Queen’s Gambit
“My lady, this is not a place we can simply stroll into,” Laisa whispered anxiously. “This is Nek-Asrof—a land of misfortune and danger. One of my maids told me that her husband’s friend went there to cut Boswellia bark and saw a beast-like monster feasting on a man’s corpse. They say demons lurk in those shadows, devouring any fool who wanders too deep. The poor man lost his mind from the horror of it.” She swallowed. “My lady, please… let the knights go in our stead. What if this information is false?”
Helga’s stormy blue eyes flicked toward her lady-in-waiting. A smile—calm, sharp—tugged at her lips, though her fingers curled ever so slightly around the delicate porcelain teacup in her hand. The morning sun streamed through the grand windows of her chamber, illuminating the gold-gilded furniture, the silk-draped walls, the scent of lavender and incense curling in the air. Everything about this place was designed to dull the reality of the world outside.
But Helga had never been one to hide behind luxury.
“Laisa,” she sighed, setting down her cup with measured grace, “you truly believe every bit of nonsense your maids whisper into your ear. Nek-Asrof is not cursed, nor is it infested with demons. It is merely a land abandoned by the kingdoms, just like the Jaf Desert.”
She leaned back, her gaze drifting past the curtains to the sprawling gardens below.
“My father’s research described it well—a barren land of Boswellia trees, dry earth, and a single lake near the Ouro border, which is now under Loistava’s control. The people there are not monsters. They are simply the forgotten. A kingdom’s filth is always swept somewhere out of sight—Nek-Asrof is that place. A graveyard of the discarded.”
Laisa hesitated. “But Lady Helga… you must still be cautious. You know what I mean.”
Helga’s smile faded.
“I know, Laisa.” Her voice dropped, quieter, heavier. “But I must find him—before they do. I must find my brother.”
The wind stirred the curtains, carrying the scent of roses and orange blossoms from the garden. Below, the estate was alive with color—fruit trees swayed in the breeze, fountains gurgled softly, peacocks strutted through the hedges.
Helga’s gaze landed on the woman standing near the rabbit pens, scattering feed among them. Catherine of Maxwell.
Her mother.
The once Queen of Loistava.
Now an exile in her own homeland.
“She’s waiting for Grandfather’s message,” Helga murmured. “Don’t you think so, Laisa?
Laisa bit her lip. “Yes, my lady. She knows your mind is set, but she fears for you. You are her only heir.”
Helga’s fingers tightened against the silk of her gown.
“She doesn’t understand.”
Laisa hesitated. “Understand what?”
“That this isn’t just about reclaiming a throne,” Helga murmured. “If I don’t reach my brother first, I might as well have already lost.”
With that, she rose gracefully from her chair, smoothing the folds of her elegant blue gown, its embroidered gold threads shimmering in the light. Without waiting for an escort, she strode from the chamber, toward the garden.
The Queen’s Resolve
Catherine stood beneath the shade of a flowering pear tree, her raven-black hair streaked with silver, pinned back in a loose braid. The years had taken much from her, but not her poise, nor the quiet steel in her gaze.
She did not turn as Helga approached. “Are you afraid I will refuse you?”
Helga did not falter. “If I said no, I would be lying.”
Catherine let out a soft chuckle, scattering the last of the feed among the rabbits. “As a mother, I fear letting you go. But as the Queen of Loistava, I cannot stop you.”
She turned to face her daughter. Proud. Knowing. Resolute.
“It has taken a decade, but we have finally found him,” she said. “We need him, Helga. And we can only take back what is ours through him.”
Helga’s breath tightened. “Then you truly approve?”
“I do.” Catherine’s gaze did not waver. “You must do this—as the Princess of Loistava and the daughter of Willard.”
Helga hesitated. “Then… what were you waiting for, if not Grandfather’s message?”
Catherine sighed, her gaze drifting toward the sky. “I was preparing my apologies to you.”
Helga blinked. “Apologies? For what?”
Catherine reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “Because, Helga, as the Princess of Loistava, you should have been learning courtly dances, etiquette, and marriage alliances. You should have been raised like the noblewomen of our station.”
