The Secluded Queen: Legacy of an Armored Queen, #1

By T.J. Whiting

A kingdom in peril, its ruler fallen.
From the heavens, the divine stir with unease, as a plague without remedy spreads its tendrils.

But amidst this chaos, a new sovereign emerges: 
Clad in armor, unyielding in spirit,
Resolute in her path to defy even the gods and sorcerers.

The Armored Queen Shall Rise.

 

Approximately 500 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.J. Whiting
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223004158

T.J. Whiting

T.J. Whiting is a lover of Fantasy, Sci-Fi, and Fantasy Romance. He currently lives in Utah, with his wife and three children. His dog Flurry and his cat Ginger want you to enjoy this novel more than they did. T.J. Whiting is frequently publishing more novels, so check back in for more enthralling stories! Follow me at http://www.tjwhiting.com and my Twitter/X profile @tylerwhiting333

Book preview

Prelude

Veronica sat across from her husband; the room was illuminated by candlelight, and the waitress had just delivered their meal. Stories from their day, laughter, flirtations, and the soft, rumbling conversation of the others in the room, enhanced by Edward’s peaceful aura, created a healing ambiance. In the far corner of the little restaurant, a vocal soloist produced crisp notes that tickled her eardrums. Edward, sitting across from her with ruffled hair, a glowing smile, and laughter in his eyes, waited for her response to his latest question, but she had been lost in the way his forearm muscles coiled as he swirled his glass and had not actually been listening.

His low and seasoned voice was honey in her ears, Well?

She blinked forcefully to try and break the stupor his body had placed upon her mind. Hrm?

Do you know what I have been so busy with? He took a sip and set his glass down, shaking his head and smiling. Veri, you have been begging me to tell you my little secret for days, and now you hesitate?

Indeed, she had been hounding him for days. Veronica loathed when Edward was taken away on business, and the feeling was amplified when he could not tell her the details of his trip. The secrecy drove her mad. I wasn’t hesitating. I was thinking of something else.

What could you be possibly thinking about that’s more important than a nagging secret?

Veronica smiled, looking down at her plate, her cheeks burning. If you must know... I was looking at your muscles.

Edward’s grin widened, My muscles?

She looked up at him, making every effort to display her lust for him in her gaze. Yes. Your forearms, in particular. You’re looking really good lately.

Edward laughed, reaching behind his head and flexing tightly, It must be the extra sessions in the yard with Sir Phillip. I haven’t felt this strong in years.

I wish I could join you.

Edward relaxed, realizing that his flex, which normally put his wife into a fit of girlish flirtations, had been thwarted by her deep longing to train with the sword. Honestly, he had long ago decided that, though it was improper, Veronica should train with the sword. He wanted to fulfill her dreams, to be involved with the realization of those dreams, and further entangle his life with hers. He was obsessed with the beautiful woman who had agreed to be his wife, and he had never been happier in the decades he had been alive. Still, he felt she wasn’t yet ready for training, and he was extremely excited to present her with the gift he had painstakingly hidden. So, he deflected the subject by presenting his gift.

Edward looked to the entrance of the restaurant and gestured to the knight at the door, Sir Phillip, who brought a folded piece of paper on a silver platter. Veronica sat up straight, a huge smile on her face.

By the Mother, I love her smile.

Edward picked up the folded parchment and handed it to his wife.

Veronica unfolded it slowly, read it carefully, then gasped and clutched her neck. Tears filled her eyes, her jaw hung slack, and she read it again and again. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She tried to blink away her tears, but they resisted and rained down her cheeks. But... how?

Edward smiled at her across the table—his incredibly infuriating I know something you don’t smile. I contacted Lord Amount, who agreed to sell the entire parcel to me.

Veronica’s joy was stifled with fury. You talked to my father? I told you I didn’t want either of us to talk to that heinous man ever again!

Edward shook his head, And I never broke that promise, Veri. I used intermediates to broker the deal. Your father never knew I was involved, and I never laid eyes on him, neither spoke nor wrote.

His soothing words calmed the emotional tides within her, uncovering the intact, although a bit more salty, joy of this incredible surprise. I can’t believe you bought me our old cabin! She clutched the paper tighter, her hands shaking.

Edward was instantly at her side, pulling her head into his mighty chest. Then, after a long and drawn-out embrace, he kissed her deeply. When he pulled away, her tears graced his cheeks and lips. That cabin brought you the happiest moments of your young life, and it’s where you remember your mother the best. It took time, but if you like it, he paused and stroked her light brown wavy hair, gazing into her wet eyes, then it was all worth it.

Veronica wiped her tears on her dress, sniffling. Oh, Edward, I love it. This is worth more than all the gold in the castle coffers. She grabbed him by the face and kissed him. I love you, Edward.

