Black Reign

Ellette

For as long as I can remember, my continent has been divided in two. A century ago it would have been three—four, even, if the tales were true. But after the late queen, nothing has been the same.

The King in the South marched upon the Kingdom of the Fallen first. Then the Ansari. And soon enough, only two kingdoms remained, their names long since lost to the whispers of history.

While the Kingdom of the North claimed the lands of the Ansari, the South seized the territory of the Fallen, leaving years without conflict. But the peace was short lived, as was the South's hold over the Fallen's territory. It is for that reason, or at least I assume it is, the bodies of my men now lay strewn across a battlefield.

The clangour of swords had long since died away, the shouting of the slaughter hushed. Silence lay like a thick carpet upon the gaining night. The rays of dusk send hues of purple and gold to illuminate the scarlet-stained ground. The light is oddly strong for such a morbid night. It makes apparent the cracked, leeched yellow of the terrain, striking it with weak sheens of silver from rent corselet and broken blades where the dead lie in swelling heaps.

My hands find the hilt of my rapier. It is a long, elegantly forged weapon made for my mother and passed down to me upon her death. Although crafted for her hands only, it seems perfect in my palms. My fingers begin to idly trace the golden swirls painted onto the ebony fabric wrapped around the hilt, eyes fixating on the various bodies awaiting collection. Something about it makes my jaw harden. Makes me want to dig my nails into the rapier's hilt and scream until my voice turns raw. The carnage makes my blood turn to fire, and my eyes sting with the threat of tears—

"My queen." It is a man. He speaks in a soft rasp, energy no doubt sapped from the battle. Even mine has been, and I have fought my fair share of battles yet none this...devastating. I do not turn for I find no will to, so silently, I urge him on.

"It is getting dark," he says. "The beasts will emerge soon."

If it were any other day, I would have jumped at the sentence, would have stormed the streets of my city calling for my subjects to retreat into my palace yet, I find no will to do that, either. Instead, my eyes flick upwards taking my head with it. The strengthening moonlight bathes my features and I am left with a quaint emptiness that overcomes my soul.

I find no pleasure as I usually would scanning the silver of the stars, it is not a surprise for I am filled with hardly a drop of caution when the man repeats the words again, louder, this time as if he fears I have not heard.

I wait for the worry to hit. For the caution and adrenaline to course through my veins but am left disappointed with  myself. This feeling—or, lack of—is one I detest.

All day, the battle had raged. In the ghastly heat of the sun we fought against the South with everything we had and, although we did not lose, we did not emerge victorious, either.

Before me, more and more of my soldiers join the fray of collecting and identifying fallen soldiers. A scribe is with each, noting down any familiar names to faces. The sight makes my throat constrict. I speak over the pain. "We cannot leave them here."

Never—Never—have I seen such an annihilation of the north. My friends, my Skincarvers and loyal subjects are dead. Gone.

He will pay.

"We must, my queen," says the man. That makes something other than hollowness touch my chest. Was—Was that shame? But, the bigger question is, am I ashamed with him, or myself?

"We cannot leave them here." I merely repeat. My tone leaves no room for argument.

"What would you suggest we do?"