Domina

Tears Behind the Throne

Smith’s words never left me.

They echoed inside me like a hymn half-forgotten, now returned to haunt the quiet corridors of my thoughts. When I returned to my chambers in the palace, I dragged my disappointment behind me like a heavy, breathless shadow. There was only one question, and it rang louder than the wind itself:

What do we really know about Domina?

About this "glory" they taught us to worship?

Was it ever real… or was it just a mask for something older, crueler?

I sat before the tall arched window of my chamber, gazing out over the training courtyard that shimmered under the fading light. The sun, low and solemn in the sky, cast its golden farewell over the bodies of soldiers moving in synchronized formation. Metal gleamed on their shoulders, their backs straight with discipline. They looked like monuments of power.

But I didn’t see strength anymore.

I saw submission, rehearsed and polished.

Yes, all of them were women. Domina’s army was made entirely of women—a fact I once paraded with pride. We were taught that it was the crown jewel of our civilization, proof that no kingdom could match our belief in female strength.

But now? I wasn’t so sure.

Was this true empowerment? Or had we just been trained to bleed on command?

A soft knock on my door pulled me from my thoughts. It opened without waiting for an answer—Mira, my faithful handmaiden, stepped in, holding a sealed parchment marked in crimson wax.

“Her Majesty requests your presence in the Great Hall. Immediately.”

Her voice was gentle, yet the message struck like a command carved into stone.

I said nothing. I simply stood and followed her. But each step down those endless palace halls felt like shedding skin.

The girl who had left her chamber a moment ago was not the one now walking.

Something had shifted.

I was no longer merely Elena, the pampered princess.

I was becoming a witness.

In the Great Hall, the air was colder than usual, though no fire had been lit.

The Queen—my mother—sat on her throne, clad in her ceremonial black robe, embroidered with golden constellations. Upon her brow rested the crystal crown—a symbol rarely worn except during moments of public justice or private shame.

Her eyes met mine with a familiar chill.

“You’re late, Elena,” she said. “Sit. This lesson is for you.”

I obeyed wordlessly, but unease crawled up my spine like a chill unshaken.

Then the doors opened again. A young soldier stepped forward. She looked so slight beneath her armor, the metal too heavy for such fragile shoulders. She was barely older than sixteen—Calla, I would learn.

Her hands trembled. Sweat clung to her brow despite the frost in the air.

The Queen’s voice sliced the silence:

“This soldier disobeyed a direct order to hold her position during an eastern front exercise. Her retreat left another cadet exposed and injured—her collarbone shattered. In Domina, that is called treason. Speak.”

Calla swallowed. Her lips quivered like leaves in the wind.

“I was injured, Your Majesty. A blade shattered beside me—I… I was bleeding. I panicked. I thought I might—”

“Enough.” My mother’s voice struck like a whip. “Blood is no excuse. Your blood—like the blood of every woman in Domina—is a tax we pay for survival. If all of you ran at the sight of pain, the kingdom would be ash.”

Then she turned to me.

“Elena, come forward.”

I did, with slow, unwilling steps. Her hand reached out and pressed a cold object into my palm. I looked down: a whip. Coiled leather. Dark. Still warm from her grip.

“You are the heir. You must learn what it takes to hold power. Strike her.”

The weight of the whip anchored me in place.

“Mother…” I breathed. “I can’t.”

Her face darkened.

“Strike her, Elena. That is an order.”

I turned to Calla. Her eyes, wide and watery, met mine.

She wasn’t pleading for mercy.

She was pleading to be seen.

Not as a symbol. Not as a failure.

As a human.

I raised the whip.

My arm shook.

And then… I let it fall.

Not upon her, but to the floor.

A silence descended so thick I felt it in my bones.

My mother stood slowly. Her voice came heavy with disappointment.

“Then you are not ready. Let her punishment be carried out before you. That is how one learns.”

I didn’t watch the lash fall on Calla’s skin. I couldn’t. I was there, but my soul had already escaped.

It had returned to that statue.

To her.

The nameless woman of stone, forever locked in agony, her tear carved into marble eternity.

That day I understood something no tutor had ever dared to teach:

In Domina, blood is not a mistake.

It is a language. A scripture. A law.

And I realized something deeper than truth:

The first lesson in ruling… begins with the wound.