Rya's arms tightened around Nyxelene, her small frame trembling as she returned the embrace, clinging to the fleeting warmth of her mother's touch. Despite the cruelty in Nyxelene's words, Rya's heart ached for this moment—a mother's hug, even one laced with venom. Her face pressed against Nyxelene's chest, the queen's raven-black hair brushing her cheek, soft as silk but cold as the throne room's marble. Tears soaked Rya's face, her eyes blurred, her breath hitching with quiet sobs.
"You truly hate me, don't you, Mother?" Rya whispered, her voice breaking, raw with pain.
Nyxelene's hand continued its slow, deliberate strokes through Rya's dark hair, her touch gentle but eerily detached.
"You decided long ago that I hated you, didn't you?" she said, her voice smooth, almost melodic, yet devoid of warmth.
"Was it because I never held you like this? Never sang you lullabies or read you stories at bedtime when you were a child? A queen has no time for such things, Rya. You've clung to the idea of my hatred since you were a child, haven't you?"
Rya's sobs faltered, her head turning slightly, still nestled against her mother. Her tears fell faster, dampening Nyxelene's gown. "Was I wrong to think you hated me, Mother?" she asked, her voice small, barely audible.
Nyxelene's hand paused, then resumed its stroking, her fingers threading through Rya's hair with care.
"I've never hated you, Rya," she said, her tone soft but chillingly indifferent. "I couldn't, even if I tried. It would be a waste of emotion. Believe it or not, I've only ever loved and hated one person—your father." She pulled back, her hands resting on Rya's shoulders, and looked into her daughter's eyes. Nyxelene's moonlit-ash gaze was piercing, but distant, as if seeing someone else through Rya's face. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the wolf-crest tapestries lining the hall.
"Leave my kingdom, Rya," Nyxelene said, her voice final, cutting through the air like a blade. "This conversation is done."
Rya stepped back, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks, her green eyes flashing with defiance.
"What will you tell your court?" she asked, her voice steadier now, though her hands shook. "That the princess fled in the night?"
Nyxelene's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile as she returned to the throne, her gown whispering across the marble. She sat, crossing her legs, her book resting unopened on her lap. "If they need a reason, I'll give them one," she said, her tone casual, almost amused.
"Perhaps I'll say my daughter was a harlot, sneaking a man into her chamber at night. Michael, isn't it? Nineteen years old. I'm sure the court would relish the tale of an unchaste princess banished for her sins."
Rya's breath caught, her fists clenching at her sides. 'She knew about Michael all along,' she thought, her mind reeling. Of course Nyxelene would know—nothing escaped her. The queen's spies, her Šërēĺįťh magic, her unrelenting control over Runevale—how could Rya have thought those secret nights were hidden?
'But...'
"How can you say something so vile?" Rya snapped, her voice rising, tears forgotten. "Michael only came to share stories, to tell me of places I'd never seen, things I'd never done, because you locked me away. How can you twist it into something so ugly?"
Nyxelene leaned forward, her smile sharpening. "I've known what you and Michael did since you were children, Rya. Javier joined you sometimes, didn't he? Don't think I was blind to your little gatherings. I also know that you did no such vile acts. I may not have raised you, but I know you better than you know yourself." Her voice was low, almost tender, but it carried a sting that made Rya flinch. In her mind, Nyxelene added, 'How could I not? You're the child he named himself, after all.'
"This conversation is over," Nyxelene said, her tone final, her hand waving dismissively as she opened her book again, her eyes already scanning the pages.
Rya's heart pounded, her chest heaving with anger and grief. She turned to leave but stopped at the throne room's threshold. Her voice rang out, fierce and unbroken.
"I won't leave this kingdom, Nyxelene," she said, using her mother's name for the first time, a defiance that echoed in the vast hall. "If you want me gone, kill me yourself. You brought me into this world, it shouldn't be difficult to take me out of it. If I'm such a burden, use your Šërēĺįťh magic or whatever you please, but do it with your own hands."
