The War of Myths and Mortals

The emerald canopy of trees casts long shadows across the still field. A heavy silence entombs the narrow meadow that stretches between the line of trees on each side. The rancid stench of death permeates the woods around us before we see the bodies.

Katherine’s nose pinches and her mouth purses. Moments later, her chest heaves in revulsion. Ugk—Gods, I’ll never get used to that.

Bile stings the back of my throat as my body fights against the invasive odor. I swallow against acid, and then I catch sight of the boy.

His body sways from the high trees as a wind sweeps through the forest depths. Marbled shades of indigo and plum color his skin; his swollen tongue protrudes from his mouth, while his eyes are blessedly closed.

My chest aches, but I can’t allow myself to turn away—or be seen turning away from him.

Cut him down, I order.

Within moments, a man has slid from his horse and is ascending the tree. He scales from limb to limb as though it were second nature. His deep green and beige clothing quickly becomes obscured by the similarly hued trees.

Though the distinction between my troops has faded in the months we’ve been at war, I recognize him as Fairlean—one of my trusted allies from the forest—for no kingdom-dwelling knight would make such quick work of ascending a tree.

He casts one look to me as he pulls a blade from his belt.

I nod and brace myself, steeling my body for the inevitable. There’s no gentle way to remove a body from a tree. Though I’m able to control the impulsive flinch as the poor boy’s body thuds at the base of the tree, I avert my eyes, focusing on a single blossom that’s sprung among the grasses. I’m a queen—and a girl—in a time of war. I can show no weakness. Not ever again.

Beside me, Isobel tilts her head, her ear keening to the message carried on the wind. The shells tied through her dark hair tinkle gently as the breeze knocks them together. Isobel clicks her tongue and pulls the reins to the right, guiding her horse around the thick cluster of trees. This area just south of Claxton is known as the Sways for the motion of the high trees, created as gusts sweep across the eastern Argralands from the Eirbàigh Inlet east of the Laochsær Sea.

Malory.

I guide my golden mare around the tree and gasp at the sight. For as far as I can see, bodies swing from the trees lining the narrow lane leading to the southern entrance of Claxton. Like the boy, their skin is marbled and unnatural, both too pale and too dark. Their eyes are wide in death, staring accusingly at me, a reminder that every one of my actions contributed to their demise. My question carries from my body on a breath. Are they ours?

Isobel nods.

A chasm of grief, guilt, and fury explodes in my chest, stifling my breath. I cannot look away though. These people died in a war brought about by my family—my brother and father before him. A war that has endured because I dared to oppose them, dared to claim my own rule and my own way. It’s a war that’s raged because of the vengeance that’s fueled each of my days since my family betrayed me.

I allow each memory of what brought me to this moment to ramble in my mind, from my trouble-free days as a princess and heir apparent to the realization that my brother was plotting against me.

At the time, I’d assumed Roarke only hoped to supersede me and claim the throne of Devlishire. But he wanted me out of the kingdom entirely, as did our father. Their shared desire was one that has been passed through the generations of most of the kingdoms: reclaim the High Crown for our line.

They were willing to commit regicide to reclaim the High Crown and married me to Jamis, planning to murder us both. Each minute since then has been a game of strategy and desperation. At some point, though, you run low on strategy and must act solely on impulse and a desire to survive; even that can only take you so far.

I credit vengeance with giving me an extra edge. Vengeance drives me on, keeps me thinking, plotting, and prevents me from tiring of the battle.

But I don’t just seek vengeance for my losses. I’m seeking retribution for all those who believed in me and that somehow right would prevail. I continue for those who died in the pursuit of justice, those who wanted no war and were cut down brutally on its game board.

Riding along the base of the trees, I look up at each body, committing their faces to memory. The men and the women, the children who either joined the fight or were condemned by their relation to my allies. I lock the image of each of them in my very soul so I can carry them with me into every future battle.

The plodding of hooves approaches from behind. Josef is silent for several seconds as he joins me in solemnity. What’re we ta do, Mal?

Cut them all down and burn them. I won’t leave them as trophies for the Beasts. The Alliance of Beasts is how I refer to my brother and his allies, though only one still survives. King Brahm—the coward king of Claxton—has been sealed inside his castle since word reached him that I’ve claimed the lands of his allies, killed my own brother, and was riding next for him.

