Witch of the Wilds

Alaïa reached up to touch the crown of flowers that were twisting among the curls of her hair. She brushed her fingers over one of the many roses tangled there, setting off the ebony of her hair with brilliant blooms of color. This rose, a red one the color of blood, looked like a head wound in the mirror. Alaïa could feel a quiver in her lungs; she'd spent the last months desperately trying not to think about what she was about to do, but now it was right before her. Her wedding gown. She swallowed hard around a lump in her throat, holding back the tears, fear, and all the other emotions that threatened to knock her to her knees in front of the mirror she studied herself in. "You look so beautiful," the maid to her left whispered into the silence, thinking she was admiring herself in her dress, her face painted to make her eyes seem to glow in the soft candlelight. "Our lordship will be quite pleased, I think." Alaïa did not reply; she couldn't seem to speak around her fear. The Blood Tyrant. Not that a maid in the Blood Tyrant's castle would dare to call him by his terrible nickname. It would only serve to ensure her head would be soon separated from her neck. The Blood Tyrant had never shied away from death as a punishment for his own people. It was the main reason that it was Alaïa standing here in front of the mirror. She was here to ensure he paid for his sins with his life. A knock at the door startled Alaïa out of her thoughts. the maid walked to the door to open it, revealing the butler. "Princess Evellae, it is time." A shock slid down her spine at the sound of her sister's name, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. Evellae is not here, she reminded herself. Evellae is safe at home where I left her. She would never step foot inside this castle if Alaïa still had a single breath left in her body. Alaïa nodded, turning from the mirror. Act timid. Act like Evellae. She kept her eyes on the floor as she stepped up to the waiting butler. "I am ready," she whispered, not even having to fake the quiver in her voice. The man nodded, holding out his arm. Alaïa wrapped one gloved hand around his arm, a feather's touch. The butler gently tapped her hand with his own, favoring her with a smile when she looked up into his kindly face. "Take a deep breath, your highness. There is no reason to be nervous." The fires of anger surged through Alaïa's veins. Would you have said the same to my sister, knowing you send her to her death? Alaïa could still feel the violent echoes of her vision: the blood. The body of her sister. The sinister shrouded figure of the Blood Tyrant standing over her with bloody hands. That vision, that hint of the future Alaïa's powers granted her, was the reason she was there in her sister's place. And this man, this ignorant fool of a servant, smiled so kindly. Red-tinted rage poured over her vision, but she gritted her teeth, smiling around her anger. She looked down as if shy, hiding the sneer that took over her features. Control your anger, breathe. The lives of your people depend on you. Alaïa forced a shy smile back on her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "You are so very kind." Perhaps she would make sure this butler died alongside his master. They walked along the lavish hallway from the guest room she had readied herself in, but she was too nervous to properly take in her surroundings. They passed by glorious tapestries, gilt-framed paintings, exotic vases from the far north, and gold-and-diamond chandeliers, but Alaïa saw none of it. The walk from her room to the ballroom felt like an eternity while also feeling like seconds. Her hand resting on the butler's arm trembled as they neared the massive doors. Several men and women in shining silver armor stood on either side of the door, their faces hard as they watched Alaïa's progress. Two of the armed cadre broke off, taking hold of the handles and pulling the massive wooden doors open. This was it. Alaïa took in only a glance of the brilliant colors, glowing candles, and glittering jewels before she cast her eyes downward. It would stretch her acting abilities to pretend to be Evellae, but she would succeed. She had to. "Her Majesty, Princess Evellae of Regalia!" the crier called as she entered. The butler released her arm, bowing as he did so. "Your Grace." Then he backed away, leaving her alone to face this nightmare alone. Alaïa braced herself, took another deep, shaking breath, and took her first step forward toward the horror of her new life. Gasps and whispers filtered through the haze of her terror, barely heard over the drumbeat of her heart. It battered against her ribs, a wild bird caught in too-small a cage. Sweat formed on the back of her neck as she stepped again, one step closer to the Blood Tyrant. She couldn't even force herself to look up, so she instead studied the marble floors, whites and grays threaded through with gold. Trembling, Alaïa took yet another step forward, already at the stage where her husband-to-be waited for her. A gloved hand appeared in her vision, and she started, staring down at the finely woven, gold-stitched glove. The cost of such a thing would have fed her whole village for a week. That anger boiled in her, and she had to force herself to swallow it. She would have her revenge soon. It was not time to ruin it with a tantrum now. Another deep, cleansing breath, Alaïa sent up a prayer to the Goddess of the Sky, the brilliant god who blessed Alaïa with her powers of seeing the future. Please protect me on this day. With trembling fingers, Alaïa placed her own gloved fingers on the offered hand, keeping her head down demurely as she stepped up onto the stage where the altar waited. While part of her desperately wanted to look into the face of the murderous man she was marrying, she kept her eyes glued to the ground, studying the soft, red fabric that covered the marble upon the stage. "We gather here today to witness the union of these two souls: Princess Evellae of Regalia to the Emperor Dametrius of the Nation of Pearls..." Alaïa squeezed the Blood Tyrant's hand, her finger quivering, as the priest said her sister's name. Swirls of emotions battered against her, making it nearly impossible to pay attention. Her fear felt like an animal inside her, trying to claw its way through her skin to get out. But she forced herself to hold it in. She would marry the Emperor, and then he would die for his crimes. It was written in the stars; she could feel the hand of the Goddess of the Sky moving her forward like a Chess piece. She would fulfill her duty. She would succeed. She would kill her husband. The priest asked her a series of questions to which Alaïa had no room in her thoughts to comprehend, but she knew her part. When the priest was finally silent, she said, "I do," in the loudest voice she could muster. It came out a strangled squeak, but it must have been good enough since the priest turned his attention to the man holding her hand. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, this tyrant with bloody fingers that held onto her like he owned her already. A deep voice like gravel spoke in a calm, icy tone as the priest finished. "I do," he answered, like a hammer slamming into her heart. "You may now kiss the bride." Alaïa froze, her heart halting in terror. The moment she'd been avoiding was here; it was time to look up into the eyes of the man she was to kill. She turned to her left, feeling like she was moving through high winds, almost in slow motion. As she turned, Alaïa lifted her chin, her eyes crashing into the eyes of her husband for the first time. They were azure, the blue of a cool, October sky. She could see infinite depths in them as she completed her turn, her right hand coming up to join her right on the hand of the Blood Tyrant. He was tall; she needed to tilt her head up to see him properly, and what she saw made her breath catch in her throat. He was beautiful. Alaïa's lips parted as she studied the man before her. His muscular frame exuded strength, poise. His dark hair was kept short, leaving the ivory skin of his face clearly visible. Those blue eyes shown like jewels, and he was cleanly shaven, his skin clear and well-kept. He hovered somewhere between clean-cut and rugged in a way that set fire to Alaïa's belly, and she watched as he began to lean in. Her heart stopped altogether as the Blood Tyrant brushed her lips with his.