Chapter 14: The Raven's Rebellion

MELIANTHE

The sleeping draught in Lady Rosalind's evening tea should keep her unconscious for at least three hours, long enough for what needs to be done tonight. I measure each drop carefully from the vial Sara provided, watching it dissolve into the honeyed chamomile. My new keeper drinks deeply, complaining as always about the burden of watching over a wayward princess.

"Such exhausting work," she sighs, settling into the chair by the chamber door. "But Lord Commander Thorne insists on constant vigilance. As if you could simply vanish from a third-floor chamber."

I murmur sympathetic agreement, watching her eyelids grow heavy. Within minutes, her breathing deepens into snores. The imperial spy who replaced my loyal Lyssa has one weakness; she trusts too much in locks and walls. By the time she awakens, I’ll be sitting in the same chair again, by all accounts engrossed in my embroidery.

The rope of knotted sheets, prepared over several nights and hidden beneath my mattress, drops silently from my window. The climb down requires all the skills Talos taught me in those secret training sessions, muscles straining as I descend into the palace gardens. My mother's old cloak, dark as raven wings, helps me blend with the shadows.

The new patrols are predictable in their efficiency. Every fifteen minutes through the gardens, every twenty past the servants' gate. I've timed them for a week, noting the patterns from my window. Between the midnight shift change and the guards' brief distraction as they exchange reports, a determined princess has exactly three minutes to slip through the old groundskeeper's entrance.

Two streets from the palace, Thomas waits with a covered merchant's cart, ostensibly returning late from delivering goods. I slip beneath the rough blankets that smell of turnips and barley, letting him ferry me through checkpoints where guards see only another tired tradesman heading home.

"Getting riskier each time," he mutters as we pass the third patrol. "That new overseer, Hadrian, has eyes like a hawk."

"Then we'll have to be ravens," I whisper back, thinking of how the dark birds seem to move unseen despite their presence everywhere in the city.

The shrine of Saint Maeve feels different tonight, heavy with the weight of choices that will either save us or damn us all. After Thomas's cart rumbles away, I press myself against the cold stone wall beside the entrance, counting heartbeats while I wait for the signal. Above, ravens gather on the broken roof tiles in unusual numbers, their dark forms barely visible against the night sky. They've been following me more frequently since Bastian's death, as if his blood on my hands has marked me for their judgment.

Two days have passed since we were supposed to eliminate Prince Cassian as a threat. Two days since Sir Talos and Lord Kestrel were meant to carry out the poisoning that would silence him permanently. The vial I'd given Isabella weeks ago - the Tears of Lysander stolen from Cordelia's chambers - had finally found its intended purpose. Or so we thought.

Instead, they discovered something that changed everything. Intelligence that Prince Cassian had been feeding us information about imperial operations in secret. Warnings that had saved resistance lives. Communications that suggested he'd been working against imperial interests since he arrived.

So the poison went unused, the assassination became interrogation, and now we face a choice that could destroy us faster than any imperial blade.

The raven's call echoes twice from the bell tower - Isabella's signal. But as I slip through the crumbling doorway, the scene inside stops my breath. This isn't the careful gathering of committed resisters I expected. The shrine is packed with people; shopkeepers whose businesses have been shuttered, nobles whose estates have been "assessed" for imperial taxes, families whose children have been conscripted for "educational opportunities" in distant provinces.

Fifty people, maybe more. Far too many for secrecy. This isn't a resistance meeting. This is desperation made manifest.

"Princess." Isabella's voice cuts through the murmur of nervous conversation. But there's something different about her bearing tonight. Less of the careful patience I've grown accustomed to, more of the cold fury that comes from watching everything you've built systematically destroyed.

She stands beside Saint Maeve's weathered altar, but she's not alone. Gideon is there, his guard's uniform replaced by common clothes that can't disguise his military bearing. Sara the herb seller, her hands still stained green from the day's work of preparing poultices for those injured in yesterday's "pacification" efforts. Lord Alderton, whose careful neutrality has apparently dissolved into open defiance after imperial assessors seized his youngest daughter's dowry lands.

And at the center of it all, faces marked by loss and determination. People who've watched their neighbors disappear, their businesses seized, their children taken for imperial service.

"Your Highness," Isabella says, and her formality carries weight that makes the packed shrine fall silent. "We're grateful you could join us for this critical consultation."