Legion E spies in Brahm’s court have kept me apprised of every attempt he’s made to secure a coalition with the surviving kings and of his attempts to draw Phoebe of Carling into an alliance. Sadly for him, he has no heirs to offer Phoebe in marriage, and the devious little minx has made her own pact with the king of Travión.

Josef turns his horse and carries my order to the generals.

Within moments, the peaceful dusky meadow is filled with the haunting thud of bodies being cut from their gallows.

My troops cut trees for the pyre and drag the bodies, gently adding them to the growing wall of lost life. I watch the horrific scene unfold, my fingertips finding the braided bangle at my wrist and rolling over the smooth surface as I spin it.

A small, dappled mare moves into place to my left. My own horse tosses her cream mane once in warning before turning to nip at the smaller mount. I snap the reins to correct her impulse, then turn my attention back to the bodies being freed from their ropes. Weren’t you told to remain at the back? You’ve no reason to see this.

Ayleth, the girl of six—in my best approximation—takes in the scene with her calm cerulean eyes. Since the first day I noticed her in Fairlee, negotiating a sugar cube from Kennard, the girl has demonstrated a maddening disregard for my orders to remain at camp. After being ordered to remain in Fairlee, she frequently appears, riding within the ranks days after we’ve set out—and always too late to send her back. It’s important to see. You’ve said so yourself.

"It’s important for me to see," I clarify. I don’t have to look at her to know Ayleth has assumed the same solemn but reverent observance as I. I’ve grappled with letting the little girl see so much horror, but this is her world as well. It’s important she knows what we’re fighting against as well as anyone else.

The setting sun burns far on the horizon, and darkness is creeping overhead. The last sienna rays are ceding to the encroaching indigo night as the glow of the fire erupts through the darkened bases of the forest.

They’ll know we’re ’ere, Josef mumbles. He’s standing beside my horse, abiding by his own duty of watching our people as they’re released from the constraints of this ugly, war-ridden world.

I imagine the glow of the fire as seen from the top of Castle Claxton. Word of my arrival is certainly being carried to Brahm. I imagine him hunkered fearfully in his throne room, hoping he’s been forgotten for the other—larger—scores I’ve yet to settle.

A sinister joy warms me as I imagine his growing fear. I want him to know I’m finally here. I’ve taken my time since I sent the first message to him through the Legion E networks: Your allies are dead. Claxton gold has funded my army. I’m coming for you next. Cede to me, or I will claim everything you have left.—M.

Mount up, I yell, my voice as clear and commanding as I can muster. I turn to Ayleth. And you, to the back!

The din of my troops scrambling onto their horses echoes over the crackling flames.

Josef, Katherine, Isobel, and Davion take position on each side of me as my generals ride in for their orders. Our traveling troops have quickly swelled to over a thousand, and I still struggle with the inability to ride quietly about the lands and the need to rely on others to deliver my orders. But the loss of direct contact with my troops is a necessary cost of having enough warriors to fight the battle that still lies ahead.

They’ll know we’re coming, and I want them to see us ride in. Weaver, Resh, your troops are to fan out and circle around so that you’re coming in from the north. When we arrive at their gates, I want them to see they’re fully encircled with no place to go.

The men, both traditional soldiers from kings’ armies, nod and drive their heels into their horses, riding off to deliver their orders to their troops.

Lial, your troops will start up the lane and arc to the west. Hedda, yours to the east. Each of you are to be near the entry with us. I want fifty of the best close-quarters fighters from each of you with us when we breach the castle.

The Fairlean generals ride off to relay their orders to their own troops.

We wait as the generals’ orders are passed through their units, each of us engaged in our own pre-battle preparations. They’ve become habits at this point, such that a superstitious aura descends on us should any of us not complete our impulsive preparations.

Katherine pulls her dark hair over one shoulder and braids it, securing a leather cord around the end. The cord was given to her by Kennard. I can still hear his voice as he yelled at her to secure her hair or shave it, he didn’t care which, so long as she could see the battlefield.

Kennard’s absence is one I feel each time we prepare for a new fight. I only hope he’s completed his mission and is safe.

Davion watches Katherine’s preparations, waiting until she finally checks for him and casts a smile in his direction.

Isobel has guided her horse to the edge of the trees and is singing in a low voice. The lyrics of her song change with each fight but always beseech the forest to watch over us and act on our behalf.

