SERAPHINE SHADEWALKER
Seraphine stood alone in the high tower of the castle, her eyes tracing the horizon. The moon hung low over the jagged cliffs of Druumari, casting an ethereal glow across the landscape. The wind was soft but steady, carrying the scent of the sea and the faintest whisper of the spirits that called this land home. It was in moments like this that Seraphine felt the weight of her position most acutely. The power of a queen, the responsibility of leadership, the endless calculations and decisions that came with wearing the crown—these were things she had grown accustomed to, but today, they felt more burdensome than ever.
The decision she had made regarding Kaelen had unsettled her in ways she couldn't quite explain. In the span of a single night, the fragile peace between the kingdoms had been permanently shattered, and now, Druumari stood on the precipice of conflict. Word had already spread to Vyrdantia, to the distant courts of Aeloria's other kingdoms, and the demands for Kaelen's execution had become louder, more insistent. Coming from the Kingdoms of Vyrdantia, Lirandor, and Falanoria.
But what troubled her most wasn't the political fallout—though that would come in time. It wasn't even the pressure mounting from the other kingdoms, each of them clamoring for action. It was the haunting sense of foreboding that followed her every step. The decision she had made to keep Kaelen alive, to not follow through with the execution demanded by the other kingdoms—she wasn't entirely sure why she had done it. Perhaps it was the spirits, with their cryptic whispers and their eerie influence over every aspect of her life and kingdom. Or perhaps it was something deeper, something unspoken, something about Kaelen himself that stirred something inside of her.
She turned from the window and paced slowly, her hands clasped behind her back. The room, vast and cold, was silent save for the soft click of her boots on the stone floor. As the queen of Druumari, she had always prided herself on her composure, her ability to navigate the tangled webs of politics and intrigue with a calm, unflinching hand. But now, in the wake of her decision, she felt the edges of that composure starting to fray.
The voices of her advisors echoed in her mind. Isidora, ever the pragmatic one, had urged her to act decisively—to not allow Kaelen to live. She had painted the consequences of hesitation in stark terms: war, chaos, the collapse of Druumari's tenuous alliances. And Anna, ever loyal, had agreed—though with a hint of skepticism, as if she knew, deep down, that the path Seraphine was choosing might not lead to the outcome she hoped for.
But Seraphine had chosen her path anyway. She had chosen to keep Kaelen alive, to learn the truth of the curse that bound him to Druumari, to understand what it was the spirits saw in him. The decision had been made, and now, there was no turning back.
Seraphine's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. She turned, and Anna entered the room, her presence as commanding as always. The commander of the royal guard, her sharp eyes always vigilant, was an invaluable asset to Seraphine's rule. She was more than just a protector; she was a trusted confidant, one of the few people Seraphine could rely on without reservation.
"Your Majesty," Anna said with a slight bow, her voice steady but tinged with concern. "The emissary from Vyrdantia has arrived."
Seraphine's brow furrowed at the mention of the Vyrdantian emissary. The kingdom of storms was not known for its patience, nor for its subtlety. If they had sent an emissary, it was likely a demand, not a plea. It wouldn't end well for the bold bastard, who attacked her kingdom with a fleet led by their heir, and now that their attack failed and their heir has been capture, have the audacity to think they can demand for shit.
"Send him in," Seraphine replied, her voice calm, though she could feel the tension coiling in her chest. The political landscape was shifting around her, and with every passing moment, the pressure mounted.
A moment later, the doors to the chamber opened, and the emissary from Vyrdantia stepped inside. He was tall, with the unmistakable bearing of someone used to authority. His dark blue cloak fluttered behind him as he approached Seraphine, his eyes sharp and calculating. He did not bow, but instead stood tall before her, his presence as imposing as the storm that had ravaged her shores.
"Your Majesty," the emissary began, his voice low but insistent. "I am Elian Valsar, sent by King Thalren Stormrider of Vyrdantia. I come bearing a message—one that cannot be ignored."
Seraphine did not respond immediately. She studied the man before her, her gaze unwavering. "Speak," she said, her voice as cold as the stone walls that surrounded them.
