On the far side of Easeror, within the tallest tower of the Marbl — the most revered keep upon the continent — a slender woman with hair the colour of flame and eyes of deep winter blue stood.

  Before her, seated at the heart of the vast circular library, was the Queen of the North.

  The chamber rose in graceful arcs, its open centre revealing a domed vault etched with the sigil of Crownstate's founders. Shelves climbed the curved walls, heavy with centuries of knowledge. At the centre stood the long council table, polished by generations of power — the place where the King's Body gathered each month to decide the fate of the less favoured and the next indulgence of the nobleman.

  "I want them all to rot in the deepest layer of Thar!" screamed the woman clad in golden fabrics, slamming her fist onto the table.

  Auryna's mouth tightened, as if she had swallowed an argument—as a queen's cousin, she had learned to hold her tongue.

  "Your Highness," Auryna addressed her carefully. "We must proceed with wisdom. They possess rights secured by all three kingdoms. Any action—"

  "Why should animals have rights?" the queen thundered, rising from her seat. "They scramble the minds of those who cross their borders. And that, dear cousin—" Her emerald eyes burned as she locked eyes with her. "—is a violation of every accord ever held."

  Auryna nodded, averting her gaze.

  "If their 's damned prophecy is correct," the queen went on, her voice low and trembling, "not a single soul without magic shall stand."

  She hurled an ancient scroll — one she had kept tight in her hand — across the table. "Tell me I am wrong."

  Auryna unrolled it. Tarisia knew what she was going to find in the old parchment: a beautiful handwritten verse in layered ink adorned with a breathtaking illustration of flames, stingers, and wings.

  "Read it aloud," the queen ordered.

  Auryna swallowed before her voice filled the room:

  Auryna hesitated before speaking.

  "Your Majesty… I must ask—" She stopped mid-sentence, waiting for approval.

  Tarisia rolled her eyes while she waved her hand.

  "Do your concerns have something to do with the twins?" As she finished, her words were but a whisper.

  "What are you implying, Auryna?" The queen advanced towards the counsellor's wife, her eyes burning.

  "Your Majesty, I am not — I would never — The Ophrynths and the Khasuh — just—" Auryna's voice trembled as she spoke.

  "Worried? Why would I be worried when none of my boys is a Zihem? If I hear you insinuating this once more, I'll gladly bind you to a pyre and set it ablaze myself."

  Tarisia let the words hang until the woman was branded with her threat. Her heart raced. Her stomach turned. She walked to the small table to pour herself a glass of wine.

  In the reflection of the silver plate holding the jar, the queen beheld her own image: hair as pale as frost, cascading down her back — the last echo of the ancient blood she carried, the dynasty that had made and unmade her in equal measure. Her skin bore the faint warmth of sun, and the high-necked green gown she wore highlighted her eyes and gave her an image of power.

  An image she had pursued her entire life.

  She loved every aspect of it — of what she had become, even if a great part of her had been ripped apart along the way, even if her heart held too much grief.

  The queen took a few sips of her wine as she gazed upon the arena and the bridge connecting the castle to its grim focal point.

  "Why do I bother speaking to you at all?" she asked coolly. "You are no more than Mawreon's wife."

  She crossed the space between them in slow steps, winding a strand of Auryna's hair around her finger while examining the woman from head to toe.

  "All women are pleasure toys in their eyes." Her mouth twisted. "Or tools for lineage and legacy. The only distinction lies in whose womb bears the heirs. Queens bear heirs to the throne — look where it has brought me."

  A sharp laugh escaped her. "Queen Consort. Soon, Queen Mother."

  Tarisia released her hair and turned for the door. Auryna said nothing. Tarisia paused and spoke over her shoulder.

  "Inform the guards that Aurpius is not to enter the castle today. He was expected moments ago — and I can't bear his insolence any longer."

  "But, Your Majesty, the crown prince is returning from a lengthy—"

  "I don't care!" The queen's voice soared to a piercing pitch. "This boy could scarcely be my offspring, behaving in such a manner!"

  "Tarisia — what if he was injured?" Auryna asked as Tarisia's fingers trembled. She hated that Auryna — that anyone — might see it.

  "Aurpius was raised to serve his mother. He forgets that, far too often." A pause. "Much like others."

  "The matter is settled," she continued. "I am the sovereign within these walls, and the boys must dance as I sing. Let the maids know that the main gates are barred until his return. Entry will be permitted only through the kitchens, and the Sunsguard will oversee it. Aurpius is rather easy to spot."

  Auryna stood, her mouth motioning to argue with the queen, though Tarisia would never allow it.

