The soldiers quicken their pace when the spot him in the hallway. Single file they carry armfuls of the queen’s belongings and furniture out of her private quarters. Some manage a salute, risking spilling clothes over the stone floor. Tyrann sticks close to his side, acting as some clumsy aide-de-camp, returning the salute with a mocking grin.

He greets them by made up names which leave them with questionable looks as they pass. He doesn’t know when he decided to leave the dragons, but its his opinion the mercenary should’ve stayed underground. He still reeks of pigs; his ill manners don’t belong in civilized company. Unfortunately, he’s more useful than Margaret, so the stench remains.

“Did she really stick one of them with a hat pin?” he asks.

“If she wants to act like a child, then she will be treated as one.”

“This here, isn’t about a prick; she’s all wild ‘cause you ruined the party in Alexanderia. Pretty ballsy to take her hostage,”

Regardless of her plan, he needed Allan’s blood to free himself from the phantom. Her tantrums are a liability. Now that the world knows their plan, he can’t take chances with an unpredictable partner. The shrill screaming grows louder as they approach the queen’s private quarters. The soldiers take the onslaught of verbal abuse with a grimace, as Margaret rages to unprecedented levels. The ants, in wobbling single file, scatter from the room with their bundles; with relief washing over their faces.

Margaret crosses the room, swatting at the man plucking her ornate stool from the dressing table. Her gown is wrinkled, her hair a tangle behind her, and she’s so haggard looking he can’t believe it’s the same woman. Her maid tries to tame her mane, but the queen flutters from corner to corner; drawn to the commotion like a moth to the flame.

“REMO!” She barks once she spies him. “They’re taking everything! You did this didn’t you?”

“You did this to yourself Your Majesty,”

“Don’t patronize me!” her claw like fingers jabs his chest, but the guards yank her back. She’s wild, pacing like a caged animal.

“You promised you would cooperate, instead you stabbed one of my men and made that pathetic escape attempt. Trust is easily broken,”

“Oh, now you’re lecturing me on trust? Who put a knife to my throat hmmm? That’s right, you! You take orders from me! But for some reason I’m the one locked up like some dirty prisoner.”

It’s the first time he’s been inside her private chambers but, in his opinion, its more spacious without the extra furniture and clutter. His orders are to remove anything she’s capable of throwing or attacking with. Small end tables, hangers in her closet, drawers, on top of other overindulgence luxuries she may use as bribes. He’s not stupid, a diamond ring or two can go a long way to help a struggling soldier’s family. But this is anything but a prison cell. There are no bars and there’s enough space for at least two families to live comfortably among her rooms she owns. But she continues to rant, getting shriller as it goes on.

“Are you even listening? I gave you the plan. You were to ensure I achieved it.”

“A demand to take Alexanderia’s throne, is not a plan.”

“It is if you did it my way! But instead, you went and killed a king—”

“You knew my intentions when we began. Now the throne is free, I trained and prepared your men; Alexanderia cannot survive our assault, especially since there is no competent monarch to lead them.”

“Moira won’t last a week as queen. But if the rumours are true, if she’s like her mother; then her magic is lethal.”

Her mother…

Warm fingers crawl over the back of his neck. Dull nails tapping over his flesh. A radiating pulse sends a hot wave through his chest. His mind might not remember, but his body does. But he pushes it aside, assessing the red-faced queen before him.

“If she is such a threat, then we destroy her first. Now will you cooperate or must I take additional measures.” She huffs, motioning to the freckled soldier removing the logs from beside the fireplace.

“You expect me to freeze?”

“Blankets exist for a reason Your Majesty.”

“This is ridiculous! Fine, I promise I won’t stab any one again.” He didn’t appreciate her tone, but the throbbing in his left temple tells him to cut the conversation short.

“You will have Alexanderia Your Majesty, but like we originally agreed, I will do it my way.” The soldiers lock the door behind him cutting her off from the rest of the castle. Tyrann matches his stride, tapping his fingers against his belt as he escorts him away.

“You really just going to lock the queen up like that?”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“For an extra five percent I can forget there ever was a queen.”

“You mercenaries disgust me.”

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

“Is it the smell? I took that bath you always harping about.”

They turn a corner, noticing the princess with her entourage of ladies gaggling beside one of the marble statues lining the corridor. Behind the stone muscular warrior, is a window overlooking the drawbridge that connects the kingdom to the mainland. They whisper together, pointing towards parts of the kingdom. With anyone else, he’d ignore the somber faces; but this is out of the ordinary for Nicole.

Their normal giddiness usually grates on his nerves. But to see a furrow brow on her painted face is not only a rarity but a puzzle. One of them, with a purple ribbon woven in her braid, nudges the princess’s shoulder indicating towards him. The concern on her face vanishes once their eyes meet. She straightens her shoulders and approaches them. There past interactions were always brief; this is the first time he notices her seeking him out.

“General, have you seen my mother? I have not spoken with her since your return.”

“I am afraid she is feeling unwell currently and is taking to rest in her quarters.”

“Then I should go to her—”

“Hang on there princess,” Tyrann interjects. “She caught something nasty and I doubt a lady of her station want her nearest and dearest to see her in that state.”

“By the Gods, is it serious?”

