She’s never seen the archbishop so red faced and angry. He foams at the mouth shouting at them; pointing his finger as spittle dribbles from his lips. A man of quiet steadfast faith switches to a deranged mad man before her eyes.

“Who in the Gods name are you! What is your business here!”

“Archbishop, I could ask the same of you,” Charlie smirks.

“Fool, where else would you find a holy man of my stature?”

“Funny, I always think of you in a room of jewels counting the donation coins.” Charlie taps the emerald against the ground, causing it to shake under her feet.

“You dare use magic here!” but the floor splits from under him. She steps back, terrified as the pews tumble over the room. The contents of the altar spill from the surface; rolling to her boots. She plucks the black candle, just into time to see sheets of marble jut from his feet encasing him in a stone prison. It’s impossible, she’s never seen such disrespect in the Holy House.

“That’s uncalled for!” she pushes to the front of the party. “He’s the Archbishop! He’s served my family for years!”

“I’m sorry Your Highness, but he’s been serving the unhoused to the dragons for months. In exchange, your mother keeps his pockets full.”

“Liar!”

But she isn’t sure. The past several months are a blur. She remembers a curfew being in place but it didn’t affect her. Not like her mother allowed her outside the castle alone anyway. She remembers Kendra asking about it once. They told them a sickness was sweeping the poorer neighbourhoods. The curfew was merely a step to prevent the spread. But now she glances at her friend; who can’t look her in the eyes. Her throat catches, before her breathing switches to short shallow breaths.

“Don’t believe me,” he counters, pointing his cane as a chunk of stone breaks off, “ask him yourself.”

“How dare you do this to me; Your Highness tell me you are not in league with these degenerates!”

“That is no business of yours,” she snaps. Her heart slams in her chest; the adrenaline filling her with fresh determination. She hasn’t’ felt this energy since Lollardum. Since fending off her assassins. But she can’t shut the box once it’s open. “You will answer my questions—honestly—before Zander himself!” She points to his sculpture behind her; his long-feathered wings reaching the floor. “Speak true, before my mortal crown and His divine authority, or see your soul cower in the land of Chaos.”

“Your Highness…”

“Did Kipling’s dragons feed on my people?”

“There were reports. Beggars went missing. It was impossible to keep track of everyone once the beasts began to prowl the night.”

“Did the dragons feed while they roamed our streets.”

“I did not see—”

“That is not my question! Did the dragons feed on the vagrants. Yes, or no?” But his silence is more than enough. “Why were they not provided sanctuary at night?”

“It proved an impossible task. There are so many in need, so little space to keep them. Not to mention the funds to provide additional resources…”

Enough lies. She’s only lived sixteen years but she’s lost count of the lies they told her. First it was small white lies, like if she had more than one sweet at dinner she would become as large as a house. But as life became complicated, so did their deception. People lied about being her friend. About keeping her secrets from her mother. The only person who never lied was her father. May Alona keep him.

It ends here, she tells herself. She storms into his private office despite the archbishop’s protests. She always wondered what it must look like inside. So many aspects of the castle were off limits to her. She imagined it as a sacred space. With lost texts that explained the mysteries of the gods.

Instead, it was an office. Ornate desk and chair and a closet for his lavish robes. There’re books, but not as many as she imagined; nor as holy. Mostly they looked like ledgers. But its isn’t surprising; considering the abundance of velvet bags overflowing with coins.

Her hands shake; the tips of her fingers becoming numb as she grabs the nearest bag. It’s what Moira always warned her about. But she never imagined it was true. Her mother was right; money does buy anyone anything. She pictures the starving fearful people who he turned away; only to keep himself rich. The families who lost loved ones, with no answers to their questions. She emerges as a new wave of vengeance washes over her.

“There is no room in Paradise for liars.” She empties the bag at his feet, spilling gold and silver coins over the marble. “There is more than enough in that room alone to have save dozens of lives. We are to act as a light for truth, justice, and hope against the fog of lies, injustice, and despair.” It’s too much, his pudgy form repels her. His ugliness and greed lays glittering at her feet. “Baron Barclay.”