Chapter 1

Edward, King of Anatolia , was dead. The morning wind was chill, and the sky had just been illuminated by the sun. Queen Veronica didn’t feel the cold as it blew through her black dress, the hem flying, as helpless against the wind as she was against death. She was lifeless inside, and the elegant building that towered before her was leeching her heart, soul, and any chance of happiness into the ornate interior. Her husband, her dear Edward, was in that dark building of death, and a part of her was in there with him, never to see the light of day again. The great grinding doors were closing out the happiest phase of her life. There was nothing she could do to stop them from closing. A great crash echoed off the surrounding castle walls as the Crown Mausoleum doors crashed shut, followed by twisting pain as death itself cut into her heart.

Veronica had been Queen for nigh on a decade, with King Edward at the center of her entire world. Edward’s death completely dazed her. What was happening on this ruinous day felt like nothing more than a nightmare. She didn’t remember turning and following the priests, garbed in holy emerald-colored robes, with ceremonial masks pressed over their faces, away from her husband’s final resting place. It was mechanical, the way she was walking now. Her mind was bewildered, her eyes only seeing gray, and the pain was unbearable.

I must not show my pain. Tears are a weakness to these people. I am as good as dead if I do not appear stalwart and unwavering.

The morning light highlighted her hair as she walked, light brown and wavy, meticulously shaped into a beautiful display—a stark contrast to her inner composure. She was distraught and unable to comprehend the vast and swift destruction of her once lovely life. Veronica was in genuine danger now that Edward had departed this world.

Assassinating a weak monarch was not unheard of in the history books of Anatolia, and Queen Veronica was viewed by many as nothing more than a means to an heir. The death of Edward had left a hole in the kingdom of Anatolia, a hole that Veronica could not fill. King Edward had been a powerful leader, and the fear he struck into the hearts of those who opposed him kept him safe from the snakes that wished ill of him. Veronica knew she wasn’t as strong as Edward, and the people knew it too. There was incredible uncertainty in the kingdom, and the transfer of power all depended on her keeping it together. If you cry, you die, Veronica. They do not deserve to know your pain. Try as she may, she could not prevent a lone tear from running down her straight nose, tickling her rosy tan skin as it went.

The cobblestone streets were lined with grieving citizens, wearing the closest thing to black as they could afford. Some wore black, others a deep shade of navy, others a deep violet, but most wore brown, undyed clothes. Those garbed in brown boasted dirty faces, untrimmed beards, and nearly naked children, sobbing and protesting, being forced to stand with their parents early in the morning when they could otherwise be playing. They were only there by royal decree, those impoverished souls. They couldn’t afford to miss a day of work and would not have attended unless forced. They were also the ones who would suffer the most if she lost her crown. It was the poor who suffered the most when crowns were warred over.

Keep it together. Keep it together for them. Edward would want you to keep it together.

She mentally forced down the pain, and her body shuddered from her trauma. She had lost the only thing she had ever loved in this world, and forever, there would be an emptiness inside her. The thought of his side of the bed—cold, vacant, undisturbed—made her cheeks spasm from an emotionless mask into a grimace. Tears filled her eyes, making the olive color rich and deep. She held her breath to distract her soul from her loss and wiped her eyes with a graceful, but shaking, hand. Her crown had never felt as heavy as it did during that short, slow walk.

Just make it back to your room, Veronica. Then you can grieve. Don’t let Edward down.

The procession continued to move through the castle courtyard, eventually reaching a fork in the cobblestone path. In one direction, the path led to the altar of Cybele, the Matron God, who created the entirety of mankind, and the other continued to the Castle Keep. At this point, just as it had been explained to her before the funeral, the priests paused. In a fluid and unearthly motion, they turned and bowed, the ceremonial masks hiding their faces behind images of the gods. She knew her old friend, High Priest Paivo Clearfall, was among them. It was odd to her not to be able to hug the little old man, but she tried to remind herself that he was showing his love and support for her through this elaborate ceremony. Veronica recognized the signal, the priests turning, and turned left, taking the path towards the keep, where the room to grieve within could be found, and the solitude she craved so deeply could be had. Her heart quickened with anxiety, and she had an urgent need to break down and sob. She was an emotionally ticking time bomb, ready to detonate and leave her soul plastered to the world around her.

The large fortified jade-colored doors of the keep, gray to her eyes, were opened for her by the silent Sir Barbarossa, with the much younger Sir Phillip, boasting flowing black hair, dark piercing eyes, arms as large as tree trunks, standing at attention next to him. Both were wearing the customary jade-stained armor, polished to a fine sheen. As she looked into the faces of these valiant men who had sworn to protect her with their lives, she was surprised to see that it wasn’t the younger, but the oldest member of the Royal Guard who had tears in his eyes.

