THE SUNDERING

The fool.

Nyssa's icy eyes narrowed, and her spine straightened, shifting slightly upon her ornately carved flower and thorn-laden throne. In front of her cowered one of her courtiers, the presumptuous man caught in bed with one of her blind beauties. No one slept with a royal slave without having to pay, but that was precisely what he dared to do.

Drilling her fingers on the arm of the chair, she lifted her chin for him to speak. Not that she'd believe anything he told her. A smile hovered beneath her pinched lips, ready to break loose. She'd not forgive the transgressors or let them go free, no matter his excuse.

"I give you leave to explain," she said. "But think carefully before you do." His sun-darkened skin paled and his head bowed to the floor. It delighted her that with few words, she had the power to make mighty men quake before her. "Tell me, soldier. What gave you the assumption you could touch one of my prized ones?"

His response, though delayed, was almost too quiet to hear. "She isn't a slave, your Majesty."

"Oh?" She leaned forward. "Then tell me, what is she exactly?"

Behind her, the guards adjusted their weaponry, ready to enact her whim and to seal the man's fate. They were apparently smarter than the warrior on his knees. Death was the only way this debacle could end.

"Pardon, your Majesty." The man sputtered, pausing, and glancing up at her. Gathering courage, his protest rallied in the quiet room. "I love her. The woman-she's my wife."

Nyssa's frown scared him into quickly lowering his head again. "Your wife? Is that so?"

He quivered, his voice shaking. "Yes, my Queen."

Nyssa stood, her snow-colored gown draping around her with serpentine grace. She took one step, two steps forward, down her metal and stone pedestal to reach the man below her. Without another word, she reached out her hand; and lifted his chin with her fingers. To his credit, he didn't flinch-much.

"You say you love her." Her fingers smoothed across his rough-shaven jaw to grip his flesh. The man was handsome, and as she examined him, another thought came into her mind. Using him. But that was too easy, and he'd given himself to another, a woman who belonged to her. There wasn't anything she could do for him now.

"I do."

He answered without hesitation. Nyssa's lips curved into a smile, viperous and cold. She deserved her warrior's attention. She deserved the devotion from her whores, and from anyone and everyone in the entire kingdom. No one denied her. After all, she was Queen.

She pondered him, his lean strength, and the impressive musculature that his armor didn't hide. A fine soldier, indeed, all except for his fear. That is what made him worthless to her.

"How interesting," she said, making him flinch. He knew her reputation, yet he stole from her anyhow. If he thought she was capable of mercy, he was a damned fool. Nyssa pandered to no one. Still, it was nice to play.

She beckoned to the guard nearest the door. "Bring in the slave. I want to see for myself."

The warrior raised his eyes, his voice reverently hushed. "What are you going to do to her?"

Nyssa's smile darkened. "Wrong question, soldier, and you have so few of them left. My patience is short, and you've almost extended it. I'm Regent. And by the grace of the gods, I can do anything I want."

The door swung open, and a naked, bound woman pulled behind a guard. Her neck and wrists decorated with heavy chain, her eyes blank and empty. Beautiful, with hair the color of sunset and skin pale as milk. Blinded, as all her girls were. Nyssa pointed to the fallen warrior.

"Put her beside him." The guard thrust the woman forward, and she stumbled, dropping to her knees. The woman's breath hitched and caught, tears running down her alabaster cheeks. Gutting the eyes didn't halt tears from flowing. How glorious those tears were.

The Regent clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Careful, Hugo. She's precious."

The guard bowed, a sneer directed towards the accused crossing his face. "Of course, your Majesty. Many apologies."

The soldier bowing before her shifted closer to her prized whore. Damn. He was bold. She'd admire it if she wasn't planning on killing him.

Nyssa stroked her necklace, diamond shards that pointed and spiked and wrapped about her neck like barbed wire. Her throne looked similar, laden with gems, twisted and grotesque. She wanted to horrify those that gazed upon her magnificence. By the gasps of the courtiers each and every time one of them approached her, she did. She loved the skulls that lined her crown, taken as a token of war.

Death. She was its master. No one could go against her and win.

The soldier and his bride dared to go up against the Regent? She'd show them how she lived up to her title of Dark Queen.

The chained prisoner spoke, his voice broken. "Please. I beg for audience with the king."

