Murder Queen.

Chapter 1 Part 2

After what felt like an endless night, the first rays of sun cut through the gloom. A small relief for many. But it did not last. Because they remembered: the Queen had said to return at midday. And now they had to wait. Some in the nation woke to a completely different world.

In the early morning hours, an immediate council meeting had been called to order. The chamber, usually filled with murmured greetings and idle gossip, now sat in near silence. The council members remained unmoving in their usual cushioned seats, robes stiff with unease. The air was crusted with fear, silence hanging thick in the palace corridors where laughter once echoed.

The council chamber sits high in the stone heart of the palace, meant to feel lofty, authoritative—but it feels like a kiln. Today however it feels like a death chamber.

Sunlight floods in from tall, narrow windows cut into the pale walls, casting warped shadows like prison bars across the floor. The air is thick with heat, the kind that dries the inside of your mouth and makes silk stick to damp skin. There’s no breeze, only the oppressive hum of insects from the courtyard beyond and the occasional groan of the stone contracting under the rising heat.

Around the long, dark table sit the nobility—sweltering in formal dress, brocade wilting, powdered wigs stained with sweat. They are adorned like feast-day relics, glittering with imported jewels while the outer provinces starve. Their goblets are filled with water shipped from glacier-fed springs—an indulgence more provocative than wine in a season of drought. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Anger stayed most hands from partaking in the food and drink laid out on the table—silver trays of roasted nuts, honeyed figs, and wine left untouched, as if cursed. Goblets remained full. Eyes flickered toward the platters as though the grapes themselves whispered warnings. After all, it was the Murder Queen who had summoned them—and she had not yet arrived.

"Who takes children in the middle of the night?" a voice growled low, a breathless hiss of outrage from the far end of the table.

As if summoned by the question itself, the double doors creaked open.The nobles don’t know if they should bow, or if that motion might be taken for weakness—or worse, guilt. And when Bast steps forward at the Queen’s command, his movements are quiet but sharp, like a blade being drawn without ever leaving the sheath.

Barefoot, the Queen entered—her steps deliberate and soft against the marble floor, the hem of her gown trailing like smoke. She moved like a shadow clothed in silk, her hair unbound, her posture unflinching. She wore no crown. No jewelry. Her bare feet rejected all sense of regal tradition and proper etiquette, and somehow, that made her more terrifying

The silence is tense, cracking beneath the surface like scorched earth begging for rain. But there is no rain. There hasn’t been for months. Just the slow suffocation of waiting—for food to run out, for loyalty to fracture, for the Queen to make her next demand.

And when she speaks, her voice is cool, deliberate. Not gentle—nothing in her has been soft for a long time—but stillness in her tone feels like the eye of a storm that refuses to pass..

"A girl?!" Duke Cantar choked, nearly standing in disbelief. His voice cracked with insult and fear.

The two female councilwomen stifled a snicker—sharp and accidental—before they caught themselves. They straightened, faces neutral once more.

"I will overlook that," the Queen said coolly, her gaze slicing to Cantar, "in the name of progress."

She moved to the throne and sat without ceremony, throwing one leg over the other in a posture far too relaxed for the tension in the room.

"Now sit," she continued, eyes scanning them. "What are this kingdom’s strengths?"

The room froze.

“Pardon?” Duke Cantar finally huffed, still standing, face flushed.

“The strengths this kingdom possesses,” the Queen said again, unbothered. “I want to hear them plainly.”

“Why would we listen to a little girl like—” Duke Cantar began, planting both hands on the table.

“I wouldn’t finish that thought if you value your tongue,” Bast said. He had stepped forward from the Queen’s side, his tone low, like a blade sliding from its sheath. His eyes—usually distant, dim—now burned with something dangerous.

The room was stunned. Sébastien had not spoken against anyone since the disappearance of his sister, Princess Genevieve. That wound had silenced him for years. But now, for this girl—this imposter—he drew his sword without needing to unsheathe it.

No one had heard him enter. No one ever did.

“Bast,” the Queen curled the word around her tongue in a way that made the room blush. That one sole word stopped him from furthering his actions. A word she gave him as a pet name that he obediently responded to.

“Lest you have forgotten, she has already been named Queen of Aloyi; all the prominent noble families were there to witness this.” His matter-of-fact tone didn’t lessen the blow of Duke Cantar not being important enough to be present for that event.

Bast sheathed his blade and stepped into place by the Queen’s side, as if he hadn’t stepped forward at all in her defense.

“You have my appreciation, Bast.” Her head dipped slightly toward him before turning back to address the room once again. She didn’t repeat herself for a third time—the room sensed her command and began responding accordingly.

“Military, Murder Queen.” An older council member spoke, thinking his years would serve him well in gaining her favor.

A loud, boisterous laughter bounced around the room, her posture shaking as her shoulders rolled. Suddenly she stopped and glanced at him. “Oh, you weren’t jesting?” she asked with wicked mirth. “Have you already forgotten how I became Queen? Our military is hardly a strength.” Her words disarmed his confidence and injured her countenance. Her laughter died as quickly as it had come.

No one else spoke.

The Queen turned slowly, the train of her gown curling behind her like smoke. When she spoke again, it was soft. But the whole room leaned in to hear. “I won’t lead a kingdom that lies to itself.” Then she turned toward them again, eyes catching the window’s light like shards of amber.

“You fear me. Good. That means you remember what it took for me to get here. But I didn’t claw my way to this throne to sit atop ash and call it power. So if you want to be useful to this reign, speak truthfully. Name true strengths. Or I will find those who can.” Her words were not shouted. They didn’t need to be.

She had been forged beneath water and blood and betrayal. These men—who whispered of curses over tea—would not outlast her reign if they clung to superstition and fear like armor.