The Royal Guard were known to be the most skilled and trusted knights in all of Anatolia. That surprised her—Veronica had never known any of the three hardened knights to cry. She stared into the slender and clean-shaven face of Sir Barbarossa. The deep scar on his neck, a wound that had rendered him mute years prior, was as frightful as ever. His gray hair was a grim reminder that this man had survived decades of war while many other mighty men had fallen to the sword. She was stunned that a man who had seen so much death could be so profoundly affected by a single man’s passing. The Royal Guard sacrificed themselves entirely for their King, tasting all food and drink for poison, and would always join the King on the battlefield. They wished to die in the service of the King and Crown, either through a lifetime of service or while defending their King. To outlive who they were sworn to protect shook them to their core. It was viewed as no less than an abysmal failure.

We are all shaken by Edward’s death.

She did not know what to do, but she felt like she needed to say something to her people to bring them hope and encouragement in these dark times. She had been in a daze while the ancient customs of the funeral were explained to her after Edward had passed, and she feared that she had forgotten something, some rule or custom about how a grieving widowed Queen should behave, and would offend if she spoke up. She didn’t want to break tradition, but she also couldn’t just leave everyone and return to the comfort and safety of her room without saying something—anything, to them.

Painfully aware that all eyes were on her, she stopped before entering the keep, turned slowly, and faced her fellow Anatolians. She took a deep breath and tried speaking, but her voice cracked, and she was forced to hide her distress by lowering her gaze and pretending like she had to clear her throat. She took a few shaky breaths to steady herself, and then she faced them again, eyes glistening in the morning light. Her voice carried with strength then—bore upon the wind enriched by her love for Edward.

I remained by the Great King Edward’s side until his light went out. The courtyard was now deathly silent, and her people all looked to her. In their eyes was a feeling she could relate to in that dim morning hour: fear. He grabbed my hand at the end of his slow, dignified death and spoke his final words. But these words were not for the Queen alone. She mustered the strength to smile as encouragingly as she could into their fearful faces. It looked more like a grimace than a smile, but it seemed to change the very air, which had been weighty with death. He said, and I quote, ‘I do not fear for Anatolia. I know our people are strong. I know they can overcome any hardship. I know they are the reason the Kingdom of Anatolia is great. After I am gone, I know I can depend on them to protect, preserve, and progress our culture and our country.’

Veronica spied a small family, just at the edge of her vision, a young father and a mother holding a toddler with one hand, and a baby in the other. The wife and husband looked at each other and smiled.

It seemed that her improvised speech had inspired hope in some, which would have to be enough for now. It had been a complete lie, of course, and indeed, some of the castle servants knew that. King Edward had been in a horrid state at the end of his life, decaying to the point that he was unable to speak Veronica’s name correctly, let alone utter the words of that short speech.

I’m sure Edward would approve of this one lie, just this once.

With that, she, the ten members of the High Council, and the Royal Guard entered the keep, and the door was closed behind them. Each of the High Council bowed to her in parting and took their leave to the Great Hall. Councilman Frederick, wearing robes more elegant than the rest, approached her after the other High Councilmen had moved on. He raised his hands to the heavens as he spoke, his many rings flashing in the torchlight and necklaces rattling about his thick neck. His voice sounded as though he had a frog in his throat, with a slight lisp, and with a slow but thoughtful air. It is a sad, sad day, to lose our great King Edward. But I know, with the utmost confidence, that our fair Queen will lead with wisdom and grace in his stead. We, the members of the High Council, are ready and willing to support you in anything you require.

Veronica smiled and nodded. Frederick is usually out for himself. What is your angle, High Councilman? He must sense my uncertainty about running an entire kingdom and wants to get closer to me to manipulate the Crown. Frederick bowed and made his leave, heading for the great hall.

Veronica paused before the large portrait of Edward and herself, posing in the castle gardens. Edward was in his jade armor, the familiar crown emblem emblazoned on the breastplate, smiling happily. She was turned into him, wearing a stunning white dress, one of her hands resting delicately on his chest.

I wish I fit into that dress now.

The portrait was more than just paint on canvas to her, or a piece of art to admire. It was the best depiction of her and Edward as husband and wife, the King and the Queen. Her mind drifted into the memory of that day—how they had held that pose together, side by side, for hours while the painter crafted the image, how calm and peaceful Edward had been, and how fearful she had been to stain her dress. She loved it and the memory dearly. It brought peace to her heart to look up into his eyes.

I can’t believe this is happening—I, a lowly girl from Patara, daughter of a trader, now ruler of Anatolia. I wish I could have been present during the many matters of the King so I could know what to do.