Her breathing shallowed, her eyes narrowing. She didn't speak, watching as sweat dripped from the man's forehead down his throat. A throat she'd gladly slice for his audaciousness.

Nyssa ruled in proxy, but it meant nothing. Her son inherited the throne. The day of his twenty-fifth birthday, if he lived, he'd gain Yrurra and control all that she worked for. Not that she'd let him live. The destiny for the pair who waited for her verdict, their hands reaching for the other, was damningly similar to the one her offspring faced. Total submission, just before the ax fell across their traitorous necks.

She wasn't stupid or naïve. Even her guards had no loyalty to her, yet loyalty wasn't what she craved. Obedience, fear, the ability to lie, to tell her whatever she wished whenever she demanded it: that is what her servants and the courtiers delivered to her, and she loved each tremble of terror given her way.

Her guards knew their master-her. Every one of them she castrated, taking their manhood and their right. Just as her harem were blinded, those who protected her were stained by the jealousy of her hand. Ruined. Under her like cowered sheep to the wolf that stalked them. She wanted fighters, not men. And what Nyssa wanted, she got.

If her Assassin was as good as his name, and if he found and recovered what she planned to later destroy, she'd gain everything. Each breath of life. Every soul that existed both in this realm and the next. Perhaps then she'd find a measure of peace, knowing no one could steal her reign away from her.

She was the only one who knew that Yrurra bordered a shroud of time and space, of memory and ruin. Another land, another crown to shatter and destroy. She sent her Assassin there, to penetrate the forgotten portal and to massacre the world that paralleled and mirrored them. If he succeeded, she'd never have to worry or fear again. The throne was hers, but only if Sebastian of Zelal brought back his quarry.

The insidious anxiety that her assassin would fail paled the glory of this moment. Gore and temptation, parlay, and destruction, that is what brought her joy. Few things did anymore, and more so as her son's birthday impended. She wouldn't feel true satisfaction until the assassin returned with her foe.

Circling her prey, Nyssa eyed the kneeled pair with deepening avarice. Such a shame. If the warrior had been faithful to her, they both might have lived. But taking a wife, a woman from her blinded harem? They sealed their fate. Now they both had to die.

"Surrey." The warrior glanced up. "Ah, yes. I know who you are. You, who had such potential in my army. You wish to see my son?"

She could tell when he realized he wouldn't be given grace. His body slumped; his eyes squeezed shut. He spoke daringly despite it.

"My Queen. Perhaps, with explanation, the king will understand."

A hiss escaped her painted lips. The soldier stiffened.

"Silence."

His head swiftly lowered, rising again so that his eyes leveled her with disgust and dark hatred. If he were wise, he'd accept his fate. But by the steady glare he sent her, she doubted he'd go to his death easily.

"Surrey and Celena. My two betrayers," she said, walking around them like a viper ready to strike, each time their bodies stiffening further. Their imminent destruction didn't stop the man from clasping his wife's fingers as their hands flattened upon the floor, entwining them together as though their love would save them.

With vicious callousness, Nyssa used the heel of her boot to stomp upon and to crush their fingers, grinding her boot, hearing, and enjoying the pop of bone, the conjoined gasps of disbelief and pain. Celena's shrieks echoed through the chamber. Her warrior said nothing.

She'd been right about him.

"Surrey," Celena whimpered, reaching out for her husband as tears rolled down her cheeks. "We have to-" She paused, her voice lowering further. "Our baby..."

The fingers on her left hand oozed crimson, crookedly distorted, showing a peek of ivory knuckle. That was beautiful; her words were not.

So, the bitch was pregnant. That would soon be rectified.

Surrey slid a worried look to Nyssa, then defiantly took his wife in arm. A frown crossed over Nyssa's face. As their foreheads bowed to the other, anger grew. It became monstrous.

"Take her," she instructed a guard. "Slice her belly open. Feed her entrails to the vultures as you mount her head to my castle wall. No one takes what's mine, never. Let this be a lesson. As for my heartsick warrior?" She paused, the room waiting for her verdict. Succinctly, she answered the unspoken question. Would she give immunity? Her smile curled, devilishly coy. She sliced the air with her decision.

"Burn him."

A scream of retribution flew from the man's lips. They pulled Celena away, but even chained and guarded, he attempted to save her. Despite the weaponry turned against him, Surrey yanked two guards to the ground. Not that he'd be able to escape, for more soldiers lined the outer corridors. The Regent made sure of that. Fiery eyes met Nyssa's, eyes of wrath and war as her blind whore was dragged out of the room.

