CHAPTER 2
1747 Words
Three years of Astrid’s reign had transformed the once-prosperous land of Artesia into a graveyard of hope.
The Queen’s heart, hardened by the memory of her own family’s slaughter, seemed incapable of mercy. Under her rule, the weight of the crown was felt most heavily by the commoners. She instituted a crushing taxation system that bled the villages dry, and gold flowed into the palace while the granaries stood empty.
Starvation became a common guest at every table. The elderly, weakened by hunger, perished in the winter chills, while the young faced a fate perhaps crueller than death. Astrid had established the Royal Academy, a cold, stone fortress where children were forcibly taken from their parents. Within those walls, they were stripped of their names and forged into a new generation of zealots: soldiers and servants whose only loyalty was to the White Wolf.
Inside the palace, life was a stark contrast of opulence. The Samarian survivors lived in luxury, draped in silks and feasting on the finest meats. Yet, even among the victors, there was dissent. Axel, the Queen’s younger brother, watched the suffering through the high windows of the palace with growing horror.
One evening, he finally found the courage to confront his sister in the throne room.
"Don't you think this is too much, your highness?"
Axel asked with his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
"The people are dying. The streets are silent."
Astrid didn't look up from her maps.
"I know exactly what I am doing, Axel. I am securing our future."
"No, you aren't!"
Axel exclaimed with his voice cracking.
"You are ruling over a kingdom of ghosts!"
The Queen’s head snapped up as her golden eyes flared with a predatory light, casting a death glare that made Axel’s blood run cold. The silence that followed was heavy with the threat of violence.
"I aim for wealth and power,"
She said with her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"This meagre palace and these starving peasants cannot afford the empire I envision. If you find the air here too thick with the scent of reality, then stay out of my sight. Prepare my things; I am leaving for a few days."
Without another word, she swept past him with her heavy cloak billowing like a shadow.
Astrid rode west, disguised in the simple, travel-worn clothes of a commoner. A deep-cowled hood masked her striking features as she crossed the border into the Kingdom of Rowan.
Rowan was the mirror image of Artesia. Ruled by King Julian, a young, hedonistic monarch who despised the responsibilities of marriage and governance, the kingdom appeared vibrant and wealthy. The villagers were well-fed, and the palace echoed with the sounds of daily banquets. However, a rot festered beneath the surface.
Every fifth night, a dark tradition took place. The King’s soldiers would descend upon the market to recruit a young woman to serve as the King’s companion for the night. It was an open secret that the women returned broken, or not at all.
"Citizens! Rejoice!"
The Royal General shouted with his voice cutting through the midday bustle of the Rowan market.
"The King requires a guest of honor. Offer a woman worthy of the throne, and your family shall be rewarded in gold!"
A group of men, desperate or perhaps greedy, stepped forward. They led a woman whose head was draped in a heavy black sack.
"She is a rare prize, General,"
One man whispered, gripping the woman’s arm.
"Look at her stature. Her skin is like cream. I guarantee the King has never tasted anything so fine."
The General eyed the head cover with suspicion.
"Why the mask?"
The man leaned in close.
"Is mystery not the finest spice? The King loves surprises. I promise you, her beauty rivals any queen in history. Perhaps tonight, he will finally find a reason to stop his wandering and take a wife."
The General, intrigued by the prospect of finally settling the erratic King, took the woman into custody. Despite her muffled pleas and struggles, she was whisked away to the palace and prepared for the King’s chambers.
When King Julian entered his room later that night, he was already flushed with wine and laughter. He found a woman lying on his bed, naked and silent, her head still shrouded in the black cloth. He smirked, approaching the bed with slow, arrogant strides.
"Tell me, woman,"
The King purred,
"What is your name?"
"It is a waste of breath to name myself a man who refuses to see my face,"
A cold, melodic voice replied from beneath the cloth, and Julian laughed.
"I only want your body; your face is of no consequence to me."
"I understand, your highness,"
The woman said softly.
"Do what you must."
As the King reached out to touch her skin, she spoke again.
"Tell me, King Julian... what would happen if this kingdom finally found a new Queen?"
The question was strictly forbidden in Julian’s presence. His mood soured instantly. Snarling as he reached down and ripped the cloth from her head.
