Empress Constantina

The last rays of the setting sun bled crimson and gold through the leaded glass windows of the Imperial Solar, casting elongated, saintly patterns across the marble floor. Emperor Henry III of Aragon stood at the great arched window, his broad shoulders framed against the dying light. Below, the terraced gardens of the palace unfolded in a geometry of hedges and fountains, and beyond the walls, the first lanterns of the capital city, Aragona, winked to life like scattered stars.

The door opened with a whisper of oak on stone, and he knew it was her without turning. The subtle fragrance of rosewater and parchment always announced her.

"You're brooding again, my love," Empress Eleanor said, her voice a warm contralto that filled the high-ceilinged room. She came to stand beside him, her emerald silk gown rustling softly. "The weight of the crown is heavy tonight."

Henry finally turned, his face-a map of laugh lines and the sober creases of rule-softening as he looked upon her. He reached out, his warrior's hand surprisingly gentle as he cupped her cheek, then let his fingers trail up to pat her elaborately braided hair with familiar affection. "The crown is always heavy," he murmured. "But it is a weight I bear gladly, for it gave me all this. Especially our beautiful princess."

From the training grounds far below, the clear, rhythmic clash-clang of steel on steel floated up on the evening breeze, punctuated by a sharp, commanding shout. They both looked down to see their daughter, Constantina, a whirlwind of focused energy at fourteen, parrying and striking against the palace master-at-arms, Ser Derrick. Even from this height, they could see the determination in her stance, the precision of her movements.

Eleanor's smile was radiant, full of a pride so profound it seemed to light her from within. "Yes, we are. And our little spitfire is growing up to be a fierce Empress. Look at her, Henry. She moves like water and strikes like lightning. Ser Derrick told me yesterday she disarmed him three times in a single session."

Henry watched, his paternal pride a fierce, glowing ember in his chest. But alongside it slithered a colder, more pragmatic worry. He sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. "She is magnificent," he agreed. "But the world beyond our walls, beyond Aragon... it does not celebrate magnificent women. It fears them." He turned from the window, pacing toward the great hearth where a low fire crackled. "Sometimes I wonder if we trained her too hard, too well. We shaped a sword, Eleanor. A brilliant, peerless sword. But most kings seek a jeweled scabbard for their throne, not another blade. They want a wife who is a political asset, a mother of heirs, not a sovereign in her own right who can best their own champions."

Eleanor followed him, her expression shifting from pride to fierce protectiveness. She placed a steadying hand on his arm. "Then they are small men with small dreams," she said, her voice firm. "Constantina is not just a sword, Henry. She is the shield, the scale, and the heart. She reads treatises on law and agriculture with the same passion she brings to swordplay. She sits with the village elders and learns their woes. She is shrewd, compassionate, and just. She is a rare gem-forged in fire, yes, but with a core of unwavering light. Any man, any king, would be blessed to stand beside her, not before her."

Henry searched her eyes, the deep brown pools that had been his anchor for twenty-five years. He saw no doubt there, only absolute certainty. Her faith was a balm. He let out a long, slow breath, the tension leaching from his shoulders. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "You see her so clearly," he said. "You always have. You see the woman, where I sometimes still see the child I must protect from everything." He drew her into an embrace, resting his chin on her head. "Yes," he finally concluded, his voice solid, reassured. "Yes, she is. And I'm proud-more proud than I have words for-to be her parent."

A sudden, triumphant shout from the courtyard pulled them apart. Leaning on the window sill once more, they saw Constantina standing over a mock-disarmed Ser Derrick, who was bowing with a theatrical flourish. She threw her head back and laughed, the sound carrying up to them, bright and unburdened. The sun caught the sweat on her brow and the brilliant smile on her face, and for a breathtaking moment, she was not just their daughter, but the very embodiment of their legacy, their hope, their future. They stood together, wrapped in the fragile peace of the moment, unaware of the storm already gathering on the horizon, a storm that would test that legacy in fire and blood.

