“Oh no, no. It’s nothing like that. We didn’t do anything at all.” Clythia shook her head in a supposed effort of vigor, which felt like craning not one but three heads. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavy. The polished ebony tiles rose up to meet her, but then strong hands—Arkansov’s hands—gripped her by the arm, confusion and shock addling his face.

“My lady, is this the doing of this... Tiyus, or are you drunk?” The general drawled the name as though it were a hair he had found in his meal. His hazel eyes was inspecting her, inches away from her face.

“Hangover,” Clythia lied. “I need a strength potion.”

The general slowly let go of her arms, leaning her against the handrails. Once he was sure she wouldn’t collapse like a drunk, he stretched out his palm, and a vial of violet liquid appeared.

Clythia snatched it and gulped down its contents in one go, as though her life depended on it. The spicy and sugary taste of the vial seared through her tongue and throat. It took a few seconds for the effect to kick in. Her body felt lighter and stronger. She moved her arms and legs; the exhaustion had ebbed away. Mostly. To her surprise, she felt a slight strain in her muscles—the kind one would feel after a simple workout.

She wasn’t supposed to feel any weakness. The strength potion had the ability to eradicate any exhaustion from its drinker and give super strength in its stead. However, Clythia only managed to regain some of her strength, while the rest was lost beyond the potion’s power.

“Are you alright now?” the general asked.

“Yes. Fine as a gazelle,” she said with a clap. The general didn’t look convinced but didn’t press her further.

“Good. In that case, we need to talk,” his expression turned stern.

“Oh yes, we do. First, assign guards all over the palace. I don’t want any surprises anymore. Second, ask anyone if they have seen a man with gray eyes, black hair, broad shoulders, and six feet tall on the castle grounds. Third, I want hairdressers and waiters to be assigned. Immediately,” she said with a cold tone.

“Yes, my lady,” the general bowed his head with a curt. “But I haven’t heard anything after you mentioned ‘grey eyes.’”

Arkansov said it with such a smooth face that she barked out a laugh. "Asshole."

“He really does sound like your type. Are you sure you haven’t invited him in?” His lips quirked up.

“And here I thought you were a responsible general, who would worry for his queen’s safety,” she heaved a sigh. “When I get back from the market—and I know you haven’t missed a word of what I said,” she pointed a finger at him, “get it done.”

“My lady, I wanted to talk to you about... why haven’t you told me about the Shadow’s magic?” Clythia was hurrying past him when his words halted her abruptly.

The tint of mockery had faded from his tone.

For a moment, Clythia pondered if she wanted to disclose her reasons to him. If she was ready to deal with his reaction after he discovered what it took to keep DavinSaw intact-ish. But another time would do. She had many things to sort out now, and dealing with Arkansov’s tantrum was at the bottom of her list

"Get it done." Was the only thing she said again, before storming down the spiraling stairs.

It took her thirty minutes before the mirror to flatten her unyielding hair with a copious amount of gel, put it in a bun, and drape over it a yellow thawb with a headband of emerald stones—a sign of a wealthy merchant. She changed her silver dress for a black tunic and leather pants.

With a flick of her fingers, her brown eyes turned green, her lips became fuller, her skin a bit darker, and her rear more rounded. With a hum of approval at the reflection of the woman before her, she left.

No one stopped her or asked for her identity as she spiraled down to the castle grounds, past the gardens, and emerged into the vibrant capital city. The magic she wielded made her invisible to all residents of the castle and entirely someone else to the outside world. No one would recognize her as their queen.

The rays of the scorching sun were swallowed by the ominous, black castle behind her—a foreboding presence with spiked turrets and towers. Its dark-glassed domes faintly allowed light to flicker in. Though it wasn’t the highest building in the capital, the elevated ground allowed it to tower over all the other buildings.

