Murder Queen.

Chapter 2 Part 1

The council meeting fizzled out with little input from the infuriated members. It seemed even the fear of death could not stop the stupidity of old men in their privileged ways. Queen Kirra had left before anyone else, signifying how little they had to offer in ways of progress.

Now she sat, head cradled in hands, heaving a weighty sigh. Changing Aloyi would take the might to move both night and day. It would take the will to bring enough rain for Aloyi to flourish once again. She scoffed at the thought alone, no dream could be farther than that.

Papers and old-styled scrolls sat mostly for decoration on the smoothed surface of a grossly enlarged desk. The room felt suffocating in its extravagance—from the imported tapestries to the unseen double-paned windows. The space was adorned with custom-carved trim and hand-painted detailing, accomplished by who knows how many servants.

How many people had died or sacrificed meals just to cater to this room’s decor? She could almost hear the pleas of hungry servants as they diligently worked, not daring to make a mistake.

"Queen Kirra?" Bast’s voice carried through the crisp air, reminding her how much care the late king had put into his comfort. Of course his office would be intentionally cooler than other places in the palace. Guilt crept into the Queen’s chest. What made her more deserving than others? Yet again she was reminded of how cruel the late king was.

Her attention turned to Bast—thankfully, he was there to keep her thoughts from the darkness that tempted her sanity.

"Yes?" she hummed, not bothering to straighten her posture for a moment before forcing it up. She knew he was loyal to her and her cause, but also knew the distance she had to keep.

"You look troubled." The offer to ease her mind was evident when he sat upon the couch, even regal in his slouch.

She lifted her gaze—just slightly. He always sat like that, she thought. Not like a subject. Not like a man beneath her. As if her presence alone allowed him comfort. They both understand an unspoken rule that held a comfort between them. Something not fully explored yet.

"Head of agriculture," she muttered, placing her palm to her chest. A wave of anger came over her again. "Honestly, to think he would sacrifice his daughter for that lofty position! According to law, his house has committed treason by exploring plant husbandry without the crown’s approval. But to think that a child is more qualified and willing than an adult is beyond my patience and comprehension. My words fall short for such foolishness!"

Queen Kirra huffed in a rant, her shoulders sinking as the tension of her mind tried to retreat.

"The girl's name is Shyaine Baighnard. She is one of the young girls who chose to be a servant, rather than enter your harem." Bast offered.

"Do you know her personally?" Queen Kirra couldn't help but ask, perhaps Bast was fond of the girl. Knowing more might give away his taste for such things.

"I've heard about her. She was caught with a bag full of fruit that had been imported. She told me it had already been thrown away, so I didn't report it to the late king. She wanted the seeds. To me it seemed like an innocent girl desperate to explore a world forbidden to her by her father. The family would never live it down if it got out that their daughter was interested in botany." Bast gave a gentleness to his description of Shyaine.

"Her family is more privileged than the common folk. It's very brave of her to even try learning of botany in this land. The girl in me admires her, but the Queen in me can't let that side praise her worth. I have to knock her down so that she may grow more resilient and distinguished." Queen Kirra’s eyes prayed that Bast could sense her appreciation but refused to give him confirmation.

"Yes Queen Kirra. I know. Behind the private doors and only then. You are welcome. I'm glad you seem to have tamed that fury for the time being." Bast's smile tugged the corner of his lips as he tried to neutralize his features.

"Bast." The word wanted to come out as a warning, but instead, it slipped from her lips as a soft whine—a quiet yearning for comfort.

For a breath, he looked at her—not the Queen, not the ruler of Aloyi. Just her. He always had a way of doing that since they met. Like he could see the girl she had once been.

She moved. The moment snapped. The Queen forced distance between them, stepping to the other side of the desk. The barrier between them was more than wood—it was necessity. She couldn’t let herself want his connection. Not now. Not ever.

"Yes, Queen Kirra. As you wish. I will collect Shyaine from the servants' quarters and gather the items she needs." Without saying another word, Bast understood. He somehow always did. He gave her the space and silence she needed to remain composed, even as his presence threatened to unravel the callouses she’d spent years building around her heart.

"Wait." Her voice was sharper this time, halting Bast’s hand just as it touched the door.

"Tell Councilor Taylor and former Admiral Bellis they are to depart for Culi in the morning. I’ll draft the decree tonight with all the details." She hesitated only a breath. "In Cavern Prison… there’s a man named Kunei. I want him."

Bast didn’t ask why. He simply bowed.

"Cavern Prison," he said thoughtfully, "where the walls sweat with salt and silence. Where men forget the sound of their own names. You want someone who’s survived that?" Of course he would know about it, the rumors have even nobility chills.