"Know this, you cold bitch," he said, fume and fire passing from his lips, finally restrained in a manner better befitting one ready to meet the grave. His arms held behind him, his face bleeding and taut as he warned her of an impossible fate, vicious hatred in his voice. "You may kill the two of us, but you haven't stopped us all. Beware, your Majesty. An uprising is ready, and then you'll be the one strung from a pike, celebrated by all as you rot in Hell."

Nyssa watched him dragged out, her pleasure revealed by the uptick of a smile. An uprising? She hoped so. It was about time those insipid commoners took their shovels and mining picks, fighting a battle she'd longed to have for years. She was weary, and so, so bored. Nothing exciting happened to her, nothing to break the monotony... nothing except the rare displays of madness and rage on days such as these.

She'd gladly take more of them.

Sashaying back to her throne, Nyssa sat, waiting for the next demonstration. None came, and before long a familiar ennui slammed her.

"Send for my son." A delicate yawn escaped. "It's time the king learns a thing or two about commanding a nation."

Santh, the king's personal valet, piped up from his corner in the shadows of the room. The child was eleven, so his confidence was unfounded. The boy's bright blue eyes examined her, not a hint of fear in them.

"I don't think he can attend," he told her. "His Majesty is busy."

"Get him anyway." For the boldness of his declaration, when men older than he didn't have the balls, she'd spare him the public humiliation of a caning for daring her. "Drag him from whatever bed he's in and bring him here."

"Sure," he said, wily coyness in his reply. "Though I don't think he'll be appropriately dressed."

"I gave you instructions, you beastly little imp." She resisted the urge to claw him forward with the intention of a beating. "That's your duty, so do it." His grin irked and annoyed, his attitude plowing over her authority and smiting it with aplomb. Her sharply snapping tone didn't bother him. Nothing did, that obnoxious little brat. Nyssa raised her voice. "Bring him, you imbecile. Now."

Santh scurried out the door, though she suspected his speed had more to do with his personality than her implication of threat. By the gods, children revolted her, more even than the filthy miners, and decidedly more than her own son.

As her fingers tapped, Nyssa gave orders to each sniveling, sycophant courtier that begged her favor, reciting law and sentence for any commoner that dared enter her sanctuary and letting the haze of her boredom consume her. Queenship was tedious, but the throne was hers. The offspring of her womb had no right to take it away from her.

When the announcement of the King bellowed through the room, Nyssa straightened in her seat, poised once more. It would never do for him to see any weakness. Not that it mattered. No one took her son seriously, least of all her.

His face looked sulky as he entered, disheveled, with trousers half fastened. He gave one look to the women flocking against the wall in the corner, then faced the throne. The coward. He never used his royal power and privilege to oust her. If he were smart, he'd do it before his birthday. Of course, she meant to take him down by then.

"Good to see that my son acknowledges duty." Nyssa leveled a steely gaze at her son but directed her wry venom at the boy that hovered by the king's side. "Leave. You've annoyed me enough. I don't want to see your face in my chambers anymore today."

Santh bobbed to his knees, a secretive grin pasted on his childishly smooth umber-brown skin. She saw through him, past the youth and into his loyal, shrouded heart. He didn't serve her, and she knew it.

She pressed her lips together to fight for having him banned from her rooms, the fiendish little wretch. If he were hers, he'd eat nothing but stale bread and drink brackish water for a week. But the boy wasn't hers. She had no authority over him except for what she'd already demanded from him.

"Go." She pointed to the exit, her patience ending.

Santh ran from the room, a whoop and holler following him in the air. Odious child. Even her burliest soldiers liked and tolerated him. She'd never allow herself a similar sort of sentiment. Having any consideration for one of them, the courtiers, or the common people, wasn't meant for her, a queen chosen by the gods.

The castle and the lands of Velle surrounding it were her home. She commanded it, governing it with a closed iron fist, at least until her son reached his majority at twenty-five. Then, by Yrurrian law, he took over leadership. She refused to have that happen.

Nyssa faced her son and steeled her gaze. Time to set him straight over the true ruler of the land. Yrurra, the home of the gods. The home of the Dark Queen. She never intended to hand her power over. Tiran must die. Anyone who opposed her hung from the castle walls, burned, and dismembered. This was her domain, hers. No one would take that away from her.