Critical. The word hangs between us like a blade waiting to fall.

"How many have we lost?" I ask, though my throat feels tight.

"Seventeen confirmed arrests in the past three days. Five families relocated to agricultural colonies in the western provinces. Three workshops seized for improper documentation." Isabella's voice remains steady, but I can see the fury burning behind her dark eyes. "The delay in dealing with Prince Cassian has cost us. Every day we hesitate, they tighten their grip."

"What about the Raven?" I ask, thinking of the coded messages that have kept us one step ahead of disaster. "Have they provided any guidance?"

Isabella's expression grows troubled. "The Raven's communications have changed. More urgent, less detailed. More personal." She produces a small piece of parchment from within her dark cloak. "This arrived after yesterday's council meeting."

The message is brief, written in the precise script I've come to recognize: "Imperial knowledge exceeds expectations. Suspect surveillance in previously secure locations. Cannot guarantee continued communication. Trust only confirmed allies. Time grows short before masks must fall. —R"

It's different from the Raven's usual tactical focus, almost personal. As if they understand the weight of hidden responsibility in ways that go beyond intelligence gathering. And that final warning about masks... with the Harvest Festival approaching, it carries layers of meaning.

"They're not even pretending anymore," Gideon says, his scarred hands clenching into fists. "No trials, no justifications. Just efficient elimination of anyone they consider a threat."

"Which means," Lord Alderton interrupts, his patrician features drawn with exhaustion, "that we're past the point where careful resistance serves any purpose. They know who we are. The only question now is whether we die fighting or die in their detention camps."

A murmur runs through the gathered crowd. People nod, their faces showing grim acceptance mixed with fear.

"What are you proposing?" I ask, though I suspect I already know.

"Action," Isabella says with steel in her voice. "During the Harvest Festival, two weeks hence. The celebration will provide perfect cover; bonfires throughout the city, everyone in masks, crowds in every square. And before we do, we resolve the Prince Cassian situation once and for all."

"Meaning?"

"We test his loyalty," Thomas says from the crowd, his merchant's calculating mind already working through possibilities. "False information. If imperial forces mobilize based on it, we know he's a spy. If not..."

"Then we might have an ally we desperately need," Isabella finishes. "The Raven's intelligence suggests imperial operations are accelerating beyond even their projections. Lord Commander Thorne has requested additional troops from the capital. Something has them worried."

I think of Cassian's eyes during our last conversation, the way he'd asked questions that cut deeper than imperial training should allow. The way the ravens had remained calm in his presence at the feast, when they'd shrieked warnings before Bastian's attack. Even now, I remember how one had landed on the balcony railing beside him, studying him with an intelligence that seemed almost approving.

"What kind of test?"

"We tell him about a weapons cache in the old mill district," Marcus explains, his tactical mind already refining the details. "Significant enough to demand immediate imperial response if reported. Complete fabrication, but he won't know that. We'll have watchers in place. If imperial forces move on the location, we'll know he betrayed us."

"Timeline?"

"Tonight," Isabella replies. "We feed him the information through channels he'll trust. By the time the festival arrives, we'll know where his loyalties truly lie."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The elegance appeals to me despite its risks. But something else needs addressing first.

"And the Harvest Festival operation?"

Isabella produces a leather portfolio, spreading documents across the altar. Maps of the city marked with bonfire locations, traditional processional routes, gathering points; the same notation system my mother had used in her secret journals when planning charitable distributions that somehow always managed to help resistance families most.

"The festival provides natural advantages," she says, her finger tracing the planned routes. "Masks are not just permitted but expected; even imperials will wear them to 'honor local customs.' The bonfires create light and shadow, smoke and confusion. Traditional drums and music will mask other sounds."

I study the plans, seeing the elegant complexity. Multiple targets marked throughout the city, timed to coincide with different festival events. The imperial supply depot near the Fishmonger's Quarter, positioned so the smoke from the Sailors' Bonfire will obscure any flames until too late. The garrison's secondary armory, vulnerable during the children's mask parade when most guards will be managing crowds. And boldest of all...

"We're using the Raven's Harvest," Gideon explains, naming the traditional midnight ceremony where masked celebrants leap through flames for purification and renewal. "While the imperials watch the main bonfire in Cathedral Square, smaller fires throughout the city will serve different purposes."

"Signals?"