Josef has pulled the sword from his belt and is pulling it through the cloak gripped between his thumb and finger. The blade has a high sheen, the quality steel showing only minor signs of the battles it’s seen. Small sapphires glitter from the cross guard, and a large one sits atop the pommel. It is—was—the sword of my husband and Josef’s best friend.

I look away before emotion threatens my resolve. I focus on my own rituals. The fingertips of my right hand travel to my throat, feeling for the raised scar—a physical manifestation of the threat my enemies pose. They rub over the raised wheal of tissue, then travel to the leather purse at my waist that contains a pearl bracelet and small blade.

Tucked into the belt behind the purse is Jamis’s dagger, given to me on my last trip to Devlishire, land of my birth. The sapphire-encrusted hilt is positioned for quick retrieval. Just to the left of the hilt of the dagger is the pommel of my own sword, swinging from my left hip. All my weapons and memories are in place.

It was only months ago that I added one more ritual to my own preparations. I tap my fingertips to my heart, imagining the tattoo that lies beneath my clothing. The symbol of my patron goddess, Nithenia, is now a permanent fixture on my skin. I tap my fingers over the symbol across my heart and whisper a silent prayer to the goddess. Nithenia, make my arms strong, my blade true, and our victory swift.

Do you not believe I would grant you the same protection, mortal?

I ignore the deeper whispering voice that answers—the one that’s increasingly been invading my thoughts.

I tap my heels into my mare’s belly, and with a niggle she falls into an easy pace. I focus on the flames—and the bodies engulfed behind them—as we pass. I will not forget. They’ll not have died in vain. I will not be merciful.

A chill envelops me as we travel into the darkening depths of the Argralands. The lane leading to Claxton has been maintained for centuries, and no tree grows out of place. The grasses have grown thick. The horses’ hooves slough through the underlying damp soil.

The onset of spring has brought wetter weather. With each day, another layer of mud coats our boots, clings to our clothing, and binds the strands of our hair.

I pull my dark gray cloak around my waist, my fingers finding the rigid remnants of my brother’s blood. I’d wiped my sword on my cloak after killing him and haven’t yet been able to rinse it from the fabric. I’m unsure if it’s a trophy that I’ve kept my word or a talisman of the evils I’m willing to commit to gain revenge for all the wrongs perpetrated against me. I’ve killed my sister’s brother, my mother’s son, and left my nephew an orphan. Someday I may repent my actions—but today is not the day. Today is meant to carry me further on my path to whatever glory or hell awaits me. King Brahm is a stepping-stone. An almost insurmountable task still awaits me: establish an alliance with the wealthiest and most powerful king still ruling or defend my lands when he comes to take them. If Phoebe has already convinced King Travión to align with her, I may be far too late to save my lands—or my life, for she would claim both.

We ride for an hour. Isobel, Katherine, Davion, and Josef take turns at my side, and then each ride up to confer with the generals or the men before riding back to take up my side again.

There’s a message. Katherine’s porcelain cheeks are flushed as she returns from her own venture with a folded bit of parchment.

From whom? I pull my horse to a stop.

She holds the letter out, and from a passing torch, I recognize the seal immediately. It’s black wax with an E impressed into it, a sword beneath the letter with a single paw print beside it—the symbol of Legion E, an underground network of spies within the kingdoms.

What do they say?

I haven’t looked. She leans to place it in my outstretched hand.

My fingers shake each time I reach for a message from a Legion E spy. The seal represents so much more than a secret legion. Few people, though, understand—or feel it—as deeply as I, for it’s a symbol that reflects great loss.

In the chilled night, the wax breaks easily. The message is written in large, perfectly scripted letters—no sign of a hastily scribbled note.

The Beast awaits the wolf. Will consider negotiations. 500 within, 300 at the gates, 50 atop. 28 Legion. ~E

I thrust the message at Josef. The king thinks there’ll be a negotiation.

Wasn’t there ta be? He scans the letter before passing it on to Davion.

That was before we cut a hundred bodies from the trees. I kick to drive my horse forward, but Josef anticipates my move—and my intention—and angles his own horse to prevent me from moving ahead.

Mal, ye know yer not ta ride in and kill Brahm. Ye’ve got ta give ’im a choice.

Do you think he gave those people a choice? Do you think they volunteered to line the lane to Claxton to ward off threats?

