Murder Queen.

Our nation was a quiet one. A small and underestimated one, tucked away on the edge of the known world, where few gave it more than a passing thought. It was a convenience to exploit and then dismiss. The Kingdom of Aloyi was a place of little rain and shadowed in a smoldering heat, as if the sins of its ruler invited hellfire. Where secrets clung like dust to stone walls, and the weight of silence was heavier than any sword. Until it happened. It was not a rebellion. Not a war. No banners rose, no armies marched. The unrest was swallowed before it could be named. A whisper behind closed doors. A shadow crossing the threshold. By the time anyone dared to speak the word aloud, it was already over. One month. One brutal month. And a new power took hold of the Kingdom of Aloyi. Power draped itself in silence and cunning, not fire and blood. It crept through the halls of the palace like a dark tide, unseen but inevitable. And at the center of it stood the Murder Queen. Week One—a whisper, barely more than a rumor, spread through the city like wildfire: a coup was underway. A plot to dethrone a king deemed unworthy, unfit to rule. But no one dared speak its name aloud, for the threat was invisible, a shadow lurking beneath the surface. No one could possibly ascertain where or even who began such rumors. Week Two—the crown prince, Sébastien, was exposed as illegitimate—born not of the Queen but a servant mistress. A stain on the royal line, a disgrace no longer fit to wear the title. In front of nobles and court, King Arnold revoked his son’s title in a formal statement meant to erase Sébastien—Bast—from succession. The palace trembled with whispered accusations, the air thick with betrayal. Week Three—rumors multiplied. Sightings of rebels, detailed accounts of their secret hideouts and swelling numbers. The royal army scrambled into action, chasing shadows and dead ends, always a step behind ghosts that vanished before their eyes could hold onto anything tangible. They were running in humiliating circles, with no reward for their effort. Week Four—the king’s head rolled upon the palace steps. Blood staining the stone where once he stood. And in his place, a murderer sat upon the throne—wearing a dead man’s crown. The royal army returned to the palace, shattered and devastated, upon seeing King Arnold’s severed head resting on the once-pristine stone steps. Blood stained the hot surface like a dark prophecy. They surged forward, charging the throne room—only to find the perpetrator seated unnervingly comfortable in the late king’s chair, as if it had been crafted just for her. In one hand, a document bore the late king’s seal—an official parchment relinquishing all his power to the person who had killed him. At her side stood Sébastien, pale and trembling. His eyes, reddened and haunted, revealed a grief that no words could soften—a new allegiance forged from shattered bloodlines and bitter truths. This confused the Admiral, he personally knew Sébastien and King Arnold weren't close at all. Had something else happened that he has yet to learn? The Admiral stepped forward, sword drawn. “You’re a murderer,” he growled. The girl before him didn’t flinch. As if her gender weren't insulting enough, no new faces were among the guards. Her confidence was overbearing. “I am,” she said. “But to you, it’s Murder Queen.” Admiral Bellis countered her, his voice breaking. “No, it’s a lie! The king would never! That selfish man would rather end his own kingdom than give up his power. He was no saint and would never—” Though he could never say it before, he knew what kind of monster the late king had become. “The royal decree was witnessed by the highest of noble houses,” Bast interrupted quietly, stepping forward. “It’s true. An official statement was made late last night among the most prominent noble families. They were also present during his execution… for crimes I’m not privy to. Father said he was glad to have it ended so he might find peace.” Anyone might mistake his tone for bitterness, though it was portrayed as something else. Something in Bast left the room silent. His pain was evident—his voice cracked, his shoulders tight. No one doubted his words, especially when there were many to witness the king's execution. Only Kirra knew the full truth: the king had murdered Genevieve—Sébastien’s half sister. But she hadn’t told Bast. Not yet. She had seen how much he already suffered. She wouldn’t twist the knife further, not when his grief was still so raw. Instead, she told him privately that Genevieve hadn’t run away. That she was dead, in that moment he was destroyed. Somewhere in his heart he knew she wasn't coming back but now that his fear was confirmed, no hope could be left. And now he stood beside her, battered and loyal. Sébastien was thankful he had closure for his half sister and a sense of obligation to uphold. Admiral Bellis dropped to one knee, palm offered upward in a sign of submission. “This is actually happening,” he said in disbelief. “Lower your weapons!” He bowed. “Murder Queen, you have my fealty so long as your reign continues. What is your first command?” A grin slithered across the Murder Queen’s face. Her ecstatic fingers tapped the throne’s armrest in a rolling rhythm. “I thought you might never ask.” The room held its breath. “Appoint your successor,” she said. “From the peasant ranks only. That is all for the time being.” “I’m sorry?” Bellis coughed in disbelief before composing himself. “Murder Queen, I mean—yes, of course.” Kirra leaned forward. “Yes, Admiral Bellis. Fate has blessed you a good head upon your shoulders. I want not to squander your talent by cutting it from your body. Bring me a peasant successor of your wise choosing.” Her head tilted downward, eyes heavy with warning. “Then spend a week with the twins and your wife. Be grateful for their happiness. Enjoy your time away.” “My wife and—” the admiral lurched upright, stricken with fear. “Bellis