Bound to the Throne

Deep, exasperated waves of air filled her lungs and violently pushed out through her chest. Her body trembled with anxiety. For one hundred and fifty years, she had managed to evade Queen Velloria's Royal Guards and Spymasters. Now, that luck has run out.

She felt it--the heavy presence pressing down on her like an invisible hand around her throat. The same eerie sensation had crept over her weeks ago, but now it had metastasized, growing stronger with each passing night. Impending doom clung to her nervous system, refusing to let go.

She had always known they would come.

Her banishment was never meant to be permanent. No one truly escaped the Royal Family--not even in exile. Not even when condemned to damnation. The Queen--her mother--would find her eventually.

That time was now.

They came before dawn, dragging her from the fragile sanctuary she had built for herself. The nightmare had begun even before she woke. But unlike the terrors that had plagued her sleep for decades, this one wouldn't end when she opened her eyes.

Sydra shut them anyway, furiously praying to the Goddess Ashra for guidance. It had been a long time since she cursed the deities and abandoned faith altogether. She knew better than to expect divine intervention. No goddess would save her now.

She was alone.

A single tear slid down her tawny brown cheek as she lay still, her body damp with sweat. Strands of wavy white hair clung to her skin, her sleep dress soaked through from the relentless grip of night terrors.

Now, her worst fears had become reality. The life she had carefully built during her exile from Ny'Ebona--her freedom, her wants, her dreams--would be vanquished beneath the crushing weight of the Royal Family.

Then, silence.

Until the thudding of boots echoed in the distance.

The sound grew louder, closer--marching in perfect unison up the cylindrical stone stairway of her poorly built castle.

It was nothing compared to the Queen's palace in Ny'Ebona, but it was hers. A home built with her own hands--without magic, without power, without royal servants to bow at her feet. Here, she had carved out something real. Something of her own.

And now, they were here to take it all away.

The footsteps stopped just outside her door.

Sydra sat up in her makeshift bed, furs from exotic creatures piled around her for warmth. Halldir was a cold, desolate realm, its landscape as merciless as the world she had left behind. Only the Frostborn creatures--beings forged in the heart of winter itself--could survive this place.

The Royal Family had long neglected these lands, dismissing them as insignificant and unworthy of their rule.

Better that way.

Then, the door vibrated violently, an unnatural force warping the air around it--

Until it exploded.

Splinters rained across the room as the shattered remnants of her sanctuary collapsed around her. And standing in the wreckage of the doorframe--unbothered, composed, and infuriatingly confident--was the last person she wanted to see.

Zane Blackstone.

His features were sharp yet handsome, the angles of his jaw and high cheekbones giving him an almost regal, sculpted appearance. His hands rested in the pockets of his tailored pants as he stepped over the debris without a care. His suit--black from head to toe--was so dark it seemed to drink in the dim light, swallowing his entire form in shadow.

One of the most powerful warlocks in the realm had just entered her room.

And she, a non-magic, non-powered, non-omnipotent exile, was utterly unmatched.

"Zane."

She spat his name like venom, pouring every ounce of scorn she felt for him into those syllables.

His expression, as always, was unreadable--a blank, dismissive stare that grated on her nerves. Light caught the sandy brown coils of his hair, making them gleam like deep gold. He looked the same as ever, only taller, sharper, more refined.

They had never gotten along as children.

She could go another hundred and fifty years without seeing Zane--or any other royal, for that matter.

"Your sister, the princess, is missing." His voice was flat, factual. No emotion, no urgency, no grief--as if he didn't care. More than likely, he did not. "And the Queen is gravely ill."

Sydra folded her arms, unimpressed. "Are you sure the princess wasn't exiled?" she asked coolly. "The Royal Family does have a knack for that."

This wasn't the time to patronize, but who would she be if she didn't condescend to her enemies?

Zane rolled his eyes, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit chamber with slow, deliberate scrutiny. His expression twisted in distaste as he took in the uneven gray stones, lingering on a section of the wall where time and the relentless cold had finally won--the crumbling mortar giving way to decay.

He didn't have to say anything. She read the judgment plain as day on his face.

Sydra smirked. "Apologies," she drawled, "I don't have a grand castle built off the backs of the enslaved."

