The Queen Mother

Fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting flickers of buttery-yellow light across the royal bedchamber. On this auspicious day, it is open to visitors from near and far.

The walls, draped in rich tapestries depicting scenes from the viridian forests beyond the castle, shine in the firelight. On one of them, deer frolic happily in front of a crystal-clear lake, their eyes tenderly innocent.

Lavender sits prettily on tabletops, juxtaposed against freshly lit candles. I lean back against a mountain of pillows, exhaustion rife in my bones. Fortunately enough, tiredness is no competitor to the love blooming in my chest.

They are here. Our babies, Vera and Mila, were born just a few hours ago.

My daughters rest beside me, cradled in ornate bassinets woven from silver and lined with the softest silks. Their tiny chests rise and fall with the rhythm of sleep, and I cannot tear my eyes away from them.

So perfect. So small. Their dark lashes flutter against their cheeks as they dream of worlds not yet touched by time or sorrow.

I lift a hand, fingers trembling slightly from the strain of labor, and trace the curve of Mila’s rosy cheek. Her skin is warm, softer than any fabric in the kingdom. She stirs at my touch, letting out a quiet, contented sigh, and my heart swells.

Beside her, Vera lies still. Her face is a mirror of Mila’s—identical in every way—but her tiny fists are clenched tightly against her chest, as if warding off the world. Her eyes do not flutter; her lips do not part in a sigh.

With my thumb, I touch her chin lovingly. Her tiny, barely-there brows knit in an expression that I can only call annoyance. “So like your sister,” her father murmurs with a dry chuckle. “And yet, not.”

A shiver passes through me, though the room is unseasonably warm.

The door creaks open, and my gaze shifts to the visitors arriving. The high priestess enters, her robes trailing behind her like mist on a lake, and in her hands, a silver bowl filled with blessed oils.

“Your Majesty,” the high priestess says softly, her voice like the wind whispering through the trees, “may the Gods protect these precious souls.”

She steps forward and dips her fingers into the oil, then makes a delicate symbol over each of the twins’ heads. The scent of jasmine fills the air, mingling with the lavender.

The door opens wider, and the nobles enter in a procession, each one bearing gifts. Their robes rustle against the stone floor, deep shades of burgundy, emerald, and sapphire. Each noble approaches the bassinets with a bow, their hands outstretched to present their tributes to the new heirs.

The first to approach is Lord Vargan, a portly man with a beard the color of iron. His voice is as rich as the velvet he wears as he steps forward, cradling a small chest in his hands. He opens it with a flourish, revealing a golden rattle encrusted with rubies the size of acorns.

Firelight catches the gems, casting a fiery red glow over the room. “For the future queens,” he says in a hushed voice. “May their rule be as strong and unyielding as the stone of Alisova itself.”

The high priestess accepts the rattle on behalf of the girls, placing it gently on a table by the bassinets.

Next comes Lady Elira, tall and willowy, her long silver hair braided with strands of pearls. She approaches with a delicate, handwoven blanket made from the finest silk spun by the weavers of the eastern lands. “For their nights to be filled with peace and warmth,” she says softly, draping the blanket over Vera’s bassinet.

The material is so fine it shimmers like water.

Behind her, Duke Rowen steps forward. He holds out a slim box of polished mahogany. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, lies a pair of crowns—tiny circlets of silver filigree, one adorned with sapphires, the other with emeralds.

“For the future queens. Symbols of their birthright.” He bows low as the crowns are accepted.

As the gifts continue to pile up, I marvel at the variety. There is a carved music box from the southern duchy, the lid inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Another noble presents an ornate silver mirror, its surface polished to perfection.

Each gift is more lavish than the last. And yet, as I watch the tributes pile beside the bassinets—golden rattles, embroidered gowns, jeweled trinkets—I find myself drawn again and again to the girls themselves.

Mila’s tiny hand wraps around the edge of her bassinet, her fingers curling and uncurling, already reaching out into the world, curious and warm. She lets out a soft coo, her lips parting in a little yawn as her eyes flutter open for just a moment.

But Vera. . .Vera remains still, almost too still. She lies there, silent and unmoving, her fists still clenched tight. Her breathing is steady, but there is something distant in her stillness, a coldness that I cannot explain.

