Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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In the past, the room Zaketa found herself in would have been called the council room. Now, under the man who proudly called himself The Wolf King, it was known as the war room.
Dressed in the leather and furs of animals she'd hunted and shot herself, Zaketa stood proudly, back straight. The lords of her kingdom were already seated, waiting for the arrival of her father, The Wolf King. With an upward tilt of her chin, she let her gaze drift over them lazily, taking in each one. There were only two worthy of her attention, two that she allowed to see the cracks in her mask.
The first was the only one for whom she would soften her face into a smile, and even honored with a slight bow. Lord Valen, the single woman on the council, a proud warrior, and a leader truly worthy of Zaketa's respect. No matter what these petty men thought, women founded this kingdom, and Zeketa intended to follow in the footsteps of those such as Lord Valen.
The second was her grandfather, dearest to her among all those gathered. Yet she did not dare to give him more than the slightest incline of her head. Neither of them would benefit from the softness that his presence always brought to her heart. Even seeing him now caused her eyes to burn, and she clenched her jaw.
Zaketa drifted to her seat, settling into it with a well-practiced and haughty air. She was peerless, a power in and of herself. It was her mantra. She didn't dare let these desperate, grasping men see the subtle cracks in her facade; the way these rare glimpses of her beloved and rapidly aging grandfather ripped through her like a knife.
He'd grown old, weathered, thin. Had it truly been so long since she'd last seen him?
Once, he'd cared for her, spent endless days with her. He'd been the first to call her his little queen. She'd been no more than four, precocious and wild. Yet in her fearlessness, she'd wounded him without realizing.
"But I'm not a queen," Zaketa had protested, hands on her hips, lip jutted out in protest. "I'm a princess!"
"No, no," her grandfather, Lord Zanti chuckled, gold-brown skin crinkling around his eyes. He'd smelled of horses and woodsmoke, his voice holding the barest hint of age then. "You are a queen," he rumbled. "This land is in need of a queen, and you shall be it."
"But why isn't there a queen now?" Though she knew the answer, she wanted to be told, to hear it for herself. Such things she only knew from hushed conversations of those around her. With the exception of Ismay, Queen Zelia's most loyal guard and the closest to a mother Zeketa had ever known, her nursemaids, and her grandfather, few paid her much attention.
"Your mother, Queen Zelia, passed away. You know this, little one." His tone was soft, holding the bittersweet ache she hadn't understood then. Zelia had been his daughter.
"She wasn't strong enough," Zaketa muttered with all the scorn for the weak she'd been taught. It was the explanation her father had given her. The only honorable death was in battle or on the hunt. Sickness and any weakness of the body meant you were not worthy of this world, her father told her. Just as her mother had not been worthy enough to carry his child.