“At once Your Highness,” with a flick of his wrist the broken stone cements itself to its brother muffling the archbishop’s screams.

Her soldiers spill into the hallway, their plan is to take the occupants by surprise; attacking before the castle awakes. Charlie and Zack argue about her mother’s location; but to her there’s no doubt. They clear one floor without confronting anyone. Zack insists they take the throne room, but her mother isn’t there. She won’t be visible; her true hatred comes from the shadows. The whispers in private; the insults and beatings. No, she’s in her quarters. A feral wolf in her den.

Her guards make quick work of the soldiers lingering aimlessly in the corridors. Theo’s movements are needle like; piercing the gaps in enemy armour before anyone is aware he moved. The higher they climb towards the private floors the more soldiers they encounter. Charlie snaps stone staircases in half (dropping entire groups of enemy soldiers) with a flick of his wrist. Zack is something she never witnessed in person. Where Theo liked close combat, Zack rushes through files of men; slashing with deadly accuracy.

She steps over bodies, some dead some begging for her forgiveness. Some call out to Zander as she passes. As if Bellavere hasn’t lost enough of their sons and daughters. The blood sticks to her boots and follows in her wake. No, not her wake. Her mother’s.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

More men flood from the upper floors. Zack grips her waist, pulling her through the throng of them. Her protectors on every side stab, punch, kick and slay anyone in their path. The swords metallic song rings in her ears; rattling her knees. He yanks her forward; step by step until they reach the top.

Theo orders their men to hold the line; as they act as the last line of defense. She can’t catch her breath; she gulps the air but its shallow. Her knees shake, her limbs numb; nothing can silence her mother’s insults replaying in her mind. So much blood. Death. Lies. She can’t take it; the vomit bubbles in her throat. But Zack squeezes her shoulder.

“You can do this. We need you to stand.”

Strong hands pull her to her feet. She takes a first tentative step, but the shouting behind her causes her to freeze. She hears Moira’s words drift over the commotion. I love and support you. Have faith in yourself. She repeats it before taking another step. Then another. When they reach the soldier guarding her mother’s quarters she is standing on her own. Sensing the end, he drops his sword at their feet. Once he’s restrained, they break the door.

Plumes of black smoke rushes from the doorway filling the hallway. Zack races in, shouting for someone to stop. She follows, the smoke stings her eyes and makes them water but she pushes through. Once she’s gathered her senses, she notices the destruction. Curtains and blankets thrown over the floor. Shredded mattresses and cushions lay in piles against the wall; their insides spill over piles of rubbish.

The source of the smoke are various clay pots littering the area, each containing a fire. To her horror, her mother, dressed in her undergarments and covered in soot hunches over on of the pots. At her feet are piles of correspondences, book pages, and firewood. A table with missing three legs lays lopsided beside her.

“It’s over your Majesty, now come with us.” Charlie announces. But her mother cackles, a sound that sends a chill down her spine. While they challenge her mother, her eyes notice a pile of letters strewn near the table.

Letters, so many pages of letters. Some are her mother’s handwriting, some the archbishop. Other’s she doesn’t recognise. One is only signed as a crow with one wing. But its the words: Murder the king, that catches her attention. Zack secures her mother’s wrists behind her back but Nicole can’t ignore the letters contents.

Its all there; the poison she used to kill her father. Kipling’s sick fantasies about Allan’s murder. The payments to the lords and supporters to acquire anything she needs. A familiar wave of panic rushes over her. She races to her mother’s side before they reach the door.

“Tell me this is a lie” she pleads. “Tell me it isn’t so!”

“You idiot!” her mother shrieks back at her. “You’re as dumb as your father is dead.”

A rusty iron door stands between her and Margaret. Two guards wait for her signal to unlock the cell. A simple concept but easier said than done. She squeezes her hands together to keep them from shaking. Good daughters don't lock their mothers in the prison tower. Then again, good rulers don't feed their people to dragons.

