The Ruler's Rift

Reaper's Shadow

Much to the queen's dismay, the strategist didn't show up again at the dance. She couldn't find him, and wouldn't hunt him down. Despite his absence, she found herself thinking of him throughout the following week. Without an event to attend, Celeste caught up on royal duties while the guests enjoyed the shops and amenities prepared for them. During her work, she pondered how that strategist avoided her mind control. She wondered what he thought of her. What was his name? Why was he here?

Why did she care so much?

Celeste sighed upon her throne. She lowered a scroll and looked out the windows. Across the snow, her subjects enjoyed the gala. Meanwhile, she had nothing to do but work between Saturdays. So much for the gala being for her, too.

About halfway through the week, with sundown on the horizon, Celeste stretched and decided to turn in early. She left her throne and went to her personal quarters, stripping off her regalia in favor of loose shorts and a sleep shirt.

She swung the curtains shut and collapsed into the huge bed, shrouding herself in darkness and hopefully in sleep. Yet she found herself lying awake, rerunning memories of Lucy and her troupe. So much of her past remained like a plague in her mind. Amber was the only hope she had.

Surely busy was the assassin, so Celeste elected to practice magic. Giving up on slumber, the tired queen rose from the sheets and went to her vanity. She lit the candles there, both for light and relaxation.

Something felt off.

Her collection included several scented varieties but nothing so sweet and alluring. Brow furrowed, Celeste scanned the array of candles to find a black one amidst the pastel selection. She'd not remembered buying this one, or receiving it as a gift. "Where did you come from?" She muttered to the candle as if it would answer. In the dim light of their flames, she reached into the rows of wax and took the black one, still lit.

Rich fragrances flooded the demon's senses as she pulled it away from the others. It smelled so sweet, like the ripest honey. It was blacker than her lips - darker than the night. Celeste picked up a hint of peach as she inhaled its seductive scent.

Wetness on her fingers snapped her out of her trance. She blinked and looked down at the candle to find it oozing onto her knuckles. The wax was pathetic, or perhaps the flame was mighty - her other candles hadn't softened an iota since she'd lit them all simultaneously.

Yet, this black, lovely candle turned to mush before her eyes. Like acid had been dumped onto it, its flame tore through the wick and ate away the wax. "What...?" Celeste mouthed.

She wanted to repeat herself when a droplet struck her head. A leak in the ceiling? No, it was far too cold outside for rain. Slowly, shaking, Celeste looked up.

A warped, soggy ceiling met the demon's gaze. She gasped as the cathedral-like roof of her bedroom dripped and melted, blackening like the body of the candle. She dropped it and whipped around, confronting the walls and furniture which also oozed into dark liquid.

"What's going on!? Who's behind this?" She shouted, eyes darting for a culprit. This wasn't her magic and it was no natural disaster. The air chilled, yet everything melted? All the candles blew out, smothered by whatever evil sank into the room.

Celeste couldn't breathe. She questioned reality, but she knew the truth. She recognized the scent. She knew the tingle of the dark fallout which clouded Mystearlia. "Who...who's there!?" She demanded again. This was no accident.

"Don't feign ignorance," replied a voice like ice.

Celeste couldn't argue. She had done exactly what the voice accused her of. "You're dead...you're dead..." She rasped, trembling as the room melted into total blackness.

Out of the abyss, shrouded in shadows, stepped a familiar, haunting figure. "I'm never really dead," said Violet as she emerged into view. "I'll always live on in you."

Celeste heard the sound of her mother's bones popping as she moved like a long shadow. Cloaked in black, eyes pale, she drew nearer, slowly like a ghost.

"You're dead," Celeste repeated. "How are you here? Tell me!"

"I just did."

An insulting, curt response like that was exactly what Celeste expected from her mother. Anger raided the demon, but fear had a larger army. Terror tormented the daughter. The more she stared into the endless, glassy, freezing eyes of the reaper, the more she knew she needed the transfiguration ritual.

"Not even that creature can stop me," Violet rasped. "I've killed Sages."

Celeste shook. "Some say it's stronger than they were. It's the only hope I have of protecting everyone from you," she squeaked. She cared not how the witch read her mind.

"Protecting?" At last, the apathy on Violet's face cracked. A small, wicked grin split her emotionless mask. She burst into sick laughter, the exact one that Celeste remembered from so many years ago. "You can't protect anyone with destruction! I see my sister has taught you to play hero as well as she does."

"She isn't acting and neither am I!" Celeste barked, gaining an ounce of courage.

"It's pathetic that you deny your hatred," Violet insisted. She stepped closer. "Insulting, really - you have my blood in your veins and my eye on your forehead, yet you disrespect me..."

Celeste gulped, eyes trained on her mother. "I'm not afraid of you..." she lied.

Violet stopped, cloak drifting with her movement. It echoed her halt, and came to a stop as well. "You should know," she began, " that I don't appreciate being lied to."

"I don't care," Celeste said. Aggressive words struck her with fear but she forced herself to spew them. "I don't care," she repeated.

"You're very afraid of me," Violet corrected. Her voice itself was like frost in every sense. "And, you're too afraid to use my magic."

Celeste's heart stopped. Her lungs constricted. "I've seen what it did to you!" She shouted. Her voice echoed throughout the dripping void.

Silence interrupted. Violet's eyes narrowed as if she considered the words. Instead of debating the poison's effects on her, she sneered, "Save it, Celeste. As if you don't deserve holes in your head."

That voice and those words echoed in the empress's ears as she opened her eyes. Soft, luxurious sheets cradled her. She kept her head on the pillow, too afraid to raise it. Cold sweat dotted her skin, and shallow breaths filled her lungs.

She surveyed her room. Nothing had melted; all was as she left it. Slowly, when her pulse had eased, Celeste sat up and turned on the lamp. No black candle lurked in her collection; she checked repeatedly. Violet was nowhere to be found. Celeste even called out to her, but no malefic magic or cold voice replied.

She was dead, after all. Celeste sighed, reminding herself of that.

Celeste attempted to go back to sleep, a task which proved impossible. Instead, she got up once again and sharpened her halberd, trying to focus on the battles in just a few days. As she polished the blade to a shine, she beheld her reflection. She truly did resemble Violet. Maybe the witch did live on in her.