  "If one cannot follow orders, one serves no purpose in this palace."

  The king's counsellor's wife nodded and walked away to do as the queen ordered, but Tarisia caught her arm.

  "On your way down, don't forget to send Syr Warrol to my chambers. I want an update on the men watching the Zihem." The queen spoke almost as if she had never raised her voice during their talk.

  She noticed Auryna flinching again when she called them "Zihem." She took a small pleasure in seeing Auryna fear what she might have become if the king hadn't fallen in love at first sight.

  "Tell him to be quick," Tarisia added, the cruel smile returning to her lips. Her own way to humiliate what remained of the bloodline that had failed to protect her when she was but a child.

  Auryna and Warrol were the sole grandchildren of Tarisia's aunt by her mother's side, who had married the warden of the Grainland, Lord Edmund Rysun. He had died shortly after the Scasters saved Crownstate and the continent from starving.

  "Yes, my Queen," Auryna said, her voice steadying with effort. "My brother shall be there… as always."

  Tarisia left the library humming — if it could be called that, her voice echoed the walls until she reached her chambers.

  She did not have to wait a moment.

  Even before she descended the stairs, Warrol was waiting at the door. He stood speaking with Syr Finthor as she approached.

  Warrol opened the door. She entered with a flutter in her heart. The knight followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

  Tarisia pressed Warrol back against the wood, her mouth finding his. His hands found the fastenings of her gown, silk whispering as it loosened, urgency drowning reason. He turned her back to him, pushed her hair aside to kiss her neck. She let a low moan escape, and soon his fingers found her slit.

  Then the door shuddered — three sharp knocks.

  "Why is it so hard for a king to have a meal with his queen in this bloody kingdom?"

  Her blood ran cold.

  Warrol's eyes widened; she pushed him sharply. The knock came again, harder this time.

  "Are you in there?"

  Tarisia's breath was gone as Warrol scrambled to gather his things and she dragged her gown from the floor, half pulling it over herself while voices carried from the corridor — Henreith demanding to know her whereabouts, questioning why Syr Finthor was not at her side.

  "I'm coming in!"

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She turned to Warrol, silently pleading for his help with the corset he had fought so hard to remove.

  "Open this damn door!" The king ordered, growing more impatient by the second.

  She pushed Warrol towards the balcony. His lips mouthed: Are you mad?

  "Better that," she hissed, "than end as his last wife."

  He leapt. A thud — safe.

  She drew a breath, smoothed her hair, and unlatched the door.

  "In such a hurry, Henreith…" she said with a trembling laugh, as though she'd merely been startled.

  He stepped inside, suspicion flickering before his gaze caught on the loosened ties at her back.

  Only when she turned towards the window did her heart falter: a Sunsguard cloak snagged on the stone edge of the balcony.

  "I wished to speak with you," Henreith said softly, drawing her close. "It has been too long since we shared a moment alone, my queen."

  "If you didn't only care about your gardens, you might have seen your wife walking around your castle," she murmured, lifting to brush her lips against his.

  He rolled his eyes, and she seized the moment to guide him from the chamber. As they left, Tarisia cast Syr Finthor a fleeting look — gratitude for his loyalty.

  The monarchs descended the winding stair into the gardens nestled around the Marbl — trees laden with fruit, roses, lilies, azaleas, and ranks of sunflowers — the queen's favourite — blooming. Even an apiary further down the hill supplied the court.

  A small table waited for them, already set with a generous meal. Henreith drew out her chair, poured wine, and seated himself opposite.

  "Archness only has time for you…" Tarisia said, bitterness threading the words.

  "As she should. It is as gorgeous as she is." Henreith paused. "And you. My prettiest flowers."

  She drank in silence. Despite the flattery, envy pressed at her ribs — sharp.

  Her daughter loved him with an ease she had never been granted by any of their children, and the king loved Archness genuinely. Tarisia, he loved to display — loved how beautiful his wife was and still remained.

  "What about my heir?" Henreith asked at last. "I hear the Paladins are on a mission for their queen. My heir, determined to do anything but what I desire."

  A servant brought a roasted chicken, accompanied by fruits, potatoes, and onions — prompting quiet as the dishes were set.

  "Curious how readily you embrace him now," the queen said, her voice sharp as she helped herself to the feast.

  "Tarisia," Henreith growled, more cruelly than she had ever heard, "the boy could have rotted in Yorukto for all I care. We have sons to spare — fate made that plain enough. Though no heir of mine should be leading a pack of children under your hand."