The spiral staircase felt unusually long as she headed up to her bedchamber. She was accompanied by Sir Richard, the third and final member of the Royal Guard, who had a red goatee and red hair cut short in a military style. He usually was incessantly optimistic, but where his jovial grin should have been, at the moment, there was a grimace. It felt like an eternity had passed before they had reached the barracks, even slower to pass the kitchens, until finally they reached the fourth floor. The giant bedchamber door was in front of her, ominous and depressing.

I would rather sleep in the stables than in this dreadful place.

The door that she had oft opened to find her darling Edward sitting at the desk held nothing for her now but pain and grief. It seemed to warn her of the dreadful day and night she surely had in store for her, lying alone, lying awake, with the time creeping by slower than sap on a cold day.

It was Sir Richard who broke the silence, trying to make his boisterous voice sound less gruff and more reassuring. My Queen, eh, in my time as a military man, I have lost many friends—good men and women whose time had come too soon. The farewells were hard, and many words were left unspoken. Death comes for us all, and only Nurtia can choose when.

Veronica wasn’t quite sure of Richard’s point and didn’t have the energy to inquire. She didn’t turn to speak with him. The door was so ominous that she dared not take her eyes off it. Death seemed to be soaked into the wood, and it felt that if she so much as turned her head, it would strike at her heart and steal what little life she had left.

Richard shifted weight from one foot to the other, his armor making rattling sounds as it moved, apparently uncomfortable. Well, eh, sometimes if I look in the mirror, I can see them there, within my own eyes. When a bout of misery comes—when I am alone, that is, I can see the strength they lent me resonating from within my own gaze. The memories of those we have loved and lost are agony, but they aid us, share wisdom with us, and guide us. The seeing and the speaking are gone, but they are always with us and helping us. When you feel lost, think of what King Edward would have done, and his memory will grant you wisdom. When you are weak, think of how the late King fought through fatigue, and his memory will give you the stamina to finish the day. When you are grieving, his memory will make you feel grateful to have known him.

Veronica stared, unmoving, at the door of death. Her voice was little more than a whisper. Thank you, Sir Richard, for your kind words.

Relieved that the sharing of feelings was over, Sir Richard let out a sigh behind her. I am honored to serve you, my Queen.

A pained silence followed, and Veronica still dared not touch the door.

My Queen, eh, may I get the door for you?

She sniffled and quickly wiped away an escaped tear. Yes, please.

The door swung wide for her, and she dashed inside.

It closed with a click behind her.

The large bed, freshly made and covered with a sizeable maroon-colored quilt, sat in the center of the room. There was a large chestnut oak wardrobe against the bedroom wall, with an adjoining room that housed Edward’s old desk, now wholly cleaned off, except for a neatly rolled scroll and a pen holder. A cold fireplace was on the wall close to the bed, with Edward’s prize bear skin placed just beyond the hearth. Veronica made her way past the bedroom and into the study. It felt so lifeless and empty. She rested her hands on Edward’s chair and shook her head in disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears, and her face contorted unattractively as she reminisced about the many times she had rushed into the room. He had been sitting at this very desk, and she had hung her arms across Edward’s shoulders while he sat pondering some problem. In greeting, he had always smiled and looked up and kissed her. It was a romantic dream that she had awoken from, and now found herself completely alone.

He had devoted his entire life to this kingdom, and for what? Oh, how I wish he would have spent more time with me.

The tiny spark of envy that she had felt every time Edward had to leave her to perform his duties, and envy at no one in particular, simply whoever had his attention for that hour or day, smoldered in her heart. A part of her tried to tell her that what she felt was foolish, that he had done the best he could with the time that was given him, and that those people needed his guidance just as she did. The rest of her would not listen.

She felt robbed of happiness because of the unending requests and duties he had to attend to instead of being with her. They wasted my time with him. He must have been murdered; it is the only reasonable explanation. How else could a mighty man like Edward have fallen ill so quickly? They monopolized his time, and then, when he didn’t meet their needs anymore, they had him killed.

Illogical as the conspiracy was, Veronica sensed an air of truth to it. She had never considered this before, but while drowning in pain and loss, looking for explanations, looking for meaning, the idea had come to her like it had been whispered in her ear by someone unseen.

Whoever it was, the creature of darkness that murdered my husband, I will find them and make them pay.

Then came the fear again. Fear that the fate that Edward had suffered would soon be her own. The fear ran deep, buried its claws deep into her chest, and would not release its hold. It seemed to her that there were venomous fangs hidden behind every smile.