Josef’s voice is low and steady, the one he uses to calm me, the one I hate. I don’t want to see reason; I want to storm into Claxton and drain the blood from Brahm—ensuring he has an opportunity to watch as it seeps from his body. No. They certainly ’ad no choice in the matter. But if ye ride in there ’n’ kill Brahm in ’is chambers, ’is people won’t remember ye as fair ’nd just. They’ll see ye as the tyrant the Beasts tried te paint ye as. None o’ them’ll join us. Ye need ’em, Mal. Ye need to win ’em, not scare ’em.

Every fiber of my being yearns to argue with Josef. I want to remind him that it was Brahm’s men who attacked us and delivered the blow that proved fatal to Jamis. But I can’t give the people of Claxton any more reason to stand against me. They’ve already been poisoned against me by the words of my father and brother. I have to demonstrate that I’m capable of far more benevolence than they’ve heard so they consider joining my cause.

The village outside of the castle grounds is awake and awaiting us. The shoddily attired villagers appear painfully thin and malnourished. They stand in clusters, fear defining their wide eyes as they watch us ride in. The homes are constructed of warped wood with clumps of mud and dried field grasses crammed into the gaps to seal them against the weather.

There is no aroma of dinners being cooked, and no candlelight glows from any of the open doors or windows. Though it’s rumored King Brahm has been hoarding his wealth, leaving his people and his armies sadly underfunded, I never imagined this degree of poverty would be so apparent in one of the Unified Kingdoms.

I meet the gazes of the villagers and nod to indicate I’m no threat to them. I’m invading their kingdom, but I only want their king. Despite my efforts, mothers pull their children tight against their hips. Whispered words from the men cause the women to turn and gather children as they make their way to the tree lines and the safety of the forest beyond.

Guilt prickles at me. I never intended for the people to see me as a threat. I only ever wanted to defend those under my rule, those who rely on their sovereign for protection. But after having been denied my own people in Devlishire, and then having been the cause for the invasion into Allondale, it seems my efforts to protect and avenge my people only bring about more danger.

But the greater battle is still to come. There will be loss before victory. It is your burden to bear: your sacrifice and theirs for a greater good.

I cast my eyes to the heavens. I’m hoping to catch sight of a streak of burgundy in the deep black night, an image of my patron goddess. But my eyes find nothing but the twinkle of the eternal lights placed in the sky by Omnilus, the great creator.

The far edge of the village sits against a towering hedge. The leafy wall is high enough to protect the king from having to cast an eye on the unsightly image of the village.

A pruned archway allows us to pass through onto the castle grounds. As we do, Hedda and Lial’s regiments drift wide so that our troops will fully encircle the castle when we stop. My soldiers move into a deep, meticulously cultivated garden that further separates the king from his people. Whereas the musky and sharp smell of poverty hangs heavy in the village, within the grounds, the rich aroma of blossoming roses and other vibrant flowers is so thick that it’s nearly intolerable.

The castle is a simple design and small by the standards of both Devlishire and Allondale. A square structure with towers at each corner. Without a curtain wall, however, the king is dependent on his men to serve as the first line of defense. His knights have done their duty: They stand two deep around the perimeter of the castle, shields drawn and swords held at the ready. Atop the castle, archers are at full draw and have us in their sights.

I ride my horse to the front of my troops and look down at the knight who’s taken the most prominent position—the commander.

I have a thousand men to the three hundred and fifty you have outside the castle. Once I breach the inner halls, my men will still outnumber the five hundred that sit between the king and myself.

I give him a moment as he runs the numbers and the scenarios in his mind. As soon as the reality of what he’s facing draws his brows tight, I give him my kindest smile. I also have spies hidden within the castle—some of whom are within striking distance of the king should he decide to offer a final stand against me. A diplomatic conversation really is in his best interest. I wink.

He turns to whisper something to another man, who rushes through the line and into the castle.

His Majesty will be informed of your ... threat. He pulls his shoulders back, stretching his neck to assume a more controlling stance.

A laugh bubbles in my chest as he tries to give the impression that he’s somehow in control of this exchange. I shall wait.

I smile and cross my wrists demurely across my saddle horn. My posture is precise and intentional, for despite the fact that I’m a skilled—and feared—warrior, I never want them to forget that I’m above all things a queen—and a girl. I want each person who has ever doubted me because of my age and gender to remember they ceded to an eighteen-year-old girl. I want them to know their kings were toppled not by an army acting on my behalf, but that I was in the trenches. That I defeated each king while they sat atop their cushioned thrones letting others die in their stead.

