Chapter 2: The Tyrant's Goal & Amara’s Sacrifice

The Imperial Palace

The Empire of Solandria was a vast, imposing territory that occupied the largest central and northern landmass. The capital, Pylos, was well known for its towering walls of cold, stone architecture and home to the fierce Solandarian military, operating under the tyranny of Lucius Junia-Corvis. 

Pylos, where Amara had been taken, was located far inland away from coastal threats, but centrally placed between its surrounding duchies, the family of the queen being one of them. It had been a long 6-day journey that took her thousands of miles from her homeland.

One of the main reasons Lucius was so eager to get his hands on the Zaramuunian Mountain Pass was to extend Solandria’s already massive control of all trade routes. Having secured the vassalage and trade alliance, there was no need for Lucius to have brought Amara here. She couldn’t understand why she was ripped from her home, other than the fact that Lucius was simply a cruel man who wanted not only Zarramuun and its inhabitants to suffer, but herself as well.

Amara was suddenly pulled from her thoughts as a trumpet sounded. She sat up on her knees, peeking through the carriage curtains. 

“Emperor Lucius Junia-Corvus, returns home!” The herald called loudly, his trumpet clutched tightly in his trembling hand, resting against his chest.

Amara saw a woman and a small child of no more than 5 years of age step forward. She was obviously the Queen, a heavy golden crown sat atop her head, adorned heavily in an assortment of glistening gems. Though the woman possessed a striking beauty, with her piercing blue eyes and long waves of blonde hair, her demeanor was cold and demanding. While the boy, who Amara could only assume was the prince, held the same piercing blue eyes and a head of soft, light blond hair. His small frame was overwhelmed by the miniature royal armor and crown he was no doubt forced to wear.

Amara observed quietly from behind the curtain as servants rushed to fix the train of her flowing gown. She had never seen such a dress before. Colored a deep royal blue, with a high waistline, sitting just below the bust. The dark fabric was layered in such a way, it cascaded elegantly to the floor. The hem of the skirt, neckline, and sleeves, were edged in intricate gold trim and metallic beadwork that glistened in the daylight.

Lucius appeared swiftly, causing a deep frown to stretch across Amara’s face, marking her disapproval. Lucius took the woman in his arms, his large hands holding her waist tightly, before leaning in for a passionate kiss. She could feel the bile rising in her throat as the queen wrapped her arms around his neck during the embrace. He wore the same blood-stained armor he had when he and his men slaughtered her people! That was 6-days ago, there was no reason for him to don that armor other than to instill fear in his own people and to blatantly mock Zaramuun. She was just as disgusting as he was.

Amara watched as Lucius guided his family into the palace. The queen stopped and turned back, her gaze looking directly at Amara’s carriage. Amara felt her breath catch in her throat and her blood run cold, before she quickly crouched down in the carriage, hugging her knees tightly. She felt as though the woman had stared directly at her. Surely she couldn’t have seen anything through the heavy curtain?! With a sigh of disgust, Amara slid away some of the rotten fruit with her shoe, it was beginning to smell. 

The sky began to darken as the sun retired for the day. Shivering, she waited for what felt like hours in the carriage. It was now dark and the air had already started to cool, yet not one servant had come to escort her inside the palace. She felt a great mixture of things in that very moment; annoyance, frustration, disrespect, and anxiety.

Lucius had dragged her here, yet he disregarded her the moment she arrived and made her sit in a carriage for hours. No matter what Zaramuun had become, she was still a princess! This level of disrespect was unforgivable. But still, what if no one came? What if they tossed her aside and she was left to fend for herself in this unfamiliar place? What was she supposed to do then?

Amara clutched her legs tighter, burying her face in her knees. She missed her brother. Would he come for her? She flinched as the carriage door flew open. A servant girl stared at her in confusion.

“She’s in here!” She yelled behind her before turning back towards Amara and extending her hand.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come, let’s get you ready,” She said with a smile.

Amara didn’t trust the smile, but she accepted her hand nonetheless.

The Zaramuun Palace Oasis

Just days after Amara had set out on her journey to the Empire of Solandria, Rafiq lay on his deathbed, succumbing to his wounds and the final fatal effects of poison. Ammar sat by his side, staring down at the battered and broken old man who had once been a great ruler, now lying still, barely breathing, reduced to only quiet ramblings of a mad king.

Ammar turned his head to see his mother Queen Samira enter the royal bed chamber with a tray in hand. He watched her as she approached, her face once a profound blend of Zaramuunian warmth, now reduced to a weary and haggard appearance. Her dark hair with prominent streaks of silver, now a greyed unkempt mess atop her head. Ammar did not know this woman and she did not know him.

He flinched as she slammed the tray down and splashed a glass of water in his face. Letting the glass crash to the floor. He held his hand, instructing Zahiya to back down. She returned her unsheathed blade, the clink of the hilt reverberating through the air.