Tiran left the throne room after his mother tried once again to show him up before the courtiers, hatred, and deliberation in each step. He turned twenty-five in less than six months. Time was running out for him to strike. The attacks on his life were frequent, but subtle. No one could blame the Regent for the poisoning of his food or drink, attempts done when his taster grew deathly ill. An accident, or so they claimed.

Perhaps the barrage to his carriage by commoners bent on retribution against the crown would be his undoing. Jealousy from a maddened crowd? Those were the whispers the courtiers gave.

Maybe the surreptitious slicing of the saddle for his horse, ready to unseat him while he was out riding, would demise where nothing else had. The stableboy, surely innocent, was held for treason. No trial, just execution.

Tiran wasn't ignorant, and he knew whose clutch he almost fell under as he lay on the ground staring up at the Yrurrian skies, Death looking him in the face when his horse jumped the log, and the leather strap gave. He broke his leg. Next time it might be his neck.

His mother would be brought down. He promised himself and he assured those who followed him. He refused to fail.

Santh looked up at him, pausing and crossing his arms over his meager chest. "She's always watching you, your Majesty."

Santh whispered towards Tiran, his voice as shadowy as the dimly lit corridors. A frown furrowed his youthful brow.

"Every time you go in her presence, it's more likely she finds you out. Be careful of her, please, Sire. What if you don't survive the next time she wants to kill you?"

Tiran huffed quietly. Consoling the boy was his job. It was also necessary, for Santh had become like a younger brother to him, a confidante in life when he had no other.

"The Regent is more obsessed with her looks, the whores that frequent her bed, and her damned plotting." Tiran smiled reassuringly, a gesture that fought to reach his eyes, or through his drowning voice. "She doesn't see what she doesn't choose to, my boy. We won't be discovered, I promise you."

Santh grunted dispassionately, sounding older than his age. Not unusual, since Tiran had found and brought the boy into his household after running across him in one of the village pubs, drunk as a polecat and starting arguments with men three times his size and age. Santh never showed fear. His devotion to the cause was without regret or mercy. He was damned loyal. Best of all, no one suspected him at espionage, least of all the woman Tiran needed to eradicate before the sun rose high into the silver-backed skies on his birth-date-his mother, by birthright if not by deed. If he failed by then, he was likely dead.

"I'll need that devotion when things turn to shit. I'll need all who believe in my rule."

Santh fisted at his youthful chest in salute, ready to war. Ready to do whatever it took to make his reign succeed.

Tiran accepted the affirmation. He was steel. He was a damned king. Fire and light, ice, and darkness. Time to show his cards and to put away the meek mask that hid the ravenous wolf inside.

"The Regent is up to something. She sent Sebastian of Zelal away, and by the gods, know that she will rot in hell before I let her gain anything more over me. Find out the Assassin's latest orders. He'll act by my side, or he'll die with the rest of them when I rise."

Tiran began walking again, Santh obediently following. The boy remained quiet.

"The Assassin left the fortress this morning, before the Regent's announcement of execution. I'll question the servants and those courtiers favorable to you. Believe me, my king, you will have your answers."

He saw the craving in the boy's face for battle and heard it in his answer. Such a war wasn't for Santh. As king, though, it was Tiran's destiny.

"The queen has grown bolder. Her whims and her damning lies are completely unacceptable. It's time to attack, and any games once played are over. By the time I reach my majority, she'll have me dead if I don't act now. I can't-and I won't-let my kingdom continue to be damned by her."

His gaze narrowed on the boy, letting him understand the importance of his previous order. This was the Regent's last strike. If Santh failed, his mother won.

"Find out the Assassin's mission and report back to me. Divert him and any other if they get in the way. You know what to do."

"I do, Sire. All will be accomplished, just as you say."

They parted ways at the divide of corridor, Santh turning left towards the servant's quarters to rally up information, Tiran going right and heading down the dimly lit passageway until he met the closed doorway of the Seer.

Damned man. Majid liked to pretend he was never in, but the old bastard never left his rooms. Not anymore and not for many years, not since the queen decided his prophecies undermined her rule.