Zane barely spared her a glance. "No worries," he droned.

His fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, gloved in black. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth--subtle, sharp. "It's meager. Shoddy." He tilted his head. "Befitting of you, really."

Her temper ignited.

"Get out," she snapped.

She threw off her blankets and surged to her feet. "Get. Out."

It was only as she closed the distance between them that she realized her mistake.

A sharp sting shot through her bare feet as she stepped onto the jagged shards of her shattered door. She barely winced before Zane moved faster than she anticipated--

He lifted his hand, fingers flexing lazily in the air.

Obsidian tendrils of magic crackled from his palm, coiling through the air like living shadows.

And just like that--Sydra was lifted off the ground.

Her feet kicked violently as she struggled against the invisible force holding her aloft. No wand? Since when had Zane learned to channel magic without one?

How annoying.

"Zane, let me go," Sydra demanded, struggling against his hold. She hated feeling weak. Hated the fear clawing at her chest. Her feet dangled helplessly, a humiliating reminder of just how powerless she truly was.

It was moments like these that made her wish--just for a fleeting second--that she was a competent witch. But she wasn't, and everyone knew it. In a world where magic users and those with special abilities reigned, power determined everything--not just in battle, but in society itself.

Sydra had never cared about being terrible at magic. But it mattered to everyone else. Enough to cause whispers, judgment, and worst of all--a divide in her own family.

What was so special about being a witch anyway? What was worth tearing bloodlines apart over? As far as she was concerned, most witches were the same--impudent, morally corrupt, drunk on power.

Witches like Zane.

"Put her down," a voice cut through the tension. It was calm, yet filled with thinly veiled menace.

Zane hesitated, his grip loosening just enough for Sydra to catch her breath.

And then, she saw him. Another man came into the frame.

"The princess is not yours to harm. Remember that." An eerily calm voice cut through the tension. "Put her down," The man commanded.

Thinly veiled menace in the speaker's words seemed to have an effect, as Zane grudgingly loosened his grip. The figure, who had been watching from a distance, stepped into view with quiet confidence. He moved through the room with purpose and precision. Kneeling, he extended a hand to Sydra. When her fingers brushed his palm, a jolt of warmth surged through her, unexpected and unsettling.

His long, straight black hair, perfectly parted down the middle, caught the dim light, cascading like liquid darkness. She found herself drawn to him--too drawn in--to the soft blues of his eyes. His tan brown skin was smooth, his lips full--

"Ex-princess in exile," Zane's mocking voice shattered the fragile moment. Sydra stiffened with embarrassment. Zane's lips were pursed in a dissatisfied frown, but that was typical. What was unusual was the flicker of something sharper in his expression, a mix of irritation and something else. He didn't like what he saw.

"Once a princess, always a princess," River said, his voice calm, but there was weight to the words.

"I apologize for the lack of pleasantries," River continued, casting a disapproving glance at Zane. "A rude introduction, I suppose." He straightened up. "I am River Sableth, Prince of the Elysian Realm, and Commander of the Army of the UnDead." His steady blue gaze met hers, unyielding. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance." There was something unreadable in his eyes--not cold, not distant, but calculating.

River took her hand with deliberate care, his grip firm but not forceful. As he helped her to her feet, his lips brushed her skin in the most formal of gestures, soft, kind--sweet in a way that felt almost out of place against the tension crackling in the room. It unsettled her. It intrigued her. Even as he released her hand, she still felt it lingering.

The warlock, who had been watching in silence, stood rigid, his expression schooled into neutrality. Yet Sydra could see the tightness in his jaw, the hard line of his lips. His dark eyes flickered briefly with something--displeasure.

Interesting.

"You gentlemen didn't come here for a house visit," Sydra said, folding her arms across her chest. "Why are you here?"

Zane exhaled sharply, irritation dripping from his tone. "Didn't you hear me the first time? The Queen is gravely ill, and Princess Selene has gone missing."

Sydra scoffed. "And what, in Ashyra's name, does that have to do with me?" Her voice was biting. "That woman banished me--cast me aside for my half-sister." She spat the word 'half' like it was poison on her tongue.

"That woman... is the Queen. Show some respect," Zane snarled. "One hundred and fifty years in exile and you've already forgotten your aristocratic decorum?"