It was all too much for her, and she felt something give way within her heart, like a hand reached into her chest and gave it a painful twist and a yank. Veronica screamed and swung wildly at the desk, sending the pens and scroll flying onto the floor. She stormed to the wardrobe and ripped Edward’s clothing out, article by article, and hurled it against the door across the room, furious that her husband had left her alone, that he had taken his leave and had not taken her with him, that while he was here, he hadn’t spent enough time with her. Why didn’t you spend more time with me, Edward? Was I not good enough for you? Everyone in the castle at that moment became her enemy. Her grief was driving her into a rage. Her fear of the unknown turned into an itch she couldn’t scratch. Her tears rained off her face, and she wanted to tear her hair out in agony. She dropped to her knees and screamed at the ceiling in despair, ending her cry in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably.

I am all alone. I am so very, very alone. I have no family other than a father who didn’t even bother to come to the funeral of his son-in-law, of his King. I have no friends. Who could be friends with their Queen? Their ruler? Now I have no King, no husband. I have no Edward. I am alone. I am alone.

There was nothing left in her shattered heart. She was emotionally spent and resigned herself to the cold, hard floor. She sank into it. The tension she had held in her shoulders and back eased as she grew impartial to the world around her. She could almost stop herself from breathing. Air came in and out, but if she could stop breathing, maybe she would stop feeling as horrible as she had since Edward had died. Life was so fragile that she could almost will it away. She didn’t want to die; she just wanted to stop feeling for a while.

The morning hours crept by while she lay on the floor, broken and unmoving. The morning left, and the afternoon began, the first afternoon after the death of her Edward. The afternoon light angled to shine brilliantly through the windows, thick beams falling on her back, warming it with its benevolent touch. It wasn’t light, but the power of life shining through that window, and it penetrated to Veronica’s very soul. Her shattered heart felt the glimmer of sunshine and gained the will to pick up the pieces and continue on. She knew there would be a life without Edward, but she didn’t think she would enjoy it much. Drained from the emotional tempest storming within her heart and mind, she nearly dozed off on the floor. She harnessed the glimmer of sunlight in her heart to uncurl her body and crawl to the edge of her large bed. Empty of any sign of her lover. In a split-second decision, she decided to lie on his side of the bed, closest to the door. She got tangled in her dress, clumsily sliding into the covers. Her exhausted body settled into the divot in the mattress where Edward had laid with her every single night he could. He had made her the happiest woman she had ever been. She buried her face into the pillow and breathed deeply.

It still smells like him.

The sunlight notwithstanding, she quickly fell into a deep slumber, as close to her Edward as she could possibly get.

A rap-rap-rapping at the door jolted her awake. Her eyes felt dry and heavy from the dried-on tears. The sun that had given her so much comfort before was gone, replaced by a brilliant sunset. I must have been asleep for half of the day. More knocking on the door, followed by the voice of a woman. Queen Veronica? I come with dinner and an urgent message from Phoenicia.

That must be Caroline. Veronica sat up in the bed and looked around. Was it all just a bad dream? Her countenance fell when she realized that it had all been painfully real. Her mind simply could not process the fact that her Edward was dead.

The door opened without prompting, and Veronica scrambled to fix her disheveled hair before her handmaid Caroline entered the room. The woman was obscenely tall with black hair and a pretty but dry and wrinkled face, carrying the look of someone who had been forced to labor hard all her life. She was holding the usual silver platter, this time with a large bowl of soup and some bread, with the aforementioned letter positioned neatly to the side. Caroline stepped over the pile of Edward’s clothes without even a sideways glance, pretending not to notice. It didn’t take Veronica long to realize that she was famished. At first sight, the food made her stomach gurgle with anticipation. The luxuries of castle life had encouraged a robust appetite, leaving her features soft and her dresses small. Caroline stopped and curtsied respectfully before she placed the tray on Veronica’s lap, then began gathering the scattered clothing to remove from the room.

Veronica couldn’t bear the thought of Edward’s clothes being taken away, so she hurriedly waved her hand to get the tall woman’s attention. Caroline, I desire those to remain with me. I do not wish them to be removed from the room yet.

Caroline looked puzzled at the request but obeyed by hanging the clothing back in the wardrobe where Veronica had violently ripped it from hours ago. Is there anything else I may assist you with, my Queen? Veronica shook her head, no, and Caroline left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

The soup, a hot mixture of fresh vegetables and pasta, was delicious, especially when she tore a hunk of bread off the loaf and dipped it into the flavorful broth. Once she was satiated, she turned her attention to the letter. It bore the seal of Phoenicia, a rival kingdom to the North that had invaded Anatolia only a decade prior but found little success. They had successfully seized control of two of the Great Cities that shared a border with Phoenicia, Tarsus, and Turhal, but were repelled by King Edward in a matter of months.

Would they use the opportunity of King Edward’s death to try and invade a second time? She shook her head, disregarding her own question. There is no need to get worked up over a letter I haven’t read. She laughed at her foolishness, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. It was from the King of Phoenicia, and the subject was regarding the recent passing of King Edward and Veronica’s new eligibility to marry.