Tiran believed all that the old man proclaimed, if not by truth, then by circumstance. He wanted, no, he needed the man's prophecies to fulfill themselves, for he doubted he could hold off from staging war against his mother's domination for much longer. But when truth revealed itself and the declaration had to be made, time and occurrence were on his side, just as those he'd gathered for battle were ready, eager to fight for him and for the side of justice.

The man living beyond the blue doors taught him everything he knew about life and about the kingdom. He listened and learned and understood. According to prophecy, the Regent's reign would end with violence and terrible downfall. If Majid were right, a distant enemy would take her down. Waiting for that enemy to show themselves was the troublesome part. Letting that enemy override what was his to culminate was even harder.

Patience had never been Tiran's strongest attribute. If anyone tried to fulfill Tiran's desire to destroy, they would be destroyed, too.

It surprised him that with such foreboding news, Majid could live. But even the queen knew better than to kill a bearer of magic, to eradicate a Seer, the last ones of the old ways. Even she respected magical law, for it kept those in her reign under fear, subjugated and destitute, completely submitted to her will and whim. The commoners and the courtiers were a means to an end, a populace the queen expected to rise behind her. How foolish that dream would be once things boiled over and Tiran assumed authority over Yrurra.

The enemy from beyond the shrouded gates. If the rumor was true, it wouldn't be long now before they appeared. What grand and mocking jest it would be if the Regent's command to send the Assassin on another mission was just a cover for her attempts to keep her kingdom securely mantled.

No matter how she fought, the Regent would never win. Tiran meant to take over, and with the seer's blunt proclamation, it wouldn't be long now. His ascension to the throne was imminent and not even his mother could stop it. One day his temper would erupt, and he'd act, eradicating the woman who birthed him so that she was a shell of her former power.

He called out for Majid as he knocked on the door. When the seer didn't answer, the smelter of Tiran's voice heated and rose. He banged, shifting angrily from booted foot to booted foot. This was no time for dallying. If Majid didn't stand by his side, he'd die with the rest of them. But first the man had to open the damn door.

He called out. "I know you're in there. Open the door." Not a single sound came from inside. Tiran feverishly raised his voice. "Your king wishes to see you. Unless you'd rather hang and burn alongside the rest of the rebels for that rectitude and disobedience?"

The door opened one tiny crack, sewn-shut eyes greeting him, along with a huff of tea-fouled breath. The man's face, both twisted and grotesque, and his massive, lumbering body sent silent shivers creeping up Tiran's spine. The seer's off-putting appearance never stopped him before, and it wouldn't halt him now.

The small opening was enough for him to force his way into. Tiran's entrance into the sanctuary didn't mean the man liked company. The Seer tolerated it, and only because the man firmly opposed the queen, just as Tiran did.

"You're interrupting."

Soft and high-pitched, the older man spoke in a child's voice, a sweet soprano tone tucked inside the strong musculature of a man. The seer wrung his hands, trembling before Tiran, even though he was the grandest epitome of magic, a magic not seen in their realm any longer.

"I don't care if I'm interrupting or not," Tiran said, easing inside the book-filled room until he reached a corner with two chairs sitting adjacent. It was ritual, both his harsh tone of voice, and where they sat whenever meeting.

Stacks of rolled parchment and a hive of old books tottered dangerously on the floor next to him as he sank into the closest chair, facing the large man who plodded towards him. Majid once confessed that his visions blurred the line between reality and dream, creating instability in both mind and form. The thought of that mental imbalance didn't create reassurances as the hulking man neared him.

Two fragile-looking teacups with saucers rattled in the man's giant fingers as the seer walked forward. The king had not come for tea, but for information, yet he'd drink the putrid brew to find out what he sought.

Majid never should have made it to adulthood, yet he was the man who became the greatest prophet that Yrurra had ever known. From time's beginning, the seers connected the common people to their gods. If the Ancients, or any other far-seeing seer, existed beyond the walls of the castle, they didn't show themselves. Tiran doubted they existed.

Heavy browed, strong-jawed, and massive-sized, Majid's scarred, and broken looks were partly the reason the elderly man stayed hidden, cooped up in the majestic lay of rooms. Books consoled him, and he asked for them instead of coin in payment for his skill.

Tiran's negligence in watching his feet sent a pile of books tumbling to the ground. For a moment, the air turned stale with disaster. Thankfully, Majid bowed his head at the mistake. The tea was set on the table, then the older man shifted his robes about him and also sat.