"And diversions," Isabella confirms. "Each district will have teams ready. When the cathedral bells ring midnight and the Raven's Harvest begins, we strike the imperial supply depot, the garrison's secondary armory, and-" she pauses, finger hovering over a building I recognize all too well.

"The records hall," I finish. Where they keep lists of suspected resistance members, tax assessments, conscription orders. Where my mother once kept copies of her charitable works, now replaced by imperial efficiency.

"Burn those, and we buy months of confusion," Lord Alderton says with grim satisfaction. "They'll have to reconstruct everything from memory and imperial copies. Every 'relocated' family, every seized property, every child taken for 'education'. All of it becomes uncertainty."

"The masks give us another advantage," Thomas adds, producing a traditional raven mask from beneath his cloak. The black leather is worked with extraordinary skill, feathers layered to catch light like real wings. "Traditional raven masks are common during harvest—half the city will be wearing them. Our people can move freely, and if someone happens to be seen..." He shrugs eloquently. "Who can identify a raven among ravens?"

"What do you need from me?"

"Leadership," Thomas says, his merchant's pragmatism cutting to the heart. "These people need to know that Ravencrest's crown stands with them during the Harvest Festival."

The woman from the artisan quarter speaks up, the same one who'd challenged me weeks ago about my father's treaties. Her face bears new lines, her husband one of the seventeen arrested. "Will you wear a mask like the rest of us? Or will the princess remain safely in her palace while we burn?"

Her words sting because they carry a challenge I must answer. I think of my mother, who they say walked among the people during the plague years, tending the sick with her own hands. Of the queens before her who led from castle walls when invaders came.

"I'll wear the raven," I say, naming the most common festival mask. "And I'll light the fire in the Merchant Quarter myself."

A ripple of surprise runs through the crowd. The Merchant Quarter bonfire is one of the most dangerous targets. It’s close to imperial patrols, requiring someone to remain visible throughout the lighting ceremony. The tradition demands the fire-lighter speak the old words, call the blessings, remain unmasked until the flames catch fully.

"Princess-" Isabella objects.

"If we're asking people to risk their lives for something I believe in, then I risk mine first. Besides," I add with dark humor, "who would suspect a princess of lighting her own rebellion? The imperials expect me to cower in the palace, playing the obedient daughter. Let them think that until the flames tell a different story."

"The ceremony requires specific words," Sara says quietly, her herbalist's memory precise. "Ancient words in the old tongue. Do you know them?"

I close my eyes, hearing my mother's voice from years past, teaching me the festivals even as the world changed around us. "I know them."

The raven that found its way into the shrine earlier chooses this moment to speak, a low, thoughtful croak that draws every eye. It shifts on Saint Maeve's shoulder, wings rustling with deliberate purpose. In the candlelight, its eyes seem to hold depths of knowledge that go beyond animal cunning.

"An omen," someone whispers. "The ravens approve."

Isabella uses the moment to regain control. "Then we have two weeks to prepare. Thomas, your merchant contacts will need to stockpile lamp oil without drawing attention. Gideon, the guard shifts during festival night… we need current intelligence. Sara, we'll need burn salves and smoke remedies prepared in quantity."

"What about the palace?" Lord Blackwood asks. "Surely the king will notice his daughter's absence during the festival."

"The court always attends the Cathedral Square ceremony," I say, already thinking through the deception. "I'll be there for the early celebrations, visible and dutiful. Once the Merchant’s Quarter bonfire is lit, I can have Lyssa pretend to be me while I slip away. We’re the same height and build, and behind the mask no one will know."

"And your guards?"

"Captain Morris remains sympathetic. He'll ensure the right men are on duty, those who understand that sometimes a princess needs privacy to pray." The lie comes easily, built on truth. Morris has covered for smaller absences before.

"The imperial response will be swift once the fires start," Marcus warns. "We need extraction routes planned for every team."

"The old smuggling tunnels," Thomas suggests. "My grandfather's maps still exist. They connect half the city if you know the ways."

"Those were sealed after the conquest," Isabella objects.

"Sealed by Ravencrest masons," Thomas replies with a knowing smile. "Who might have been convinced to leave certain passages... less thoroughly blocked than others. For a price, of course."

The planning continues, each detail building toward the night that will change everything. But I find myself studying the gathered faces, memorizing them. How many will survive what we're planning? How many children will lose parents to our necessary rebellion?

"You're thinking dark thoughts," Isabella observes, moving beside me as the meeting breaks into smaller groups.