The throne room fell silent, the only sound the faint crackle of torches. Nyxelene's head lifted, her raven-black hair catching the light, her eyes narrowing as she watched Rya's retreating figure. A soft laugh escaped her lips, low and chilling, like wind through a frozen forest.
"She's grown strong," she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement. "That rebellious spark is quite entertaining. Survive as long as you can, little eagle, still learning to fly. Don't break too soon—this game will last a while." She settled back, her fingers turning a page, her smile lingering as she resumed reading, the throne room's shadows swallowing Rya's fading footsteps.
****Meanwhile****
Draven raised a hand, a sharp signal cutting through the steady thud of hooves. Harion caught the gesture and bellowed, "Slow pace!" His voice boomed across the plains, snapping Rya from her trance. She blinked the fog her memories left in her mind away. Her awareness returning as the Zalem soldiers eased their horses to a walk. The column halted near a river winding through a sparse wood, its waters sparkling clear, reflecting the midday sun. Soldiers dismounted, guiding their horses to drink, the animals' muzzles dipping into the current with soft splashes. Others knelt, filling leather pouches, the gurgle of water mingling with the creak of armor.
Draven swung off his brown horse, his cloak settling around his broad shoulders. He turned to Rya, still perched awkwardly on the saddle, her dark hair tangled from the ride. Extending a hand, he offered to help her down, his crimson eyes steady but unreadable. Rya hesitated, her mind drifting to Michael's warnings. He'd told her of a few dangerous men, one of them was Draven, the King of Zalem, a name feared across kingdoms, the only monarch who fought on the front lines, his blade claiming countless lives. Yet here he was, offering his hand with a calm that felt almost gentle. 'Was Michael wrong?' she thought, searching Draven's face. 'He doesn't seem the least bit dangerous.'
She grasped his hand, her fingers brushing his palm, and froze at its unexpected softness. For a warrior whose sword had felled armies, his touch was tender, almost delicate, like a scholar's rather than a killer's. She slid off the horse, her legs wobbly from the long ride. Standing close, she noticed Draven's features for the first time. His sharp jaw, dark hair falling over his brow, and piercing crimson eyes held a rugged beauty she hadn't seen in Runevale's halls. No man had dared approach Nyxelene's daughter, even after coming of age, leaving Rya with only Michael's boyish grin for comparison. Draven, though, was different—commanding, yet strangely approachable, a man apart.
"You alright?" Draven asked, his voice more curious than worried, his head tilting as he studied her pale face. "First time riding, I'd wager."
Rya nodded, her hand lingering on the horse's flank for balance. "A bit dizzy," she admitted, her voice soft, her eyes flicking to the ground. The ride, the memories, and Javier's chilling words still weighed on her, leaving her unsteady.
Draven opened his mouth, ready to ask about Nyxelene—why the queen wanted her dead, what lay beneath their feud.
He'd dismissed it at first, thinking Nyxelene's desire to kill her daughter was just Nyxelene being Nyxelene, but Rya's haunted gaze hinted at deeper secrets. Before he could speak, a faint whistle sliced the air. Rya gasped, a sharp pain exploding in her left shoulder. An arrow, its fletching black as night, pierced through her back, the bloody tip jutting from her chest. Her vision blurred, her knees buckled, and she swayed, darkness creeping in.
Draven lunged, catching her before she hit the ground, his arms cradling her frame. Her blood seeped into his dark robe, warm and slick, staining his hands. A sharp pang gripped his chest, the same unfamiliar ache he'd felt when he first saw her bruises, but stronger this time.
'There it is again, this weird feeling,' he thought, his jaw clenching, rage boiling beneath his calm exterior.
"Ambush! Prepare to engage!" Harion roared, his sword drawn as soldiers scrambled into formation, shields raised, blades glinting. Horses snorted, hooves pawing the earth, as eyes scanned the woods for the unseen enemy.
Rya's breath grew shallow, her head lolling against Draven's chest. Through her fading vision, she saw his face—eyes blazing with fury, lips pressed into a hard line. The rage in his expression, raw and unyielding, was the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her.