Helga’s chest tightened. But she did not falter.
Instead, she smiled.
“But Mother… I am different. I was never meant to be like them.” She squeezed her mother’s hand gently. “And I am a lady. Just not like the others.”
Catherine exhaled, a bittersweet smile on her lips.
A carriage arrived in the courtyard, its red wax seal bearing the emblem of Maxwell. A nobleman in fine attire stepped forward, bowing before handing Catherine a letter.
Her fingers broke the seal. Her eyes moved over the words.
And then, she passed the letter to Helga.
---
A Letter from Duke Howard Maxwell
Dear Daughter,
The King has granted your request. He has agreed to aid you in finding the heir of the late King Willard Fermi Leighann of Loistava. He will provide protection and resources for your journey. The Kingdom of Egur has already been informed of your arrival.
However, there is a condition.
The King will only discuss this matter with the rightful heir of Loistava. Once you find him, you must inform the King. The terms shall be revealed when the time is right.
Proceed with caution. I pray for your success.
Lord Howard Maxwell
Duke of Maxwell
Helga’s fingers clenched around the letter.
“A condition?” she repeated. “One that he will only reveal to the heir?”
Catherine folded the parchment. “Yes, but we cannot refuse him. He has given us shelter, protection, and freedom. We must honor that debt.”
Helga’s voice was quiet, but fierce.
“Then so be it.” She lifted her chin. “We leave at dawn.”
Catherine studied her daughter—the fierce set of her jaw, the unwavering fire in her eyes. And she saw her husband there.
“You may have my face,” she whispered, “but your spirit is your father’s.”
Helga swallowed. “Mother… do you truly believe he is the heir? The son of Father’s mistress?”
Catherine’s expression darkened.
“Your father was a good king. A just king. But he was also a man who longed for something he never had.”
Helga’s fingers twitched. “And what was that?”
Catherine exhaled.
“Love.”
Helga’s heart pounded.
"Then that boy… he is more than an heir. He is the symbol of their love."
She hesitated before speaking again, her voice lower now. “Mother… who was she?”
Catherine closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if the name itself carried a weight she had long since buried. When she finally spoke, her words were softer—not bitter, not resentful, but something else.
“Her name was Raya.”
The name echoed between them, as if it had been waiting all these years to be spoken aloud.
“She was not born noble,” Catherine continued. “She was not like us. She was a woman from the far lands beyond the Hav Sea, where their skin is kissed by the sun and their hair flows like the deep rivers. A foreigner, a commoner, a woman with no title—but with beauty that could shake the hearts of kings.”
Helga listened, unmoving.
“Your father found her not in the halls of power,” Catherine went on, “but in the Red District of Shoma. She was a slave, a woman owned by men who had never once called her by her name. But your father… he did.”
Helga inhaled sharply.
“She became his mistress,” Catherine said, not with resentment, but with quiet certainty. “But not in the way of the others. He did not keep her in the palace to be used and discarded. He gave her a home. He gave her freedom. And in return, she gave him something he never found in any of his royal marriages.”
Catherine met Helga’s gaze, her next words unshakable.
“She gave him love.”
Helga’s chest tightened.
“And in that love, they created a son.”
Silence stretched between them.
The weight of those words pressed into Helga’s mind.
A son. A boy born not out of duty, not out of political strategy, but from a love that was never meant to exist.
“That boy,” Catherine whispered, her voice almost unreadable now, “is the last proof that your father’s heart ever truly belonged to someone.”
Helga felt something stir inside her.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Something else.
She did not know what kind of woman Raya had been. She had never seen her, never spoken her name until now. But the way her mother spoke of her, the way her father had chosen her above all others…
She mattered.
And now, her son—the boy who should have died, the boy Logan had tried to erase from history—was alive.
Somewhere, out in the forsaken lands of Nek-Asrof, he lived.
And Helga would find him.
She had to.
Because if Logan got to him first, it wouldn’t just be the end of her quest.
It would be the end of everything.
The battle for Loistava’s future had begun.
Comments (1)
See all