watch your tongue, lest you expose your own indiscretions. Calm yourself,” Kirra said. “Your family is waiting at home for you, likely praying for your return. These are changing times. Don’t mistake me for the sinner who sat here before me. That kind of mistake won’t be taken lightly in the future. Do as I’ve asked. Then go home.” Her voice softened. A warm smile replaced her rigidity. Something unreadable flickered in her expression. “They are safe. You have nothing to fear on that end. You may go.” Bellis bowed again, silent. The Queen then pierced the room with her gaze. “Everyone else is dismissed until midday tomorrow, save for you, Bast. You will accompany me. I urge you all to be here by midday sharp, no later.” “Yes, my Queen,” echoed through the chamber as uneasy feet shuffled out dulling the noise. Once they were alone, Bast spoke cautiously. “What now, Murder Queen? You let them live another day—but why? Don’t you understand how this will terrorize them tonight? They won’t sleep at all, and you order their return at midday? Why? I don’t understand.” “That is precisely why I said midday,” Kirra replied. “Tonight, they will spend each minute looking over their shoulders, jumping at every noise, praying not to be slaughtered in their sleep. They will be exhausted and waiting for the morning. Then, once morning comes, they will wait until noon to face me. All that time will be plenty for them to reflect on the misdeeds they took part in—or started themselves. This is how things will change. I’m not as merciful as I wish I could be. They must first fear me… before they can grow to find comfort in my presence.” The Queen looked as if more were on her mind, sitting on the tip of her tongue but not making it past her lips. “You are truly merciful, Murder Queen. Your kindness knows no bounds,” Bast said with a nervous chuckle and shaky breath. “Surely I know nothing of what you speak,” she said dryly. Then her tone shifted. “Now, I need you to round up the noble children for me. Boys and girls alike above the age of thirteen. Bring them to the palace. You may take whatever guards you need on my word. When you have finished, come get me. I’ll be in the courtyard.” She seemed too eager to be gone, clutching her arm tightly as she fled the chamber. Bast nearly followed out of concern, but chose instead to obey. Her orders were more pressing than his worry. After all, the kingdom would wake to a monster once more this time he was actively taking part. In the middle of the night, the noble children were forced away from their families and into the possession of the Murder Queen. No explanation was given. No warning. Just knights, led by the bastard son of a dead king, dragging sons and daughters from noble homes. The act reminded many of the old king’s darkness—when he took young daughters under the guise of court training, only for them never to return. Now it was different. But somehow, still the same. The Murder Queen returned to the throne room hours later, when all the children had been gathered. Boys and girls alike, taken from noble homes in the dead of night. They were all old enough to understand the fear they faced now—old enough to recognize what it meant to be brought before a throne stained in their fathers’ sins. Sébastien turned to acknowledge his Queen, noting she looked more tired than before. On her brow thick beads of sweat rolled down and into her eyes that seemed to be straining to stay open. Even with how cold nights became her face was flushed, almost angry looking. Without addressing the room, Kirra walked painstakingly slowly across the marble floor. Her dress whispered against the stone and feet padded softly. When she reached the throne, she tucked the fabric under herself and sat with deliberate ease—throwing one unruly leg over her knee in a posture that dismissed every ounce of ceremony. The audience was accosted by her bare foot, hanging in the fold of her simple dress. “I have no need for the younger ones yet,” she said plainly. “Send them to the servants’ quarters for now—those under the age of fifteen. Have the servants place them accordingly.” Knights moved to obey. The younger children—confused, trembling—were led away. Some seemingly thankful to be away from the already feared murderer. The rumors made her to be more than a monster. Then Kirra’s gaze snapped toward those who remained. The older ones. Teenagers, nearly grown. Old enough to understand shame, power, and loss. She rose, walking slowly. The chamber fell to utter silence as she stepped forward—barefoot, her heels abandoned somewhere in the quiet violence of the so-called coup. Every step whispered defiance. She rejected ceremony, tradition, and the pretense of royal elegance. No polished heel struck stone. Only the soft sound of skin against marble. The kind of sound that shouldn’t echo—but did. She walked like one who had claimed this place not by birthright, but by blood. She sauntered through the rows of teary-eyed children—noble heirs turned trembling lambs. Her finger tilted a young girl’s chin upward, forcing her to meet the Queen’s piercing stare. “You may choose,” Kirra said, voice like a blade wrapped in silk. “The servant’s way of life, or my harem. The choice is yours. But know that you will be expected to fulfill the duties of the role you choose.” She called it a choice—but how could it truly be? How could it be anything but coercion, dressed in the illusion of agency? Surprisingly—perhaps predictably—many chose her harem. Perhaps they feared the wrath of their fathers more than they feared her. To become a servant was humiliation. To become a consort… at least that still held the illusion of worth. Of being wanted. Of surviving. With a dismissive wave of her hand, Kirra sent them away to their chosen fates. Soft, stifled crying lingered behind them as if that's the only thing the dry air could hold onto. The fear did not fade. It only thickened. And then—finally—morning came.