The Raven of Nightshade Province

Anya

As the minutes pass, my eyelids grow heavier, burdened by weariness. This room, every nook and cranny studied and memorized, holds no secrets from me. The opulent wallpaper, adorned with a pattern of countless diamonds, speaks to the Oleanders' affluence and their discerning taste in home decor. Once, I might have found this room beautiful, were it not for the countless hours I have endured, waiting for the slightest sign that my services are needed. The Oleanders, seated piously around a grand marble dining table, indulge in imported wine and succulent braised meats. Every evening, the sight of their extravagant feasts churns my stomach with hunger, though I manage to suppress it, focusing instead on keeping my eyes open and my mind alert.

Lady Oleander, her nails meticulously sharpened to a lethal point and as dark as the night, begins to tap her wineglass with impatience. Recognizing the subtle cue, I silently approach the table to refill her glass.

"Melantha withers with each passing day, while we idle away, and for what purpose?" Lady Oleander hisses to her husband.

"We do not idle, My Lady. Please, enjoy your dinner. We will discuss these matters with the others when the time is right," he calmly assures.

Placing the wineglass on the table, I retreat back to my post, once again invisible. Melantha, the thousand-year-old reigning monarch of the Aconite Empire, more commonly known as Lady Hemlock, has become the talk of the town in recent months. During my weekly trips to the Market, I find myself inadvertently eavesdropping on hushed conversations regarding her gradual decline. When the opportunity presents itself, I occasionally manage to swipe a copy of The Nightshade Newsletter, a paper that started locally but is now the most popular news source in all of The Aconite Empire. From what I have gathered, Lady Hemlock's days are numbered, and her son, Rowan, is destined to inherit the Crown upon her passing.

The Hemlocks possess extraordinary power, bestowed upon their bloodline by ancient, long forgotten Faerie Gods. Legend has it that the only way to claim the power of the Crown is through battle. Many have attempted, but the Hemlocks undeniably stand as the most formidable Fae in the Aconite Empire. Those who have dared challenge them have met a swift demise, their families vanishing soon after.

"I heard that Rowan must be wed before he ascends to the Crown," Evelin remarks with a devilish smile. The eldest daughter of the Oleander family is nothing short of breathtaking. Her auburn hair seems to shimmer even in the dimmest light, a striking contrast to her wicked, dark eyes. The curve of her lips holds a seductive allure, boasting an ever present half-smile that is both salacious and tantalizing. She is undoubtedly a temptress, yet beneath the seductive facade lies a heart shrouded in ice.

"And what of it?" Grian interjects. "You stand no chance with him if that is what you so desperately imply."

I manage to stifle the laughter that threatens to escape my throat. Grian, though often insufferable and lacking her sister's beauty, is the sole individual who dares to knock Evelin down from her perpetual ego trip. I find satisfaction in the disdainful expression that tugs at Evelin's features.

"Fuck you," Evelin seethes. "Rowan Hemlock would be fortunate to have even a moment with me," she mocks, elongating his name.

To bed Evelin might be considered a success, I concede. But to wed her? Only a fool would entertain such a notion.

"You couldn't even secure the affections of an Orc!" Grian retorts.

At this, Evelin's face contorts with anger, and I watch as Grian's body begins to levitate toward the ceiling.

"Put. Me. Down," Grian growls.

"No problem," Evelin responds coolly, and she releases her sister, sending her hurtling toward the ground.