  She lost her appetite after her husband reached for the cruellest moment of her life. She didn't even dare to remember her son’s name. Tarisia's fork halted midway to her lips.

  Aurpius always unravelled Tarisia's restraint. She had her own way of loving him — too rigid, perhaps — but she would never forgive Henreith for sending him away after his brother's death.

  It had never been Aurpius's fault.

  And now that he had returned, she knew he would never settle here again. She had wanted him close, reliant, bound to her. Instead, he had tasted what he had longed for since boyhood — the wider world.

  That was the danger of taste. Once one knew the sweeter fruit, the lesser would never satisfy.

  "You banished him." Her voice trembled with fury. "As though you were the only one who mourned. He is my son too."

  "Enough, Tarisia! You think I did not hear the servants whisper?" Henreith struck the table; wine shuddered in its cups. "Of how you made him wash his own dishes. How you denied him food when he defied you. A prince, treated like a scullery boy."

  Tarisia swallowed. The taste of meat turned to ash. That was before what happened. "He needed discipline."

  "You made him weak," Henreith snapped. "Set him to women's labours while our youngest lay ill. What you taught him was shame." His gaze darkened. "You broke him until he killed his brother."

  "He did not!" She screamed, throwing her food from the table onto the floor, the plate shattering like her heart.

  "No, he didn't! You did!" Henreith threw a handful of potatoes at her.

  The potatoes struck her chest, warm and for one breath she was helpless again—struck once more by hands that should have protected her.

  Tarisia tried to swallow the tears that were coming, but she wasn't strong enough. The tears came before she could stop them — hot, hateful, spilling down her cheeks, betraying her pride.

  She gripped a napkin on her right, without saying a word and cleaned her face, chest and dress pretending she just hadn't been humiliated.

  Henreith drew a deep breath. "The worst part is that it wasn't anyone else's fault but mine. I shouldn’t have sent any of them to battle at eleven."

  Tarisia looked up, her eyes locked with his. She had never seen that stare — a cold and long stare. It wasn't an apology, but it was more than she had heard in the five years since Aurpius had been sent away. She said nothing.

  "Why hasn't he returned? He is scarcely ever under this roof!" lamented the king.

  "He seems to hold little fondness for us," Tarisia replied as a sad smile formed on her lips. "Can you imagine why? At every promise of adventure, he is first to volunteer." Bitter irony tangled in a theatrical tone was her armour; it could still silence a king.

  Henreith frowned. "It cannot be that he remains with his sworn uncle still…"

  "He does." She was relieved for not being the architect of the Paladins' mission. "This time, their orders lie not with me."

  "Henreith," she said coolly, "you spend so many hours among your roses that time slips past you. It has been only ten days since you wrote summoning him."

  Jurgen Winthor had been one of the king's closest companions since youth. When Aurpius was born, Jurg had been named his guardian, should misfortune ever befall the crown. His sworn father.

  High Lord of the Chest, Warden of the northern coast between Crownstate and the Republic, Jurgen commanded the largest host in the North and the second-largest in all Easeror — thirty-five thousand men sworn to the Dom of Winthor.

  "Upon Aurpius's return," Henreith declared, "he must attend every meeting of the Body, take his place at the council seriously, stay close to Syr Epstel, and cease to be your puppet."

  She did not answer. Fortune spared her — the sound of a child's wail tore through the gardens.

  Torvam burst into tears before he even reached her skirts.

  "I can't bear it, Mother! Sage Antune hurts me on purpose!"

  Before Tarisia could answer, Henreith's voice cracked like a whip.

  "Men don't cry, boy! Men fix problems! At your age, I faced men twice my size without shedding a tear!" He threw his fork across the table, then turned to Tarisia. "You're raising another princess, not a prince."

  He strode away, still shouting, cursing the sight of Aurpius's pale hair — he wanted it shaved upon his return.

  When Henreith's footsteps faded, Tarisia brushed the tears from her son's cheeks, her touch gentler than she had ever been with Aurpius. Perhaps because she knew Torvam was the only one who still needed her.

  "He loves you, my dear," she whispered, though she was no longer certain he could love anyone but their daughter. "We will find another way to ease your pain."

  Torvam had suffered from Molthrud since the age of two — a cruel skin affliction that forced it into cycles of breaking and renewal. There was no cure. Relief came only by tearing away the hardened, cracking flesh, a mercy that invited deeper eruptions in its wake, leaving the body raw, swollen, and disfigured for a time.

  The old healer from Yesaltar emerged from the marble gallery, her sleeves rolled high, her face flushed from the walk.

  "My Queen," she said, voice quivering, "I can no longer tend the prince if he continues to strike me when the pain rises."

