The alluring, sweet aroma wafted toward the hidden cave's entrance, enveloping her in its embrace. It was rather uplifting, holding so many wishful promises . . . of peace, first and foremost, for her war-battered kind. Whitespur watched the captivating shine of the small creek that weaved through the rows of golden trees. Of peace, redemption, and future. Of—

"Ma-ma!"

Her heart skipped as a tiny snout gently pressed into her side.

"Ma-ma!"

With great difficulty, she met the gaze of the little gray pup, who persistently nudged her. She knew all too well that he would one day resemble his father almost perfectly, and while a part of her cherished this, a much larger part found that it added to her already heavy burden.

Eventually, she tore her gaze from her son, and the sickly sweet valley specked with golden apple trees that stretched behind him in search of her daughter. Her mouth opened to announce their imminent departure, yet the words lodged in her throat.

"You mustn't do this."

"Why?" Whitespur observed the golden-coated gnawer, who gingerly stepped closer. "Are you and Razor no longer willing to offer us your support?"

"Of course, our support remains with you, Whitespur." Goldshard shook her head. "Nonetheless, we implore you to reconsider your decision. It is not right."

"It is my decision."

"I know." Goldshard came up beside her and stared down at the garden. "But did he not urge you to live with him in freedom? I cannot even begin to fathom what you see in that idealistic scoundrel, but even less can I fathom why you would not take his offer."

Whitespur twitched as she sensed a tug on her fur. "Ma-ma? Hun-gy."

She bowed to straighten out her daughter's messy, cream fur. "Your father will feed you," she mumbled as both pups pressed tightly into her side. Her heart should ache, she thought, yet it had bled so much in recent times that she thought it must have bled out.

"You don't understand," she said to Goldshard, "because you see him not as I do. To you, he may look like a meddling scoundrel, and I will not deny he has that about him, but . . ." She looked out at the garden. "He is also Prometheus—he with the power to liberate our kind from the tyranny of Zeus." Before she could voice it, Whitespur sensed Goldshard's confusion. "What I mean is," she continued, "that he is the only one with enough spirit to peek out of Plato's blissful yet ignorant cave."

"I'm afraid I'm still not understanding." Before Whitespur could reply, Goldshard shook her head. "But I don't have to understand. All I must know is that you love him."

"I . . . love him," said Whitespur, and for the first time in what felt like forever, a shiver touched her bloodless heart.

"Then why do you not go with him?"

Whitespur's gaze flicked over to where she heard the even breaths of her now-dozing pups. They had curled into their nest, side by side. Light and gray fur. Light and dark . . . Lumen and Nox.

"You know why I cannot go with him."

"I know that day after day, I look at you, wishing I could have a fraction of what you possess," Goldshard cut her off. "You are loved and respected, wise, and kinder than many acknowledge. You have a partner with whom you share an intimate connection that most couples can only dream of. And yet, inexplicably, you choose to deny yourself the fulfillment of your relationship. Your family."

"Can you not see it?"

Goldshard followed Whitespur's gaze out over the Garden of the Hesperides, seeing nothing remarkable. Occasional happy chatter met her ear from below. She thought there could hardly be a more serene view. "I see happiness," replied Goldshard. "Happiness that I wish you would permit yourself to feel instead of burdening yourself with the weight of this miserable kingdom."

"But I must."

"No!" exclaimed Goldshard, then instantly lowered her voice so as not to wake the pups. "It is not your responsibility," she hissed. "It is Gorger's. And if he is too weak to carry it without you, that is his problem."

Whitespur remained silent for a long time. "You see happiness," she whispered, her voice drenched in sorrow. "Yet what is happiness in such times? Many say we experience a golden age, yet our golden age is on the precipice of destruction. A dread hangs in the air, and I cannot overlook it."

"What dread?" Goldshard peeked over the edge. "There is no dread."

"Not yet. But after such silence, there is always a storm. It is coming, and . . ." She glanced back at Goldshard. "Who will be there to see the signs on time? If I am away, who will it be? To recognize, to react, to . . . prevent. Perhaps I can, you know? Perhaps there is still a way to preserve it all, to save it. But who will, if not I?"

Goldshard held her sorrowful gaze only for a few heartbeats, then she averted her eyes. "What I said holds up, still. It is not your responsibility. You are not the queen. Even though—"

"I am not the queen," Whitespur cut her off. "And I will never be. But what is more important—my happiness or the fate of our kind? I know I do not have to carry this burden, but it is expected of me regardless. You expect it too." Goldshard winced, but Whitespur continued without pause, "You and all the others who whisper that I should be queen behind Gorger's back. I believe it is not presumptuous of me to say that I carry this kingdom's survival, and it is not a fate I mind. It is an honor to be your custodian." She sighed before looking up at the golden gnawer. "Could you so foolishly run from your given responsibility and still sleep at night, knowing the price for your happiness is the suffering of others?"

Goldshard did not reply, but Whitespur guessed what she would have said. "I do not want your wretched crown," she hissed. "It is but a shackle made of gold. He who wears the crown is in the spotlight. He who wears the crown shall face criticism, endure relentless expectations, and be held to unattainable standards. It is a cruel fate for those who are smart enough to comprehend its true meaning."

"So, what of Ripred? Does he not want the crown?"

"Of course he wants it." Whitespur laughed. "And when he then one day gets it, he will bitterly curse the day he first set out for it." Her laughter abated, and she smiled somberly. "He will be our Prometheus . . . but he too will have to sacrifice his happiness to take up that role. I wish I had been able to change his mind."

"No one can change Ripred's mind."

"And so it will always be." Whitespur's gaze landed on her soundly sleeping pups. "Perhaps this is why," she mumbled. "Because he was the first who did not shower me with expectations and demands. He took me for who I was and wanted to be instead of attempting to shape me into his tool or fit me into a role. Perhaps because . . ." Because with him, I could surrender myself to the blissful illusion of freedom and unrestrained expression of self. She hadn't the will to finish the sentence. "It is time," she said instead. On silent paws, she crept toward her pups to nudge them awake.

"You mustn't—"

"I must."

"Ma-ma?" Nox clawed at the dry nest material.

"Do you see Goldshard here?" Whitespur nudged Lumen out of the nest, after her brother. "She will take you to see your father. Your . . . father." She barely prevented her voice from breaking. "He will care for you. He will love you as I love you."

Whitespur did not meet Goldshard's sorrowful look before she unwillingly took up the confusedly wailing pups. "Ma-ma?"

"As I love . . . loved him."

When Whitespur next took in the sweet smell from below, she found it nothing short of sickening.