𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 - from the womb of the world the cauldron's lament is heard
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄. She had seen too many so-called prophecies crumble beneath the weight of power, had watched rulers claim destiny as their right only to be dragged from their thrones in chains. She had decided long ago that fate was a lie told by the weak to make sense of their suffering.
Only power mattered. Only control ensured survival. And she had spent centuries preparing to take what was hers. The Court of Nightmares was built on cruelty, and ambition wielded with such ease it had long since become second nature. It was a world of betrayal and secrets, and Alicent had learned early that there were only two kinds of people in this court—those who ruled, and those who were ruled.
She sat beside her father, her was posture relaxed, as he addressed the court. His voice rang through the space, measured and commanding, telling his usual monologue about power, duty, and control. She only half-listened. Instead, her eyes swept the room, mesmerizing faces, tracking movement, assessing the shifting alliances hidden beneath layers of politeness and pretense. The nobility of the Hewn City—those who had ruled in darkness long before Rhysand's reign—stood gathered in their finery, clothed in black silks and silver accents, watching Keir speak.
They thought they understood power. They thought it belonged to them. Alicent knew better. She had spent centuries at her father's side, silent, watching. She had memorized the way these men moved, the way their words curled like smoke—thick, intoxicating, designed to hide the truth. She knew which of them were loyal to her father out of fear and which remained because they had yet to find a better alternative.
She would provide them with one. But not yet. For now, she let them underestimate her. Let them think she was nothing more than a daughter, an heir in name only bound to her father's will until he decided to marry her off to some noble brute who would keep her in check.
She would slit her own throat before she let that happen. Keir's voice droned on, something about maintaining their position in the wider war, about waiting for the right moment to act.
Alicent nearly rolled her eyes. Her father had spent his life waiting. And he would die waiting. Power was not something claimed by those who hesitated. It was taken.
She shifted slightly in her seat, flexing her fingers beneath the heavy sleeves of her gown, and reached just a breath toward the pulse of power that had been hers since she was teenager.Bloodbending was an art of precision, of control, of knowing the limits of one's power and pushing just beyond them. It was not loud like Morrigan's gift, not outwardly devastating like the High Lord's. It was quiet. Invisible. Terrifying.
Across the hall, Lord Soren—one of her father's most vocal supporters, a man who had once sneered that Keir's girl should be wed before she becomes a problem—was listening intently, his hands resting on the arms of his onyx throne.
