WAR STORM (Red Queen 4// Alternate Version)

Chapter 6

"Kneel or bleed."

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Iris

I roam the gardens of Whitefire, absentmindedly running my polished fingers through water that I've suspended in mid-air. Maven's court-adjourned for the hour- mills about, each lord awarding me a deep bow and the ladies giving curtsies.

Lately, the bows have been deeper and the curtsies lower. Not a month has passed since my father's fatality. They managed to retrieve Father's body, and the corpse was shipped back home, to the Lakelands. Maven was inclined to ask me if I'd like to return with country's warriors and attend the burial, but I denied him.

Few tears were shed when the news was delivered, and even those only pertained to proving to the Nortan court I'm not a heartless queen. I simply never adored the man growing up as a princess. He would always respond the same when I challenged him to a swimming race or even a game of dolls. "Sorry, sweetheart. Daddy's busy with king business." was what I heard so many times in my youth, the very phrase has been etched into the backside of my skull. So instead I'd play with my maids or my older sister, Rosalyn. Rose, reasonably and surely wept for hours when Father died. As the eldest sister, she was trained to rule. The two spent hours every day together, Father preparing her for her reign.

Mother was in charge of me. Preparing me to become a proper lady, someday graceful and strong enough to marry a lovely boy from an acceptable family. Though for that reason, I came to resent her for demanding so much of me; forcing on qualities I never wished to take on. Rose was born to rule; it's been evident for a long while that she has royal blood flowing through her veins. At no time did I listen to complaints of lessons with Father. Meanwhile, my sister would hear of my woes often enough, she went through a phase of plugging her ears at any time I parted my lips.

And then Mother's time in training me finally paid off. For one of us, anyway. Father sold me off to a mad king, to settle a dispute that has long since been forgotten. The Lakeland War, as Nortans call it, persevered for a century. And with a single betrothal, complete and utter peace was put into place. It spites me that such a union, between a powerless princess and a king on a volatile throne, could forge such perfect truce.

Though I am selfish for thinking such a thought, I can't help my mind from wandering. Let them die. The red soldiers, the silver commanders. As long as I don't have to be a part of this ruined court.

The gossips of the court whisper about the king and his state of mind. For months, leaders of high houses have been leaving Archeon; alleviated of their positions. Only the young ones remain, a method of insurance. Glorified prisoners, is all the teenagers are. The Court of Children, Whitefire's structure is murmured about in the most secluded of corners. But the foolish ones don't comprehend that reds have ears, just like the rest of us. Anyone can talk if given the details.

Though I've never met him, I've heard the stories of Tiberias, Maven's elder brother. Declared a traitor, after killing his own father. Seduced by the little lighting girl, a crazed mutated red-blooded sinner. Mare Barrow drove the prince off the rails until he was so lustful for power he murdered his own kin.

But like all stories, I've heard multiple versions. The forbidden ones, whispered in darkened night, intrigue me the most. Tiberias was framed by the mad king and the bitch queen, Elara Merandus. It's been debated for years, but it's clear to me that whispers are the most powerful and power-hungry of people. Already, High Houses have deserted Maven and fled to the supposed rightful heir of the country.

No noise resounds off the palace floors when I stroll on them, as no shoes accompany my feet. I find the raised platforms stupid; they would only slow me down if a battle were to initiate. My day dress grazes the floor, covering where my unladylike feet rest.