His Human Queen

Dante Morrigan

Maeve:

“Mom, I have to go back,” I finally spat, breaking the silence, sending the comfort I had settled into out the window.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Maeve. You’re free.” She was trying to warm my already warm feet.

I had noticed since my return, the cold didn’t bother me how it used to. An anomaly I hadn’t let myself dwell on as I planned my trip back over the mountains.

“I’m not being ridiculous. There is a war coming over those mountains, and I need to help stop it. You, Jacob, and Lori need to get out of here.” As soon as I said it, I realized I hadn’t seen Lori.

“That isn’t possible. Lori was married off while you were gone. We aren’t going anywhere.” I hadn’t missed her snarkiness, nor her taste for the finery she had never been able to sink her claws into.

“Either way, I am going back; you would do well to take my advice and get out.” I stood, grabbing my old ruck sack from the corner, filling it with food, a canteen of water, and an extra layer in the event the mountains got cold. Then, I strapped myself with my old hunting daggers, having extra for whatever creature awaited me on those mountains. I hugged my bickering family, and I set out into the cold of the night against their wishes.

They had always tried to control me... So had Caspian. I was sick of it, and every step I took into the forest was proof of that.

The forest swallowed me whole, the familiar scent of pine and damp earth a comforting balm against the sting of my mother’s words. But comfort was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Every snapping twig under my boots was a reminder of the urgency that drove me forward, a frantic beat against the steady, cold rhythm of my own heart.

As I pushed deeper, the trees thinned, giving way to the rocky, unforgiving slopes of the mountain's base. The air grew sharper, thin and clean in my lungs. I had always hated this cold, the way it seeped into my bones and made my fingers ache. Now, it was nothing more than a passing sensation, a cool kiss on my skin that my body seemed to dismiss. I focused on the climb, on the simple rhythm of placing one foot in front of the other, my old hunting daggers a comforting weight at my hips.

The mountain was a different beast at night. It was alive with sounds that the daylight hid—the screech of an owl, the skittering of unseen things in the scree, and the mournful howl of wind whipping through stone formations. But beneath it all, there was a deeper silence, a heavy stillness that felt like the mountain itself was holding its breath. I wasn't just climbing rock and earth; I was ascending into the heart of a coming storm.

By the time I reached the treeline, the moon was high, bathing the world in a stark, silver light. The world below was a carpet of darkness, the lights of my village a distant, smothered speck. Up here, there was only me, the stone, and the sky. I found a small outcropping that offered a sliver of shelter from the biting wind and decided to rest. I didn't build a fire; I didn't need one. The strange internal warmth that had plagued me since my return now felt like a shield, a core of defiance against the mountain's chill.

I chewed on some dried meat, my eyes scanning the path ahead. It wound up and up, a jagged scar on the face of the peak. I knew this route. I had hunted these slopes my entire life. But it had never felt like this. It was as if the mountain was testing me, each step a question I had to answer. Why are you here? Are you strong enough? I thought of Lori, married off like chattel, and of my family, content to bury their heads in the sand. I wasn't like them. I couldn't be. Whatever was waiting for me over this mountain, whatever change had taken root inside me, I would face it.

I finished my small meal, shouldered my pack, and began the final, steepest ascent under the watchful, uncaring gaze of the moon. Every step was a promise—I was not coming back the same.

The pass crested abruptly, the path narrowing until it felt less like a trail and more like a blade-edge carved into the mountain’s spine. The air changed the moment I crossed it.

It wasn’t subtle.

The cold vanished entirely, replaced by a dense, metallic warmth that clung to my skin like sweat. The sky above fractured—stars smearing into strange constellations I didn’t recognize, the moon dimming as though something far older and larger had blinked awake and decided it didn’t care for light.

Arthos.

I had never seen it in the night like this, but every instinct in my body screamed the name like a warning bell.

The land beyond the pass dropped sharply into a valley of blackened stone and twisted, skeletal trees. A low hum vibrated through my bones, settling deep in my chest where that unnatural warmth coiled tighter, hotter.

I took one step forward.

Then I spun, daggers in my hands, heart hammering—but there was nothing. Just solid stone where the pass had been. No path back. No moonlight. No sky I recognized.

A growl rolled through the valley.

Every hair on my body rose.

I dropped into a crouch, breath slow, senses stretching. I’d hunted bears and wolves. Things with teeth and muscle and predictable instincts. This was different. This growl carried intention, a hunger sharpened by patience, a predator that knew it had already won.

The ground trembled.

Stone cracked.

And then it came out of the dark.

Too many limbs—six, maybe eight—each joint bending the wrong direction, ending in talons long enough to carve furrows in rock. Its body was plated in black chitin streaked with veins of molten red, like lava trapped beneath armor. A skull-like head crowned its form, eyeless sockets glowing faintly as if sight were a courtesy it didn’t need.

