The rejected crown (book 1)

Queen of nothing

Giovanna

The wind howled through the narrow gaps in the stone walls of the longhouse, its mournful cry the perfect soundtrack for Giovanna's life now. At twenty-two, she was a far cry from the princess she once had been. Her fingers traced patterns in the frost on the window, her gaze lost in the cold, distant world outside. The sounds of a drunken brawl—shouts, curses, and the occasional crash of something breaking—drifted from beyond the walls. It was a reminder of the life she now led. The noise no longer startled her. In fact, she barely noticed the difference between celebration and violence here.

Married. Bound. Trapped. The words tasted bitter, but she swallowed them, just like the bitter reality of her fall. She had learned long ago how to hide the disgust inside her, how to wear the mask of a quiet, obedient wife. Let them believe what they wanted—let them think she was broken. It was easier that way. Safer.

"Giovanna," a deep voice rasped from behind her, snapping her out of her thoughts. She didn't need to turn to know who it was. The heavy sound of boots, the unmistakable scent of leather and blood—it was Balric, the tribe's warlord, her husband by force. His presence felt heavy, suffocating, and she stiffened, though only slightly. It was always better when they came to her.

"Yes?" Her voice was soft, sweet—a well-practiced act. The meek, obedient wife. The one who had learned that silence and charm were the only ways to survive.

Balric's thick hand settled possessively on her shoulder, making her skin crawl, but she didn't flinch. His breath, warm and foul, brushed against her ear. "Another skirmish to the east," he grunted, as if it explained everything. "They whisper your name, even here."

Her name. The sound of it, as if it still meant something, made her want to scream. But instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I don't understand," she purred softly.

Balric's grip tightened, his fingers digging into her skin as his other hand slid roughly down her back, possessive as always. The greedy look in his eyes was nothing new. He feared her bloodline—the stories of exiled royalty—and that fear twisted into cruelty. "Don't play me for a fool, woman," he growled, his voice thick with suspicion. "An army rises in your name. Who leads them?"

"I know nothing of armies," she replied, turning to face him, eyes wide, unblinking. "I have no power. No throne. I am just your wife."

Her words were lies, but they slid off her tongue like honey, hiding the venom beneath. She could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, feel the internal battle within him—the struggle between wanting to control her and fearing the power she might have. She leaned in closer, letting her breath brush against his skin, her voice soft and submissive. "Why would I seek rebellion when I have everything I need here with you?"

Balric's eyes darkened, but he didn't pull away. She had learned to use his fear as much as his desire, turning it into a weapon. His possessiveness made him cautious, and that caution was her advantage. As he turned away to bark orders to one of his men, Giovanna allowed herself a small, secret smile. Manipulation had become second nature—a survival tool. It disgusted her, but it kept her alive.

When he finally left, she let out a slow breath. Alone, but never really alone. The whispers of rebellion, of banners raised with her name, weighed on her. Her name was now a rallying cry—a symbol for a cause she never asked for. She had no idea who was leading this army, but she felt the weight of it. It unsettled her, but she wouldn't let it show. The irony of it all made her sick.

She moved through the dim light of the longhouse, each step controlled, calculated. She had become a shadow of the woman she once was—pale, a mere reflection of her former self. She reached the alcove that was her private space—a small luxury granted only because Balric thought it kept her under his control. She knelt, brushing aside the rough-hewn boards to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside was a dagger sheathed in fine leather, a ring bearing the symbol of her house—symbols of a life she no longer had.

"Princess of nothing," she whispered bitterly, tracing the ring's edge. "Queen of ashes."

She didn't cry. There was no room for tears. Instead, she pressed the ring to her lips, drawing strength from the memory of who she had once been. Then she buried it again, returning to the mask she wore so well.

The door creaked open behind her, and she turned slowly, her face shifting back into its practiced mask of calm indifference. Balric stood in the doorway, his gaze dark and hungry, just as it always was. He was too close, his presence unsettling, and the look in his eyes was the same—full of possessive lust.

"Giovanna," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Come to me."

She felt the familiar wave of disgust churn in her stomach, but she hid it quickly, stepping toward him with deliberate slowness, her movements graceful. She let her lips curl into a half-smile, a dangerous, knowing smile. "Do you want a child, my lord?" she asked sweetly, her voice a soft purr.

He stepped closer, his breath heavy. "Yes," he growled, running a hand down her back. "You'll give me a son. A strong one."

She felt the weight of his need pressing against her, but she knew this game too well. She had played it for five long years, making sure to do everything in her power to keep herself from becoming pregnant. Every time they were together, every time he tried to claim her, she took careful, silent measures to ensure it would never happen.

She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear, her voice low and sultry. "Not tonight, my love. I'm too tired," she whispered, her hand sliding down his chest with feigned tenderness. "I need to rest. But don't worry. When the time is right, I'll give you what you want."

Balric growled in frustration, but she could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the suspicion that always followed when she made excuses. But it didn't matter. He could never prove anything, and the game would go on.

He grunted, stepping back, though the tension in the air was thick. "This isn't over, Giovanna," he warned, his voice thick with both desire and anger.

She smiled coldly, cruelly. "It never is," she replied softly, her voice a promise and a threat.

As Balric left, the weight of her manipulation hung in the air. The labor of survival continued, but so did her defiance. She would keep playing, keep manipulating, keep using what little power she had left to survive.

The rebellion was out there, and one day, she would understand it. One day, she would take her place again. But for now, she would keep wearing her mask and playing the part they expected her to play.

And all the while, she would never forget who she truly was.

The door creaked open behind her, and she turned, face a mask once more. One of Balric's lieutenants stepped inside, his expression guarded. "Your presence is requested," he said gruffly, not meeting her eyes.

Of course it was. She rose, smoothing her skirts, every motion graceful and controlled. She would play the role they expected, manipulate when she could, and survive as she must. But beneath the layers of deceit, her mind raced. There was no peace here, only the endless labor of being seen, feared, and used.

Giovanna stepped into the cold night air, the wind biting at her skin. Somewhere out there, her name was being whispered by people who believed in her more than she believed in herself. She had to find them. She had to understand why they fought, and for whom. But for now, she would keep pretending, keep manipulating the man who sought to control her.

The labor of survival was endless, but so too was her defiance.