Tiran understood the ramifications of his actions, and he knew that his life had been graciously spared a hex or the magical cast of retributive anger for abusing the giant man's precious things. Perhaps the seer was right to put trust in the leather-bound tomes instead of man. Books never ran away, screaming in fright. They condoned the secrets of the realm Beyond without terror or doubt. Majid was a monster, and the visions he proclaimed destroyed any chosen recipients. One day the fulfillment of his greatest one would cause the ruination of both kingdom and of innocent men.

Majid couldn't see the books so precious to him. Once, under the spell of a strong, fermented tea, he confessed it was the weight, the smell of the leather and the paper that made him enjoy those gifts from Tiran to him.

The Regent was afraid of the seer's predictions, the ones that unseated her and took her throne. Because of it, the seer stayed out of her sight, always guarded, ruthlessly feared. Tiran didn't fear Majid's words, a lie he consistently repeated. After all, believing them meant his future, and he'd be a fool not to listen. Still, he wanted to piss his pants every time he came within earshot of the giant man. The shame of it made him come to hate the man who reared him.

Everyone knew the story of the monster before him. Nearly seven feet tall, huge, blinded early in life by the father who didn't want the demons inside the boy's mind to be heard or witnessed by others, he grew up alone. Some called him crazy, and perhaps he was. Freakish, he was an anomaly among the commoners, even among the greater sized warriors and men of the royal court. An ugly beast of a man, too tall, too strong, with dark visions and a darker potential of exacting them, he was feared for his size and for the prophecies that always came true.

Even though his foresight was the reason he'd been plucked from the mines and sworn into the Regent's service, Majid boldly stated his distaste of his entrance into the royal household. It didn't matter to him he earned his position with every correct prediction, every dream shared. It was that last dream revealed to his queen that earned him exile. No one knew exactly what the Seer told her. But Tiran planned to find out.

Tiran leaned forward, his tea forgotten. "You know why I'm here."

Majid nodded. Calmly the man took a sip of the foul brew, ignoring Tiran's impatience.

"Well, then? Speak. I don't have all goddamn day."

The seer's cup paused mid-flight. For a moment, the absolute knowledge that he'd overstepped that great man's law and boundary made him stiffen and his fingers tremble. But Tiran wasn't royalty for nothing. Letting fear sway his words, to force him to back down, wouldn't happen. Not while he had a throne to topple over.

Silence, and the steady tick, tick, ticking of the clock mounted on a spare spread of wall filled the air. Majid took another sip, ignoring him.

His jaw bristling, Tiran shifted and rose to his feet. A beefy hand reached out at him, curbing any wayward movement.

"Don't test me. I don't like to wait."

Majid spoke. "You'll wait because I haven't finished Seeing."

Tiran's breath caught. His eyes raked the man's face, excitement in his voice. "You've seen something, haven't you?"

The seer said nothing. He nodded instead.

Silence loomed, achingly quiet and bigger than life. Fidgeting, an act wholly differential for a royal, Tiran braced himself for the magnificence ready to be revealed. All would be rectified, just as soon as the seer spoke.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence...

Then, in a gush of wind, a wind that came and blew around all that surrounded him, the thread binding the seer's eyes split and opened. What was blind, envisioned.

Majid saw.

With a sharp snap of wrist, he pointed at Tiran, an erratic, crazed flickering emitting from the empty sockets where his eyes should have been. His voice boomed, and another stack of precariously perched books at the side of him fell as the noise echoed through the large-chambered rooms. Tiran was coldly and violently aware that the seer who faced him had been filled with a darker entity, one of strangers. Strangers he hoped never to meet.

An Ancient?

Tiran heard the stories, because like any well-educated man, he taught them from the cradle on. Those mighty beings were long gone, back to another Realm. The Ancients could not break free of their prison, attempting reconciliation to lands that once belonged to them. Never again would they impose their powerful magic upon the children of Man.

He knew the stories. Yet, for the first time, with the power radiating from Majid, Tiran doubted those Ancients truly disappeared. Maybe the old tales, recited and adulated, were falsely claimed. Thunder, lightning, and wind traveled ahead of the deadly storm of the seer's words. The boom faded into a quiet hush.