Its mouth opened.

Rows of serrated teeth unfolded outward, splitting wider than any jaw should.

I didn’t scream.

I ran.

The first strike missed me by inches, claws shredding the stone where my head had been a heartbeat before. I rolled and came up slashing. My dagger bit deep—too deep—and instead of blood, heat exploded outward. The blade screamed in my grip, metal warping as if it were being swallowed.

I tore it free and swore, the smell of scorched iron choking the air.

The beast reared back and shrieked.

The sound was agony.

It tore through my skull, through bone and thought, dropping me to one knee as white-hot pain lanced behind my eyes. I tasted blood. My vision blurred, red and gold swimming together.

Get up.

I forced myself upright as the second dagger slid into my palm.

The creature charged.

I met it head-on.

I ducked beneath a snapping maw, drove my blade up into the soft joint beneath its armor. It convulsed, slamming me into the ground hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. Stone bit into my spine. I gasped, rolled as talons cleaved the space I’d occupied.

Pain bloomed everywhere—ribs, shoulder, thigh—but my body burned through it. That heat inside me surged, furious and defiant, and I realized with a flicker of terror that it was answering the beast.

It recognized Arthos.

The creature lunged again.

I leapt, using a boulder as leverage, and drove both daggers down into its skull.

The impact sent a shockwave through me. My arms screamed. The daggers sank—but not enough. The beast thrashed, threw me like a doll. I hit the ground, rolled, and felt something tear in my side.

Warmth spilled, and not the good kind that kept the cold of winter from my bones.

I staggered upright, vision tunneling. The beast loomed, wounded but far from dead, molten cracks spreading across its armor as it prepared to finish me.

So this was it.

Not Caspian. Not the war.

Just teeth and stone and the bitter taste of regret.

The air split.

Shadow tore open behind the beast, reality folding like silk pulled too hard. The temperature plummeted—not cold, but absence, a void where warmth feared to exist.

A blade of black fire speared through the creature’s chest.

It froze.

Then it screamed.

The sound was short-lived.

The fire detonated outward, consuming chitin and bone and molten blood alike. The beast collapsed into ash that scattered across the stone like burned snow.

I stood there, swaying, daggers slipping from numb fingers.

Boots crunched behind me.

Slow. Unhurried. Certain.

I turned.

Dante Morrigan emerged from the rift like a nightmare made elegant.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wrapped in black armor etched with sigils that crawled when I looked too long. His hair was dark as fresh ink, eyes glowing a deep, infernal gold that pinned me in place with a single glance.

The Demon King of Malfeas.

The one I’d met—briefly—at Caspian’s stronghold. Long enough to know power when it stared me in the face and smiled like it already owned me.

“Well,” he drawled, gaze sweeping over my bloodied form, torn leathers, and the scorch marks on my daggers. “You certainly know how to make an entrance, little warrior.”

I swallowed, pain flaring as I straightened. “Didn’t realize Arthos had a welcoming committee.”

His lips curved.

“That,” he said, glancing at the ash, “was a gatewarden. It should have killed you.”

“Disappointed?”

“Amused.” His eyes sharpened. “Impressed.”

I laughed weakly. It hurt. “If you’re here to finish the job, get on with it.”

He stepped closer.

The air bent around him, pressure building with every step until my knees threatened to buckle. He stopped inches away, gaze dropping to the wound at my side where blood soaked dark into the fabric.

“You’re dying,” he said calmly.

“Give me a minute.”

He chuckled. “Even if you survive the bleed, Arthos will eat you alive before dawn.”

Anger flared—hot, reckless. “Then why save me?”

His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward the sealed pass behind me.

“Because Caspian should not get to decide what happens to you.”

The name hit like a blade.

I snarled. “What do you want, Morrigan?”

His smile sharpened.

“Come back with me,” he said. “To my kingdom. Serve as my High Enforcer. My second.”

I stared at him. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” He tilted his head. “But I am also your only way out of this valley alive.”

“I won’t be anyone’s leash again.”

A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face. “I don’t leash my enforcers. I arm them.”

The ground beneath my feet pulsed again—closer now. Other things were waking. Drawn by blood and power and the echo of the fight.

Dante extended a hand.

“You want freedom?” he murmured. “Power? The chance to burn the world that keeps trying to cage you?”

My vision swam. My legs trembled. Caspian’s face flashed in my mind—commands masked as concern, control wrapped in affection.

I was so tired of being moved like a piece on someone else’s board.

“What happens if I say no?” I whispered.

He leaned in, voice velvet-dark. “You die screaming. Slowly.”

The valley growled.

I took his hand.

“I’ll come,” I said hoarsely. “I’ll be your enforcer.”

His fingers closed around mine—warm, unyielding.

“Good,” Dante Morrigan said, opening the rift behind him. “Welcome to hell, Maeve.”