  Tarisia studied her — the shaking hands, the stubborn glint flickering beneath fear. It almost amused her.

  "Walk with me," she said to Antune before locking eyes with her son, a silent order for him to stay.

  They crossed the castle in silence, passing through the Conqueror's Vault then descending the Marbl until a small, damp, cold chamber embraced them. From a drawer, she withdrew a leather purse heavy with golden quilverns and set it on the table.

  Tarisia inclined her head—a courtesy she offered few—but the woman with a prominent nose, stern features, and weathered lines, received it. She had lived nearly eighty years, more than half dedicated to care — fifty-five.

  "Sage Antune, you have served this family all your life," Tarisia said softly. "You tended the king's parents in their afflictions. You have healed more nobles than any living soul. Take this as an apology."

  Antune shook her head. "I have never taken more than I require. I will leave quietly, Your Grace."

  "To refuse a royal gift," Tarisia murmured, "may be taken as treason."

  Before she could speak, Syr Finthor entered the room.

  "My Queen. Pytor is here."

  Tarisia rose, locking eyes with Antune's brown ones, watching the woman's hand tremble as she passed the purse into her grip.

  "Bring him here, Syr Finthor. You may go, Sage Antune." She waved, dismissing the healer. As Antune left, the queen continued, "Let no other servant lay eyes on him."

  Finthor inclined his head and withdrew as she watched Antune's hunched back disappear through the doorway. The old woman had not bowed.

  Before Tarisia could dwell on it, Syr Finthor returned.

  "My Queen," Pytor said, bowing low.

  "What do you bring me?" Tarisia asked, one brow lifting.

  The man silently sought permission to occupy the chair Antune had vacated. Tarisia nodded, allowing him.

  "Well…" He started slowly, scratching his nose. "It appears the Crown Prince and his companions have become frequent patrons of Beyr's House, m'Queen."

  "How secure do you feel," she asked, deliberately disregarding his gossip, "knowing that someone beside you might wield power enough to end a life?"

  "But my Queen, can they?" Pytor replied, more concerned with displaying his new mannerisms in addressing her than with magicals.

  Pytor's speech had improved markedly; he learned fast — too fast. Already mimicking the manners of lords.

  "I am the Queen, Pytor," she said coolly. "If I tell you they can, they can."

  His eyes brightened — too bright — and he seemed eager to play his part in her game.

  "I confess," he said carefully, "it unsettles me to live among those who fancy themselves masters of destiny, Your Grace."

  Ambitious little thing, she thought.

  "I can well imagine," Tarisia replied. "If I were to walk among the common folk without the Sunsguard, I doubt I would live long."

  She paused, summoning Syr Finthor to request wine for them. "Never knowing how they might answer the smallest offence… it must weigh heavily."

  The concern sat oddly on her tongue — a concern she had never shown for the lower classes of Crownstate.

  "Perhaps," Pytor ventured, "my humble connections might serve Your Grace in this matter. I could arrange an introduction — to a creed within the city whose beliefs align closely with your own."

  A single dry laugh escaped her throat as Syr Finthor handed her a goblet of sweetened wine.

  "And who," she asked, studying him with cool appraisal, "do you presume I have not already encountered, that you might claim such access?"

  "Have you ever crossed paths with the High Mahron of the Faith in the Hidden, Your Grace?" he asked, smiling.

  "At my mother's tavern," he continued lightly, untroubled by her silence, "one hears much. Men speak freely when they believe themselves unseen."

  "Your resourcefulness continues to impress me," the queen acknowledged, curiosity outweighing offence. "And I daresay such discretion carries a price?"

  "Regrettably… not all of us were blessed with the same upbringing."

  "Continue in this manner, and soon you shall be called Lord." She smiled thinly. "You're already speaking like one."

  She rose to leave the room.

  Pytor stood at once, a fox satisfied with his lure. But she noticed a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as she walked towards the door.

  "A little bird from Beyr let it slip to me that the Crown Prince harbours rather peculiar desires…"

  Immediately, the woman halted, steadfastly refusing to turn and expose her emotions.

  "It appears the future king holds exotic interests, indulging only with those capable of bestowing pleasures beyond the ordinary."

  She didn't glance back. Instead, she swept from the chamber ahead of him. Heat crawled up her spine and settled in her chest.

  Pytor was what she had always known him to be: a treacherous thing bidding for the perfect opportunity to strike. He had waited to say what he had truly come for. Useful, until the day he wasn't.

  But Aurpius — well, Aurpius seemed more different each day. And that day, he had crossed every line he could possibly cross.