Rya swayed with the horse's steady gait, her arms wrapped tightly around Draven's waist, her cheek pressed against his cloak. The Zalem soldiers rode in formation, hooves thudding on the packed earth, the forest's pine scent fading as they moved deeper into the open plains. Her eyes stared blankly at the horizon, her dark hair whipping in the breeze, but her mind drifted far from the present. The rhythm of the ride pulled her back to that fateful night in Runevale, when her world crumbled.
She stood in the throne room, the towering columns casting long shadows across the room. Torches flickered on the walls, their light glinting off the intricate tapestries depicting Runevale's wolf-crest. The air carried the scent of wax and old stone. Rya smoothed her simple dress and stepped forward, her voice soft but clear. "Good evening, Mother. You summoned me?"
Nyxelene sat on the throne, her posture flawless, her hair cascading like a dark waterfall. She held a small leather-bound book, her fingers turning its pages with deliberate care, her moonlit-ash eyes fixed on the text.
"Good evening, Rya. How are you?" she asked, her voice smooth but distant, never lifting her gaze. To Rya, her mother was the coldest soul in Runevale, a queen whose heart seemed to have been carved from ice.
"I'm well, thank you, Mother," Rya replied, her head bowed, her dark hair falling over her face. She clasped her hands, her knuckles whitening, bracing for whatever Nyxelene wanted. She hadn't spoken to her in a very long while, but summoned her so late at night, what could she want?
"I've been thinking, Rya," Nyxelene said, her tone unchanging, her fingers pausing on a page. She leaned back slightly, the throne's high back framing her like a dark halo.
"What troubles you, Mother?" Rya asked, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest. She lifted her eyes, searching Nyxelene's face for a hint of warmth, finding none.
Nyxelene's lips curved faintly, a smile that held no kindness. "I've been considering how to be rid of you. I thought to kill you, but a mother's love, such as it is, stays my hand." She spoke calmly, her eyes still on the book, as if discussing the weather. Her beauty was otherworldly, flawless, like a statue of some ancient goddess. Michael had once whispered that Nyxelene was no mere human, that she wielded a magical language called Šërēĺįťh, bending nature and elements to her will. She'd taught it to Runevale's elite, a secret art woven into their lives, until Rya's birth, when she banned it without explanation. Rya had no clue why, only that her mother's power was vast and untouchable.
Rya's breath caught, her heart lurching. She wanted to laugh, to dismiss Nyxelene's words as a cruel jest, but her mother never jested. If she spoke of ending Rya, she meant it. The realization hit like a stone, splintering something deep inside her. She'd known Nyxelene's disdain, felt it in every cold glance, but to want her gone—erased—was a wound too deep to grasp. Her hands shook, her nails digging into her palms.
"Did I do something wrong, Mother?" Rya asked, her voice cracking, raw with pain and anger. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back, standing taller.
Nyxelene finally closed the book, setting it on the throne's armrest with a soft thud. She rose, her silk gown whispering as she glided toward Rya, each step deliberate. "No, daughter, you've done nothing wrong," she said, her voice sharp now, like a blade's edge. "But your face, your presence—it grates on me. Seeing you any longer would ruin my sight. Since your birth, I've sought ways to be rid of you, but the circumstances of your birth made it difficult. How should I put it, yes, now that your no longer a child, wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity for the both of us."
Rya's chest heaved, her tears threatening to spill. "Does your hatred have anything to do with my father? As long as I can remember, I've done nothing deserving hatred of this magnitude," she asked, her voice trembling but defiant. She'd never known her father, never seen a trace of him in Runevale's halls. Once, out of desperate curiosity, she'd begged Michael to ask Ramius, his father, for answers.
Ramius, ever loyal to Nyxelene, had said no man had ever been close to the queen. Her pregnancy with Rya appeared suddenly, a mystery no one dared question, lest they risk her wrath. But now, with Nyxelene's threat hanging over her, Rya pushed forward, needing to know.
