Page 6 of The Witch Queen

I close my eyes, focusing on the western coast where I feel the disruption. The mist perks its head up at my magical gaze and whispers to me.Rebel. Bad Intentions. Kill.The person attempting to shove their way through the barrier is wrapped in a blanket of dew and hauled into the center of the hazy wall. I hesitate for a moment, considering whether to give whoever this is a second chance. But the mist insists, practically screaming in my head the need for justice. While I may not know what this person has done, I trust the mist’s judgement, even if I can’t explain why. With a deep inhale, I unleash my fury, their bones and organs evaporating instantly. The mist settles, content and humming once again, and I bring my consciousness back into my body.

Anger courses through me as I finish my breakfast, and I use it to bury any guilt I may feel from my merciless decision.How dare someone attempt to breach my mist.A rebel, no less, and when I was having a relaxing morning. I rip apart the sweet bread in my hands with more vigor than usual. Remembering the rebels currently sitting in chains far below me, I aerstep to the palace dungeons.

The Thayarian palace is built into the side of a mountain named Verdeshorn, and our holding cells are buried deep below its peak. The damp and earthy space is dark and ominous, and I use the water in the air to gather an eerie mist around me, then dim the lights emanating from the torches on the wall. I will the temperature to drop—I want the prisoners to know I’m coming. Most fae can’t use their magic down here because of the iron the floors and walls are made with, but those rules don’t apply to me, and they’ll be all the more terrified because of it.

“Your Majesty.” The guards on duty see me and bow deeply. “We didn’t realize you were coming today.” Their eyes are wide in apprehension at my surprise appearance. “Would you like us to send someone for the Captain?”

“That won’t be necessary. Captain Carex is busy with other duties. Please, bring the prisoners to the interrogation room.”

When the first prisoner is brought in, a fae male with blonde hair, I direct the guard to chain him to the wall before dismissing him. My steps echo as I prowl closer to the prisoner, eyes unblinking in a stare meant to make him squirm.

The male spits at me. “I won’t tell you anything,Witch.”I only smirk.

“Now, now, surely you can come up with a better insult than that,” I murmur. “My moniker is theWitch Queen,after all. It’s hardly even an insult. But, no matter, I will overlook your unremarkable intellect and get right to the point. Tell me who you take your orders from and what the rebels’ plans are. Why are you trying to get out of Thayaria?”

He only glares at me, and I sigh. I could force the confession from him, could use the aether-voice that commands any fae with less power than me—which, in my case, iseveryfae—to do as I command. One order to tell the truth and he’d be spilling all his secrets. But it’s a skill I use infrequently, uncomfortable with the idea that I have the power to remove someone’s agency and free will, especially considering what’s been done tomewith this power by other monarchs. Not to mention, I do enjoy a little bit of torture.

“Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.” I tap into the aether around me, letting it guide me to the ivy growing along the stone walls. The vines creep toward the rebel, then wrap up and around his body, covering his mouth and eyes. They squeeze him tightly. At the same time, I force the air from his lungs. He struggles against the bindings, choking sounds filling the room. After a few moments, I release him slightly. “Ready to talk?” He remains silent.

The vines burrow into one eye socket, piercing and then crushing the eye within. His screams grow louder. For good measure, I send one tentacle snaking down his throat, gagging him, before ripping the air from his lungs once again. His knees collapse, and he dangles from where he is chained against the wall. When his body begins to convulse, I release the magic. With a snap of my fingers the light in the room vanishes except for an unearthly glow around me. As I approach him, the smell of piss wafts over me.

“We’ve only just begun, and already you’ve pissed yourself. Surely you knew the risks ofangeringthe Witch Queen. Surely your leaders told you what would happen if you were caught unleashing a magical bomb in my kingdom that injureddozensof innocents.” I practically growl the words, my fury rising. With clenched fists, the control I have over my magic slips slightly, and I feel the room quiver around me.

The Sons and Daughters of Thayaria have been around for about fifty years, challenging my rule and spreading the same propaganda of the Golden King—that I’m a witch, that Thayaria’s isolation is due to my own need for power and control, and that I deny Thayarian citizens the safe harbor Velmara offers. It’s a small subset of the population, but those who believe in the rebellion’s narrative are certain a better life awaits them in Velmara, if only I would surrender to the Golden King. If I didn’t know that Mazus was as barred from Thayaria as the rest of the world, I’d think he had started the rebellion himself to undermine me. For most of their history, I was content to leave the rebels to their ideology and peaceful protest, believing in the right of my citizens to free speech and belief. But over the last five years, they’ve turned violent, and that I will not tolerate.

