STAINED CROWN

Roxanne swiveled slowly in her chair. It was nearly midnight—the finest hour of her life. At last, she had met the requirements. She was finally being introduced into the coven. Waiting until twenty-three and sacrificing herself in marriage to an ugly, sixty-two-year-old hag was a heavy price, but she had paid it. She deserved this moment. "Aunt Morana said you should prepare!" a child shouted, bursting into the room before fleeing even faster down the corridor. Roxanne smiled. She loved when the children were afraid of her. She gladly welcomed the intrusion if it meant a few precious moments away from her oddly active old husband. She had chosen an ungifted man, passively waiting for him to die, but the decrepit fool was taking far longer than expected. Standing up, her chair let out an echoing, squeaky rasp against the floorboards. She walked to her wardrobe, the faint scent of blood stirring a dark joy in her chest. It wasn't human blood, sadly; such practices had been forbidden ever since the realms signed the peace treaty—a treaty she believed was ruining all the fun in her next thousand years. Or maybe not, she thought to herself with a quiet gleam in her eye. She pulled out her perfectly tailored dress. It was crimson silk, the exact shade her foul husband loved to tear off her skin. She rejoiced in his current absence and mentally recalculated his estimated time of death. Once dressed, she admired her reflection in the antique mirror, pinning up her midnight-black hair and draping an emerald-green cloak over her shoulders. She turned and swept out of her quarters. What were the words again? she mused, standing before the heavy wooden doors of the meeting hall. "Open up?" she tried, feeling uncertain. To her surprise, the doors swung inward with a deafening screech. Her aunt stood on the other side, her expression twisted in sharp, angry disapproval as Roxanne stepped inside. "'At midnight comes, bird feather falls, open up your doors, oh ancient ones!'" her aunt snapped in a harsh whisper. "When will you grow up?" Roxanne held her tongue. She bowed her head, submitting to the silence as she followed her aunt deeper into the cavernous room to join the rest of the coven. They were mostly older women, save for three young girls. The requirements for joining the coven were absolute: one had to be married and of royal blood. Unroyal Gifteds were only permitted entry if they performed brutal rituals and sacrificed their wombs. Roxanne stared at one girl in particular, feeling an immediate prickle of hostility. The girl had blonde hair—a clear giveaway that she lacked royal lineage. She must have surrendered her womb and survived the grueling three-tier spell trials to stand among them. Roxanne narrowed her eyes. She hoped the girl didn't think she was anywhere near her equal. Getting married to an old hag had been a bitter sacrifice, and she would be damned if an unroyal commoner outshone her. She slid into place beside her aunt as the women formed a tight circle around a spread of divining cards. The Head Witch turned toward her, her lips curving into a wicked, predatory smile. "Welcome, dear one. Your aunt has told me all about you. I do hope you do not disappoint me." The sentence ended with an icy, lingering glare. Roxanne offered a small, polite smile, nodding as she cast her gaze to the floor. I will prove myself, she thought fiercely. I will take my rightful place, rule this coven, and tear down this boring treaty. --- "Catch!" Blue shouted at the top of his lungs, throwing a crude, handmade crocheted ball as far as his tiny arm could manage. His dog bolted after it, and the five-year-old dissolved into fitful giggles. "Don't stay out here too long now, Blue," Lucy chided gently, resting a hand on the boy's small shoulder. The child spun around and hugged her knees tightly. Lucy squeezed him back, a genuine smile breaking across her face. She loved her kingdom. Here, everyone was happy. The grass was impossibly green, the flowers grew tall, and everything possessed the natural tendency to flourish and heal. She remembered being Blue’s age, naively believing she was immortal simply because she was one of them. She was supposed to be. But on her thirteenth birthday, she had suddenly coughed up a lungful of blood. A royal Healer had to spend days confined to her chambers, weaving magic into her body until she finally recovered. That was the moment the dream died. Healers didn't fall ill. She did. She had lived in denial for a while. Her father assured her that by her fourteenth year, her powers would manifest. But her younger sister, Aurora, had been healing plants since she was an infant in her cradle. On her fourteenth birthday, Lucy was forced to face the cruel reality: she was ungifted. In a royal family where every blood relative could heal, she was a defect. Though she lived in the grandeur of the palace, her family treated her like an embarrassment. She had only one saving grace: she was breathtakingly, devastatingly beautiful. Her most striking feature was her eyes—a striking, vivid purple. But even that was a curse in disguise. Only the Compulsives possessed purple eyes, and Healers were rarely known for drop-dead looks. Her beauty brought an endless stream of marriage proposals, none of which she had accepted. She refused to be auctioned off—not yet, and certainly not before she proved she was more than just a pretty face. Her face couldn't heal the flora. Aurora’s touch did. Aurora was adored because she was useful, and despite being younger, Aurora was clearly being groomed to take the throne. Lucy knew that the moment Aurora wore the crown, she would be cast out entirely. Her sister envied her beauty, and jealousy in a sovereign was a death sentence for an ungifted sibling. "I'm coming," Lucy muttered to herself, snapping out of her spiral of helplessness. The thought of her birthright being stolen by her sister burned like acid in her throat. She retreated into her quarters. He was still there—a man whose name she couldn't even remember. She had descended into a life of promiscuity months ago. The court called her a w***e behind closed doors, but to Lucy, even a slur felt better than being nameless. At least "w***e" was an identity that didn't include the word ungifted. The man opened his arms wide, standing naked beside her bed. Lucy stared at his frame. He looked fine enough, though she didn't really have a type. In truth, she couldn't stop thinking about her sister—mocking her, pushing her aside, stealing the one thing Lucy wanted more than any lover or child: the throne. She