Samira glared at Ammar, her eyes dark and full of hate. He sighed as she spat in his face. Wiping the thick sticky goop from his cheek. He was well aware he deserved that, so he was going to take it like a man. He watched as his mother started to shake with rage.

“I regret the day I let an evil thing like you crawl from the depths of my womb. You are a vile leech feeding off the vitality of Zaramuun,” She spat, wiping the saliva that had clung to her face off with the back of her sleeve.

“We possess the same royal blood, I can not syphon that which rightfully belongs to me,” Ammar retorted. 

Samira ignored him, sinking to her knees, clutching Rafiq’s hand. Urging him to wake in an ancient language Ammar didn’t understand. He walked over to Zahiya’s side.

“He still lives,” She whispered in worry. Ammar simply brought a hand to her shoulder and tightened his grip, before turning back to his weeping mother. He would not last much longer, Ammar was sure of that.

Rafiq did indeed die the very next day, at the noon hour, when the sun was at its peak. Ammar watched as his mother wept over his corpse. They needed to move the body so the death could be confirmed and the funeral preparations could commence, but Samira chased away everyone who tried to touch him. Zahiya started to approach, but Ammar grabbed her arm. He shook his head and walked over to his mother’s side.

“Mother,” Ammar said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Do not touch me with those traitorous hands!” Samira yelled, swatting Ammar away with such force, she fell to the ground. Ammar tried to help her up, but she refused. She did not want him to touch any part of her body.

“You traitorous scum and that vile curruptress tainted the life of that man,” She started, gathering herself up from the floor. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother,” Ammar said, clenching his fists.

“I am not your mother. I forsake you, wretched boy. She is not your sister, whom you threw to be r*ped and ravaged by the cruel tyrant. He is not your father, whose mind and body you have tainted with the sweet dew of poison. And they–,” She said, pointing her wrinkled finger out the window.

“They are not your countrymen, whose blood you have allowed to be spilled in the streets of this great kingdom. Hear me, Ammar, the gods have seen your wrongdoings and will punish just as harshly as the crimes you have committed," She seethed, her voice filled with sorrow as she began to fumble with the tray behind her. 

Samira quickly turned and lunged toward Ammar, clenching a small but sharp knife from the tray. Her eyes were crazed and wide, filled only with rage and despair. Ammar stood shocked and frozen, he was unable to make a decision. To protect himself, he would need to harm his mother.

Suddenly, Zahiya appeared before him. Her light green eyes met his as she forcefully thrust her arms backward. Ammar, still frozen, began to tremble as he heard her blade tear through clothing and rip through flesh, followed by the slow dripping sound of thick blood. Ammar couldn’t think straight. Had he truly lost both his parents in one day? It had been all his fault–

A warm, soft hand caressed his cheek, bringing his racing mind back to reality.

“Go, this is your path,” Zahiya said, shoving him in the chest towards the door.

As Ammar rushed out of the royal bed chamber, Zahiya turned to face Samira Seti, the former queen. What kind of mother would attempt to taint her son’s soul by forcing him to murder her? She grabbed her sword and ripped it from the warm body, using Samira’s clothes to clean her blade. She walked closer to the woman who would have been her family and spit in her face, the saliva slid out of Samira’s eye like thick tears. Zahiya turned her back to the dead and strode out of the room.

Ammar walked straight out of the palace into the oasis plaza. Only the flowing river of life, still stained red, stood between him and the waiting Zaramuunian citizens. Fists clenched, Ammar stared at his people, men, women, and children, they were all broken. There were hundreds wounded and even more dead. He was going to make sure Lucius paid for this tenfold.

Ammar raised his hand high in the air, silencing his people. Burdened by the deaths of his parents, the slaughter of his people, and the theft of Zaramuun, he spoke. He spoke of the broken crown.

“The King, Rafiq Seti, is dead. Queen Samira Seti has followed as his faithful horseman,” Ammar said, as a tense silence filled the air.

“YOUR KING IS DEAD, BUT ZARAMUUN STILL LIVES ON THROUGH ME!” Ammar shouted to his people, beating his fist on his chest as the Zaramuunian citizens erupted in cheers.

Ammar looked to his side, Zahiya had returned, it was time to continue with the plan. They returned to the palace and were taken to the War Room. Ammar and Zahiya stood looking at each other. He brought his hands to her shoulders and pressed his forehead against hers. Pausing in that moment, that simple embrace, preparing for whatever lie ahead.

Ammar turned, the great doors opening before him. Inside the heads of all the noble families looked at their new king, with judging and expectant faces. Would the usurper stay true to his word? Ammar slowly steps into the room, head high, taking his spot at the end of the table.

“A great man has fallen, but a great man has also taken his place,” Ammar started, looking at the faces around the room.

“I promise you revenge, I promise you redemption, and I promise you WAR!” Ammar shouted, slamming his hand on the table in front of him as the room erupted in cries of war, fists beating on the table.

With a faint smile, Ammar took one last look back at Zahiya before proceeding with the details of his great plan.