HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 4: The Vipers Of Castle Blackthorn

The nights in Mournvale belonged to the wolves, but the days belonged to the vipers.

While Evadne spent her mornings scrubbing the damp stone floors of the prince's chambers and nursing Alistair through his silent, agonizing recoveries, she quickly realized that the physical decay of the castle was nothing compared to the rot within its ruling family.

The House of Vane was a dynasty built on paranoia. For three years, since the mysterious curse had first taken root in Alistair’s blood, the castle had shifted. The high lords and ladies who once bowed to the brilliant, lethal Crown Prince had slowly turned their backs, shifting their glances toward the younger, healthier brother.

On the sixth afternoon of her confinement, the heavy iron bolt on the door groaned open. It wasn't the ragged servant who usually pushed the tray of mold-bitten rye bread into the room. Instead, Prince Julian stepped into the chamber, flanked by two guards whose swords clinked ominously against their armor.

Julian looked immaculate. His silver-trimmed doublet was free of the ash and dust that clung to Evadne's rags, and his healthy, sun-warmed skin stood in insulting contrast to Alistair’s deathly pallor.

"Still occupying the bed, I see," Julian said, his voice a smooth, theatrical purr as he walked toward the hearth. He kicked a piece of firewood with his polished leather boot, sending a shower of orange sparks into the dark room. "I must admit, Alistair, the court is growing restless. The lords are asking when we might schedule the funeral feast. It is terribly inconvenient to keep the kingdom in limbo."

Alistair didn't flinch. He sat propped against his pillows, his amber eyes tracking his brother's movements with the stillness of a coiled predator. "If the lords are restless, Julian, perhaps you should give them more training drills. Idle hands breed treason. Or perhaps, you are the one who is impatient?"

Julian laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. He turned his gaze to Evadne, who stood near the wash basin, her hands curled into fists. "And what of your little southern rat? Tell me, brother, does she satisfy the ancient laws of succession? It is quite a tragedy. Our aunt had hoped you would marry a lady of northern blood—someone whose family could actually bring soldiers to our cause, rather than an Oakhaven bastard whose father used her to clear a debt."

"She is the Crown Princess of Mournvale," Alistair said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it seemed to drop the temperature in the room. "And until my heart stops beating, Julian, you will speak to her with the respect her title demands."

"Your title is a closing chapter, brother," Julian hissed, stepping closer to the bed, the mask of brotherly affection slipping to reveal a stark, desperate hatred. "Father is locked in the high tower, screaming at ghosts. I sign the edicts. I command the garrison. The only thing standing between me and the crown is your stubborn refusal to die."

Julian leaned down, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper meant only for the three of them. "Enjoy your little nurse while you can. The winter storms are coming, and accidents happen quite easily in the dark."

With a mocking bow toward Evadne, Julian turned and marched out, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Evadne walked over to the bed, her chest heaving with a mixture of fear and profound fury. She had grown up under the weight of cruel siblings, but Penelope and Rosalind’s malice was petty—born of vanity and boredom. Julian’s cruelty was lethal. It was the calculated malice of a man waiting to step over his brother's corpse to seize an empire.

"He is going to kill you," Evadne whispered, looking down at Alistair. "If the curse doesn't take you, he will find a way to speed it along."

Alistair let out a dry, bitter breath, leaning his head back against the carved headboard. "Julian is a coward, but he is backed by our aunt, the Dowager Duchess. She is the one who controls the inner keep. My mother died when I was young, and my father... my father was a great king once. But when the curse struck me, a madness took him. He convinced himself that the old gods were punishing our bloodline. Now, he is a prisoner in his own castle, and Vane blood rules the council."

He looked up at Evadne, his amber eyes reflecting the dim firelight. "They hated your kingdom long before you arrived, Evadne. Oakhaven’s blockades starved our southern borders two winters ago. Hundreds of our people died in the freeze. When my family looks at you, they don't just see a bastard—they see the face of the kingdom that milked our land dry. They want you dead because it satisfies their vengeance. They want me dead because it satisfies their ambition."

Evadne sat on the edge of the stone hearth, pulling her knees to her chest. For the first time, she truly understood the depth of the trap she had been thrown into. She wasn't just a discarded pawn of Oakhaven; she was a lightning rod in a foreign civil war.

No love strings attached them—they were still two strangers bound by a forced contract and a terrifying, inexplicable magic. But as she looked at Alistair’s proud, unbroken gaze despite his failing body, she recognized the soul of a fellow survivor.

"They think we are already defeated," Evadne said softly, her voice hardening as the embers in the hearth flickered a dangerous, faint violet. "Your brother. Your aunt. My father. They all think we are just waiting for the end."

Alistair’s lips curved into a faint, ruthless smile—the look of the prince he used to be before the sickness took his strength. "Then let them keep waiting," he murmured, extending his pale hand toward hers. "Let them think the vipers have won, until we tear the nest apart."