The male is blubbering now, blood running from his eye socket and vomit on his chin. “I don’t know anything else that’s planned, I swear,” he whimpers. “My only contact was captured with me. He’ll know more.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to determine if he’s telling the truth. His body shakes, and something like regret flashes across his eyes. I release him and open the door, motioning the guard to come in as I walk away from the prisoner.

“Remove him. He’ll stand trial for his crimes tomorrow. If he’s found guilty, he’ll be executed.” The male begins to sob and plead, but I cut him off, looking over my shoulder to speak to him. “Be grateful I provide swift executions for those found guilty of treason. Bring in the next prisoner.”

My morning continues in this way, torturing fae after fae in increasingly creative ways. The male who organized the attack was a powerful plant channeler and somehow used the ivy to slit his own throat before I could question him despite the dampening of fae power in these cells. No others were able to provide any real information, and I leave the cells even more frustrated than when I entered them.

“Now to everyone’s favorite topic of the decade—the upcoming Forum of Royals,” Nemesia says to my Council of Advisors. After cleaning up fromquestioningthe prisoners, I had to attend a meeting with my advisors. The Council chamber is a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city of Arberly. Being only a few feet down from my rooms, it’s the same view I see every day when I wake. Late afternoon light illuminates the massive round table where over thirty fae and humans sit. Papers and tea mugs litter the tabletop. “We need to discuss which advisors will accompany Her Majesty to Delsar for the conference and what the security detail will look like,” Nemesia continues.

I sigh, knowing exactly what she’s going to propose, and knowing exactly what my response will be. We have this argument every ten years when the decennial meeting of monarchs and other kingdom leaders occurs. It’s still called the Forum of Royals, despite the fact that the Republic of Reshnar implemented a democratic government over two hundred years ago.

“What are the parameters?” Admon, one of my advisors, asks. The old fae male was an advisor to my father, and even grandfather, and is the leymaster my parents brought in to teach me to use my magic all those years ago. He’s tall and sturdy looking, with blue eyes that sparkle when he knows he’s telling you something you need to hear. His hair and beard are both gray and long. For a fae to look that old, they have to have been alive for over a thousand years, maybe more.

“Two advisors and four guards,” Nemesia informs the room. “As Her Majesty’s Chair of the Council of Advisors, I’ll obviously be accompanying her. We must discuss and vote on which additional member of this Council will attend. My proposal is—”

“You aren’t the obvious choice,” I interrupt. “This is the twenty-ninth Forum of Royals in my time as Queen, and not once have I agreed to nor even suggested that you attend with me, as you well know. Your history with the King of Velmara—”

“Is nothing compared to your own, Your Majesty,” Nemesia adds.

I give her a pointed stare before adding, “That may be true, but my presence is, unfortunately, required. Yours is not.”

The rest of my advisors look on in boredom, many of them witness to this exact argument several times over, knowing that Nemesia will insist, and I’ll rely on my station as Queen to overrule her. It’s one of the rare instances where I do it, and the guilt eats me alive every time. Even my oldest friend and most trusted advisor feels the shackles I’ve placed on my people with the mist and the tension between Thayaria and the rest of the Four Kingdoms. I can’t help but wonder who she would have become, with her brilliant mind and penchant for politics, had she grown up in a world where Thayaria wasn’t isolated. But I won’t—can’t—allow Nemesia to be in King Mazus’s presence, especially with so few guards. Even three hundred years later, the sting of grief is fresh when I recall how I felt thinking that blade was going to land in her heart during the Battle of Moormyr.

“This year is different, Laurel, and you know it,” she adds with a quiet intensity.

Now the advisors’ eyes widen in shock, staring between Nemesia and me. Admon’s eyes twinkle, alone in his lack of concern. Nemesia may not shy away from giving me direct and honest feedback but using my given name and not my title during a formal Council meeting is unheard of.

Nemesia stands tall, hazel eyes burning with a fire I haven’t seen in her since she was the General of my armies. Her jaw clenches and unclenches, and her hands are balled into fists.

After the Battle at Moormyr, Nemesia abandoned life as a warrior, unable to fight or even spar for many decades after. She blamed herself for our loss. Instead, she devoted herself to politics, philosophy, and helping me put the pieces of my kingdom back together. She’s the most learned scholar in all of Thayaria, and her mind for political strategy is a valuable asset to me. Despite the centuries since that awful battle, Nemesia’s scars and guilt remain. And while she keeps her fighting skills sharp, she has sworn to never lead armies again.

“Make your case, Nemesia,” I concede, gesturing for her to continue. She nods in silent gratitude, then stands before the round table.

---