The echo of boots erupts from within the entry hall of the dingy gray stone castle. Katherine, Isobel, Davion, and Josef draw blades.

Our troops shift in preparation. I fight to maintain my relaxed stance, refusing to ever show fear. Always the cat, never the mouse, I remind myself.

Six men in full metal armor emerge and stomp through their line of men, stopping directly in front of my horse. An elderly man addresses me, his face red, as I imagine it took a great deal of effort to cram his plump body into armor he likely hasn’t worn in a decade. King Brahm will confer with Your Majesty, the queen. However, you’re to leave your men and your weapons outside the castle.

No.

B-but, the king has said— His face grows even redder as he stammers.

I’m offering King Brahm the opportunity to invite me—and whichever members of my council I see fit—into his castle so we may discuss the terms of an accord. The only other option is that I signal my men—including those who are inside with the king right now—and we take Claxton. I’m afraid in that case, I cannot ensure the king won’t be harmed.

He swings to look at his partners, all equally uncomfortable in their full armor and with the options I’ve offered. They shrug to one another, neither willing to defy their king or me—the true High Queen of the Unified Kingdoms, though the unification has become irretrievably broken at this point.

The man turns back to me, his eyes sweeping across my troops before his shoulders drop in submission. With a deep exhale, he assumes as low a bow as his binding armor will allow. The men behind him follow suit and drop fully to one knee as I slide from my horse.

Your men will step aside and allow me to pass with my own. Any opposition will lead to bloodshed. Do you understand, General?

He won’t look me in the eye but nods. Of course, Your Majesty.

I lace my fingers together at my waist, assuming a stance that is unquestionably born of nobility. He has no option but to look at me; a lifetime of protocol has been instilled in him, no matter which kingdom he represents. I look directly into his rheumy hazel eyes. You’ve heard the stories about me?

He offers a single nod. Yes, Your Majesty.

They’re mostly true. I emphasize my statement with a raise of my brows. Let him wonder which rumors are the true ones; most people believe it’s that I’m mad. I signal my own troops as I address him one last time before moving toward the doors. Tell your men to make way.

With Josef and Davion at my side, I march forward, pushing past the stunned knights of Claxton as my troops fall into line behind me.

The few guards who draw against us relent the moment they see how few of their comrades are willing to take up arms beside them. And then they realize how many of my troops have entered the narrow halls and adjacent chambers. Claxton is being cleared with an efficiency their army has rarely demonstrated.

Aside from the six men at the gate, none of the other guards wear metal armor. The brigandine pieces covering their torsos and the rerebrace and vambrace sections on their arms are constructed of leather, dried and cracked with age. Their swords, chipped and dull, are in as poor condition as their armor. Even the best efforts to care for the antiquated weapons would prove ineffective. The rumors of King Brahm’s neglect of his army appear to have been underreported at best.

By the position of Brahm’s men lining the grand stairs and along the balcony, I assume the king is waiting on the upper floor. He’ll attempt to make the most regal and imposing image he can project, so he’s likely in his throne room or a great hall.

In direct contrast to Claxton’s impoverished army, the castle is splendidly decorated. Gold leaf caps top the ivory pillars throughout the grand entry. Rich mahogany panels with finely chiseled scenes depicting royal hunting parties, feasts, and coronations line the lower half of the walls, while similar tapestries hang from the ceiling to cover the upper portion of the walls. Shades of pale amethyst dominate the color scheme, declaring the color and gemstone of Claxton, should anyone forget.

With swift feet, I climb the massive wooden stairway. Each kick plate is etched with scenes of Claxton’s previous grandeur. My eyes linger for only a moment on the massive tapestry at the top of the stairs. It depicts the people of Claxton, some holding small bundles and weeping as others kneel beside the freshly turned graves of children filling the grounds of the castle. A king stands among his people, his mouth open in curse and fist raised to the heavens. Above them in the top corner, the gods are turned away from the scene. Whenorríga, evident by her deep ebony skin with brilliant swirling patterns of gold, is releasing an infant into her winds as Albati cradles another, its eyes closed. While I’d love to stand and take in the image of the gods, I have an enemy to deal with.