The litany of crimes Margaret faces run through her mind. Conspiracy to kill the king. Housing a criminal. And who knows how many murder charges. The lords still can't identify how many people went missing these past months. But worse still, she can't forgive herself either. Her neglect and naivety made her complacent. She's as guilty as she is. But unlike her mother, she'll live with the guilt for the rest of her life.

The door shuts behind her with a heavy clunk. It locks with a clank that echoes through the room. Her mother, usually the picture of elegance, stands stripped of her jewels and crown. A simple teal cotton dress replaces her lavish gowns. In slippers and a white cap, she gazes through the barred window into the hangman’s courtyard. She spies her naked ring finger and wonders when she discarded the symbol of her father’s love.

“Good afternoon mother.”

“Why are you here?”

“May I sit?” she motions to a stool near the crooked table.

“Do as you wish; everything belongs to you now.”

“I spoke to the Lords; they are in disagreement.”

“About my innocence?”

“About the manner of your death.” Her heart aches as she pictures her mother at the gallows. “They are torn regarding the severity of your crimes. They require a confession of your involvement.” Her cackle pierces the damp air. “Mother, your confession and repentance can stay an execution.”

“You twit! How stupid do you think I am?”

“Mother, please,”

“I stand by my original statement.”

“Your defense is Kipling, did it?”

“He used me for his revenge against Alexanderia. He preyed on the distraught state your father's sudden passing left me in."

“You are lying and we both know it.”

“Prove it,” a devilish grin creases her mouth.

“I have signed statements.”

“From whom? Lords, who switch loyalties faster than you change gowns? Or vagabonds who swear allegiance to the voices in their heads?”

“We recovered letters between you and Kipling outlining your plans.”

“Nicole, poor pet; I am disappointed in you, wasting your time with lies and deceit.”

It’s the sickly-sweet voice mixed with her condescending words that makes her blood boil. Even locked away she still thinks she’s in control. After everything, everything, she’s done; she still thinks she’ll get away with it. A hot blush rushes up her neck and burns her cheeks. She took the only person who loved her away from her.

“Be proud mother, I learned something from you after all! No one out there believes Kipling acted without your knowledge.”

“Oh, I knew.” She gazes at the abandoned gallows, “but he was too strong. He threatened to kill you like he killed the Avalon family.” She sobs into her hands, “I agreed to his demands to protect you, my darling daughter. You are all I ever loved.”

“Mother, this is not a game. Your tears are wasted on me.”

“I don’t need you to believe me!” she hisses, “I only need to convince the court.”

“Perjury in exchange for salvation?” She wishes she didn’t sound surprised. There is a reason the archbishop fumbled when she mentioned the land of Chaos. While deserving souls enter Paradise, those less fortunate roam Chaos. An endless land of every impossible horror. “Repent. Save your life.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“You rather see yourself hanged? Is this what you want me to live with?” tears welled in her eyes, “despite everything I do love you, you are my mother.”

“I want you to suffer every day of your pathetic life.”

“Why do you say these things?” Her body shakes, she fights the sobs welling inside her. Nothing she does is good enough.

“Because you are pathetic coward!” she shouts, “a whiny tart ruined by a doting father. I failed to raise a queen; instead, Bellavere gains a lap dog. You are a disgrace, a disappointment.”

“Liar!”

“Instead of stopping me yourself you ran to your tramp friend! Then you have the nerve to return with Alexanderian soldiers? You are a coward. And if I know it, you damn well know the rest of the kingdom does. They are laughing at you! And I’m ashamed that you are my daughter.”

“How can you be this cruel?" She cries in her hands, "you are supposed to love me…”

“I never loved you!” Her heart slams against her chest as the tears rush from her eyes. On trembling legs, she runs for the door; pounding her fist against it until it clinks open. “There you go, Nicole, run—run like the coward you are.”