"Which rules on decorum were worth remembering?" Sydra shot back, her voice dripping with disdain. "The ones about abandoning your own progeny? Yeah, I think I missed those."

The Queen's counsel had always favored Selene's father, King Consort Leander, over the Queen's other husbands. His unmatched magic, wealth, and political influence had been enough to ensure his daughter was the chosen heir--Selene. Not the others. Not the twelve children born after. Just Selene. Always Selene.

Sydra's stomach churned with bitter disgust. The cutthroat politics. The way her father, the second-ranking husband, had always bent to the Queen's will. How sickening it had been. The Queen ruled, yes, but where had that left Sydra? She had needed her father's protection, craved it. And he had stood by, watching as his only daughter was cast out of the only home she had ever known.

And now they stood before her, expecting what? Concern? Loyalty?

Sydra laughed, but there was no humor in it. The sound was raw--born from years of pain and frustration. "So tell me, why should I care?"

Zane's eyes narrowed, a cold gleam flashing in the depths of his gaze. His lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Slowly, he moved forward like a predator, inching closer until he was in her face. His hot breath brushed against her skin as he leaned in.

"You will represent, advise, and produce heirs for the monarchy." His voice was steady, firm. A declaration, not a request.

Sydra's stomach twisted, the weight of his words pressing down on her like an insurmountable burden. She nearly doubled over, but River was close enough to catch her. She struggled to speak, her words tripping over each other. "I... I... take the throne?" The disbelief in her voice was unmistakable. In all her hundreds of years alive, she had never considered such a possibility. Power had never been something she craved. She had long accepted that Selene would wear the crown.

"Me... wear the crown?" Her voice wavered with confusion. But amidst the chaos in her mind, a flicker of clarity emerged. "The council... the Queen... they must be out of their minds."

Zane didn't flinch. "You will be crowned the new Queen."

The words hit like a hammer. Simple. But heavy--signifying this was no choice. No plea.

Sydra's breath caught in her throat. She had thought she was free. She had escaped the clutches of her family, of her destiny. But now, standing before Zane, she realized how little power she truly had.

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating.

Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea of returning--to a life of duty, of chains disguised as gold. But the weight of her past--and the cold, unyielding certainty in Zane's gaze--made it clear.

There was no escaping this.

Or so they thought.

River broke the silence. "We must go." His voice was calm but firm, the kind of command that left no room for argument.

Without another word, he turned and strode through the shattered doorway. His boots crunched over fallen debris as he descended the castle steps, the wind howling through the ruins, carrying a biting chill.

"We need to reach a closer realm," he continued, adjusting the fur-lined hood over his shoulders. "I cannot teleport long distances. If I attempt it, someone will lose a limb--or a life." His gaze flicked to Sydra, pointedly. "We move now. We need to reach the base before nightfall."

Zane nodded, his agreement silent but clear, as the unspoken warning lingered in the air.

Sydra's path to escape her captors would be anything but simple. Commander River Sableth wasn't traveling alone--his army of the dead moved with him, a silent, unnerving presence. They stood like statues, unmoving, eerily disciplined, until the commander's voice sliced through the air. Then, as if controlled by a single mind, they moved in perfect unison. The undead soldiers moved with terrifying precision, their movements perfectly synchronized, as though they were part of some dark, unholy machine.

The wind whipped at her nightgown, biting through the fabric, but it was nothing compared to the chill that settled in her bones. A heavy fur blanket was draped over her shoulders, its warmth a stark contrast to the frozen air, but it offered little comfort. She clutched the blanket tightly, the rough texture digging into her hands as she tried to steady herself on the horse. Her wrists were no longer bound, but the stiffness in her body remained, as if exhaustion threatened to overtake her. She clung to the unknown soldier in front of her, his or its body warm but unyielding. The rhythmic gait of the horse seemed to calm her uneasiness.

Ahead, the figures of Commander Sableth and Zane loomed, distant and almost ghostly against the endless expanse of snow. The undead soldiers flanked the group, their mounts moving with a deadly grace, while others marched in perfect formation. Their hollow eyes glinted beneath their helmets, their pace unbroken, their purpose unwavering. It was as if they were part of the landscape itself--inescapable, relentless.

