The Heiress

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In the gloom of an unknown room, a foul odour lingers, triggering memories of past dread. My heart races, echoing the alarm of my quickened breaths. The scent is familiar, yet elusive—perhaps a liquid?

The stone walls blur in the dim light, their cold, impersonal touch mirrored by the floor beneath my bare feet. I inhale, ready to scream, to discover if I’m alone, but the darkness answers unbidden.

A ghastly visage emerges, grey eyes glinting with malice. A smirk, revealing a row of predatory teeth, anticipates the taste of my despair. His fingers, entwined in pale hair, pull it back, clearing his view of my terror.

He approaches, tracing a jagged ‘C’ on my forearm with a tenderness that belies his intent. I yearn to scream, to cry for help, but my voice is stolen by a vile warmth filling my mouth. I’m choking, alone, the sound of my struggle punctuated by the drip of liquid on stone.

I awaken in my bed, the nightmare’s chill lingering. Beside me, Steven stirred amidst the pillows. The night breeze offers little comfort. I reassured myself, touching my throat, dispelling the remnants of the dream.

Steven’s sleepy murmur broke the silence. “I thought the dreams weren’t so bad with me here.” Guilt twinges as I disturbed his rest, he always insisted on watching over me until sleep claimed me again.

“The dreams are just the same,” I whispered back, caressing his face. “Go back to sleep.” I rose, the wooden floor’s warmth was a pleasant contrast to the dream’s chill. It was a comfort unique to the South, a balm against the night’s terror.

I shed my sweat-soaked clothes, seeking solace in the shower’s heat. The day ahead would be haunted by that relentless face, but I had to believe it would get better.

Steven should fall asleep; he usually does, effortlessly. I left the bedroom, dressed, and wandered to the living room. The letters on the table might offer a distraction.

A carafe and a glass awaited, alongside the blue pills. I down the spiced alcohol, its burn chasing away the pill’s bitterness. I settle on the sofa, the first letter in hand, the clock reading four in the morning. Perfect solitude.

Steven’s voice carried a hint of reproach. “I thought you’d return to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” I lied, avoiding the pull of sleep and its nightmares -I don’t feel like being captive.

“You are,” he insisted, lying down beside me, his gaze curious. “You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Stubborn? Hardly,” I retorted, discarding the open letter. It fluttered to the floor, a silent surrender to gravity. Its contents, a baron’s plea for conversion approval, held no interest for me. Such matters were beyond my concern.

Steven’s voice, tinged with humour, broke the silence. “I know no one more steadfast than you—perhaps only father rivals your resolve, yet even he yields at times.” I shook my head; Edgar’s obstinacy far surpassed mine, his manner often abrasive. The comparison seemed unjust.

I turned my attention to another letter, this one from Lord Haiden Beau Galleren. His words bristled with disdain for the Council’s newest member—a mage from Athran. His ignorance was glaring; the mages’ ascendancy in the Council was by design, not accident.

Steven’s suggestion pierced my thoughts. “We should take more time off. Yesterday was fun.” I nodded, though Galleren’s scrawl on the page before me sparked irritation. He and his little friend Bearon seemed to believe they commanded the Council, but their delusions were crumbling.

“You seem less than thrilled,” Steven observed, his posture shifting to a mocking one. I glanced up, meeting his expectant gaze. “Forgive me, I was distracted,” I admitted, setting aside the letter. “Yesterday was perfect. In every single way. And while I'd prefer not to be part of the celebrations in Athran, I can't wait to spend the whole week with you.”

His eyes closed once more, content with my response. “You’ll accompany me in the North, save for a few obligations. A handful of dinners and temple visits, nothing more.” I was curious to see him among his friends, a circle unfamiliar to me.

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“I look forward to it, though I’ll pass on the temple,” I declared. “I’ve no interest in hearing twisted tales about my lineage, especially in Athran.” His soft chuckle was the only reply.

Returning to Galleren’s grievances, I pondered a response. The letter claimed Iohanna lacked the authority to nominate Gallien. With pencil in hand, I crafted a succinct reply, citing the Council’s rules and the autonomy of its members. Personal biases toward mages held no weight here. I signed and folded the letter with a resigned sigh.

