Page 1 of The Witch Queen

Prologue

“Getyourassupand be the Queen your people deserve,” a familiar feminine voice commands over the clinks and grunts of the battle below. “You don’t have the luxury of falling apart, not when your people are dying to protectyou.”

Nemesia, my General and the only person who would dare address me so curtly, crouches down beside me and places her calloused warrior’s hand on my back. Voice softening, she adds, “I know you’re tired. I know you’re grieving. We all are. But if we lose this battle, it might be the end. Our only option is to keep pushing forward. We need a plan, Laurel.”

I stand and look down upon the battle from the hilltop where our command is set up, desperation and fear threatening to consume me. Fae soldiers clad in armor fight in the Valley of Moormyr below me, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, the wild thayar flowers crushed beneath their feet.

Just five years ago, my parents brought me to a festival held in this very valley. Now, the crimson petals and dark green leaves are indistinguishable from the blood, mud, and other gore of a three-day long battle. No one prepared me for the stench of war, or the mess of it, and I’ve learned the hard way in the last two months what endless skirmishes, raids, and battles do to the once picturesque landscape of my kingdom.

Grief stabs my insides, sending me to my knees again as I remember my parents and the festival that was their favorite event in Thayaria. Tears run down my face as I crumple, curling myself into a ball. I’ll never be able to finish this war, will never live up to the legacy of my parents. They ruled Thayaria for three hundred years, providing our kingdom with three centuries of peace and prosperity—how could I possibly replace them? I’m nowhere near ready to rule, not at only twenty years old. I was supposed to have centuries of training and preparation before I inherited their throne. With the long lives of the fae, my parents should have lived long enough to pass the throne to me gradually, staying on as advisors until I was ready to rule on my own. Now I’m alone, with no one to guide me or tell me how to end this war.

“Pull it together, Laurel,” Nemesia hisses, though not unkindly, breaking through my inner turmoil. Nemesia’s hand doesn’t leave my back as I stand again, knees weak and limbs uncertain. With a deep inhale, I turn to face the closest person I’ve ever had to a sibling, her hazel eyes staring back at me with deep set resolve. She’s barely out of fae adolescence herself, our centuries-long lives extending what humans consider early adulthood well into our fourth decade. At forty years old, she’s what humans consider early twenties, while I’m practically a teenager. Despite her age, Nemesia was the only person I considered appointing General of my armies when the time came to choose her mother’s replacement. “We need a plan. And I will not make it without you,” she repeats, her tall, lithe body—so unlike my own—towering over me. Tendrils of white-blonde hair escape her braid as the wind caresses her sharp and angular features. Dark tawny skin ripples with muscles in a tense stance.

“We need a plan,” I repeat, nodding in acknowledgement of all the things Nemesia isn’t saying aloud.We need my magic. Magic that I’m barely capable of wielding and that no one understands, myself included. Magic that my parents insisted—demanded—I keep secret. They gave their lives trying to protect me, trying to keep the full extent of my powers and my lack of control over them locked away. But I knew this moment would come. No matter how hard my parents fought to keep my magic—to keepme—a secret, I knew it wouldn’t work. Part of me wonders if that’s why Mazus launched this war to begin with. He wanted me to reveal the secrets of the prophecy-blessed heir, now ruler, of Thayaria.

Nemesia gives me an encouraging smile, lips cracked from weeks of sun and wind exposure.

I can’t allow myself to dwell on the prophecy, not now, not when it has completely and utterly destroyed my life. A fated love that will unite realms is what I was apparently destined for, though in much more flowery language than that. My entire life I’ve been lauded and praised for all the good I would eventually do, envied for the fate that awaited me. But the prophecy is nonsense. All I have is magic I can’t control, the blood of my people on my hands, and an impossible choice. I squeeze my eyes shut and deeply inhale, then center myself within the current of the aether flowing around me. I hold my breath for three seconds, then slowly exhale—just like I was taught by the leymaster my parents brought in when I started displaying abnormal magical powers at the age of nine.

Opening my eyes, Nemesia still stares back at me, eyes wide with expectation.

“What if there is no plan, Neme? What if—what if I don’t have enough magic to stop this?” I ask softly, my voice trembling.

