“Wistler, Wistler!” My voice echoes in the hall as I arrive back to the relative safety of the castle. The pictures of former kings and queens line the walls of the hall, their eyes searching over me as if they understand the darkened path that I walk.
“Wistler!” I call once more, frustrated at the need to repeat myself. A stream of light filters through the windows into the main hall, as if the gods themselves kiss the gilded throne that is decorated with jewels and covered in soft purple velvet. As the light casts over it, I find myself wondering what it would be like to rule these kingdoms. To have the whole of Levanthria bend to my will.
I saunter towards it and place my hand on one of the arms. The metal is cold to the touch, and I grasp it in my palm before turning to sit down. Exhausted, I lean back and let the warmth of the sun kiss my face, savouring the silence that greets me in this moment. For the first time in a while, I feel a sense of calmness and peace, and I wish I could remain in this moment.
“What is it you wish to tell me?” Wistler pulls me back into the room with his shrill voice. “By the gods, Morgana you look as though you have spent the night in the local taverns. The pits, even.” Wistler’s eyes widen at my appearance.
I glance down at my once emerald-green dress, which is now torn and shredded, coated in mud and dust from my ride to the Barbaraq camp.
“Where on earth have you been?” Wistler snaps his fingers and a young maid rushes to his side at once, her long blond hair pushed back with a black band. Her timid temperament is emphasised by her trembling arms as she approaches him.
“Sire,” she says, offering him a curtsy.
“Fetch Lady Morgana some water and fresh fruit. And send for a healer at once.”
Wistler’s assertiveness takes me by surprise. He is not his usual bumbling self. “I do not need a healer, Wistler.”
Another maid rushes to the oak table and pours me some fresh water. Shyly, she helps steady my hand when my tremor almost causes me to spill the water all over the floor. It has been a full day since I last had a drink, and the water tastes crisp and refreshing, the fruit that has been infused offering a freshness that I savour.
“Still, it would not hurt for a healer to cast their eyes over you. It would be wise for you to accept help every once in a while.” Wistler saunters over and passes me some bread which I gladly take from him. “Now, how is it that you come to be in my hall, sat on my throne, in the state that you are in?” There is growl in his voice that tells me he is not happy. I smile at him. Perhaps he does have a little fight in him after all.
“Uster has fallen, Wistler.” I take a bite out of the warm bread, the smell of wheat drifting up my nose as I inhale. Bread has never smelt so good.
“What do you mean, fallen?”
“It lies in ruins, near enough burnt to the ground. It was a smouldering ruin when I arrived. The villagers and soldiers based there have been slaughtered.” My mind traces over my conversation with the dying guard I found. The stench of blood and ash are still present on my clothes.
“Who – who did this?” Wistler asks, paling.
“It was the Barbaraqs.” I take a large bite of my bread and chew it as though I have no inclination towards proper etiquette anymore. The satisfaction of ending the chieftain’s life – the savage who killed my father and my sister – is still fresh in my mind.
“The Barbaraqs have not been seen on our lands for near twenty years. Why after all this time would they suddenly be here? And why would they burn the port of Uster to the ground?”
“The Wyverns.” My mouth is still filled with bread as I speak, so I quickly swallow it and wash it down with some water. “Do not fear though, Wistler. Despite their numbers, I challenged the Barbaraq chieftain.” I cut Wistler a wry smile. “And he now greets the afterlife.”
If possible, Wister’s skin becomes almost translucent as he staggers back away from me. “The Barbaraqs are savages, Morgana. If you have slain the chieftain, a challenge will take place for someone to step into his place. They will likely want vengeance. The Barbaraqs value blood as payment for debts owed to them!”
“Let them come. We will meet them at the gates and send them to join their leader.”
“This is madness, Morgana.” Wistler’s cheeks regain some colour as his features change from panic to anger. “They will arrive at the gates with nothing in mind other than bloodshed. They will slaughter everyone. Eltera will fall! We simply do not have the soldiers to sustain an attack.”
“They have seen what I can do with my magic. If they have any sense, they will stay their weapons and keep their distance from Eltera.” But privately, I know Wistler is right about one thing: they will come, and they will demand my head.
“We can’t possibly defend ourselves!”
“Must I plan everything, Wistler? The Wyverns conspire with the Barbaraqs. If they do attack, we need the people of Eltera to help us.”
“And how in the blazes do you plan on coordinating that?” Spittle leaves Wistler’s exasperated mouth. It is not like he has anything better to suggest. He would simply roll over and let the people of this kingdom fall with no effort to fight back.
“I will send word to Orjan and Sparrow to warn them of the impending attack. Maybe they will be able to bring the people of Eltera to arms. We will provide them with armour and weapons.”
“And what if they turn on us, what if they attempt to storm this castle as they did after the witch trials?” Wistler’s face is scarlet with rage.
I stand from my chair, straightening my bodice as I do so. “Either we fight, or Eltera falls, and that is something that I cannot allow. The King’s War depends on it.”
And so does my ascent to the throne.