Amaia slept as well as ever, despite the attack she was to lead upon waking. She'd never been of much interest to the Sleepers. They had never tossed her into fits of restlessness, even in the most stressful situations. Only great ideas had cut her hours short, and only in that she'd arrive to bed late or refuse to slip under until a matter was resolved. 

      Sleep came as naturally as a battle plan and left her feeling just as satisfied. 

      It wasn't that she loved the fight. In fact, she hated it. She hated the mere thought of death and of causing pain, creating rivers of blood from puncturing a whole in the dam. It was not beautiful, as she had read others describe it. It was gruesome. Brutal. 

      What she loved was the way a plan came together. Something of her creation, doing as it was meant to, solving something no one else had solved yet. Being in control.

      Her takeover wasn't to be a violent one, however cruel it may seem to the naïve minds of those on the outside. It was to be a swift disarming and controlling. If all went to plan, as she fully expected it would, then there would be no bloodshed, but submission. She would lose the weight of a future already written and gain the power of another land. 

      Yawning, she rose from her bed, stretching her arms above her head. 

      Thirty minutes later, she was fully dressed in thick cloths and thin armour of chains and steel, her hair wrapped tightly into a bun in the middle of her crown, secured with pins. She hugged Rumpelgeist a farewell, promising to return as soon as possible, and left instructions for Issar to look after him while she was gone. He would, of course, come looking for her shortly. 

      She was to wait for Saqat in the throne room. Amaia placed herself in the centre of the gold monument, back straight and chin raised. Her hands were folded neatly on her heavy skirts, her boot-clad feet feeling both powerful and claustrophobic. 

      A sharp knock sounded once on the door. 

      "Enter."

      "Queen," Saqat said, meeting her eyes with a steel gaze that told her exactly how much he despised her plan. He should have been grateful that she meant no harm. Stopping not five feet from the dais, he announced, "I present the First Platoon." Saqat's own men marched in, grim-faced and determined. It was clear some were still fighting the pain of silly injuries. They stopped just behind Saqat, weapons displayed neatly: swords strapped at their sides and backs, crossbows stretching from hand to shoulder and past their heads. 

      When the boot-shuffling had stopped, he continued, "Warrior Abadi and the Second Platoon." More men filed in, following a stocky man whose arms must have been the same width as Amaia's head. Good, a perfect image of strength. His men stopped behind the First Platoon and to one side, making space for the final group. 

      "Warrior Bashar and the Third Platoon." A tall, thin man lead his group of soldiers forward into the remaining gap to the left of the room. Not the strongest, but famous for the story of his rising to the ranks by out-witting a whole army and, in consequence, saving Amaia's father's life.

      "Thank you," Amaia started, and inwardly smiled at the relaxing effect it had on the men. "Today we put an end to a terror that has become too normal amongst our thoughts." She paused, straightening further. "Our people smile knowing, accepting, that one day they will not. Today is the day we bring home smiles for all our tomorrows. Today we end the terror before it can consume our trade partners and ourselves as it has done the Haglaiyans. In this process, we shall also free our neighbours and strengthen the bond between our peoples. We will bring joy to the streets of misery and we will bring hope to those who have long been waiting for the terror the fates decided for us. Today we fight for a future we can write ourselves."

      Proud faces looked back at her, even Saqat feeling more hopeful than earlier. She would lead these men out the gates and she would lead them back. 

      "Are you prepared to write your own future?"

      A chorus of voices shouted, "Yes, Your Highness!" 

      "Soldiers, are you prepared to listen to and complete immediately all orders given to you by your commanders?"

      The three hundred men gathered before her answered, "Yes, Your Highness!"

      "Commanders, are you prepared to lead your men through the plan as detailed by me, your queen?"

      Warriors Ayad, Abadi and Bashar answered, "Yes, Your Highness!" And she hoped she was only imagining the regret in Saqat's voice. 

      "March!" Amaia commanded, finding pleasure in the immediate response by all in the room. They would march through the castle and out the front door, likely murmuring among themselves like little school children. She was to take the short-cut—the escape route, wide enough only for one person—to meet them in the courtyard to lead them through the outer gates herself. 

      Once the last man had left the room, Amaia slipped off the throne and out the room, slipping into the cupboard built into the wall beside it. She'd read a tale, once, that began with something similar, only this door took her right back to where she started. 

      Replacing the panel at the back of the cupboard, Amaia played the takeover through her mind once more. They would get into position and wait till nightfall, then move in. It would all be over by midday tomorrow, when they'd move on to the next country, and the next. 

      Perfect. 

      It had to be.

      The stone wasn't cold under her feet, the foreign feel of footwear protecting against such things. Steadily, the path moved away from her in a straight line, sloping downward to the door. Thudding footsteps weren't the stealthiest of movements, but she wasn't escaping, she was moving with speed to avoid pushing her way through a crowd of three hundred men to walk ahead of them. 

      She pushed the door open, closing it behind her with a foot. Her army was two-thirds out the front door as she walked directly into their path, turned her back to them, and stood with the sunlight glinting off her crown. 

      Her people would see them and know to stay out the way. Already, the people closest were scrambling back through doorways, arms hugging wares that would not be displayed today. She marched forward and ordered the golden gates swung open, allowing her highlighted passage into the would-have-been bustling streets.

      The message passed from person to person, house to house, and as quickly as the stalls had been filled, they were emptied. The clink and clank of weapon against armour brushed the streets clean of obstacles. 

      "Warrior Ayad waits with me," Amaia called over the excited wind, "Warrior Abadi, take the mountain path. Warrior Bashar, take the riverside. Any issues, send your runner. Runners, you must track back the way you came. Do not take short-cuts."

      And then there was just her, the crown atop her head cool in the low sun, the sweet breeze, and a hundred and one men waiting for her command.