Nemesia takes my hands in hers, looking deep into my eyes and seeing through me,like she always does. “I’ve seen you tap into the aether deeper than anyone ever has, Laurel.”

I sigh, dropping her hands. Her belief in me is both fortifying and suffocating. I look back down at the battle. My armies have dwindled to a few hundred soldiers, while Mazus has battalions still waiting in his army camp just outside the valley who have yet to join the fight. My eyes lock onto a female Thayarian soldier battling three massive Velmaran males, and my body tenses with recognition. She was once assigned to my personal guard. Though outnumbered, she drives forward with her sword, stabbing one Velmaran soldier in the stomach and parrying to slash the arm of another. For a moment, there’s a flare of hope in my chest that she may be able to take them—before a fourth soldier comes up behind her. He knocks her to the ground and swiftly slices the back of her neck. She slumps to the ground and doesn’t get up again.

Bile rises in my throat, but I force myself to stay standing. My shoulders slump in shame—I cannot remember her name.

Resolve hardens in my chest. My magic will not be enough—not with how unpredictable my control is. Night after night of this war, I’ve practiced, trying to use my aether gifts consistently. But each night, my empty hands remind me of all I’ve lost. No, there’s no plan, no scenario where we win this war. I decide on what a part of me always knew was inevitable.

“Send a message to Mazus,” I whisper to Nemesia, not wanting to say the words aloud but having no other option. “I want an audience with him. And a temporary respite from the battle while we…negotiate.”Nemesia gives me a hard look, the angles of her expression creating a sharp line from her jaw to her pointed fae ears. “Until then, we hold the line in case he doesn’t agree to the ceasefire.”

“What are you planning?” she asks warily.

“He asked for my hand. And like a fool I turned him down, believing myself destined for something greater because of that damned prophecy. Believing I didn’t have to marry a centuries-old male who makes my skin crawl.” I will not allow fanciful dreams to kill my people for another minute. “Send the message.” The last words are firm and final, the whispering uncertainty gone from my voice. I give her a look that once upon a time she would have told me was myqueenlook, eyes hardened and lips pursed. Then, we would have laughed at the idea that I’d one day be a queen. Now she only nods, hesitating briefly before striding back to the tent. I hear her shouting orders to her commanders, firm and brokering no argument. Several fae leave the war tent to send out the message to hold the line and not retreat. Not yet, at least.

It was always going to lead to this.I’ve given up on the idea of fated mates and destinies. Those dreams died with my parents.

Thayarian soldiers—my soldiers—battle two and three opponents at a time while we wait for what feels like ages for a response from Mazus. They’re tired and faltering. Then, I hear it: horns blaring and the order to fall back from the Velmaran commanders echoing across the valley. The Velmaran soldiers dutifully depart, eyes on my soldiers and weapons still up as they back away from the line of fighting. The brows of my soldiers furrow in skepticism, unsure what’s brought the fighting to such an abrupt halt.

My eyes immediately find Nemesia when I walk into the war tent. Her hardened eyes and the tense shoulders of her lieutenants make my heart drop from my chest. Reaching the huddled group, I ask, “What are his terms?”

“We can’t accept them, Your Majesty,” Nemesia quickly answers. “We’re preparing a missive now with our counter proposal.”

“What are his terms?” I demand this time, using the voice laced with the aether that compels any who are less powerful than me to obey my orders. I once loved hearing my mother use this voice.

Nemesia sighs. “He wants you to meet him in his personal tent. Alone. He asks that you bring no weapons, no advisors, and no guards. It’s an outrageous demand.”

“I’ll accept.”

“But—”

“Tell him I’ll be there in an hour,” I interrupt, then turn away, unable to meet Nemesia’s eyes. I know what she’s thinking. That I can’t do this. That this is everything my parents fought for and gave their lives to prevent. But I’m not willing to sacrifice my people in a selfish pursuit of love or magic.

An hour later, the crimson silk of my empire-waist dress swirls around me as I scan the Velmaran encampment across the valley, a spring storm building that makes the air dance with electricity. This is the same place I stood three days ago as this battle began, with the hope of a decisive victory filling my chest. Now all I feel is cold resolve.

“Are you sure—” Nemesia tries to say.

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