To the Widowed Queen Veronica,

King Alfonso, the Great Ruler of Phoenicia, is grieved to learn of the death of the Mighty King Edward. His bravery and his skills in battle were only matched by King Alfonso. With a great goodbye comes an opportunity for a great greeting. It is a high honor that King Alfonso offers to unite Phoenicia and Anatolia by marrying the widowed Queen Veronica. The Queen may kneel before King Alfonso and accept his gracious offer when King Alfonso is able and willing.

Written on Behalf of King Alfonso by Lord Fritti Quill-bearer

Long Live, King Alfonso!

The letter was repugnant, and it made her skin crawl.

I never knew a man to be so pompous and self-assured. Alfonso didn’t even consider writing the letter himself, and a letter where he proposed to a complete stranger, no less! This is literally the night of King Edward’s funeral, and I get a proposition for marriage?

She wrinkled the letter into the smallest ball she could, twisting and yanking furiously on the thick parchment, then hurled it at her closed door. "No, thank you, oh Great Alfonso. You will not find another woman to add to your list of wives here." She shuddered at the thought of kneeling before the grizzly old king and giving Anatolia away. She certainly would not earn her people’s favor after selling them out to the enemy.

She pushed the empty platter off her lap and onto the other side of the bed, then slid back under the covers and nuzzled Edwards’ pillow, still damp from her tears. It was an odd feeling, losing her Edward. It was as if he was just out of sight but was still there with her. Like if she yelled loud enough, he would still hear her cries and come running to save her. Veronica felt like her mind was slowly seeping through the cracks of her shattered life into the new reality. It was a slow and disturbing process, and most of her being still was in the old reality, where her Edward was still alive and with her. She felt befuddled and almost embarrassed over her mental state. Sometimes, it felt as though it was only a bad dream, and then moments later, she would become lucid of her plight and break down into uncontrollable sobs once more. She would belly laugh at a random memory of Edward and then feel enraged that he had made her feel this misery. She was in chaos.

The night crept by slowly, as she had dreaded it would. Meanwhile, she uncontrollably slipped between her grief stages like a spirit, neither here nor there long enough to gather her wits. She was grasping at mental straws that seemed never long enough to pull herself together. She was lost, and she hoped for the sunrise. Would it gift her with the strength to crawl out of this bed? She did not know. The sunrise seemed to be her only friend in the world, a friend she knew she could depend on to rise without fail. A friend that would never betray her.

Chapter 2

Good King Laexor Malefic boarded the Royal Aerial Mech with a grimness tainting his heart. The mech was massive, the largest of its kind. Painted in his favorite hue of sapphire, boasting two massive virtuuce cannon turrets and dragon fire-repellent armor, it was indeed a masterpiece of human ingenuity. The fuselage was tall with rounded sides, the cockpit large and bulbous in the front, allowing the mech operator a full view of the skies, and the rear was fitted with an enormous engine. The wingspan was double the length of the mech and folded vertically when the craft was not in use. Though he admired the ship, the grimness of Laexor’s heart could not be nullified. The Virtuusian ambassador had returned, and the three-century-long peace that had been cherished between the people of Atlantis and the Beasts of Rhea was deteriorating quickly. Queen Myra believed if Laexor could not find a way to quell the demands of the Virtuusians, the dispute between the two peoples would lead to all-out war.

But King Laexor wasn’t concerned. His mechs were ready.

Nurtia stands with us, as I stand with her.

Laexor fingered his intricately carved hourglass pendant that hung from his neck, cut from the largest of sapphires. It symbolized Nurtia, goddess of Death, time, and fate. King Laexor was close with the shapeless goddess, a goddess that filled mortals with dread, though he knew her to be loving. His immaculate sword pommel was encrusted with gleaming sapphires, the gemstone chosen to represent Nurtia.

A large man greeted him inside the Royal Aerial Mech, a man he knew well. Cory Rockhart was tall, as tall as Queen Myra, a full head taller than Laexor. He was hated and fancied by women, drawing them in with his cold yet glowing eyes, close-cut and carefully shaped beard, short spiked hair, furious jawline, and the body of a warrior. His was a body shaped to entice and ensnare the fairer sex. He was hated because he tended to love and leave, to use women to fulfill his desires and leave theirs unfulfilled. But his flaws aside, the man was the best Aerial Mech pilot the world had ever seen.

His voice was low, more growl than voice. The man had a terrible smoking habit, which left his voice torn and scarred. Which was also a lure to the women he preyed upon. He pounded a closed fist against his gray flight suit, right next to his dagger pendant that was always around his neck, bending at the waist into a low bow. King Laexor, the Phoenix is ready for flight.

