Clythia was affixing her signature to scrolls required by the lords and ladies of DavinSaw for approval.

There was the construction of new infirmaries; despite the decree, it was challenging to break a habit suddenly, and people were still suffering from it.

Also, there were curriculum changes to be enacted when the new term started for Wigmond, Sravask, IlyanKram schools, and other smaller educational institutions scattered throughout the continent. Changes that accommodated the altered magic system. The curriculum that had withstood the test of time for countless millennia was now being dethroned by her seal.

There were also other requests she hadn’t had enough time to approve in the past, now piled up like horrendous trash; perhaps she should hire a steward. Neither in her lifetime, nor in her parents’ lifetimes, did she recall urgent matters with such magnitude. There were only minor tasks, and most didn’t make it up to the royals.

So, it was a long day for her as she waded through them all, reading carefully one by one and signing them until her eyes stung. Having been at this task for the past two weeks, boredom was killing her.

In the afternoon, she was at the Dueling Hall, relaxing the muscles that were cooped up all day. If there was anything Clythia hated, it was sitting for an excruciating long hours; the reason why she wouldn’t perch on her throne like the preened queen her mother was. When was the last time she visited the throne room? Decades ago.

She swung the spear with a wide sweeping motion, pivoting on her back foot, allowing the spear to arc to the side. Then vertical lift. Shift grip. Rotate spear around body. Twirl in an out of arm's reach. Straight thrust. Lunge thrust.

“Mom, I have been looking for you,” a feeble voice sounded from the gate. Clen’s voice.

Clythia whipped her attention to the gate, spear frozen in her hand, swiftly positioning her legs together.

“Back so soon?” she smirked. “No girl fancied you today?”

Clen would always leave after lunch, after setting the palace on fire with his loud singalong with the gardener, who hummed ‘Cacti’—an atrocious alarm to wake Clythia—or with whatever ominous explosions resounded from his chamber.

Then, past midnight, he returned with one or more girls climbing on him as bees did on flowers. Clythia was thankful she didn’t have to see the monstrosity as she tucked in early, but sometimes in the morning, she would see a girl scuttling away like a caught mouse or the bolder ones bowing to her before escorting themselves out of the palace.

“I don’t feel so good,” he stumbled forward. Clythia flung the spear to the floor and grabbed his body as it was heading halfway to the ground. His heavy weight pressed against her arms, making her stagger back. She grunted as she lifted him off the floor.

“What happened to you?” Clythia ran her fingers over his head, cheeks, and neck. “Ilyana save me, you are burning!”

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Clythia waited to see if Clen’s health would improve, casting spells and enchantments as they came to mind, but his state had deteriorated rapidly, with no witchcraft able to restore him to vigor.

He was shivering and sweating, his eyes shifting in and out of focus. She had brought him to his chamber, and no amount of blankets or the summoned ring of flames around his bed seemed to ease the coldness his body was fighting against.

The dark stone walls, prompted by the flames, scorched the atmosphere into an unbreathable thickness. Her body was soaked, and she whimpered as she inhaled and exhaled. But nothing blocked her lungs as much as the panic that ravaged through her upon seeing her son captured by a cruel malediction.

Had someone cursed him? Someone jealous of his status? Someone who wanted to bargain with his health in exchange for something? Clythia bet it was one of his mistresses. She would behead each and every one of them until she discovered the culprit.

Clythia summoned the royal mage healer, who appeared immediately at the door but staggered when the full blast of steam from the chamber hit him as he stepped in. He was wearing a green gown of a healer, woven with gold around his neck, and his pale skin had turned tomato-red in an instant.

The healer cast spells, muttered enchantments, and poured potions down Clen’s throat, but he only achieved to halt Clen’s shivering.

Clythia's frustration was growing by the minute.

An hour passed, then two, then three.

“There is nothing I can do, my queen.” The healer gave her a curt, sympathetic nod, frowning his heavily bushed eyebrows.

“What do you mean you can’t do anything?” Clythia’s voice thundered. “You fucking better fix him, healer,” she hurled the last word as a mingle of insult and threat, “Or I will torture the shit out of you!”