****************

Six Years Later

The air in the royal forest was sweet with the scent of pine and damp earth. Dappled sunlight played over the fern-carpeted floor as Constantina, now twenty, guided her dappled grey mare, Tempest, along a familiar trail. Her body ached pleasantly from the morning's rigorous training, and her mind was blissfully clear, filled only with the sounds of the woods and the steady rhythm of hooves.

"Princess Constantina! Wait!"

The cry was followed by the thunder of clumsy footsteps crashing through the underbrush. Constantina reined in Tempest and turned in her saddle, a smile already touching her lips.

Porter, the ten-year-old son of the head stablemaster, exploded from a thicket, his tunic snagged with burrs, his face flushed with exertion and excitement. He skidded to a halt before her, panting.

"By the skies, Porter, you sound like a startled boar," she laughed, her eyes crinkling. "What mischief has you tearing through the Emperor's woods this time?"

He straightened, puffing out his small chest, attempting a gravity far beyond his years. "No mischief, Your Highness! Important business! Papa says I'm a man now." He thrust a thumb against his sternum. "I carried water for every stall in the east wing. All by myself. Didn't spill but two buckets!"

Constantina's smile widened. She swung down from Tempest, her leather boots sinking softly into the moss. She approached him and ruffled his unruly sandy hair, which promptly defied her and sprang back into place. "Two buckets? A marked improvement from last week's five," she said, her tone teasing but warm. "Yes, you are. You are a fine young-"

The world shattered.

It wasn't a single sound, but a wave-a crescendo of terror that ripped through the peaceful afternoon. A woman's scream, high and piercing, was followed by a man's bellow of pure agony. Then more screams, rising into a dissonant chorus, underscored by a deep, ominous whump that could only be fire taking hold.

The birds fell silent. Tempest shied, whinnying in alarm. Constantina's blood turned to ice.

Porter's bravado vanished, his eyes wide with primal fear. "Princess...?"

"The village," Constantina breathed. The direction was unmistakable. Aragona Village, nestled just beyond the palace's southern wall. Her parents were there today, meeting with the town council.

She didn't think. She grabbed Porter's small, trembling hand. "Stay with me!" she commanded, her voice sharp with an authority that brooked no argument. Abandoning Tempest, who would be useless in the narrow streets, she broke into a run, pulling Porter along.

The smell assaulted them first, even before they cleared the tree line. It was a vile cocktail-acrid smoke, the sweet, sickening scent of burning thatch and timber, and beneath it all, the coppery, gut-churning tang of blood. The sounds resolved as they burst from the woods: the hungry crackle of flames, the crash of collapsing buildings, the low, desperate moans of the wounded, and underneath it, a terrifying, resonant silence where the vibrant hum of daily life should have been.

Aragona Village was gone.

In its place was a canvas of hell. The quaint, half-timbered houses were skeletal, blackened ruins belching oily smoke. The central square's beautiful oak was a charred claw reaching for a smoke-stained sky. The cobblestones were slick, not with rain, but with dark, viscous fluid.

And the bodies... Oh, the bodies.

Constantina's mind recoiled. She saw Old Man Gable, the cheerful baker, lying across his own doorstep, a pitchfork still clutched in his hands. She saw Elara, the young mother who sold flowers, draped over her two small children in a final, futile act of protection. Everywhere she looked, familiar faces were frozen in masks of terror, pain, and blank emptiness.

"Mama... Papa..." The words were a broken whisper, torn from a place deeper than her throat. Her grip on Porter's hand went slack. Her vision tunneled, focusing on details-a scrap of blue fabric that matched her mother's favorite shawl, the distinctive eagle-shaped buckle on a leather vest lying in the mud. Her father's vest.