The air stilled. All that could be heard was their ragged breathing. Then, in a vicious jolt of awareness, power pummeled against and across him. It hurt; it fucking killed. Tiran's chest felt torn asunder, his heart ripped and pulled out for display. He clutched at it, staring in horror at the man before him. Pain like it shouldn't exist, yet it did. He felt it now.

The seer's sweet soprano engulfed him like a shroud, the glorious song of his vision chanting out in a deep, bass-toned dirge. It was demonic. Angelic. Frightful. Tiran hurried and covered his ears, but he could still hear it. The words were impossible to ignore. They pounded at him, scourge and venom, plague, and war.

"The Light and the Darkness. The Light and the Darkness."

Majid snapped an accusing finger at him. Another boom. A brace of wind blustered past, then a chill settled in the air. Ice and fire. Rain and brightening sun. The seer's empty sockets met his, shimmering light from beyond. Death and Destruction. It was them, the Ancients. Perhaps not in form, but with terrorizing spirit. Pained, Tiran bore witness to a darker vengeance, those immortals stealing his paralyzed gaze from the floor where he wished it still were.

He cowered. He didn't care.

The Ancients spoke. They consumed.

"Stop!" Tiran's pleas were just as empty as the Seer's vile, gnashing words and terrible eyes. "Stop, please! Don't let them come in."

It was too late. They had already arrived.

"The Light and the Darkness."

Majid spoke, his neck snapping back sharply, the black void of his eyes facing the ceiling. He shook. His body radiated from their power. His words haunted, eradicated, burned. Those ancient ones filled him. They spoke in garish refrain. The Seer continued, helpless, as useless among the oldest power of the worlds as Tiran. Another victim claimed. Another spell cast outward, carved out from the deepest mountains, and rock-filled gullies, and from the peaks of jubilant air.

Tiran squeezed his eyes shut but quickly reopened them. Ignoring the beast wouldn't make it go away. Neither would pleading for an extension of mercy. There was none.

"The Realm will break and bend, bend and break. Her way will open, open without fail. She comes, our warrior with her raised sword and mighty arm. She comes, as our queen gathers for the impending war. Be on the watch, you innocent ones, and beware, you unsavory ones. Because our sister, our mother, our savior's arrival is nigh."

A screech sounded in the tense, stale air. Bones cracked, though not his own. The knuckles of Tiran's hand, braced against his chair's arms, gripped and dug into the buttery wood while the Seer's throat muscles jagged and reflexed. They were breaking him. They demanded tribute. Effused with dark emptiness, they relentlessly stole what wasn't theirs to own, while the seer's soul tried to escape. He would die, and they would have scant regard.

Fat tears of horror and fear rolled down his sweaty face as Tiran shivered and shook. Perhaps his humanity, that fragility borne to man, would save him? Perhaps, but it was an uncertainty. Underneath, the cushion of his seat wetted and stained as urine released from his weakened bladder. Majid's head thrashed back and forth, pained. Tiran felt the man's agony. That agony was also his own.

"She will never be yours, you unsavory ones. Our queen is coming. O you of innocence, your queen will soon arrive."

The Seer's head dropped forward, a stench of decay and the incense of magic in the air. It was over. Gone, like a flume of smoke dissipating in the breeze, the Ancients disappeared. Tiran didn't bother to consider the other man's state of mind or how his body curled up like rot. None of that passed through the king's thoughts, because honestly?

Tiran didn't give a shit.

Staggering to his feet, ignoring the puddle on the floor and the wetness across his seat, Tiran ran. Right now, his cowardice was the last thing on his mind, only escape and never, ever returning to the seer's elaborate show of rooms again. Let the man destroy himself by the visions he dared to see. Let him starve and destruct with indignity, for his gift of foresight was one that no human should ever have gained.

Fuck Majid. He and his visions could go back to the hell they came from.

"Wait."

The seer's voice was weak. Troubled. Fearful... for him.

"Wait, Sire. Let me explain."

"Fuck you." Tiran reached the locked door. He unlatched it. The door stuck, and the handle wouldn't turn.

Then, from the knob of the door, a zap of fire throttled out, singing his fingers. Forcing his voice to stabilize, for he had to keep some amount of presence about him, inwardly Tiran quaked as the magic directed at him.

"I'll see you burn for this, Seer. You've just gone too far."

The Seer's voice was tired. He was alive, and whatever destruction caused to his body miraculously mended. His eyes, however, were empty sockets. They hadn't restored that to him. "No. You won't destroy me. Because now you need me now more than ever."