“Something’s wrong?” Steven inquired, his eyes still shut. I assumed he was drifting back to sleep.

“Just contemplating Galleren’s place on the Council,” I mused, letting the pencil vanish. The letter joined others on the desk for Riley to dispatch. “Why is he still there?”

“Council members serve indefinitely, do they not?” His question seemed rhetorical.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I replied, a hint of irritation in my voice. I had no desire for an argument; Steven took such matters to heart. “He’s only fifty-seven.”

“Yeah… only, if he irks you so much, you have the authority to dismiss him,” Steven said, his frown deepening. “Knowing you, I'd say you've had a reason for that for quite some time.”

Removing Galleren was not my desire; the effort was daunting. “It’s too much paperwork,” I replied with a smile. “His disdain for mages is what grates on me. He parades around as if he owns the world, wielding his family’s legacy like a sceptre. His latest ‘achievement’ was a tiny tax reform for a small part of herbalists, likely whispered in his ear by Bearon. He’s oblivious to the real issues at hand…” I paused, taking a deep breath. “Never mind. You should go back to sleep.”

“I’m wide awake,” he countered, his smile playful. A sudden knock interrupted us.

“Today’s agenda seems full already,” I mused, opening the door without a single move.

Damien, clad in a pristine white uniform adorned with geometric patterns, burst in, a package in hand. “I hoped you’d still be up,” he announced. My eyes darted to the clock; the minute hand had courageously scaled half its journey.

“I’m already up,” I affirmed, standing and stretching. Whatever Damien’s plan entailed, I needed to prepare. “What do you want?”

“A brief stint in Lemford, some rest, and perhaps strong coffee… what I want isn’t really the issue. Stephan believes we’ve neglected the far east for too long—it’s time for a reminder,” he stated, placing the red box down, his grin wide.

“That’s just wonderful,” I yawned, the prospect unappealing. The far east meant Mergo Hensya, a land overwhelmed by its magical burden. Bound by treaty, its cities were annexed to Zessia, under the Heirs’ dominion. The occurrences there were unparalleled. “I can’t just leave.”

“Nonsense. I’ve already arranged it with the secretary—Relly, Ralle… whatever his name is. You’ll be back in three days,” he insisted, gesturing towards the door.

“It’s never just three days, Damien,” I chuckled. He knew better.

He motioned towards the box. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“I presume it’s another uniform,” I said, reaching for the box with resignation.

Damien hesitated. “If only you’d stop ruining them,” he chided.

“Ever tried removing blood from white fabric?” I quipped.

“No, and neither have you,” he retorted, chuckling as he adjusted his gloves. His cheerfulness was infectious.

I rolled my eyes and proceeded to dress. There was no escaping this duty; my oath bound me. At least, accompanying Damien would offer a distraction from the nightmares and dull affairs of my kingdom.

I donned white trousers and a shirt patterned with intricate triangles, then draped a coat over my shoulders, its design akin to a cape. How I wished to conceal my daggers within, but the uniform allowed no such convenience. The gloves would come last; for now, they hung from my waist.

I rejoined Steven and Damien, their hushed conversation pausing as I approached. Steven’s furrowed brow betrayed his disapproval of my departure. He probably viewed it as an unnecessary risk, not realising that this was my duty, my choice.

“I’m ready,” I declared. Damien’s scrutinising gaze swept over me, ensuring every detail of my uniform was in place. A single flaw would mar the family’s image he so meticulously upheld.

“You’re missing your sword,” he observed, his tone leaving no room for excuses. Reluctantly, I acknowledged the oversight and fastened my sword to my waist, seeking his approval with a raised eyebrow. He inspected me once more, adjusted a sleeve, and finally nodded, satisfied.

“White suits you,” Steven murmured, his voice a soft farewell. I embraced him, wishing I didn’t have to leave him behind. “Do you have to go?”

“It’s my job—the real one,” I reassured him with a smile. “I’ll be back in three days, as I always am. Look after yourself.”

“You too,” he replied, his voice tinged with concern. “Don’t die!”