She met his gaze. “I want him.”

She said it as one might request a blade still warm from the forge—dangerous, necessary.

Bast’s face betrayed no surprise. Only curiosity. Maybe caution. "Yes, Queen Kirra. Then I’ll take my leave and carry out your orders with haste." He bowed again and disappeared through the heavy door—leaving her to the quiet.

She stared at the closed door for a moment too long. The silence didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like penance.

The air was still, and then—faint—the scent arrived. Soon the woodgrain of the desk faded and something far more distant replaced it. It wasn’t the musk of parchment or wood polish. It was older. Wetter. A scent that didn’t belong in Aloyi’s dust-starved halls. It belonged to rain-drenched hills, deep veins of earth, copper-heavy with memory. A mineral-metal scent tangled with the fertile soil of Culi—a scent that Aloyi had not known for years now.

It was the scent that only came with visions of him. Her breath caught before she even closed her eyes. Her body already knew. The memory rose like steam in the cold air—unwelcome, but inevitable. It was something you wanted to lean into and nearly welcomed

She saw the hillside first. Humble. Stone-lined. A miner’s home. No estate. No crest. Just soot-black walls and hard-earned firewood. Kunei’s family had been commoners, their hands as raw as the soil they pulled from the mountains.

The memory was fragmented, like all visions were—fevered, yet sharp. A girl. His sister. Strong, stubborn. Beloved. And the men—sent by a noble whose advances she’d refused. They weren’t there to talk. They were there to remind her of her place. She screamed. Kunei stepped between them. He was just a boy. But he wouldn’t let them take her. She remembered the fury on his face. The desperation. It all happened too quickly: the shoving, the scuffle, the crack of stone. She fell.

Kunei didn’t even see her hit the ground until it was too late. And then he changed. Wild-eyed. Bloody. With nothing but his bare hands, he attacked. Three men. Dead. Their bodies broken, their faces unrecognizable beneath bruises and blood. He tried to get to her. His sister. But they dragged him away before he could. He screamed her name. Fought until he was bruised and bitten and bleeding. And still they called him mad. She had seen this all—not once, but more than once.

In her visions, she rarely saw the same face twice. But his—his had returned to her, again and again. She had never known why. Only that his pain stayed lodged somewhere in her chest. Her hands shook now as they had back then, when she first saw the memory. A heart-wrenching need to help welled up in her—but she had no name, no way, and no power. But now… now she did. Her heart swelled with what might be excitement, thinking of the future she was crafting.

The Queen stepped into the hallway, summoning a guard to her office. Cautiously, the door shut behind him, jumping slightly when it made a noise.

The room was quiet, lit only by the pale light filtering through rain-streaked windows. Shelves lined the walls—stacked with scrolls, seals, and blades. A heavy map of the continent hung behind her desk, pinned with crimson markers like open wounds. He had never stepped foot in this space before. Few had.

"I need more." Her voice froze him. He made no sound, as if even breathing might cost him his future.

Noticing his stiffness, she continued. "Relax. I just need an assistant. When I ask it of you, speak freely. Holding your tongue in the name of respect will do nothing but render you unproductive. Sit."

She shoved him at the chair in front of her desk. Even sitting in that chair should have been reserved for the highest nobles or advisors. Under King Arnold's rule, this would have been treason punishable by death—not just for him, but for his entire bloodline.

"Where do you sleep?" she asked, eyes sharp as daggers. When his mouth stayed sealed, she cleared her throat. Her hands stilled atop the scattered papers and interlocked. Every part of her focused on him.

"Answer." Her voice deepened—sharpening like the blade he’d always feared might one day meet his neck.

"In the barracks, Murder Queen!" he blurted. The words were unpolished, rushed—spat out as if to relieve the weight she’d placed on him.

"Tell me about it. What do you eat? Speak to me like you would a mother or sister." Her face was unreadable, piercing his thoughts.

"The barracks are nothing special. We eat the grains rationed, Majesty. Typically made into porridge or bars." He hesitated, watching her reaction—she seemed unsatisfied. He pushed on.

"Other guards sleep there as well. We are cared for. Each of us has a private bed and allotted laundry once a week. The accommodations are more than we deserve. Thank you."

"You have private beds? Laundry once a week?" she repeated, as if testing the sound of it against her own standards. He nodded.

"Do you have any other privileges?" Her tone struck the question like a flint against stone.

"No, your Majesty." He kept his head down, pulling the cuffs of his uniform tightly into his nervous fists.

"What can be improved?" Her voice softened unexpectedly, like cool water on a fevered brow.

In that moment, the fear lessened—just slightly. Was she truly interested in his concerns? Would it be more foolish to speak truthfully, or to fake contentment and earn her silence?