King Laexor stopped in front of the man, This is well, Commander Rockhart. We must depart for Atlantis immediately. Ambassador Traelic has arrived... somewhat unexpectedly, at the Eternal Tower.

Cory folded his arms and leaned against the fuselage, fury on his face. The Beasts of Rhea respect no one. They treat us like we are lesser creatures than they.

King Laexor took his seat next to a small girl. He smiled at her, but she avoided his gaze, shy of the good King. He returned his gaze to the offended pilot, wishing to be done with the complaining and to get on their way. Rockhart, be that as it may, you are to pilot my craft, not lecture me on how the Virtuusians lack basic manners.

His nostril twitched, and his jaw clenched, but the muscular man pounded his chest and bowed again. Yes, my liege. Laexor watched him go with a steady gaze, not wary in the least. Rockhart was a brute but was loyal to a fault. Shortly after, the craft rumbled to life, the skyward pointing wings lowered to flying position, and the massive engines screamed as the Royal Aerial Mech took to the sky.

Laexor turned back to the small girl, still avoiding his gaze. You must not be frightened, my dear. I mean you no ill will.

The short brown-haired girl wore a small cap with a flower adorning it, her hair straight at her sides. She glanced at him, briefly making eye contact before looking back out her window. She spoke then, soft as a whisper. The Black Maw flies like we do. He will return to end us all.

The Black Maw was a rogue dragon, fearsome, a creature of myths. Laexor knew the creature existed and how formidable it was, and the beast haunted his dreams whenever the creature could. Visions of his brother Linus burning from the blast of dragon fire that sent him to the Halls of Nurtia before his time. He shook the dread from his heart. The Black Maw? No, the creature has not been seen in half a decade. You needn’t worry, my dear. He began fishing for a sucker he kept on his person for such instances. It never dawned on him that the only person who should be flying in the Royal Aerial Mech, or RAM, was either himself, his boy Raktor, or his beloved Queen Myra. The small girl would not have been permitted. Finally, he found the sucker and turned to offer it to her.

When she saw the sucker, she smiled, like he had offered her a pony. Like the sucker was the grandest of gifts, a one-of-a-kind. Her joyous face lit the large sitting area, her eyes filled with tears, then she took the sucker from him.

Then, in a flash of blue, she was gone.

Yet another spirit that only he could see. Blessed by another visitor from the Halls of Nurtia. Laexor sighed and looked forward, finding the stewardess, a young and petite woman with a pretty face, staring at him, but not only at him. She also stared at the sword hanging from his hip, uneasiness glinting in her eyes.

She was staring at Atlantis’ beloved yet mad King, who had been talking to seemingly no one. A man who leans in death’s doorway, caressing a shapeless goddess. A man who can see and speak with those who have gone before.

It was at this point that his stomach cramped, delivering excruciating pain throughout his core. He expected this. The stomach cramps always came after a visit from one who went before. He also knew that his chamber pot would be filled with wine-dark liquid later.

His mind wobbled, teetering on the brink between this world and the next. Many spirits came into view, some he recognized, some he didn’t, then would fade away, leaving just the stewardess. Then, the spirits would return as his mind faltered. He gripped his hourglass pendant, grunting from nausea and pain, squeezing the small carved sapphire until he felt a sting and the wetness of blood in his grip, and slowly, his being and mind balanced.

He was glad that he was able to become lucid once more. It didn’t always happen that way, leaving him dazed and confused for entire days following a visit. He opened his hand, scarred from similar experiences spanning many years, and watched the blood slowly pool into his palm. He focused on his breathing, relaxing his body, calming his tortured core muscles. The symptoms of his closeness to Nurtia, the supernatural, were only pleasant until his visitor decided to leave him. Then, the tolls of the visit wracked his body with pain and anguish. But he was grateful to have met the young lady, as it was very possible that her loved ones never got to speak to her in this world again.

It was an honor, young one. Go thee well.

The rest of the flight was brief, and Laexor spent the time pondering on the Ambassador. Before he knew it, the beautiful and lively city of Atlantis stretched out beneath them, with The Eternal Tower at the center of it all. It was a tower like no other, crafted with the mechanical exactness of the first and only automated construction mechs. Each stone was cut identically and laid perfectly, all with the construction mechs invented by the great architect and inventor Almenz Zael. The exactness gave the tower a queer feel. Almenz had destroyed the construction mechs and the coinciding blueprints soon after the tower’s completion to protect the exclusivity of that uniqueness. Nothing in the known universe could compare to its exact construction.