The healer balked at her words, and he began blurting out all the means he had tried to save Clen, but Clythia’s attention had dunked to the word she had shouted.

Torture.

“If you don’t start behaving, I will torture you. And it won’t be the kind of torture you will enjoy. You have submitted your freedom willingly, and now I get to do what I want with you, my queen.”

Tiyus’ words rang through her veins.

She was a fool, such a damned fool, to think that Afia’s slipping on the wet floor was a mere coincidence rather than a warning. In the first few days, she was certain it was Tiyus’ doing, but as many matters flocked to her attention, she postponed contacting Glythia and there were no consequences whatsoever. Thus, some part of her had started to believe that the lack of consequences was a confirmation that the only responsible culprit was the wet floor.

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“Pick,” Tiyus had said. “Should I take out a potential friend or the apple of your eye?”

And now Tiyus had picked for her; he had picked the apple of her eye, the center of her life—past, present, and future—and the hope of the kingdom: her one and only son.

Clen was dying.

The realization barreled through her, forming a crate of bone-crushing agony in her heart.

No.

“Out,” she said, her lips trembling. The healer was still blabbering, his gruff voice like an incessant fly as his words were swallowed by her own thoughts. But his tone conveyed a politeness a healer would use before sharing an inevitable doom of a news.

As soon as he left the chamber, Clythia’s knees collided with the floor. She must have been crying because her eyes were blurry, and dampness was streaming down her cheeks.

“Tiyus,” she sobbed, covering her face with her palms, “Tiyus, please, I beg of you. I will go to Stormia. I will do whatever you want, but please don’t take my son away from me. Please.”

Nothing happened.

After what felt like hours on the stone floor, she willed the fire to vanish and opened the window for fresh air. She removed the pile of blankets from her son. Despite his glistening features, the color had drained from his face. What kind of pain was he enduring for his mind to blackout? Clythia didn’t want to linger on the thought.

“Casarda,” she called.

The lady of Melop, adorned with a red transparent dress, appeared before her. At first, confusion marred her features as she had never been summoned by Clythia for over a hundred years, but then her eyes fell on Clen and her face blanched. A sorrow only a mother possessed flashed through her eyes.

Clythia summoned a parchment and began scribbling, all the while aware of Casarda’s eyes on her.

To Glythia Amandaw

The Prime of the werewolves and the king of MakeFort

I will join you on the journey to Stormia. If you agree to accompany me, let’s meet at the island Neut.

From Clythia Hoverlow

Queen of mages and DavinSaw

Clythia didn’t even care enough to proofread her letter before she sealed it with DavinSaw’s insignia, which was just the initial ‘D’.

DavinSaw was the only continent with no flag or intricate symbol to represent its kingdom, and the lack of it ironically was an identifier by itself. The ‘D’ initial on letters was as far as it would go to inform other nations of its involvement in the affair at hand.

Casarda extended her slender fingers, the back of red-painted nails poking through like talons as Clythia slammed the letter onto her palm.

“Deliver this,” Clythia’s voice was hoarse, fixing her gaze on her. “And I will know if you opened the seal, just a warning before you get snoopy.”

“No worries, my queen,” Casarda gave a quick nod, “I will deliver this message with no interference from myself or my messengers.”

The spies of DavinSaw were also the messengers sent to other nations if need arose, but it was so rare that there was a possibility it wouldn’t occur in one’s lifetime.

Casarda Diseventuated, giving Clen a final pitying look.

As soon as she did, General Arkansov bolted through the door. His gilded armor was stark against the dark aesthetic of the room, the metal rattling as he approached.

“I came as soon as I heard. The healer was blabbing about your son’s sickness, so I had to erase his memory alongside with others he told. No reason to feed the hungry belly of gossipers,” he snarled.

Clythia didn’t care if the whole world was aware or not; right then and there, all that mattered was her son’s well-being. His smile, his deafening ruckus, even his rage when he claimed he hated her. She was starved for his presence. Anything but the still, cold boy before her, anything but the rippling silence no one was able to disrupt.