Elian's lips tightened into a thin line. "King Thalren has made it clear that the continued imprisonment of his son, Kaelen Stormrider, is unacceptable. His demands are simple: Kaelen must be executed. No further delays, no more games. The kingdoms of Aeloria will not stand idly by while Druumari makes a mockery of the law. If you refuse, we will consider it an act of war."
The words hung in the air like a threat, the weight of them pressing down on Seraphine's shoulders. She could hear the echo of them in her mind, the implications of war, of the alliances she had carefully crafted falling apart like brittle threads.
"I see," Seraphine replied, her voice calm but sharp. She turned to face the emissary fully, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And what of the spirits? What of the curse that binds Kaelen to this land?"
Elian's expression remained neutral, though there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "We do not believe in spirits. This excuse of a curse is irrelevant," he said dismissively. "Kaelen is the heir to Vyrdantia. His life is forfeit if he poses a threat to the stability of the kingdom. He failed his father's order, now he shall be executed."
Seraphine's jaw tightened. "You would have me kill him, without understanding the forces that bind him to Druumari? Without even considering the consequences?"
"Your Majesty," Elian said, his voice steeped in thinly veiled arrogance, "the consequences are simple. Refuse to execute Kaelen Stormrider, and we will act accordingly. The Stormriders are not known for mercy. Nor are the kingdoms of Aeloria."
A heavy silence followed, the weight of his threat settling thick over the room like storm clouds on the brink of breaking. Seraphine stood still, a statue of controlled fury, though the fire in her eyes betrayed her calm. She had heard many threats in her reign—but this one reeked of desperation.
"I will not be bullied, Elian Valsar," she said, her voice like frost—sharp, clear, and absolute. "I do not bow to pressure. And I do not make decisions with a dagger to my throat. Kaelen Stormrider's fate will be decided by my hand, and mine alone."
Elian offered a tight, humorless smile. "Your Majesty, King Thalren is not a patient man. Nor are the kingdoms of Aeloria."
Seraphine stepped forward, the air around her shifting like a storm front. Elian flinched.
"How bold of your king," she said, her tone a dangerous purr. "To demand the execution of his own son—after ordering him to invade my kingdom. You think to threaten me with war? Newsflash, Elian. That war already began—on his orders. And he lost the first move."
She laughed then, dark and razor-edged.
"He wants blood to wash away his shame, but I am no sacrificial lamb. He launched the attack. We stood our ground. And now he dares to point fingers like a scorned child? Please."
Her voice rose like thunder, unwavering and proud.
"You speak of the kingdoms of Aeloria—but only three have spoken, and none with the authority to speak for all nine. So tell me, Elian—do you think a smaller kingdom is easier to push around? Because if that's the game you're playing, you've badly misread the board."
Elian opened his mouth, retreating a step. "Vyrdantia is the most powerful—"
"No, it isn't," Seraphine snapped. "It's larger, yes. It has more scattered islands to pad its maps—but power isn't measured in acreage."
He stiffened. "Our population—"
"Is higher, certainly," she cut in, voice like a blade unsheathed. "But over half of them are either too old, too young, or too far from a battlefield to matter. Fishermen. Merchants. Farmers. Not warriors. And your soldiers? Lavish uniforms. Fat paychecks. Spoiled pride. Not seasoned. Not loyal. Not dangerous."
He paled.
She advanced, eyes locked on him.
"Our king—"
"Is a coward," she hissed, the word cracking like a whip. "He started this war out of greed and wounded pride. Vyrdantia and Druumari are worlds apart, and yet he thirsted for our ports, our autonomy, our refusal to kneel. He hated my father, King Kai Shadewalker, and he despises that his daughter now holds the crown he could never bend."
She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper.
"He thought I was a child in a crown, a puppet on a crumbling throne. He expected me to crumble, to beg. So he sent his son. Not to win—but to die. And now he sends you."
Elian's face turned ashen. "If you kill me—"
She grabbed his chin, forcing his gaze to meet hers. He swallowed hard.
"Your king asked me to execute his heir," she said with quiet, lethal emphasis. "Do you really think he gives a damn about you? You are a pawn. A name he'll forget before his next goblet of wine. He knew you might not return. He planned for it."