On the other hand, the capital was bustling with people. The wide cobblestones were busy with witches and wizards in chariots and on foot. The houses arrayed on either side of the cobblestone street ranged from quaint dwellings to grand villas and imposing towers—most with spacious grounds. The taller buildings had spiked roofs or domes like her castle.The crooked houses had adopted darker hues, while others were vivid, glowing under the scorching sun with flowers blooming in their small gardens.

Clythia took a few turns, leading her through alleys and squares where the business of the city thrived. The breeze made her trek tolerable as it diminished the might of the scorching sun. Here, the buildings were uniform; instead of reflecting personal taste, they were built for convenience. The infirmaries were a bland white, while the inns were painted with colors designed to attract customers, like blue or red. Guards clad in silver armor and purple cloak were stationed at squares and some buildings.

It didn’t take her long to notice there was almost no one wielding magic. No Eventuating or Diseventuating. No floating of objects or gliding. No summoning or flying. Perhaps it was the change in lifestyle or the usual stress of the day, but the faces she gazed at were aloof and grumpy. She had encountered only some children playing in a hidden alley. The game, Magipond—a challenge of scoring how many bounces one could make without touching, within a limited amount of time, a few inches above their heads. The children’s gleefulness was short-lived as a guard appeared, and they scattered off in all directions.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Finally, she arrived at the biggest market in all of DavinSaw. The Highway Market. Instead of buildings, a never-ending array of vendor booths and canopy tents sprawled on the sandy ground before her. Merchants screeched at the top of their lungs at people making their way through, waving clothes, seasonings, and herbs in their faces. Clythia brushed their outstretched hands off her face as if they were twigs in the forest, ignoring the temptation of the alluring aromas.

The merchants that blocked paths mostly wore a thawb with rubies as a headband—a sign of a low-status merchant who couldn’t afford an emerald or a diamond. While, the wealthy merchants, adorned with the most precious stones of Zyvern, had wider canopy and never left their tent even if no customer was with them.

There were more gatherings at the potions and magical items section of the market. There were many "sold out" signs too, with tents that had finished their magical products though the day was still young.

Clythia was going nowhere in particular. When she was bored and cocooned in the castle, she liked to lose herself in the market, where the heartbeat of DavinSaw bloomed. But now, it wasn’t boredom that drove her feet here, but a sense of overwhelm. She needed to think, and the chaos helped with that.

Would it be a bad idea to confront the Sovereign? Could she live with the scrap of magic the Shadow was providing? She mumbled an apology as she bumped into an elderly woman.

A cherry-hued tent, harboring a very long queue, stole her attention. The line was so long that it disappeared between canopy tents to an end her train of sight couldn’t trace.

Clythia approached a tall man wearing a yellow cloak, gaining scowls from people who thought she was cutting in line.

“What’s in that tent?” She tilted her chin toward it.

A couple, faces grim and pale, were coming out of it as a man who was next in line disappeared within.

“A seer,” the man whispered, stooping his head towards her.

“A seer?” Clythia was taken aback. “So you are all foolish enough to stand in the blazing sun to be scammed out of your money?”

Those who were within earshot glared at her, annoyed and a bit surprised by the authority in her voice.

The last recorded seer in DavinSaw was Ilyana, but after the pact with the Sovereign, the gift had never manifested in anyone. There had been no seer in DavinSaw for the past two hundred millennia unless...

“You can find out if you want,” he said, his eastern accent from Melop discernible. “The seer told my neighbor he would die after two weeks, and he did.”

“My sister married a handsome man last week because the seer told her they were fated together,” came a soft voice from behind the man. The woman was a plump and short merchant, clad with ruby headband. “He was like one of the princes you read about in fairy tales, perfect in every possible way. Handsome and rich. We had such a grand wedding,” she said wistfully.

“And how long has this been going on?” Clythia glared at the tent—two men emerged, one cackling and the other pissed off.

“A month,” the man from Melop said.

“What?” Clythia bellowed. “How? When?”

“Why don’t you ask the queen?” a short man with a hoarse voice said, gaining a few sniggers. “She ruined the land’s magic, changing it for a strange one that’s killing us off one by one. At least knowing our fates is the only good thing coming out of this shit.”