"I'm thinking about costs," I admit. "Every person here has already lost something. We're asking them to risk what little remains."

"And what have you lost, Princess?" The question isn't cruel, merely curious.

I think of my mother's death, my father's slow surrender, my own innocence burned away by Bastian's blood. "Perhaps not enough. Not yet."

"Or perhaps more than you know." Isabella's dark eyes hold depths of understanding. "I knew your mother, you know. Not well, but enough to see her in you. The way you stand, the way you think three moves ahead while appearing to consider only the present."

"People keep saying that."

"Because it's true. But Melianthe-" she uses my name without title, making this personal, "your mother also knew when to stop thinking and start acting. The Harvest Festival will be that moment for you."

A commotion near the entrance draws our attention. One of the watchers slips in, breathing hard. "Imperial patrol, two streets over. Moving this way."

The gathering disperses with practiced efficiency. People melt away through hidden exits, taking different routes home. Within moments, the shrine looks abandoned again, just Isabella, myself, and that watching raven remaining.

"Go," Isabella says. "Take the north passage. I'll ensure we weren't followed."

But as I turn to leave, she catches my arm. "The test for Prince Cassian - be careful. Men in love sometimes do unexpected things, and that one... he looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve."

"He's imperial intelligence," I remind her.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps someone else wearing masks within masks." She glances at the raven, which has moved to the window. "In Ravencrest, we say the ravens know. They gather where truth and lies dance together. Have you noticed how they follow you now?"

I have. Ever since Bastian's blood stained my hands, they've been my constant shadows. Sometimes I wake to find them perched outside my window, heads cocked as if listening to my dreams.

"What does it mean?"

"Maybe that you're becoming what the kingdom needs," Isabella says. "Or maybe that you're walking the same path as others who've worn the crown in shadow. The old stories speak of queens who could speak with ravens, who knew the kingdom's secrets through their eyes. Perhaps that blood runs true in you."

"My mother never mentioned such things."

"Your mother was careful about what she mentioned and to whom." Isabella's smile holds secrets. "But on certain nights, when the moon was dark, ravens would gather in the palace gardens. And in the morning, resistance families would find food at their doors, or warnings slipped beneath their pillows."

The implication sends chills through me. "You're saying she could actually communicate with them?"

"I'm saying the kingdom has old magic that the Empire doesn't understand. Ravens remember. They carry truth in their wings and see bonds that go deeper than politics." She pauses at the shrine's threshold. "Your connection to them is strengthening. Trust it, even when it leads you down dark paths."

The night air outside tastes of approaching rain and revolution. As I slip through empty streets, ravens ghost overhead, their wing beats marking time until the Harvest Festival. Two weeks to prepare. Two weeks to test Cassian's loyalty. Two weeks before we light fires that will either free us or consume us.

Behind me, I hear Isabella's voice one last time, carried on the wind: "Remember, Princess… sometimes the greatest betrayal is remaining loyal to the wrong truth."

I think of Cassian, of tests and deceptions. Of my father, growing more distant each day, signing documents with hands that shake from wine and weighted conscience. Of the Raven, sending warnings from shadows that feel increasingly familiar. Of my mother, whose influence seems to guide us even from beyond death.

The ravens know truth from lies, Isabella said. As I make my way back to the palace, I wonder what truths they see when they look at me. Am I still the naive princess who believed in fairy tale endings? Or am I becoming something else? Someone who can wear masks within masks, who can light rebellion's fire with steady hands?

A raven lands on a roof tile ahead, watching my passage with eyes that gleam like black stars. For a moment, I could swear I understand its call; not words, exactly, but meaning. Danger. Change. Choice.

In two weeks, during the Harvest Festival, we commit to rebellion that can't be taken back. The bonfires will burn for more than tradition; they'll light the way to either freedom or destruction. And I'll stand before the Merchant Quarter fire, speaking ancient words while wearing a raven's face, becoming either savior or destroyer.

The ravens know which I'll choose. They've always known.

The question is whether we'll understand their warnings before the masks come off and the fires reveal who we really are. Whether Prince Cassian will prove friend or foe. Whether my father suspects what grows in his kingdom's shadow. Whether the Raven who sends us warnings is someone I've trusted all along.

Two weeks. The ravens circle overhead, marking time with wing beats that sound like war drums.

Two weeks until everything burns.