She released him with a shove, smiling coldly.
"And what will he do, Elian Valsar? Rage? Declare war? Again? Let me remind you—this is already war. And I am not afraid of fire."
"You don't have the guts to kill—"
The words never finished.
In a single, fluid motion, Seraphine summoned one of her twin crescent moon blades—a gleaming arc of silver forged in ancient rites—and with a flash, severed the emissary's head from his shoulders. The strike was clean. Perfect. Merciless. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, staining the folds of her gown, but she did not flinch. She stood there, calm as a winter gale, holding the severed head by its chin, its final expression frozen in stunned disbelief.
Silence consumed the room.
She closed her eyes, her breath steady, her pulse unshaken. The political storm that followed would be relentless—but storms did not frighten her. She was the storm.
"Anna," she said, her voice low but carrying through the chamber like a command etched in iron.
The doors opened. Anna stepped inside, her armor catching the torchlight. Her eyes widened—just slightly—at the sight of the decapitated corpse, then softened into resignation.
"Well," she said dryly, kicking the body without ceremony, "I expected as much. It was a bold move, sending an emissary to try commanding you."
Seraphine turned, casually pressing the blood-dripping head into Anna's breastplate with a flick of her wrist. Her blade shimmered, then vanished into ether as she cleansed it with a flicker of pale violet magic.
Without another word, she crossed to her desk. The blood on her gown dried to black silk as she dipped a quill in ink and began to write, each letter an execution in its own right:
※ ※ ※
To the Coward-King Thalren of Vyrdantia—
Didn't you request an execution?
There. An execution.
I even tied it up with a pretty bow for your fragile pride.
You started this war—I will be the one to end it.
Try to threaten Druumari again, and I will send blood instead of ink.
You may lack the spine to wield a sword or lead your people, but I do not.
Your son lives. Let that failure haunt your sleep.
See you on the battlefield—if you dare crawl out from behind your advisors long enough to face me.
Queen Seraphine Shadewalker of Druumari.
※ ※ ※
She pressed her lips to the still-fresh wet stench in her gown, smearing her mouth with its blood, and then kissed the bottom of the letter with deliberate mockery. A dark red print marked the parchment like a royal seal of death. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she folded the letter, sealed it with her royal seal, and handed it to Anna.
"Wrap the head in black lace," she ordered coolly, "tie it with a bow. Place the letter inside the box with it. Then feed the corpse to the hounds. Let them savor what's left of his empty threats."
"As you wish, Your Majesty." Anna accepted the letter and head without hesitation, though her eyes flickered with something unreadable—respect, perhaps, or fear.
Seraphine moved to the balcony. The window arched open to her sprawling gardens and the sea beyond, the kingdom stretching beneath her feet like a tapestry of living history. The land she had sworn to protect. The decision to spare Kaelen had already sent shockwaves across the continent—but it was more than a political maneuver.
It was a warning. A declaration. A promise.
"I will not be ruled by threats," she said, her voice low but resolute. "And I will not base my judgments on fear. Kaelen Stormrider lives, not out of mercy, but because the spirits have bound him to Druumari. I will find out why. I do not owe explanations to a coward who cannot fight his own battles."
She turned, her eyes like burning coals locked on Anna's.
"If I ever find myself bowing to Thalren's decrees, slit my throat and bury me beneath the flag of Druumari. I'd rather die with dignity than live beneath the shadow of a spineless tyrant. I am Queen. I decide our future. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Anna said, bowing her head. But a pause followed, heavy. "And if the kingdoms declare war in response?"
Seraphine's gaze hardened. Her voice lowered, filled with quiet wrath.
"We are already at war. Vyrdantia made that choice. Now they will reap what they sow. Let them send armies. Let them send kings. Let them throw their blades at my gates."
She stepped forward, the full force of her presence settling in the room like gravity itself.
"I will not let Druumari fall. I will lead our people—not from behind palace walls, but at the frontlines if I must. Let them come."
She turned her gaze back toward the horizon, where storm clouds gathered over the sea.
"They want to see a girl who inherited a crown. Instead, they'll find a Queen carved from fire and blood."