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.
