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clattering of iron-clad wheels, not to mention the incessant pattering of rain. His legs ached, his eyes were tired, and his backside was numb after being pressed against the cold stone. And yet he refused to move. He didn’t care how long it would take. The Lord Protector had to blurt out some more lies at one time or another. Merion would wait, and look upon his enemy. The stubbornness in him told his aching bones to pipe down and deal with it. If they could handle weeks tramping across a desert, they could handle a cold step in rainy Londontown.
    It took another half hour for Merion’s patience to be rewarded. A grand carriage shackled to four horses rattled to a stop outside the steps of the House. The horses displayed bright blue plumes between their ears. Merion sat up straight. Cobalt colour . Out of habit, he looked down to his side, but as his brain refused to forget, there was nothing there. He cleared his throat, refocusing himself.
    Squinting through the rain, Merion eyed the coat of arms on the carriage’s double-doors: an eagle lifting a tiger into the sky. Merion leaned forwards as he heard the sound of slamming doors and scattered applause from some passers-by. There were even a few cheers.
    As the carriage pulled away, Lord Protector Dizali was revealed, standing alone. He was just a man; a world away from the dark shape constantly perched in the centre of Merion’s thoughts. He was a mortal who could bleed, and not some paragon of evil; some shadow-wearing demon with dust for veins.
    He was smiling and waving magnanimously to his admirers; one foot poised on the first step of the House, the other on the pavement. Part of Merion wanted to stride across the street and slit his throat that very moment. But he lacked the knife and, thankfully, the stupidity to do so. The rest of him was content enough to stay put, and bask in the prospect of retribution, revenge, and the final chapter. He smiled as he watched Dizali striding up the steps and into the House, disappearing into the darkness behind its doors. ‘Every fairytale must have its end,’ Merion muttered aloud, before pushing himself from the stone.
    *
    As he seemed to be paying visits, Merion thought he might as well grant one to Queen Victorious; and besides, he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. So he walked northwest, towards the dark and twisted spires of the Palace of Ravens.
    It was a short walk between the House and the palace, and an even shorter walk to realise just how serious the royal situation was. The palace was completely surrounded. Merion could not have reached the Queen with a gold-plated invitation in his hand. Soldiers and lordsguards formed a buzzing ring around the building; standing, patrolling, dug in behind makeshift walls, or chatting idly at Gatling gun emplacements. The palace had drawn every one of its curtains, and locked every single door. Even the Shivering Pines, the small forest in the grounds, was deathly silent. Not a single one of the Queen’s ravens cawed. It was a disturbing form of protest. As Lurker would have said, she was cooped up tighter than a pig in a barrel.
    Apparently it was a day for uninvited emotions. Merion felt a flush of sadness as he hovered on the edges of the crowds, come to gawp at the Queen’s makeshift prison. He thought of his aunt and that grizzled old prospector, swigging from his flask; his aunt smirking at him, or prattling on about blood. The boy pulled a stern face as the guilt came again, chastising him. He recited his reasons beneath his breath, over and over. It had helped during the voyage, reminding himself of why he had come alone, with his closest enemy his only company. His mind slipped to another absent friend and he shivered in the rain. ‘Soon, Rhin,’ he whispered.
    Merion left the crowds to themselves, and headed back the way he had come. The thought of prattling and blood had reminded him of the next item on his mental list. To the rhythm of splashing boots,