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“That’ll be your breakfast.” Rhiann finishes tying my hair back as Bastian opens the door for the maid, who’s holding a tray of tea and a single piece of toast. “I assumed you’d be heading off, so we’ll send you the rest to wherever you need.”

I nod, still trying to process this strange information. Stars attacking merchants? What would a proper queen do with this news? What would Sterling do?

Before I can formulate a response, the door bursts open again. Bastian’s hand drops to his sword as I instinctively snatch my own weapon from the table beside my bed.

A guard rushes in, her armor askew as if thrown on hastily. She stares at Bastian’s hand and my glower before bowing. “Your Majesty, I apologize for the unannounced intrusion into your bedchamber, but refugees are streaming in from Greenmeadow. Dryads have emerged from their reclusive haunts to attack the village.”

My hold on my sheathed sword loosens with shock. “Dryads don’t attack.” Just saying the two words in the same sentence is enough to spin my head in dizzying circles.

“These ones do.” The guard’s face goes a shade paler, a stark contrast with the bright red hair peeking out from under her helmet. “Three people have died already, and dozens are injured. The village elder is waiting in your receiving hall.”

Two crises before breakfast. No Sterling to offer his military expertise. And not a single idea of what to do bubbling up in my allegedly royal brain.

I take a deep breath. “I’ll join him shortly. Rhiann, you know where I’ll be. Bastian, please assemble the council.”

With my scant breakfast now forgotten, Rhiann focuses on getting me dressed. It’s a simple gown since I have no time for the formal regalia. No time for anything other than facing whatever fresh hells await me downstairs.

I arrive at the place we use as a receiving room, a long, narrow space perfect for processing lengthy lines of people in record time. The people enter on the far side and wait their turn to reach me at the desk on this side. Once finished, they’ll be escorted out.

There are no fancy decorations in such rooms, not anymore. I don’t care about showing off luxuries, or paintings, or expensive rugs.

Under my reign, there are no distractions and no hiding places. Nothing to make the proceedings last longer.

Guards stand at their posts near the walls, keeping an eye on everyone. The space buzzes with urgency. Nobles, guards, and messengers cluster in tight groups, their voices overlapping like competing instruments in a badly conducted orchestra.

They quiet when I enter and bow hastily, faces heavy with expectation. The village elder from Greenmeadow, one of the largest farming villages on the eastern side of Tirene, stands at the front. He removes a sun-faded hat to reveal a smooth bald head. Soil clings to his weathered boots, his clothes stained with what might be blood or sap. Or maybe both. Considering it’s not yet ten in the morning, he must have left at dawn in order to arrive when he did.

Meaning the attack happened at or before sunrise.

“Your Majesty.” The relief in his voice clenches my stomach.

These people think I can help them. They have faith in their queen.

I just hope I don’t let them down.

Before he can speak further, a woman in merchant’s garb strides forward. “Western roads are closed to us, Your Majesty. The star toll has tripled in the past day. We cannot afford⁠—”

“The dryads have burned three homes already.” The elder pushes forward, glaring at the merchant. “People are dead. Not just running out of money. We need soldiers, archers⁠—”

“Your Majesty!” A thin nobleman I recognize from the Coastal Provinces waves a sealed parchment. “The crops in Millvale were blighted overnight. They’ve completely rotted in the fields.”

“The well in Southmark runs with black water.” Another woman clutches her arms, as if to keep them from shaking. Her nails dig into her simple homespun cloth. “Three children have fallen ill already.”

“Sacred birds are attacking kids in the temple gardens⁠—”

“The doorways at the Temple of Althy no longer lead to the inside as they appear. People have plummeted hundreds of feet into the sea. The ones already inside tried to leave and were also found in the waters.”

This last report rips through the clamor, silencing the room.

A nobleman strides forward as the people around him rear back. His fingers worry the embroidery on his fine silk sleeve. “I funded that temple myself, Your Majesty. Solid stone, blessed by three priests. Now the doorways…they just…open to air. Above the cliffs. Two acolytes dead already.”

My head spins at the bizarre occurrences all being spewed forth at once. “Wait a minute. Are the acolytes children? If they’re old enough, why didn’t they just open their wings and fly?”

“We don’t know.” The nobleman looks like he might vomit. “They just fell to their deaths, screaming the whole way down. A few people flew out to catch them, and their wings disappeared.”

Now I want to vomit.

If we can’t trust our wings…can’t trust our steps…can’t trust our temples, even, then what can we trust?