hated herself for her greed. How could I rule when I am this useless? She caught her reflection in the glass—flawless skin, striking purple eyes. Eyes she desperately wanted to gouge out. Why did she have to look even a little like them? The Compulsives. They were the most reviled faction in the land. They were the monsters who had murdered her mother during the war. Lucy turned back to the man. His body was tense, his desire plain. She shed her gown, letting it pool at her feet, and pushed the door to her bedchamber slightly wider. Anyone walking by would see her. They would call her a prostitute, and for a fleeting moment, they would forget that she was a failure to her bloodline. She dropped to her knees, taking him into her mouth. He tasted like freedom. Like being chosen. Like being in control. It felt like slapping her sister across the face in front of the entire court. The man buckled his hips, pushing deeper. She liked the hard press of his veins, but more than that, she craved the power. He groaned in pleasure, completely at her mercy. She used every technique she had learned, knowing there was nothing quite like rendering a powerful man helpless, breaking him down until he was begging her to finish him. In those moments, sitting over a broken man, she felt as powerful as a Healer. --- Roxanne was utterly bored. The old man thrusted into her from behind, his hands heavy on her hips. She kept her knees planted, enduring the dog position she so thoroughly despised—it made her feel like a literal animal. She let out a practiced, breathless moan. If she feigned pleasure, he would finish faster. Sure enough, seconds later, she felt the hot slickness spill down her thighs. The man collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy grunt, leaving her kneeling there in a frustrating mess. "You were supposed to pull out!" she screeched, bolting up and marching straight into the washroom. "We already discussed this! I do not want a stinky old man's child!" She heard him grumbling faintly from the bed. Hissing under her breath, she scrubbed her skin raw. It was bad enough that she had been forced to marry him to satisfy the coven's archaic entry requirements. She hated that they demanded married women, but the coven was the absolute peak of power. She intended to take over from the Godmother. Her aunt had been rejected by the spirits, but Roxanne knew she wouldn't be. She would impress the Godmother, seize control, and gain unrestricted access to the darkest magic in existence. She hummed to herself at the thought of all the power awaiting her. She longed to commune with the spirits, to conquer the four kingdoms. Why should the Healers hold the highest administrative authority? In her eyes, they were nothing more than ugly, self-righteous hypocrites. She stepped out into her garden. It was filled with rotting, dead flora, which she considered far more beautiful than any bloom. One day, she would wither the Healers' precious gardens and rot their livestock. Why should witches live in the shadows, sneered at and shunned? They should be the standard, and she would settle for nothing less. To secure her place, she had to work harder for the Godmother’s favor. The unroyal girl had already proven her ruthlessness—everyone knew how difficult it was for common blood to enter the coven, requiring conquests, bloodshed, and the sacrifice of a womb. Roxanne had to crush her before the girl gained any more ground. If an unroyal outshone her, the coven would say Roxanne had it easy. The mental image made her seethe with rage. No one takes my place. --- Roxanne returned to her quarters to pack. They were traveling to the Healer Kingdom to pay their regional dues and negotiate terms for the new trade bridge—tedious administrative nonsense she couldn't care less about. The roads in the Witch Kingdom were treacherous. The carriage jolted violently, its wheels clattering against deep ruts as the horses galloped. The chaotic, bone-rattling ride invigorated her—right up until they crossed the border into the Healer Kingdom. Instantly, the ground smoothed out, and the drivers whipped the horses with annoying restraint so as not to disturb the "precious plants." "Welcome," Marcela, Queen of the Healers, greeted them with a tight, forced smile as Roxanne and her aunt took their seats at the royal dining table. It was a lavish feast, laid out with expensive delicacies her own kingdom could never afford. The dead crops back home were aesthetic, sure, but admittedly useless for filling stomachs. Roxanne began eating immediately. Queen Marcela shot her a disgusted look. Roxanne merely smiled back, deliberately chewing with zero regard for their delicate table manners. "So... I heard she got married," Marcela said, turning to Roxanne’s aunt with a mocking, thinly veiled sneer. Roxanne bristled, reminded once again of how much she despised the Healers and their nauseating, fake generosity. She watched her aunt stumble through an explanation for why Roxanne had married a man old enough to be her grandfather, carefully omitting any mention of her coven initiation. "I do hope there is nothing unethical occurring, according to our treaty?" Marcela asked, her tone shifting to an authoritative threat. Listening to her aunt meekly reassure the Queen made Roxanne’s blood boil. Why should we answer to Healers? Excusing herself from the table, she began wandering the halls. The palace was revoltingly pristine—clinging vines, pastel pink and green tapestries, and vibrant, colorful paintings everywhere she looked. Suddenly, a sound caught her ear. She followed the muffled groans down a secluded corridor, turning the corner to find an extraordinary sight. A red-haired beauty was straddling a man, her chest rising and falling as she rode him with feverish intensity. The girl locked eyes with Roxanne. Instead of panicking or covering herself, the princess kept going, sinking deeper onto him with every stroke. Roxanne’s lips curved into a wide, wicked smile. The girl’s glowing purple eyes stared back at her intensely, devoid of shame—almost as if she wanted to be caught. In an instant, a brilliant, sinister idea clicked in Roxanne’s mind. She had just found the perfect loophole to execute her grand plan. --- Lucy clung tightly to the nameless man, her heart thumping against her ribs. She didn't know who this strange, dark-eyed girl watching her was. But as their eyes met, Lucy felt a sudden, electric shift in the air—as if she were being pulled out of the shadows at last. No longer a useless bystander to her sister’s throne. Finally, she had a purpose.