A low, animal sound escaped her. She stumbled forward, her boots slipping in the gruesome mud. "No, no, no..." she chanted, a desperate prayer. She dropped to her knees beside a pair of bodies near the smoldering shell of the meeting hall. With hands that shook violently, she grasped a shoulder, rolling the figure over. It was Councilman Broderick, his sightless eyes staring at the smoke. Not her father.

She scrambled to another, then another, her breath coming in ragged, tearless sobs. The world narrowed to the terrible search, her fingers brushing cold skin, stiffening limbs. Porter stood frozen nearby, silent tears cutting clean paths through the soot on his cheeks.

"Aaaah, the little princess finally arrives."

The voice was like silk dragged over broken glass-smooth, yet grating. It cut through the cacophony of destruction with chilling clarity.

Constantina froze. The blood in her veins seemed to crystallize. She knew that voice. She turned, rising slowly to her feet, wiping her filthy hands on her riding leathers.

Raymond, Duke of Diendrik, stood in the center of the carnage as if it were a receiving hall. His armor was not the functional steel of a soldier, but ornate plate of blackened metal, etched with intricate, serpentine designs that seemed to move in the flickering firelight. Not a speck of blood or ash marred its surface. His handsome face, all sharp angles and cruel, full lips, was arranged in a smile of supreme satisfaction. Behind him, a phalanx of his soldiers stood at ease, their expressions bored, their weapons bloodied.

"I was wondering where you'd gotten to," Raymond purred, taking a deliberate step toward her. His boot came down in a puddle of something dark, but he didn't seem to notice. "You missed all the fun. The... transition of power."

"You beast!" The scream erupted from Constantina, raw and guttural, fueled by a grief so profound it had nowhere to go but out as rage. Every lesson in composure, every ounce of royal discipline, evaporated. "What have you done?! WHERE ARE MY PARENTS?!"

Porter flinched at her fury, shrinking behind her, his small fingers clutching at the back of her torn tunic.

Raymond's smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew more indulgent, as if she were a child having a tantrum. "What have I done?" he echoed, spreading his arms wide in a mocking gesture of presentation. "I have corrected a historical oversight, my dear. I have reclaimed what was always meant to be mine. Your father's stubbornness, his refusal to see the... new order... it demanded a lesson in realpolitik." His eyes, the color of a winter storm, glinted. "As for your beloved Emperor and Empress... let's call it a peaceful abdication. Permanently."

"They were your sovereigns!" Constantina shrieked, taking an impulsive step forward. "They were good people! They loved these subjects! Look around you, you monster! You've slaughtered innocents!"

"Innocents?" Raymond chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "There are no innocents in a struggle for power, Princess. Only the victors and the forgotten." His gaze flicked over Porter with dismissive contempt before settling back on her. "Your father's sentimentality was his weakness. He cared for this." He gestured vaguely at the ruins. "I care for the future. A future I will build from the ashes."

"You're mad," Constantina breathed, her fury cooling into a hard, sharp point of hatred. "You will not build. You will only burn. And you will answer for this."

"Answer?" Raymond threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, rich sound that was more horrifying than any shout. His soldiers chuckled behind him, a low, ugly chorus. "To whom? The gods? They favor the strong. To the people?" He kicked the lifeless hand of a nearby villager. "They are somewhat indisposed."

He took another step closer, closing the distance. Constantina stood her ground, though every instinct screamed to recoil. He was close enough now that she could smell the mint on his breath, see the fine lines at the corners of his cold eyes.

"Your spirit is admirable, I'll grant you that," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's what has always fascinated me. That fire. It will make breaking you so much more... satisfying."

"I will die before I let you touch me," she spat, her voice low and venomous.

"Tsk, tsk. Such dramatic pronouncements." He reached out, as if to touch a stray lock of her hair. She jerked back as if scalded. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. "Death is the easy way out, Constantina. I have something far more interesting in mind for you. You see, I didn't just come for a kingdom today." His smile returned, predatory and possessive. "I came for its heart. Its soul. I came for you."

