,” he whispered, his voice raspy from unuse. Her other hand scrambled for the glass water on the table, and she brought it to his chapped lips. He drank, coughing most of it up, but swallowing a couple of drops.

“Archbishop,” Catherine said, keeping one eye trained on the door. “I came to see you.” 

There was a small nod. “Matthias…” he whispered, wasting no time, “wants… war.”

“War?” Catherine asked, her voice quick and nervous. 

His limp tongue flicked over his bottom lip. “With… the demons. He will… destroy us all.” 

Catherine reeled back, her eyes wide. She had assumed that the bishop wanted to renegotiate the treaty to increase his power, but if he intended to pursue war with the Linnaeans instead, the very fabric of their reality would be rearranged. 

“Ch..child,” the archbishop choked, and she turned her sunken eyes back to his. “Flee.”

She shuddered at the intensity of his gaze. “From here?”

He shook his head painfully. “No. Leave… Ciradyl.”

A shudder went through Catherine’s body. Perhaps she had not been the greatest ruler, but the city was her home, her life, and her everything. “W-why?”

A muted thump came from somewhere nearby, and Catherine whipped around. “Go!” the archbishop commanded.

Sorrow squeezed her heart like a vice, and she was overcome with respect for the man before her. He would die soon, either from his ailment or at the hands of the Holy Order, but he had warned her. He had raised his voice when they had discredited him—thought him so sick that they hadn’t bothered to lock his window—and in that way, he had foiled them.

She pressed a kiss to his hand, and then she was gone, climbing out of the window with an ungraceful haste. She rushed back to the castle, her mind reeling. If the archbishop could be brave in the face of death, she must follow his example: she would pack up her family, send a letter to her sister, and write a manifesto exposing Bishop Matthias from the safety of one of the northern city-states. Perhaps Nekimir, she decided, comforted by the thought of being separated from the Holy Order by the Valram mountain range. 

The newfound determination was invigorating, and it covered up the sting of the cold. She wondered at the bishop’s strategy, questioning why he would choose to expend so many resources to face an unknown power. But as she climbed over the garden wall once more, she remembered something her father had told her back when he had been lucid: that, sometimes, war breeds more unity than peace.