A somber mood hangs in the great hall. Our footsteps echo, reverberating throughout the corridor. I survey those gathered in the room as I enter. The members of Brahm’s court almost seem relieved to have their king’s hubris and avarice finally brought to an end. It must be exhausting to maintain the image of wealth and power in the absence of both.

King Brahm sits on his throne on a high dais. A light purple robe of crushed velvet lined and edged in pure white fur nearly consumes his round figure. The robe is open only enough to display the brilliant amethyst and diamond collar hanging from his neck. The jewel is the width of a man’s fist and hangs nearly to his navel.

With one hand, he clutches a royal scepter. On the other hand, his sovereign’s ring is carefully draped over the edge of his ornate throne. It’s quickly apparent the king has gathered all the accoutrements he assumed would present an image of wealth and royalty. Perhaps this would have made an impression on my father or my brother, but I am neither of them.

At the king’s side sits Queen Millicent. Her own robe nearly engulfs her small, bent frame, though her age-gnarled fingers, which hang heavy with jewels, are prominently displayed. Her narrow lips are pinched in defiance while her wide eyes follow my approach with defiant anticipation.

Above them, on the back wall of the great hall, hangs a massive tapestry. The background, a pale purple dulled by age, is bordered by an equally faded black border. In the center, a once brilliant amethyst-colored eagle with golden talons spreads its wings wide. Gold coins spill from the bird’s open beak. Even the standard of Claxton boasts only of wealth—or the desire for it. I stop in front of the king and queen but do not bow or even incline my head in deference to his age and position within his own kingdom.

Beside me, Josef, Isobel, Katherine, and Davion stand attentive. My troops take up a commanding and capable stance. Should Brahm’s men go on the offensive, mine are positioned to swiftly cut them down.

From the corner of my eye, I note a small body moving through the hall, weaving in and out of members of the court and knights alike. Ayleth. Damn that disobedient little imp!

I force my attention away from the girl and back to the king.

We’ve been invaded by the girl queen, then? Brahm’s voice is loud, but an uncertain quaver lies beneath the boastful front. His eyes cut through the room as my troops swell, moving between and behind his own, uncertainty flashing from their eyes as they look from their challengers to their king.

Katherine’s voice is far more commanding. You will address Her Highness as Queen Malory.

Brahm disregards Katherine with a sneer. And what is it you’re queen of? As I hear it, all you rule is in ruins. You are, in fact, queen of nothing.

I pull my shoulders back and draw a deep breath, letting it fill my body and infuse it with calm before responding. I can’t react from anger because I’m not solely here to conquer King Brahm’s lands. I need his army. And to follow me, they must respect me.

My voice will carry through this great hall and be the first words my men—my new troops—will know of their future queen. I am Queen Malory of Allondale, regent of Devlishire and Carling, descendant of Glynnairre and the Candor Islands, and the anointed High Queen of the Unified Kingdoms.

Brahm shrugs one shoulder and raises his brow as he swipes his palm, dismissing the supreme authority of my claim. As I said, all in ruins.

Beside him, Queen Millicent’s mouth tucks into a smirk.

I smile at King Brahm, ensuring it’s infused with all the sincerity I can muster, and then I turn my countenance dark, devoid of the humanity that’s been denied me when dealing with my enemies. You conspired with King Lester of Carling, my father, and then my brother to destroy me in order to claim a few more riches of your own. You would have driven me into the darkness of the afterworld for a few coins more in your coffers. Instead, I was driven into hiding. For six months I’ve lived in the shadows of the forest and moved through the dark of the night. I was driven into the shadows, and I thrived. I now rule everything dark and dangerous. You may call me Malory, Queen of the Black, for if that’s where I must rule, that’s where I shall. And the dark never falls to ruin.

His face falls, and his queen emits a squeak of fear, her eyes wildly scanning the room for someone who will step forward to stand between them and the madwoman before them. You’re here to kill us then? To claim Claxton as your own?

My eyes drift around the hall, taking in the preposterous display of wealth. Claxton is a pretty jewel in the Unified Kingdoms and nothing more. It was never a military threat. Only the design of the castle, the loyalty of its people, and sheer luck have prevented it from being claimed by other kings. But I can’t allow it to belong to Brahm anymore. He plotted against me. It was his men who delivered the blow that killed Jamis.