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, the throne room's shadows seeming to deepen. Nyxelene stopped a few steps away, her eyes meeting Rya's for the first time. A flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossed her face, so brief Rya wondered if she'd imagined it.
"If you want to know about your father," Nyxelene said, her voice softer but still cold, "find him yourself. Though I don't know if he lives or lies dead."
Rya's breath hitched, her heart pounding. She searched her mother's face, desperate for more, but Nyxelene's expression hardened again. Rya straightened, her voice steady despite the tears now trailing down her cheeks. "Mother, I don't hate you, but I don't love you either. But you are blaming your decision on circumstances of my birth and my age?"
Nyxelene's eyes narrowed, a spark of surprise flashing through them. For a moment, mother and daughter stood locked in a gaze, the first true connection in years. Then Nyxelene turned away, her voice cutting like frost.
"Your feelings mean nothing to me, Rya. I summoned you to deliver an order: leave my kingdom before sunrise tomorrow. If you linger a moment longer, I'll kill you myself." She swept back to the throne, dismissing Rya with a wave of her hand, her book already open again.
Rya stood frozen, her tears falling silently, her heart shattered.
Nyxelene's voice sliced through the throne room's stillness, soft and impatient. "Why are you still here, Rya? I thought I dismissed you." She glanced up from her leather-bound book, narrowing her eyes, the torchlight casting harsh shadows across her flawless face. She leaned back on the throne, her raven-black hair glinting like polished steel, her fingers pausing on the page.
Rya stood rooted to the marble floor, her eyes red from tears. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, her dark hair clinging to her damp face. Her heart pounded, but she straightened.
"Before I go, Mother, answer me one thing. Am I truly your daughter? You've always treated me like a burden, like I was forced upon you. Did you give birth to me? I need your honesty, just this once."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with years of doubt. Rya had long wondered if Nyxelene was her true mother, the queen's icy distance fueling her suspicions. The thought had gnawed at her, whispered in quiet moments when Nyxelene's cold glances cut deeper than words. She braced herself, her hands clenched at her sides, ready for a truth that might shatter her further.
Nyxelene's lips twitched, a faint smile flickering before her expression hardened. She closed her book with a soft snap and rose from the throne again, her silk gown rustling like leaves in a storm. She glided toward Rya, each step measured, her presence filling the vast hall. Without warning, she pulled Rya into a tight embrace, her arms encircling her daughter's small frame.
Rya stiffened, her breath catching. It was the first time Nyxelene had ever hugged her, a touch she'd yearned for ever since she was a child, chasing Mira's warmth instead. The queen's skin was soft, her gown smooth against Rya's cheek, but the embrace felt wrong—too gentle, too deliberate. Nyxelene's eyes, peering over Rya's shoulder, remained cold, devoid of warmth, like twin moons in a starless sky.
"Such foolish question, daughter. If you must know, you are indeed my child," Nyxelene murmured, her voice low and smooth, her breath stirring Rya's hair. Her hands rested on Rya's back, light but firm, holding her in place.
Rya's heart lurched, a mix of relief and dread flooding her. She wanted to melt into the embrace, to believe in a mother's love, but Nyxelene's words kept her rigid. The queen's fingers moved, stroking Rya's dark hair with slow, careful motions, as if soothing a pet.
"But you are a mistake," Nyxelene continued, her tone soft, almost lyrical, as if reciting a verse. "A shame I'd rather forget. If I had my way, Rya, you would never have been born."
Each word landed like a dagger, precise and piercing, carving deeper into Rya's already fractured heart. She stood frozen in her mother's arms, tears spilling silently down her cheeks, her hands hanging limp. The embrace, so long desired, was a cruel mockery, its gentleness clashing with Nyxelene's cold heart.
**Author's Note:**
Dear Readers,
Thank you for diving into this chapter of Rya's journey! I'm thrilled to share this story with you, packed with tension, emotion, and the clash of kingdoms. Your support means the world—please drop a comment, review, or power stone to let me know your thoughts! I'm aiming to update regularly, so stay tuned for more. Much respect to y'all and thanks for riding along!