HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 2: The Kings Of Shadows

The mountain air did not blow; it bit.

For three torturous weeks, the midnight-black carriage climbed higher into the jagged teeth of the northern peaks. With every mile, the golden warmth of Oakhaven was stripped away, replaced by a suffocating, heavy fog that clung to the valleys like a shroud. By the time the iron-shod wheels ground to a halt, the sun was nothing more than a pale, bleeding smudge behind a wall of slate-gray clouds.

The carriage door was flung open by a guard clad in rusted chainmail, his face hidden behind a grim iron visor. "Out," he grunted.

Evadne stepped out, her bare feet instantly freezing against stone carved from the dark heart of the mountain. Above her loomed Castle Blackthorn. It was a colossal, terrifying fortress of jagged spires and weeping black rock that looked less like a home and more like a tomb built for giants. The wind howled through the battlements, whipping her thin, threadbare shift violently against her skin.

There was no grand welcome. No flowers, no music, no courtly greeting. Instead, standing at the base of the grand stone steps, was a severe-looking older woman wrapped in heavy, stiff black velvet that seemed to swallow the light. This was Dowager Duchess Vane, the aunt of the Crown Prince.

"So," the Duchess murmured, her sharp, hawk-like eyes sweeping over Evadne’s bruised skin and filthy, soot-stained travel dress with deep, unmoving disgust. "This is the scrapings of the southern barrel. They send us a bastard to bed a dying prince. An insult wrapped in a treaty."

Evadne tightened her grip on the small, tattered bundle containing her only worldly possessions—a single, torn chemise of her mother’s. She forced her chin up, refusing to show the weakness they all expected.

"I am here to fulfill the pact, Your Grace," Evadne said, her voice raspy from the dry mountain air but steady.

"You are here because your father wished to rid his house of a stain, and we required a warm body to satisfy the ancient laws of succession before the bloodline fails," the Duchess snapped, turning sharply on her heel. "Do not mistake your place, girl. You are a guest by sufferance, a wife by contract, and a widow in waiting. Follow."

Evadne was led through twisting, labyrinthine corridors of cold, weeping stone. The castle was suffocatingly quiet, save for a distant, echoing sound that made the hairs on Evadne’s arms stand up—a deep, wet, agonizing cough that rattled through the very masonry of the castle.

The servants they passed did not look at her. They moved like ghosts, their faces pale, carrying basins of dark, metallic-smelling water and blood-soaked linens. The hatred in the air was palpable; the people of Mournvale blamed Oakhaven for the blockade that had starved their borders, and now, they were forced to house Oakhaven's trash.

The Duchess stopped before a massive oak door reinforced with thick bands of black iron. "This is the Crown Prince’s chambers. You will sleep here. You will tend to him. The servants will not enter; we have no desire to catch whatever rot is consuming his flesh. If he dies on your watch, the guards will ensure you join him in the crypts."

With that chilling promise, the Duchess pushed the heavy door open and shoved Evadne inside, locking it firmly from the outside with a heavy, final thud.

The room was vast, dark, and freezing. Thick velvet curtains blocked out what little daylight remained, and the only illumination came from the dying embers of a massive hearth. The air was thick and rancid, smelling of bitter medicinal herbs, old blood, and vinegar.

In the center of the room sat a massive four-poster bed draped in heavy, tattered furs.

Evadne swallowed her fear and walked forward, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. As she approached the bed, she saw him.

Prince Alistair lay propped up against a mountain of pillows. He was twenty, but he looked like a corpse trapped between worlds. His skin was translucent, so pale that the dark, violet veins beneath looked like cracked porcelain. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and his lips were stained with a terrifying shade of dark, almost black blood.

Hearing her footsteps, his eyes snapped open. They were a piercing, fierce amber—the only part of him that seemed alive. He glared at her with a hatred so intense it felt like a physical blow.

"Another one," Alistair rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones. Every word seemed to cost him a piece of his soul. "Have they... sent you to watch me rot? Or did your King... put poison in your skirts to quicken the process?"

Evadne’s pity instantly evaporated, replaced by the familiar, hardened armor of her anger. She had not survived seventeen years of torment at home to be spoken to like a dog by a man who couldn't even sit up straight.

"If I wanted to poison you, Prince Alistair," Evadne said coldly, crossing her arms, "I would have brought something that smells a lot better than this room. Your family didn't send me here to kill you. My family sent me here because they hate me just as much as your family hates you."

Alistair let out a sharp, bitter laugh that immediately devolved into a violent fit of coughing. He collapsed sideways, hacking into a silk cloth, his entire body trembling as dark blood spilled past his lips.

Instinct took over. Evadne rushed to the bedside, reaching out to steady his collapsing frame.

"Don't... touch me," he snarled through the blood, trying to push her away, but he was too weak. His hand caught hers, his grip surprisingly tight for someone so frail.

The moment their skin met, a sudden, violent jolt shot up Evadne’s arm.

It wasn't a normal sensation. It felt like an electric shock, hot and heavy, humming with a strange, dark vibration. In the shadows of the room, the dying embers in the hearth suddenly flared a deep, unnatural violet, throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls.

For a split second, the agonizing pressure in Alistair’s chest seemed to ease. His frantic breathing caught, his amber eyes widening in sheer shock as he looked down at their joined hands.

Evadne pulled her hand back instantly, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at her palm, then at the fireplace, which had returned to its normal, flickering orange. A strange, metallic taste filled her mouth, and a warmth she had never felt before began to stir deep within her blood—like a sleeping beast suddenly opening its eyes.

Alistair stared at her, his expression a mix of suspicion and dawning terror. "What... what are you?" he whispered.

Evadne backed away from the bed, her breath coming in short gasps as she clutched her trembling hand to her chest.

"I don't know," she whispered back into the dark.