The King froze as he recognized the golden eyes. He recognized the face of the woman who had allegedly died in the fall of Samaria, the woman now rumored to be the Butcher of Artesia.
He scrambled backward with his heart hammering, but as he reached for the door, he heard a sudden eruption of screams and the sound of rending metal from the hallway. His guard was being slaughtered.
The woman stood, but as she moved, her body began to warp and grow. With a sound of snapping bone, a massive white wolf took her place.
"P-Please! Spare me!"
Julian shrieked, cowering against the door.
"I did nothing! It was my father who ordered the attack on Samaria, not me!"
The wolf leaned in, its hot breath smelling of forest and iron. Then, the voice of the Queen vibrated in the air.
"I do not care if the sin belongs to the father or the son. This kingdom belongs to me now. I shall end your life exactly as you helped end my mother's with a coward’s plea on your lips."
"I was commanded!"
He sobbed.
"Artesia forced our hand! We had to support them!"
The wolf paused as its golden eyes narrowed.
"Is that so? Then perhaps I shall show mercy... if you give me the key to your dungeon of wealth. If your gold satisfies my hunger, I may let you live."
Julian, blinded by hope, scrambled to lead her to his secret treasury. He packed chests with gold coins, ancient artifacts, and the vast wealth of the Rowan line. Astrid’s Samarian kin, having infiltrated the palace under the cover of the m******e, began hauling the treasure away.
But as the last chest was moved, Astrid shifted back into her human form. She looked at Julian with a cold, empty smile. Before he could speak, she drew a dagger and ended his life. She would not leave a rival alive to tell the tale.
By morning, a Samarian woman from Astrid’s inner circle was installed as the Regent of Rowan. To the public, the news was simple, the King had been slain by the Great Beast, and the new Queen was their only protection.
While Astrid expanded her empire, Celia, the daughter of the late King Valerius, was on a journey of her own. She had travelled to Red Mountain, a jagged peak of crimson stone rumored to be the lair of the First Witches.
A local hag had guided her to the base of the mountain but refused to go further.
"This is your path to walk, little princess. The mountain eats those who do not belong."
Celia pressed on, reaching the heart of the mountain where a subterranean lake shimmered like a dark mirror. Following the hag’s instructions, Celia stripped and plunged into the frigid, ink-black water. She swam down, her lungs screaming for air, until the pressure became unbearable. Then, the world flipped. She broke the surface on the other side, finding herself in a vast, hidden cavern dominated by a black stone altar.
A group of women in dark robes stood around the altar, their eyes fixed on her.
"Look who has come to us,"
One woman said, stepping forward.
"The Princess of Artesia."
"I see I’m famous,"
Celia replied, crossing her arms defensively.
"Familiar,"
The woman corrected.
"You are family. You are here to claim your history."
"I'm here to claim my power,"
Celia snapped.
"I have no time for talk. I want to awaken whatever is in my blood so I can kill the wolf on my throne."
The woman laughed, a sound like dry leaves.
"You have your mother’s fire, but you are ignorant. Do you know why your father was able to defeat the Samarians, Celia? If they are as strong as you say, how did a human army ever break their gates?"
Celia frowned.
"He was a great strategist."
"He was a murderer,"
The woman spat.
"Your mother, Hellia, was the greatest of our kind. She loved your father, and for that love, she committed a great sin. She used her magic to brew a poison from a sacred flower, a flower that strips wolves of their power. She weakened the Samarians, turning them into nothing more than fragile humans for the day of the attack. And how did your father reward her?"
Celia felt a cold dread settle in her chest.
"She died of illness."
"A lie!"
The witch shrieked.
"She was murdered. Your father poisoned her with that same sacred flower once her task was done. He feared her power as much as
he feared the wolves. He killed the woman who gave him his kingdom."
Tears blurred Celia’s vision as her father, the man she had sought to avenge, was a traitor who had murdered her mother. The rage that had been directed at Astrid began to shift, broadening into a darker, more potent thirst for justice.
"Stay,"
The witch commanded with her voice softening.
"Learn the old ways. Awaken the blood of Hellia. When you leave this mountain, you will not be a princess. You will be a goddess of the dark."
Celia looked at her hands, imagining the power of the Red Mountain flowing through her veins. She would stay. She would learn. And when she returned, both the memory of her father and the reign of the White Wolf would burn.
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