Page 3 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
She pressed on, climbing the last steps and passing into one of the wide, shadow-drenched corridors. At its end awaited the queen’s chambers. The room was beautiful still, austere yet majestic, its towering black arches framing a sweeping view of the volcanic mountain upon which the castle had been built.
And there sat Queen Senka, as she always did of late: poised in a dark wooden armchair by the arches, her gaze fixed unflinchingly upon the ashen skyline.
She had once been the embodiment of a wyverian queen; radiant, regal and unfailingly kind. But the woman before Mal was scarcely recognisable now. Since Haven’s death she had withered into something fragile, spectral, and none dared breathe a word of Kage’s fate, fearful that grief might shatter her utterly.
Drawing in a steadying breath, Mal stepped forward into hermother’s line of sight. She sank to her knees, reaching to clasp the queen’s hand in her own. She tried to ignore the lurking figure in the corner—a panther wrought entirely of shadow, its form fluid and insubstantial, its eyes a piercing blue that seemed to look straight through her, as if it knew precisely what she was.
‘Mother,’ Mal whispered, lifting her gaze into the black, hollow eyes that no longer truly beheld the world. ‘It is me. Mal. I have come for our afternoon reading.’
Her mother gave no reply.
She never did.
A servant slipped quietly into the chamber, carrying the queen’s tea. With practiced grace, they set the porcelain cup upon the small blackwood table beside her. Mal inclined her head in thanks before drawing a chair close and settling at her mother’s side. For a long moment she simply sat, her gaze fixed upon the brooding mountains beyond. From the distance rose the unmistakable cries of wyverns, their voices raised in exultation at her return. Yet her heart ached when her eyes strayed to Haven’s and Kage’s beasts. Their once-bright blue eyes had dulled, as though, in their wyvern hearts, they knew their riders would never come back.
‘Shall I read to you?’ Mal asked softly.
For the briefest heartbeat, the queen’s expression shifted. Though she had not spoken in so long, her lips parted and a whisper escaped, fragile as moth’s wings. ‘Kage is the one who reads to me.’
Mal’s wounded heart constricted until it seemed she could scarcely draw breath.
She rose and crossed to the far side of the chamber, where tall shelves of blackwood held the queen’s treasured tomes. Her long, pale fingers trailed across their spines, seeking, hesitatinguntil she caught a familiar title. She plucked the volume free, letting her fingertips linger against the worn leather cover, as if by touch alone she might summon forgotten warmth.
Returning to her seat, Mal looked upon her mother once more, wondering if the light that once illuminated those eyes would ever find its way back.
‘It is a book of poems and short tales,’ Mal said softly, her eyes never leaving her mother. ‘Of the first wyverian king.’
Something flickered in the dark depths of the queen’s stare, but Mal chose not to press. Instead, she lowered her eyes to the volume resting in her hands, her brow furrowing in quiet doubt. Could the words within truly be trusted? They were but tellings and retellings of the first sovereign of her people.
Stories that, in truth, were hers.
For it was she who had been the first royal of the Kingdom of Darkness.
Time and history had twisted the truth, reshaping memory into myth, erasing her. The chronicles proclaimed a man as the first ruler of these shadowed lands, but in truth it had been a woman. A goddess who had come to lay claim to the world her father had wrought.
A goddess who had ensnared Hecate, one who could never return their love.
Mal opened the book, unwilling to linger on Persephone’s revelations. She longed to dismiss them as venomous lies, yet one glance at Thanatos had been enough to unravel that hope. In her heart she had known: the Queen of the Underworld had spoken only truth.
Mal herself had been that first wyverian queen. A spy upon the mother who had abandoned her.
Drawing in a steady breath, Mal began to read.
In the era when stars were young and pale,
And dragons danced through storm and gale,
There rose a king from mountain stone,
Whose shadow walked, whose blood was throne.
His eyes were two flames of purple fire,
Lit hearts with awe and dread-inspired.
No forge nor sword could break his will,
A warrior that made the world stood still.