Heat flushes across my cheeks, prickling along my neck. Rage bubbles deep in my core at the realization that the man in front of me is responsible for killing my husband. I allow my mind to imagine the satisfaction of removing King Brahm from his head as his withered wife screams in terror, her husband’s blood—traitorous to the Unified Kingdoms—splattered across her royal cloak.

I open my eyes and turn from the king to address his troops and court.

When I was a girl in Devlishire— I correct myself. "When I was heir presumptive to the throne of Devlishire, I was made to recite the oath of my country in each of the common languages. And though I was denied my throne, I carry that oath deep in my heart to this day."

An older man in the audience catches my eye. He’s familiar, though I nearly overlook him in the colors of Claxton. His mouth pulls into a lopsided smile, and his tired but brilliant sapphire eyes shine as I mention my oath. He offers a subtle nod for me to continue.

My rule shall endure. For should my enemy resist diplomacy and prudence of actions, should he breach my walls and threaten those who stand alongside me, he will find me at the head of my pack. And I shall devour him whole and turn then on those who stand beside him.

I return my attention to the king. "You did in fact resist diplomacy. You sent your men to breach my walls, and you’ve proven yourself a threat to those who stand beside me. The decision is yours. You can align with me and swear your men to declare fealty to my rule. In exchange, I’ll consider a position for you when I reestablish my council. Or I can kill you now and any who oppose my rule. But I will be devouring Claxton and claiming it as my dominion."

With his face flushed and the skin below his sparse white hair glowing red in fury, Brahm stands, shaking a fist in my direction. Spittle flies from his mouth as he yells. "My men are loyal to Claxton. Loyal to me. They will never fight for you."

My serene smile floats into place again. All of them?

Of course, all of them.

Legion E, step forward. I hold the king’s gaze as the rustle of movement erupts behind me, followed by gasps. Men and women—knights, nobility, and servants alike—move into place behind me, including the man with the familiar blue eyes.

No! Queen Millicent screams in fury as she takes in the people standing behind me and realization dawns on both the queen and her husband just how many spies were operating within their court.

King Brahm stutters, as though he would yell at those who betrayed him if only he were coherent enough for such an argument.

I remain calm as I explain their predicament—and allude that it may be even worse. All the riches you sent to your allies were intercepted by my troops. I’ve used your riches to build my army. My brother and King Lester are dead; their troops belong to me now. I have troops and spies promised from Gaufrid and Hadley. Phoebe is establishing an alliance with King Travión. If she’s successful, they’ll move against the remaining kingdoms to claim them for Travión. The ominous whispers that have increasingly filled my ears the past months pick up.

Yes. Gather your people and bring them to—

I push the voice from my mind.

The king eases back onto the edge of his throne, rubbing his beefy bejeweled palm across his forehead and then his eyes, as though he could wipe away the nightmare before him.

My voice is soft as I pose my final question. Which will it be, King Brahm?

I suppose you give me no option.

Queen Millicent snaps her sharp look in his direction. "You cannot cede to this girl. We will not submit."

I pull my sword from its sheath and balance the tip on the wooden stair in front of me, twirling it in a languid manner. I really only need the king. Whichever choice he makes.

Her jaw snaps closed at my threat.

A deep breath escapes King Brahm as he takes one last look about the illusion of power he’s existed in for so long. His head bobs in consent. All right. I will cede Claxton—and my troops—to your rule. You win, my queen. He dips his head, the closest to a curtsy he is willing to offer, though we both know he is subservient to me.

I clear my throat to ensure his attention is on me. "I’ll need a formal declaration and transition of rule, I’m afraid. You understand."

Queen Millicent continues to fume, her face red and mouth pinched lest her thoughts fly from it. She looks appalled as King Brahm rises from his seat and steps aside, sweeping his arm to invite me to assume the seat of Claxton.

The queen reluctantly follows suit, rising from her throne as a member of the Legion steps forward to offer his arm to assist her down the stairs. She slaps at him and hisses, Traitor!

I climb the steps and turn to face the assemblage, sliding my sword back into my belt.

King Brahm’s eyes remain fixed on my boots as he declares me the ruler of Claxton and swears his own fealty to uphold my rights as sovereign.

I ease into his throne—mine now, though it feels as foreign to my body as any other has. I address the crowd. "The choice is yours, but you have only this one opportunity. Swear fealty to me now, or you’re declaring that you’ll stand against me. And I won’t rest until I’ve defeated all who stand