Clythia wanted to barrel her knuckles into the man’s crooked face. She bet he and Lord Kip would make excellent friends if class wasn’t a barrier.

“It is not the queen’s fault the blight happened in the first place,” Clythia said through clenched teeth.

“But she could have confronted the Sovereign. Instead, she is rolling in her lavish palace, bathing in honey and milk, while the rest of us suffer,” another man spat. Some grunted in agreement.

These wretched, ungrateful people. It took Clythia all the discipline she honed to not snap their necks one by one.

“People are getting their wishes, at least.” The merchant woman was gazing at the red canopy as if her knight in shining armor was there.

“And omens,” the tall man added grimly.

Clythia ignored the cries of protest as she made her way to the tent. Some stepped out of the queue to block her, but they found themselves on the sandy ground with a precise hit of elbows and knuckles. After a few of them spat red and their noses bled, no one dared to stop her.

Clythia barged into the tent. A woman with auburn hair snapped her attention towards her, first shocked, then angry.

“Get out. It is my turn,” she yelled at Clythia, her red dress swaying as she scrambled to her feet.

Clythia’s attention shifted past the woman’s shoulders to another figure sitting still, like a statue. Her skin was as white as paper, so much so that it would put Morven’s countenance in the full-of-life section. Her shoulder bones jutted out, and the terrain of her ribcage was visible beneath the white garment, complementing her ghostly skin. Dark circles as deep as charcoal surrounded her eyes. The hair at the back of Clythia rose as those eyes rolled up to meet hers.

“Off you go.” The woman in red was waving her arms for Clythia to leave, as though she was a pet leaving grime on a tidy floor.

“Finally, the person I was looking for,” came a smooth, melodious voice from the ghostly face.

The woman in red turned to the seer in disbelief. She opened her mouth to protest, but Clythia quickly said, “If you don’t leave this tent right now, your corpse will.”

“Oh yeah?” The woman snorted, arms crossed, her auburn hair dancing.

Then she observed the dried blood on Clythia’s knuckles—she flinched, and scuttled out of the tent without looking back.

“Sit,” the seer stretched a bony hand towards the chair.

Clythia settled herself warily. “So, seer, let’s hear it. I heard you’re the buzz in town.”

The seer’s shoulders shook as she snickered. It was a miracle her bones didn’t snap. “I am flattered by the attention, but I am only here until I have served you, my collared queen.”

A nauseating dread settled low in Clythia’s stomach. She leaned back against the back of the seat. Not only did she know her concealed identity, but she had referred to her as—

“Collared?”

The seer’s chin twisted, her neck still. “Are you not collared with the Shadow? Didn’t you swear your allegiance to a god your ancestors had abandoned?”

“I worship no god,” Clythia said. “And I am not collared. My proposition with the Shadow was a give and take.”

But why did that feel like a lie? Why did it feel like the Shadow was getting the upper hand instead of her, gaining the most out of this proposition?

“Now heed my words before you fall into the wrong hands,” the seer hummed.

Her black eyes went out of focus, as if she was peering through the veil of the spirit world.

“In land forsaken, dreams awake,

With the wisest one, a pact was made.

It swooned the queen to abandon her bed,

Leaving her land for the flair to take,” the seer sang in a beautiful voice.

Then her eyes came into focus.

Clythia stared at her for a moment, hoping for elaboration, but the seer went still.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Clythia felt really dumb.

“My queen, that’s for you to figure out,” said the seer, condescension etching her tone.

“I can’t believe people pay for your shit show.” Clythia leapt to her feet, the seer’s eyes following her, unfazed. “That can have like a million meanings.”

“It-t i-is f-for you to f-f-f-find the r-ight one,” the seer struggled to form the words. “M-m-y q-q-uest is over.”

A gurgling sound escaped the seer's throat before she turned into a pile of ash—showering the table, the chairs and Clythia.