The queen knew she was more practiced in the art of war than Aryan. He might’ve been created a good few centuries before her, but he had spent his entire existence within the luxury of his castle. She had spent her immortal life conquering, on her own before she had amassed her own army. The little boy stood no chance in a physical fight against her.

It would have been so wonderful if it had been Nikayl. But luck had never been on her side. It would be her fate to have the one man she detested beyond all others show up at her door.

Aryan had always hated her and the feeling was mutual. He thought himself so superior, with his exotic mother and his royal blood. He was nothing more than an imposter, covered up with velvet and gold. Becoming his queen was never an option. Her skin crawled at the thought of touching him. Him, the one that thought he could still be righteous and good. At the end of the day he lived on the same elixir that she did. Without his precious donors, he would stoop to the same methods of feeding as she did.

She knew he was still wondering whether to kill her or form the alliance. Ever the diplomatist if nothing else. It was clear that she would never belong in Margennar. She was too accustomed to her lifestyle to adjust to their spineless practice of drinking donated blood. They were predators. Nikayl was the only one who had realized that. All the others preached of humanity and peace.

Morgan slipped into the red dress her maid had pressed and left on the bed. She knew other royals had servants to help them get dressed. She was never comfortable with all that warmth surrounding her. Disgusting fleshy bodies, ruddy faces. They were only good for one thing. Nutrition. Not that she favored the company of others like her.

She had kept her interaction with Aryan to a minimum, choosing to observe from afar. He found out about Mirtlemeadow, but their current state was nothing she hid from anyone. Then he started following the princess. That was the step she didn’t understand. There was no benefit he could gain from following around a little idiot. A waste of time, most likely.

As she stepped into the corridor she saw the little boy hide behind a column. Mirran wasn’t an admirer, but he fancied himself a brave boy. Perhaps he dreamed of being the one to slay her. She caught a glance at his young round face. Even more ridiculous. The boy thought that he could save her.

There was no hope of salvation or redemption for her, not even if she wanted it. Before Mirran could run again, she picked him up by the back of the collar, pushing him against the stone pillar.

“Hello little boy,” she said sweetly. “You must know that spying is quite rude.”

“I just—”

“You just what, child?”

“The old woman, she said—she said you’d…”

The boy looked petrified, so she let him.

“What did that stupid old woman say?” she asked.

Mirran shivered before answering, breathing more easily once the queen’s hands were off of him.

“She said you’d die soon!”

* * *

The old soothsayer ground her tealeaves carefully, watching her apprentice measure herbs and roots to prepare her daily tonic. She relied on the young girl for the service, not able to perform as much physical labor as she had once been able to. The tonic helped her to see the future, cleared her vision of the past.

She had lived a normal life years before she had discovered her gift. Her visions were not a gift or power, her vision was a curse for which she was driven out of her village and separated from her family. But her curse became her livelihood, and the status of a healer had helped her improve her sight.

She didn’t remember the faces of her family anymore, nor the name of the village that cast her off. She didn’t know if it was a relief to not remember the faces of her children, or a tragedy. With the loss of her memories, there was also loss of her sorrow. A sedative for her soul was the way she thought of it.

The tonic took away her past, blurring it and turning it into nothingness. Her childhood was something she had lost in the beginning. Now her adult life was disappearing day by day, sip by sip. But forgetting her past clarified her visions of the future. She wondered if one day she would simply be the woman who lived for a day, not even remembering the dawns of yesterdays. It was better not to think of it, she decided as she took her dosage of the tonic.

It was impossible to know what it was she forgot. She turned away from the tonic and poured the tea. The smell of it filled the air, hot and fresh. The tea filled her with warmth, unlike the bitterness of the tonic. And it filled her head with a cloudiness that cleared to reveal something she knew was not real.

The little girl sat on the throne, pale and perfect. But it wasn’t the natural paleness of her features. The softness of her skin had been turned to something white as ivory and just as hard. Sitting next to her was the prince Aryan, crowned just as she was and holding a goblet of blood in his hand. He passed it to her and she drank, her hand shaking with the exertion of drinking slowly. The soothsayer saw that the little girl fought for control with something that was bigger than her, that resided within her. A beast, newly born.

* * *

Morgan dropped the boy and he crumpled to the floor, crawling and then running away from her, his frantic drum of a heart beat growing more and more distant by the second.

It seemed that Aryan had made his decision. She had no option but to surrender, or at least act the part. Acting the part was her decision. When his defense was down, when he thought her subdued, then she would fight back.

Aryan was sitting in the library, looking over a pile of books. He snapped them close as she walked in, smiling and bowing. She hated his smile, the damned mellowness of it.

“I agree to this,” she said simply. “To this stupid thing your parents have proposed. It seems that I have no other choice.”

Without another thought she walked out the room, before he could retort or refuse. To be refused by Aryan, no insult would be greater than that. She rushed up the flights of stairs to her chambers and locked the doors.

There would be chaos down below. She knew it. Aryan would waste no time in putting plans in place and the castle would buzz with gossip. But she had evaded her death, and that was enough for her.

But an eternity with Aryan could never be her fate. She didn’t become queen so she could share it with him. She became queen because she deserved the throne, had always deserved it. She had deserved in the days when she had scrubbed floors and dusted curtains in Margennar, and she deserved it the day she wore her first crown.

There was only one way to kill him. It would be make him commit the same crime as his brother. He would have to create a monster of his own. If Aryan’s own guilt didn’t destroy him, his parents’ guilt certainly would.

But Aryan didn’t take risks. He was careful to flee the second he smelled the slightest hint of blood, drank and kept himself in control. He would need to be manipulated, something Morgan knew wasn’t impossible.

All that she needed was patience. That, and the right bait.

* * *