Sydra couldn't help but wonder: what kind of power could bind souls to the dead, make them march across frozen tundras without complaint, without fear? She had so many questions, but none of them had answers.

The Elysian realm had always been a mystery, its secrets whispered in fearful speculation. But River Sableth--he was a mystery of his own. A flesh-and-blood prince sired from a realm of ghosts. How did that happen? Was he truly alive? Or was he something else entirely?

She studied him, her eyes lingering on his military-style attire: a warm beige double-breasted jacket with shoulder pads and a hood. The beige stood in sharp contrast to his brown skin, the fabric shifting with his every movement. She couldn't help but watch the muscles in his back flex beneath the coat, the way his long black hair whipped lightly around the hood as if the wind were teasing him.

"That one there is mine," a feminine voice sliced through her thoughts.

Sydra blinked, her gaze snapping to the side in confusion. She had assumed the voice was one of the undead speaking, but as she looked closer, she realized it wasn't. It was another woman--Brion, covered head to toe in armor, almost indistinguishable from the soldiers around her. Sydra's fingers tightened on her grip as the woman's gloved finger pointed toward Zane, now a distant black silhouette on horseback, leading the way with Commander Sableth right behind him.

"I don't want either of them," Sydra's voice was cold, her tone an impenetrable wall against the situation she couldn't control. "I'd prefer if you all left me in exile."

Brion scoffed, her voice cutting through the harshness of the night. "A queen who doesn't want to be, though so many people are... desperate to take your place." There was something sharp, something sinister in her words--an ambition that made Sydra uneasy.

"What's the point of being 'queen' if you're only a puppet servant to a master?" Sydra's voice held a bitter edge, but there was a quiet defiance in it. At least in exile, she was free.

"Everyone has a master," Brion said, her gaze lingering on Zane, her expression almost dreamy, as if lost in thought.

"Not me." Sydra grimaced at the thought of Zane's proposition--the cursed role of Husband Consort. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Not ever.

"Put your faith in Zane, and you'll always be disappointed," she added, more a warning than anything else. She could sense there was more to the relationship between Zane and Brion than met the eye. But what did it matter to her? They were only pawns in a game she wasn't willing to play.

Zane was already a powerful warlock, with royal influence and the backing of his family. It made sense why he, a consistent power seeker, would desire the position of Husband Consort. But he was insistent on making her queen, which she didn't understand. It could only mean trouble. She was determined not to hand him the power he so desperately sought. If he was desperate enough to take her soul, to possess her body, he was hiding something. She needed to figure it out--and fast. The weight of the mystery pressed against her chest. Time was running out. The game they were playing was far more dangerous than any of them realized.

Sydra's mind raced, calculating every second, every movement. She needed to stall, to create an opening--she had to escape. She sat as still as a statue, her body frozen in place, her thoughts like a storm inside her. Brion had let her guard down, allowing the faintest crack of opportunity. It was now or never.

She forced herself to focus, assessing the situation with the cold detachment of a strategist. Zane and Commander Sableth were ahead, their figures cutting through the swirling snow, far enough to remain oblivious to her movements. Brion was beside her, focused on the path ahead, her attention momentarily diverted. The undead soldiers flanked them, a silent, unblinking army of death. Every one of them was a potential threat, but their predictability gave Sydra an edge. She counted the minutes in her head--how long it would take the soldiers on horseback to react, how much time before Zane and Sableth noticed her move. Every second mattered.

Without warning, she struck. In one fluid motion, Sydra pushed Brion off the horse, her hands strong and precise as she shoved the woman off balance. Brion yelped, crashing to the snow-covered ground in an instant. The horse jerked, startled by the sudden action, but Sydra was already in control. She grabbed the reins with one hand, her other instinctively steadying herself on the saddle. Her fingers clenched tightly around the leather, her heart pounding in her chest.

It was as if the horse understood her command before she even spoke it. She uttered the words in a voice she barely recognized as her own, the commands tumbling out with a confidence she hadn't known she had. The horse responded, its muscles shifting beneath her as it obeyed. She guided it to veer off course, pulling it sharply to the side, away from the procession of undead soldiers. The rhythmic beat of the horse's hooves echoed in her mind as it weaved a zigzag pattern through the undead ranks, dodging their silent gaze and their perfect formation.