A new kind of terror, cold and slimy, joined the grief in her gut. "What are you talking about?"

"You are the last Aragon. The symbol. With you by my side-or more accurately, beneath my heel-the transition is complete. The people's hope becomes my puppet. Your defiance will become my proof of mercy." His eyes scanned her from head to toe, a calculating, invasive look. "I've heard about your skillful hands. With a sword, with a pen. I look forward to redirecting those skills. To my purposes."

Constantina felt a wave of nausea. She understood now. He didn't just want to kill her. He wanted to own her, to use her legacy to legitimize his butchery.

"I'll kill myself first," she vowed, her voice trembling not with fear, but with the intensity of her resolve.

"You won't," he said simply, with utter certainty. He nodded to two of his guards. "You have too much of your father's stubborn pride. You'll cling to life, hoping for a chance to strike back. And I will be there every time, to remind you of your place." He turned to the guards. "Take her. Gently. She is precious cargo. And the boy... kill him. He's a witness."

"NO!" Constantina moved on pure instinct. She shoved Porter behind her and dropped into a fighting stance, her hands coming up. She had no weapon, but she was far from helpless.

Raymond sighed, a parody of disappointment. "Still fighting? I admire the tenacity, but it's time to learn your first lesson."

The guards advanced. Constantina kicked the first one hard in the knee, hearing a satisfying crack. He went down with a cry. The second lunged. She sidestepped, grabbed his extended arm, and used his momentum to send him stumbling into a smoldering beam.

But there were too many. A third guard grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms. She fought, kicking, twisting, biting down on the arm clamped over her mouth. She tasted blood and leather.

Raymond watched, that infuriating smile still playing on his lips. "Ah, the fire burns bright. It will be a pleasure to bank it."

Porter, seeing his princess captured, let out a furious, wordless cry and launched himself at Raymond, small fists flying. Raymond didn't even look at him. He backhanded the child casually, sending Porter sprawling into the mud, dazed.

"Porter!" Constantina screamed against the guard's hand.

Raymond walked over to where the boy lay, drawing a long, slender dagger from his belt. He knelt beside him.

"Please!" Constantina's scream was muffled, desperate. Tears of helpless rage finally broke free, cutting through the grime on her face. "Please, don't! He's just a child! I'll go quietly! I'll do anything! Please, Raymond, I'm begging you!"

Raymond paused, the dagger poised. He looked up at her, and the satisfaction in his eyes was more terrible than any cruelty. "Ah," he said softly. "There it is. The first crack. The first beg." He held her gaze for a long, torturous moment. Then, with a dismissive shrug, he sheathed the dagger. "He lives. Consider it a wedding gift, my dear. A token of my... affection." He stood, brushing non-existent dirt from his immaculate armor. "But remember this moment, Constantina. Remember the taste of begging. You will know it again."

He nodded to the guards. "Take her to the black carriage. Bind her hands. If she makes a sound, hurt the boy."

The guard holding her produced coarse ropes. As they bound her wrists tightly behind her back, Constantina didn't fight. She kept her eyes on Porter, who was struggling to sit up, his face a mess of mud and blood and tears. She tried to pour every ounce of love, of apology, of promise into her gaze.

I will come back for you. I will make this right. I will burn this monster to the ground.

The guards half-dragged, half-carried her away from the ruins of her home, her life, her parents. She took one last look over her shoulder at the smoldering village, at the small, broken figure of Porter, at the hellscape that had been wrought in a single afternoon.

Raymond fell into step beside her, his stride confident. "Don't look so grim, Princess," he said conversationally, as if they were out for a stroll. "This is just the end of the prologue. Our story is just beginning."

The black carriage awaited, a hearse on wheels. As she was shoved inside, into the plush, suffocating darkness, Constantina Aragon made a silent vow. It was not a vow of surrender, but of war.

This is not a story, she thought, the door slamming shut, sealing her in darkness. This is a seed. And I will water it with his blood.