“No, she will recover your highness, the doctor ordered rest for now. She will ask for you when she is in a better mood.” At this moment, a soldier passes them carrying a drawer full of elegant scarves.

“Are they my mother’s scarves?”

“The gods laid their grace before your dear mum. Called to her to give to the unfortunate. We’re merely donating them to the priest’s collection. Extra money for the poor and orphans and the like.” For a moment Nicole studies them, and he’s sure she’s going to protest. But her shoulders relax and a wide smile plasters her face.

“Praise be, how generous of her. Come ladies, let us see what we can add to the donation.”

The one with the ribbon is the last to follow, her gaze lingers a bit longer than the others. Nicole places a gloved hand on her elbow and pulls her friend gently to her side. The short interaction shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

“Do you think she believed us?”

“It is of no consequence, as long as she stays mute and blind.” They slip into an uncomfortable silence as the distance themselves from the royal quarters. The coins looped around the chain on his neck clink against his chest, making an uneasy cadence down the hallway.

“So, you killed two Alexanderian kings, eh? Is there a third you have yer eyes on or did the line end with this Allan chump?”

“According to her Majesty, Allan’s daughter is set to take the throne.”

Moira…

The worse part of the whole encounter was killing Allan didn’t change anything. He dreamed of causing the fatal wound, seeing the life fade from his face as the blood drips from his sword. Using his own attack against him, allowing the full force of his magic to slam his blade into his shoulder was better than he expected. Sweeter than nectar from the Gods bubbling on his tongue. But the victory didn’t last.

The body succumbed and then there was nothing. Just him standing over a dead washed up old man. To add insult to injury, he was still the same. The night sweats, the nightmares; the itching in his sword hand that demands blood. Adding to it all, is losing his sense of purposefulness. What does one do when the last lifelong task is finally checked off.

His mind keeps returning to the blonde girl struggling with Allan’s sword. He squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to soothe a throbbing headache pushing at his skull; the line between dream and reality, once clear, is barely a mark in the sand. The mage outside the office. The one who killed my men. Margaret claims she’ll ruin everything, but he suppresses a laugh. She can barely hold a sword. Her grief is her downfall; their spy insists on it. He clenches his teeth suppressing a moan. Her father.

His steps are harder, louder, as he tries to push the ghost child from his memories. Emilia bloomed in her pregnancy; graceful and glowing. Once born the child never left her side. Bows and ruffles trailing behind her mother’s skirts. The hundreds of questions and comments drift in his ears. The child’s curiosity was insatiable.

But her presence was always a reminder of the ghost in their relationship. The doltish husband. In his race to erase Allan he forgot about her. No longer the helpless child of his past. The anger in her gaze was uncanny. The threat emitting behind her feeble words. Befitting a daughter of such a captivating woman.

His beloved’s face flashes before him, the smiling angel whom the Gods envied. They covet their love; such love shouldn’t— couldn’t— exist, which is why they snatched her away. Her crystal eyes fill with tears as her mouth twists with unhindered anger. His heart beats faster, his brain swells, pushing against his skull until it's ready to burst. He yanks his sword from its sheath; stabbing her chest but ivory fingers wrap around the blade as blood drips from between her fingers.

She smiles a monstrous smile plunging the blade deeper into her body, drawing him closer until her cold breath kisses his cheek. The corners of her ruby lips twitch as she thrusts the final inch of the blade; spilling blood over her chin. His heartbeat pulsates in his ears. Her limp carcass gives him a surprising sense of relief, beguiling his sad fancy into smiling.

It's done…

As he slips the blade from her body, a damp fog floats into the corridor. The statues, the windows, the brass door knobs all fade away. It’s only her listless form hovering before him. Through her transparent silhouette he spies a shadow slinking towards him. A hollow gravel sounds shudders through him as a hunched form drags something across the stone. His heart thumps in his throat as the monster inches closer. It passes through Emilia, revealing itself as the mage from Alexanderia. She struggles with a broad sword in her grasp but both women wear a piercing glare; same, yet uncannily, different.

They point a finger, his throat clamps shut suffocating a scream as the walls drip with blood. They whisper their curse; a spell from the dead. The sounds echo in his ears and burn his bones. He panics as the blood crawls over the floor. It takes on a life of its own, changing direction and flows to him. Sweat pours from his temples, the crimson river defies the gods and climbs up his leg. Wet, sticky, and hot. It clings to him, plastering itself over him as it climbs to his neck. He gulps the air, but instead the blood spills down his throat. Filling his lungs and turns the world to black.

“Mate,” a strong hand shakes his shoulder.

“Beg your forgiveness sir,” a servant boy mutters at the end of Remo’s drawn sword. Tyrann interjects, tapping his palm on his sword arm. The hallway returns, the blood vanishes and the boy’s knees tremble. He sheathes his blade, nodding for the boy to continue with his chores.

The back of his neck prickles as Emilia’s fury increases. She will love him in time. There’s nothing for him to lose or gain; a liberating but dangerous freedom. Her silent steps seep into his brain. She is love’s burden, a cross to bear. But her disgust eats at his soul. He faces his judgement, she will fear him, if anything else she will know his wrath. I will kill her as I did you.

“Remo mate, hold yerself together,” Tyrann whispers. But he notices the blood-soaked figure grinning over his shoulder. He nods, relinquishing his power, following both to his own destruction.