She is as silent as the moon on a clouded night, distant and untouched.

My heart tightens with a pang of worry. She is beautiful, yes. As perfect as her sister. But there is a veil between us, something that keeps me from reaching her.

I glance at Vera again, unable to shake the unease coiling at the pit of my stomach. I push the darkness aside, telling myself it is nothing, that they are merely hours old and still adjusting to the world.

Yet, as I look back at Mila, I feel the difference more keenly. It is subtle, like a breath on the back of my neck, but it is there.

The king moves forward to place a hand on my shoulder, his smile reassuring beyond words.

“My love,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “The gods have blessed us beyond measure.”

I nod, though my eyes linger on Vera. “Yes,” I whisper, feeling a pang in my heart that I cannot name. “Blessed.”

A gust of cool air floats in from an open window, extinguishing two candles at once. Some of the noblewomen cry out at the swishing and billowing of robes, but I know this is my closest confidant making her entrance.

I don’t see her at first—not directly—but I feel the shift in the way the fire dims and the air becomes colder. The soft murmurs of the courtiers fade as if swallowed by the thick stone walls. My gaze follows the sudden hush, my heart skipping a beat.

Gisele stands at the door, her silhouette framed by the glow of torchlight in the corridor beyond.

Her robe, a deep purple edged with silver, sweeps the floor as she moves. Her face is veiled in shadow, but I can see her eyes—the intensity of them, even from across the room, as they lock onto my daughters. My breath catches.

Gisele has always been like a sister to me. She has seen things I cannot explain and offered wisdom when it was needed most. But now, as she moves silently toward me, dread coils a strong arm around my throat.

She says nothing as she approaches the bassinets, her footsteps soft. The courtiers part around her. My husband straightens beside me.

Gisele stops beside the twins, her eyes lingering on their small, sleeping forms. Her hand, weathered and wise, hovers over Vera first, her fingers trembling slightly.

She doesn’t touch them, but I can feel it—the weight of her attention, the way her breath quickens, the faint trembling in her shoulders.

Her fingers shift, now over Mila, and that’s when I see it. The faintest twitch in Gisele’s face. A tightening of her jaw.

“Gisele?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper, but it’s all I can manage.

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the twins, and then—without warning—her head snaps back. Her body jerks as if pulled by an invisible string. A collective gasp ripples through the room, but no one moves.

Her eyes roll back into her head, the whites shining in the dim light, and her whole frame goes rigid.

The fire in the hearth sputters, the shadows on the walls growing darker, longer.

And then, her voice—when it comes—does not belong to her.

“Two daughters, born of the same blood. . .” Her words are slow, drawn out, as if pulled from some ancient place. “One will rise to power—a queen forged by cruelty, her heart cold as winter’s night. The other. . . shall betray her, a wound deep as the sea, born not of hate, but of love turned to poison.”

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. My eyes dart to the twins—Mila is stirring, her tiny hands curling and uncurling, while Vera remains still, too still.

Betrayal? Poison? These are terrible words.

Gisele’s body remains rigid. The nobles stand frozen in fear.

The world feels too small and tight.

How can such a fate be written for them?

No. I refuse to believe it.

“We will not allow this,” my husband says, his voice tinged with indignation. “This prophecy will not see the light of day.”

Gisele’s body jolts, and her eyes snap forward, no longer glowing but wide, terrified. She stumbles, catching herself on the edge of the bassinet, her breath coming in shallow gasps. I reach out to steady her.

“Gisele,” I breathe, “is there nothing we can do?”

She looks at me. “Your best, my Queen. You must do your best because, in such times, what more can a mother offer but love and hope?”

Before I can respond, Vera lets out a sudden, sharp cry. It cuts through, high-pitched and fierce, so unlike the quiet mewls of a newborn.

Her tiny fist swings out, catching Mila’s soft cheek, leaving a vicious red mark on her sister’s skin.

Mila whimpers, her little body curling inward.

I tend to her quickly, raising her to my breast, hiding her against the safety of my bosom.

My husband bends to lift Vera into his arms.

“We will raise them as one,” I whisper, though the words falter on my lips. “Nothing will tear them apart.”