POV: Ravenna
Cindravale transforms into a war machine in DAYS.
Not weeks. Not months. DAYS.
I watch from the palace windows as the city mobilizes. Forges burning day and night. Smoke rising from smithies where weapons are being hammered into existence. Supplies being loaded onto carts. Soldiers drilling in every available courtyard. Dragons flying overhead in formations—practicing, preparing, getting READY.
For war.
Because of me.
"You can't stand at that window forever," Morgana says behind me.
"Watch me." I don't turn around. Can't stop looking at the organized chaos below. "This is my fault. The least I can do is WITNESS it."
"It's not your fault. It's Thalassa's."
"Thalassa wouldn't be invading if I hadn't run from Aetherwyn. If I had just STAYED—"
"You'd be dead." Morgana crosses to stand beside me. "The Eclipse was hunting you. Staying meant dying. You know this, Rav. Stop taking responsibility for your grandmother's terrible choices."
I know she's right. Intellectually. But emotionally? Emotionally I'm watching an entire kingdom prepare for war and knowing that every soldier marching, every weapon forged, every family saying goodbye to loved ones—it's all because Thalassa wants to control me.
Because I dared to choose my own path instead of hers.
"How many will die?" I whisper. "Before this is over. How many people will die fighting over me like I'm territory to be conquered?"
"I don't know." Morgana's voice is honest. Brutal. "But I know it won't be your fault. And I know standing here hating yourself doesn't help anyone."
She's right. Again. I hate when she's right.
***
Father coordinates everything from the war room. Maps covering every surface. Messengers coming and going constantly. Hadrian at his side planning defensive strategies. Veyron organizing aerial dragon units—he's too old to fight himself but he knows dragon combat better than anyone living.
I stand in the doorway watching. Feeling useless. Helpless. WRONG.
Father sees me. Gestures me in.
"I want to help," I say before he can speak. "I want to DO something instead of just—just watching while everyone prepares to die."
"You're going to heal the wounded," Father says. Not a question. A statement. "When casualties come—and they WILL come—you'll be here saving lives."
"But before that? During preparation? I could—"
"You could what?" His voice is gentle but firm. "Fight on the front lines? You're not trained for combat. Negotiate with Thalassa? She won't listen." He pauses. "You could go to Aetherwyn and surrender. End this war by giving your grandmother what she wants."
"YES." I step forward. "Exactly. If I just go to her. If I explain—"
"NO." His voice is IRON. "Absolutely not. We discussed this."
"But the war—"
"Is THALASSA'S choice. Not yours. Not mine. HERS." He stands. Crosses to me. "Sending you would give her exactly what she wants and solve nothing. She'd imprison you. Control you. Use you as political tool. And the war would continue anyway because she wants TERRITORY, Ravenna. You're just the excuse."
Theron speaks from where he's been studying maps. "He's right. Thalassa declared war the moment she had justification. Your surrender wouldn't end it. Just make it more complicated."
"But people are DYING—"
"People die in war." Father's voice is hard. "That's the terrible reality. And yes, this war is about you. But that doesn't make it your FAULT or your responsibility to stop by sacrificing yourself."
I want to argue. Want to insist I should do SOMETHING. But looking at Father's face—exhausted, determined, CERTAIN—I realize he won't budge on this.
"Then what CAN I do?" My voice cracks. "How do I help? How do I—how do I make this MATTER instead of just being the prize everyone fights over?"
"You heal the wounded when they come." Father's expression softens. "You save lives. You give soldiers reason to keep fighting by ensuring they can survive their injuries. You DO what your mother did—you take pain away and give people second chances." He pauses. "That's not small, Ravenna. That's everything."
I nod. Swallow past the lump in my throat. "Okay. I can do that."
"I know you can."
***
The first reports arrive that afternoon.
Water kingdom forces have taken three border villages. No resistance. The villagers were evacuated before troops arrived—Father's doing, getting civilians OUT before fighting starts.
But the villages themselves? Occupied. Water kingdom soldiers setting up supply bases. Dragons patrolling in numbers I've never seen before. This isn't a skirmish. This isn't posturing.
This is real war.
"How many dragons?" Veyron asks the messenger.
"At least fifty in the air at any given time. Maybe more held in reserve." The messenger looks exhausted. Scared. "They're patrolling in formation. Professional. Disciplined. This is Thalassa's ELITE forces, not border guards."
"She's not playing around," Hadrian mutters.
"No," Father agrees. "She's committed to this. Fully committed." He looks at the maps. "We hold defensive positions. Make every inch they advance COSTLY. But we don't invade Aetherwyn. This stays defensive."
"That limits our options," Veyron points out.
"I know. But I won't start a conquest war over Thalassa's obsession." Father's voice is firm. "We DEFEND. We protect our people. We make her advance so expensive in lives and resources that she reconsiders. But we don't become aggressors."
"And if she doesn't reconsider?" Hadrian asks quietly.
"Then we keep defending. Until she runs out of soldiers or political will or SOMETHING." Father looks around the war room. "I will not let Thalassa take my daughter. No matter how long this takes. No matter what it costs."
I feel sick. Because it WILL cost. It's already costing. And it's going to get so much worse before it gets better.
If it gets better at all.
***
That evening, I'm in my chambers trying to rest when Morgana bursts in.
"Theron and Saren are leaving tomorrow," she says. No preamble. Just—THAT. "Joining Hadrian's forces at the front lines."
My stomach drops. "Tomorrow?"
"Dawn." She sits on my bed. Looks smaller than I've ever seen her. "Saren promised he'd come back. Promised we'd get married when this is over." Her voice cracks. "But what if he doesn't come back? What if—"
"He'll come back." I sit beside her. Take her hand. "Saren is too stubborn to die. He survived thirteen years protecting me. He'll survive this."
"You can't promise that."
"No," I admit. "I can't. But I can believe it. I can CHOOSE to believe it until proven otherwise." I squeeze her hand. "And you can too."
She leans against me. Two women watching their men prepare for war. Knowing tomorrow might be the last time we see them alive.
Knowing there's nothing we can do to stop it.
"I hate this," Morgana whispers. "I hate war. I hate Thalassa. I hate that we're helpless to—"
"We're not helpless." My voice is firmer than I feel. "We're healers. We're fighters. And when the wounded come, we save them. We give Theron and Saren and every other soldier the best chance to survive."
"That's something."
"That's everything."
We sit there in silence. Holding each other. Preparing for tomorrow when the men we love march away to die or survive.
Hoping desperately for survival.
Knowing death is just as likely.
This is war. And we're in it now. Whether we're ready or not.