The masked queen

CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2: The Armor and the Curse

The elder's voice was calm but carried an air of finality as he spoke. "Very well," he began, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. Clapping his hands, he summoned a line of servants into the room. Each one carried a piece of armor, unlike anything Roman had ever seen. It gleamed darkly, casting a faint sheen in the dim torchlight. Every part of the armor seemed crafted with meticulous care to conceal the wearer entirely. No gap revealed skin, and atop the chest piece lay two thick black gloves, ready to swallow the hands that would wear them.

"This will be your uniform," the elder explained, his voice steady. "There are a few simple rules you must-"

He paused, preparing to explain, but the youngest among them scoffed, crossing his arms. "Don't tell him. Let it be a surprise."

The elder shot him a disapproving look, his tone now cold and severe. "There are rules you must follow. The most critical one is this: avoid any direct contact with the queen's skin. Her curse is a death sentence. One touch, and you will find yourself cast into an endless, black void-a limbo with no life, no afterlife, just eternal nothingness."

Roman swallowed hard, letting the gravity of the words sink in.

"Your mission is twofold," the elder continued, his voice softening. "To protect the queen with your life and to help her heal. Since the king's fall, she has changed. She retreats deeper into sorrow with each passing day, so profound that she ordered all portraits of the king removed. She wears a mask now, hiding her face, as if shielding herself from a world she can no longer bear to see."

The elder sighed, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. "We have been fulfilling her duties for months, but the people are frightened. They fear the demons that lurk beyond the castle walls and the silence that has fallen over the throne."

The somber air was broken by a third man, who spoke up with a sneer. "Why are we even telling him this? This is private information! We can't trust this... this scum!"

"Enough!" the elder's voice rang out, and silence fell over the room. He shot the younger man a glare that could have frozen fire. "One more word, and I'll send you back to your studies. Do I make myself clear?"

The younger man's cheeks flushed, and he nodded curtly, his mouth snapping shut.

Roman listened as they argued over what was 'private information,' as though rumors hadn't already spread through every crack and crevice of the castle walls. The guards and servants knew. They saw things, and they talked. Some whispered about the queen's curse as though it was a great gift-this power to fell any foe, no matter how mighty. But others understood it for what it was: a curse that bound her in endless misery. Roman had heard these rumors, but only the most arcane details. He didn't grasp the political ramifications, nor did he need to. His own survival was all that mattered.

He glanced down at the armor, running his fingers over the cold metal. He placed the pieces carefully on the edge of the table and took a step back, unsure of how to proceed. Did he need to strip first? Or-

A guard scoffed, snapping Roman out of his thoughts. "You wear it over your clothes! Even your boots!" The guard glanced down at Roman's torn feet, noting the lack of shoes. He tossed him a pair of boots, a pristine pair, as if new. Roman, his face lighting up ever so slightly, quickly slid his feet into the boots, marveling at the fit.

The process of donning the armor was slow and arduous, requiring help at almost every step. Straps needed to be tightened, buckles adjusted, screws fiddled with. Each layer added weight, heat, and discomfort. By the time he reached the helmet, his skin was drenched in sweat, each breath feeling like inhaling the smoke of a dying candle. He lifted the visor to catch a breath, but a guard slammed it back down. "He said covered at all times, you fool."

Roman turned to the guard who spoke, his usual slouched shoulders squaring up for once. "Where is the queen?" he asked, doing his best to look the part of a knight.

"She is likely in her quarters. If not, then in the throne room," answered the elder. "You are not to enter her quarters under any circumstances unless there is an emergency. Remember, as her guard, you must also consider the implications of your presence. We must avoid any scandal."

Roman nodded, even as the elder's words went over his head. He turned to the guards, his towering frame casting a shadow. One guard gripped his spear tighter, a slight tremor betraying his unease.

"Show me to the queen's quarters," Roman commanded.

The guard opened his mouth to object, but a councilman intervened. "Do it, Gearfried. Show him to the queen, and then to his own quarters after introductions have been made."

He gets his own room?

~~~

The queen's residence was an opulent masterpiece hidden deep within the castle's labyrinthine halls. Roman's footsteps echoed down the corridor, the torchlight casting shadows that danced along the walls. Towering arches stretched overhead, and tapestries lined the walls, each depicting epic battles and triumphs of queens past. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and ancient stone.

Servants hurried past, their heads bowed, sneaking curious glances at the newcomer. Roman felt their eyes on him, a mixture of awe and fear. His presence was a disruption to the castle's well-worn rhythms, and he could feel the weight of their silent expectations pressing on him.

At last, they reached a pair of towering ebony doors flanked by the queen's Royal Guard. Their visors, shaped like raven beaks, cast shadows that obscured their expressions. Roman noticed the scars and hardened stances of these warriors. They moved as one, stepping into formation and raising their pikes, barring his way.

The lead guard, a man with a scar slashing across his cheek, growled, "Halt! State your business."

Gearfried stepped forward, his tone weary. "Easy, gentlemen. This is the new guard assigned to Her Majesty."

The guard looked Roman up and down, sneering. "This? He looks more like a lumbering ox than a knight."

Another guard chuckled darkly, his voice a low rumble. "Aye, more brute than guardian."

The lead guard crossed his arms, his stance relaxed but intimidating. "Listen here, new blood. You may guard the queen, but don't let it go to your head. We are her Royal Guard. We know her better than you ever will. You're here only because the council deems it necessary." He sneered, as if daring Roman to respond.

Before he could, the doors creaked open. A slender figure stepped out-it was Valery, the queen's personal maid. Her face was pale and tense as she inclined her head toward Roman. "Sir Roman," she whispered, casting a wary glance at the guards, "Her Majesty will receive you now. But please, tread carefully. She is not in the best of moods this evening."

Roman squared his shoulders, meeting her gaze. With a final, lingering look at the Royal Guards, he stepped through the doors, into the queen's chambers, and into the heart of his new, uncertain duty.