The Search for Terror (ONC 2021)

Chapter 17

      "Amaia!" 

      Starting, she woke from her sleep and banged her head on the corner of her chair's wooden frame. 

      She pushed the blanket down as she stood up, holding her head with squinting eyes. Coming round the side of the throne, she was faced with Saqat staring her down, supported on both sides by solid-faced, battered and bruised soldiers she didn't recognise. 

      A smile cracked along her face, despite their expressions—the star had shone, it was to be over soon. Could it be already? "Is it done?" But one glance out the window revealed an army only larger than before, having significantly increased in number since she'd fallen asleep. And no one was fighting back. Saqat must have called them off. Why on Earth would he do such a thing?

      "No," Saqat said, his face a horrifying picture of pity, dread and fear. "You have to step down."

      She wheeled on him, suddenly fuming, "Not until I have ended the rule of terror I am destined to end! I was so close!"

      "Can't you see?" Saqat shouted, trying desperately to be heard over the argument pounding in her head. "This is how you do that!"

      "Lies!" She screamed, "I-"

      "The rule of terror you must end is your own!"

      She stopped, frozen, eyes watering before she could think to stop them. "What? No..."

      "Look outside, Amaia," Saqat said, walking towards her. 

      "Stay back!" She cried, though she did walk back to the wall of glass and turn her attention to the scene below. 

      "What do you see?"

      It was the earliest hours of morning, but the blood stains were already visible, thrown over the paving stones so carelessly. Everywhere, her people were either dead or hiding, small, subdued movements showing her that at least some people had survived, cowering away from the places they used to feel most comfortable. 

      The air was clouded with anger and fear, hundreds and hundreds of warriors bristling to finish the slaughter. Because that's what it was—it had never been a fair fight. 

      And she'd caused it. She'd brought those armies here, hadn't she? "I don't understand." This couldn't be her destiny, surely. Destined to cause terror to those she wanted so desperately to make smile. Destined only to save lives by breaking down her own. 

      She hadn't heard him approach, but Saqat's answer came from right above her head. "Do you remember the last thing the Middle Man said to your parents about your fate? 'If you tell her that she is to end a reign of terror, then she will.' We wouldn't be here now if they hadn't told you. Would we?" He sighed deeply, wrapping his arms around her, and she leaned into his strength. "I am sorry, Amaia." 

      "It's me," she whispered, "It was always me." 

      She felt him nod behind her. 

      "How do I..?"

      "Wave the white flag, Amaia," Saqat said softly, "Choose who you wish to takeover and then leave. I'll keep in contact."

      Slowly, she pushed herself away from Saqat, nodding blindly, and walked to her not-so-secret room. Door shoved open, Amaia slipped through to retrieve the folded white cloth from the corner, grey with dust and webs. Above her, in her favourite purple, was the plan for the takeover that was always meant to be her downfall. 

      Turning her back on her strategy whiteboard, she left the room and handed the flag to Saqat. "Put it high. Meet me at the gates." 

      "Here," he said, taking something from one of the men he'd entered with and holding it out towards her. Her crown. 

      She took it gently and walked with him to the door, turning into the cupboard pathway as he took to the stairs. This time, as she slid the back of the cupboard back into place, her feeling was not one of arrogance or pre-battle victory. Instead, it was resignation. A feeling of despair so deep she thought she could feel the wind rattling through her. 

      Her boots sat in the bottom of the cupboard, socks tucked neatly inside. It felt right to be bare foot again, and feeling weightless without the armour that she'd thrown in a pile beside the boots. 

      Cold stone beneath her feet, Amaia picked her way forward over the rough surface, down the slope that curved towards a door she would have to use as a shield until the flag was raised. The soft click of the lock as she turned the handle fed her another breath, pulling it back from her as she pushed the door away.

      Golden light poured through the opening, a beautiful sunrise—as it should be, she thought, to match her family name. Today would be the end of the Goldmorn royal line. 

      The army gathered at the gates lifted their weapons, aiming for her skull, and she watched as their eyes widened and mouths tightened, weapons lowering once again. The flag had reached the top of its pole. 

      Stepping out from behind the door, she held her head high, one crown in each hand. 

      Saqat came up beside her, settling at her side with a comfortable familiarity. "Have you decided who shall takeover?"

      "Would you prefer to stay where you are?"

      "I could never be king," Saqat agreed, knowing what she meant. 

      "Then Issar's little brother. It won't be enough, they won't forgive me for what I let happen, but I know Issar. He forgave me as soon as he was caught. I'm doing this for him," Amaia said, explaining without being asked. She needed to say it out loud. Needed someone to know. Because very soon, she'd be in some place where no one would. 

      He nodded, expression solemn. 

      Together, they walked through the gates, through the army, both parting like the red sea, welcoming their decision. Someone had retrieved the king, and he waited for them at the end of the tunnel of soldiers. 

      She let herself feel the stickiness of both fresh and dried blood beneath her, forced herself to recognise that it was her fault it was there at all. 

      "King Taavetti Faizan," Amaia started, her voice catching, "Your crown." 

      He took it from her with a smile, but there was an apology in there she hadn't expected to find. "Thank you. I am sorry it ever had to come to this, but I truly feared you would take control of the world and, in failing to be everywhere at once, lead it to destruction. You have been sending armies out to start and finish battles for years, giving no one chance to fight back, taking lives so that you could hope to save others that weren't even at risk. These did not go unnoticed, my girl. I had to stop you, and the threat was not enough. I shall never do anything of the sort again as long as-"

      "I resign," Amaia cut him off, nodding. "I have chosen the Bakir family to take the throne and do with it better than I did."

      The king very obviously recognised the last name, his eyes shining with pride and sorrow. "I support your decision." She nodded once more, and he reflected it. "You are leaving, then?" The most dreaded part of the whole thing, but necessary, she knew. No one would want to see her face again. 

      "Yes."

      Gesturing one of his men forward, the king took Amaia's hand, "My sincerest good luck to you, Amaia. I truly hope you can live the life you never got to experience as Queen." His soldier brought around him a lead, and at the end was a terrified Rumpelgeist. 

      Tears exploding from her, Amaia collapsed to the ground and welcomed her dog into the tightest hug, lead trailing behind him. Kneeling beside her, Saqat wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her head onto his shoulder, his hand buried in her hair that had come loose from the bun in her sleep.