And beside her, silent but certain, stood Bast.The bastard son of the last king. The Queen’s shadow. Her blade. Her only ally in a room full of relics.

“Wealth.” A brave voice broke the silence. Count Hoffer. Greying at the temples, fingers nervously laced over his belt. He didn’t stand, but the way he raised his chin commanded attention. “If nothing else, Aloyi has always held strong in commerce. This assortment of treats is proof enough.” He gestured over the grapes, honeyed figs and wine.

All eyes turned to him.

Kirra’s gaze didn’t shift from the window as if the small finch outside it held more importance to her. When the bird darted from the windows edge her attention resurfaced towards them. “If only the late king were a better negotiator,” she said at last, not bitter, but bone-deep tired. “The treasury has been empty for years.” That should’ve been the end of it. But she turned then—fully—and looked Hoffer dead in the eyes. “He sold promises instead of contracts. Bent the knee to Marrow tariffs, let Culi ships sink rather than deliver our nation goods that were paid in full. He gave away coin in exchange for flattery—and called it diplomacy.”

She took a step forward. One of the lords leaned back without meaning to. “Do you know what Aloyi's wealth is now, Count?” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Debts. And dead daughters.” No doubt she saw all the ways the late king had tried to atone for such massive debt.

No one dared offer a third answer, rather looked to the Murder Queen with defeated looks.

A soft voice cleared her throat. “The strength of Aloyi’s people. Their ability to endure.”

Councilwoman Countess Califa offered the words with quiet embarrassment, as if ashamed to speak in a room so used to male dominance. She was one of the oldest among them—her hair silver, her voice brittle with hesitation.

Before the men could turn on her, the Queen stepped in. “Good!” Kirra declared, sharply enough to make some flinch. “That is something tangible. Something we can give power. Your insight is a blessing, Countess.” She offered a rare flicker of favor—just a slight inclination of her head, but it changed the air. A breath of acknowledgment. Respect.

Encouraged by the shift, another voice rang out. “We have the third-largest college,” said Clergy Member Davis, riding the wave of momentum. “It’s been established for nearly seven years and, from what I hear, yields good results.”

A murmur rippled through the room, as if hope might finally take hold.

But Kirra only stared at him. “This continent has three colleges,” she said flatly. “Third place is first failure.” Her words were not cruel, but coldly factual. She turned her eyes back to the table. “Council members. The Aloyi Kingdom has been here for what—little over two hundred years?” Her voice sharpened like the edge of a blade.

“What do we have to show for that time?”

The silence roared louder than any answer. Then Duke Cantar, proud as ever, dared to swell with pride once more. “The treaty we have established with the Marrow Empire serves us well.”

Something behind Kirra’s eyes shattered. “Oh yes,” she said with venomous calm, “the treaty that drains the last scraps of what Aloyi can produce. Leaves our people starved. With nothing and calls it a favor.” She was standing now, or maybe she’d never sat. “The treaty that says the people of Aloyi should be grateful for being taken advantage of?”

Her voice rose—controlled, but blistering. “You’re right. We do have that.”

A pause. No one breathed. “I think it’s hardly appropriate to call it a treaty when they cross our border and enslave our kinsfolk. Then again, your king sold his own people to pay off his debts.”

The temperature in the room dropped. Queen Kirra’s features vibrated with fury. She took a deep breath, trying to gather herself—but her hands trembled against the wood of the table. Bast moved. Softly, without drawing attention, he placed his hand beneath her elbow—where it jutted out slightly, exposed. A silent gesture. Grounding. Familiar. A detail no one missed.

She blinked once, then straightened. “Tell me,” she said slowly, “about the charge of agriculture,” the Queen asked, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a whip.

The council erupted into laughter—sharp, dismissive, incredulous—before it dawned on them she was not jesting. Their faces stiffened, realizing their mistake. “Well, we—the aristocrats, the nobles—are the only ones with the means to cultivate anything,” Duke Rayne finally replied with a smug edge. “But, of course, we have no mind for it. Something so beneath our status. Why bother when Culi supplies our tastes?”

The air hung heavy, thick with dust and the smell of parched stone. A dry breeze stirred the heavy curtains, sending motes of dust twirling like ghosts in the harsh sunlight. The nobles shifted uneasily, some brushing sweat from their temples, others casting furtive glances at one another.

“You’d do well to hold your tongue,” Kirra snapped, eyes flashing. “I should have known the satisfaction of supplying your own survival was too much for you to comprehend—or enjoy.”

She paused, a low, sharp breath. Behind the sharpness in her voice flickered the shadow of exhaustion—an unspoken weight she carried in silence. For all the iron in her tone, this fight was not just for pride, but for survival. “One of you volunteer a Head of Agriculture now, lest I choose from your ranks myself.”

The room grew tense. Duke Baighnard slowly raised his hand, drawing haughty looks from his peers and the Queen’s keen gaze.

“Pardon me, Murder Queen,” he said with false humility. “My daughter—bless her usual habits—might be able to help you find a worthy candidate.”

Kirra’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I care for your daughter or her opinion?”

Baighnard bowed his head, voice low with reluctant pride. “She is fond of botany. No matter how many times I forbade it, she cultivates a small room of flora.”

“That sounds precisely like the person I’m looking for,” Kirra said, rising from her seat, voice steel.

“No, not my daughter—she—” Baighnard began, but the Queen cut him off.

“Our borders are shrinking daily,” Kirra declared, her gaze sweeping the room. “Not only because of slavers but because our people are starving to death. Do you think it’s appropriate to offer me anything less than your best? Are you trying to deceive me to protect your own reputation?”