The Eternal Tower had been notified of the Royal Aerial Mech’s arrival, and the spire had already been opened to allow them to land on the utmost floor without delay. The stewardess, rigid with fear the entire flight, breathed a sigh of relief as Laexor exited, which pained him. He viewed himself as an honorable and good king and gave all he was able to his people. But they still feared him. They feared him because he was mad, and he was mad because of his soul’s close proximity to the world of the dead, described in the Scrolls of the Gods as the Halls of Nurtia.

Of course, none of the doctors believed his explanation, and it did not matter to Laexor. They thought him to be suffering from a disease called porphyria. But he knew better than they. The symptoms were similar, but the cause was not a disease of the flesh. This affliction—or blessing, depending on how you viewed the world—prevented him from fulfilling his one dream: to be loved by his people. Instead of love and praise, he got reactions like the stewardess, even when his gifts allowed him to resolve mysteries and solve problems otherwise insurmountable.

Can’t a man be loved and feared?

He got his answer as his incredibly tall, beloved, and beautiful wife of five years rushed to greet him, to embrace him, to stoop down and kiss him. Queen Myra was a mighty woman, a full head taller than Laexor, slightly hunched due to her stature. Her eyes of gold bore into his of ice blue. Her black hair framed her face and hung loose at her sides, her intoxicating white and toothy smile, her thin pink lips framing her white teeth perfectly.

She sighed and tousled his black hair, then spoke with her airy and articulate voice, a sound that Laexor cherished with what of his heart was not already given to Nurtia. Laexor, your hair is in need of taming.

Laexor leaned in and kissed her again, That’s the way I like it, woman, he pulled her waist firmly against his, It is the best way to get you close enough to grab!

Queen Myra flushed pink, Oh, the gods save us. You always know how to embarrass me, my king.

From behind came the sound of Cory Rockhart clearing his throat, blocked into the RAM by Laexor and Myra’s public display of devotion. My Liege, Ambassador Traelic awaits you. The overzealous queen can have her time with you after the meeting.

Queen Myra scowled at Cory, This is of no concern to you, Rockhart. The virtuous women of the tavern can survive without your coin until I am finished with my king. She kissed Laexor again, long and slow. Laexor felt the heat rise in his cheeks as he fell deeper into the affections of Myra.

Cory scowled and did nothing.

She was the one to finally pull away, Come, my king. She winked at him and curtsied low.

Her submissiveness was always tantalizing to King Laexor, as he knew that it was all for his benefit. He knew that it was in jest, as she was, in reality, a woman strong enough to stand on her own. Laexor thought her flirtations were most welcome. She was his, and he was hers. He was proud of his wife, and her affections were marvelous.

She arose from her curtsy, noting how his eyes had grown a deeper blue. She knew very well what the King fancied and was more than happy to yield to his needs. Queen Myra further examined her king, with his messy black hair, clean-shaven face, and deceptively basic leather tunic and well-fitting trousers.

That cursed hourglass around his neck.

But what she queued in on was the light sheen of sweat that graced his hairline and his neck and the blood that had scabbed upon his hand.

He has had another one of his spells.

She was very glad he had recovered on his own, as she often lost her temper when her efforts to console him didn’t affect the dazed man. She was not the most patient of wives, nor the most loving and caring, nor the most nurturing of mothers. When his spells came, as they often did after dealing justice to criminals, it was best for him to weather the symptoms alone. During those times, she would retreat to a garden to admire the life there as her husband dealt with his admiration of death.

She grasped her king’s blood-encrusted hand and pulled him to the stairs, leaving the paperwork to be completed by that goram Cory Rockhart.

If I have to hear another story about one of his female conquests weeping in the streets, I will have the man beheaded!

She was not a fan of Commander Rockhart and incessantly requested her husband select another pilot for the RAM.

A good, respectable king should be in good, respectable company.

The long and shallow stairs allowed an easy descent for her, while Laexor tended to stumble, as his stride was not nearly as long as hers. She looked back over her shoulder at her husband, not breaking stride. Sorry about the rush, my king, but we must beat Traelic to the Great Hall. It is not fitting for the King to yield the floor to a mere ambassador.

King Laexor grunted, more sweat gracing his forehead. The pace was rapid, but he was very much enjoying himself. His eyes traveled from his wife’s feet, along her long legs, her shapely hips, tight waist, slightly hunched shoulders, and shiny black hair. The purple gown, her preferred color, hugged her figure in all the right places. He desired her and secretly hoped to have a private moment with her when the Ambassador had said his piece and left.

Perhaps two private moments. Laexor smiled to himself. I am the King, after all.

They reached the ground level, a foyer filled with armed guards and two massive and ornate doors, then continued down the stairs below the ground. The Great Hall, in an attempt to control entry, to protect the King from rogue magical beasts, and to protect the secrets of The Crown, had been constructed several stories underground.