“What happened?” The general rested a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s Tiyus,” she blurted before she could stop herself. Given the general’s bewildered face, she continued, “I think it’s him.”

And then she told him what happened on the first night with Tiyus, not the nitty-gritty, but how they had almost shared a bed because of some unexplainable headiness Tiyus possessed when he was around, emphasizing how he was something beyond a handsome face and a provocative body. And then of the second night and his claim on her, and also that he sent the seer, which Clythia went on to provide a whole other explanation of her encounter at the market.

All the while, the General was composed as he heard the story, not even a flicker of emotion passing through his face.

“There is still something I don’t understand about this... Tiyus,” he finally said, the name rolling off his tongue in disgust. “What did he mean by ‘claim’? Also, you said the seer can see the future because of the Shadow’s power and she was one of his minions. What does that make him? Is he an agent of the Shadow?”

“I don’t know,” Clythia grimaced. “Whatever he is, he is not a wizard. Look what he did to my son. No spell or potion is working on him.” Her gaze landed on Clen, on his slow rising and falling chest, tears crowding her eyes.

“How did he claim you?” The General inquired, eyes narrowing slightly.

Damn it, she had been hoping Arkansov would forget about that for a moment. “Well, we didn’t—you know—do anything, but uh, how can I say this—you know what, fuck it. As I told you, he is charming in every possible way. You can’t stop thinking about being intimate if he is around,” she confessed. The general’s brow shot up. “And he asked me, you know, to...”

“To be intimate with you?” The general’s tone was soft, as if he was reassuring his daughter that everything would be alright.

“No.” Clythia’s cheeks were burning, and that had nothing to do with the dissipating heat. “He asked me if I wanted the finality of pleasure from him without doing the deed.”

“Aha.” The General’s eyes were scouring everywhere, possibly regretting he had peered further.

“And he said there was no turning back if I said yes.”

Then she filled him in about their conversation the next night, the leash that appeared around her neck, which prompted fury on the General’s face, and he completely exploded when she told him about Tiyus’ order to go to Stormia.

“That’s absolute insanity,” the General yelled. “That vile beast is only trying to get you killed!”

“Yes, and that vile beast almost killed Afia.”

Arkansov’s startled gasp was her cue to continue, and she went on to explain how Tiyus coerced her into doing his bidding. Now that she had ignored his warning, her son was—

“Mom, why on Zyvern are you shouting? Can’t you keep it down?”

One minute Clythia was gazing at the General, slumped and despaired; the next, she was on top of Clen, wrapping around him, pulling him to sit, and squeezing him tight.

“Clen, my dear son,” she began, another round of tears streaming down her cheeks, mingling with the sweat that soaked his neck and tunic. “You are finally well.”

A startled sound, etched with mockery, left Clen’s throat. “You are scary when you’re nice, Mom. Just stick to throwing knives, not this.”

They all chuckled.

“Glad you’re better, Clen. How are you feeling?” the General asked as Clythia let go of her son.

“It’s weird,” Clen ran his fingers over his body, brows bunched. “I don’t feel any pain.” He lurched to his feet and began jumping up and down. “I’m as husky as a fine steed.”

Clythia snorted, but a huge relief washed through her. She wanted to hurl an insult at Tiyus, but that was as stupid as testing if a needle would poke.

It was annoying and extremely humiliating that her greedy, lustful self got the better of her; she was the one who had asked Tiyus to be a distraction the first time, didn’t bat an eye as she invited him to her bedchamber. She was embarrassed.

What would the General think of her? Her gaze darted to him, and as if he was reading her mind, he gave her a ghost of a grin and a nod. He didn’t seem to judge her, but Clythia wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

“Next time, it will be a spear,” Clythia scowled at Clen. “Now shower the stink off your body. Even a steed smells better than you.”

Clen grinned from ear to ear, splaying his arms wide. “There she is. My beloved hag.”

The general muttered something like, “Unhinged royal line.”