"I need no one. You forget who you speak to. I am king."

Majid slowly, wearily, shook his head. "You won't destroy me, and you won't destroy them. This I know. Listen, your Majesty, if you want your people to live. Listen, and use it well."

Tiran ripped open the door, pausing. He'd listen. But it was the last damn time.

The Seer spoke with certainty and warning in his delicate, small voice. "She's coming, my king, and you won't stop her. The queen of the Ancients will arrive, and sooner than you think. Be forewarned. For she isn't coming alone."

Devil-Dog looked at the newest offering outside the castle, charred, sliced, and misshapen. Already the bodies were covered with the refuse of the skies and land, carrion picking at the remaining flesh, worms poised at eating whatever decay dropped to the ground.

Male and female, they hung from the castle walls. After punishment, it declared to the commoners not to piss off the Regent. Do it and share the same fucking fate.

Shame that the warrior, now rotting and strung to the wilds, hadn't the conviction to face his outcome proudly. Usually soldiers fought to the end, but this one fought for his wife. Surrey and Celena. What pitiful creatures, determined to flaunt their love. Dying because of it. Chained separately, they'd been strung side-by-side. Not that it mattered. Their death throes were terrible ones. They were hardly recognizable anymore.

The Regent kept the ugly reminders of her executions on the North side of the building. The northern towers and walls were her secret. Secret, except by them, and those ready to die. The commoners spoke of it, guarded, afraid to meet the fate of those gone before them. The place, the Regent's secret, wasn't so secret, after all.

Devil Dog sneered, then their face and body morphed, a slide of skin and slippery outer garments. What was first a warrior, with a name, with family, soon looked like an elderly man. They had many personas, all of them false. Not once had they been suspected or caught. Even if they were seen, no one would believe their transition. That's why they, and not royalty, owned the land. That's how they decided the fate of those who assumed control over it.

Ancient One. Devil-Dog. Destroyer, and Judge. One of those who went bump into the night. One who knew everything.

They'd been hiding for centuries, incognito, a fury among the storm. They'd hide centuries more. No one suspected them-not even the queen. It was how they meant it to be.

Quietly, they faded into the background, tucking the one thing they always wore under their shirt. Shadow's Blood, the original conduit. Men fought for it. Died for it. The poorest of the land were the only ones who dared looking for it. What fools. They'd search until they died.

Devil-Dog finished changing, finding each wrinkle of loose skin, and adjusting it into place. They'd been summoned, so into the castle they went. With royal sanction, they entered the throne room. They bowed.

The queen lifted her fingers from the arm of her chair. They knew what that meant. Grovel. Kiss and not bite. They hid a gruesome smile and did as obligated.

She stood, coming before them and lifting their chin. It was permission to stand. They did. She took their hand, guiding them to come beside her. She sat. They took their place on the stool beside her chair. Their bones creaked. Their soul rankled.

One day, they'd see that her punishment was out in the open. For now, they watched, learned. Readied to make her pay.

Her eyes sharply examined them. If they didn't show appreciativeness for her words, she'd doom them to the same fate as the couple from the morning's debacle. Too bad, too bad. They'd not die for anyone.

"I sent for my Assassin."

They were the proper sycophant, showing interest when they had none. "You employed him for a mission?"

She leaned forward, hovering over them, her obsidian hair teasing their nostrils. "Yes. A wonderfully impossible mission."

"He'll fail?"

She sighed deeply. "All of them fail. He will as well."

They lowered their head as if they respected the bitch. No one did, no one who guessed the truth at the monster she was.

"I beg, your Majesty. What did you ask of him?"

She inhaled vilely, a serpent's greedy hiss. "I want him to go through the portal and bring my enemy back to me. You are my precious one. You may know of it, but I trust no one else."

"The portal? Isn't that a failed mission to begin with?"

"Yes. He'll fail, and then I'll send another stupid warrior. If the people of Yrurra believed it to be real and not a story, I would have to fight others away from the invisible seal. In this case, I get to choose who goes... and then who dies."

This time they couldn't avoid the bite. "Why send him, then? I thought you approved of your soldier."

Her eyes hardened. "He's being married."

Of course. Jealousy. It was the reason so many hung from the castle's walls, and why the portal had become a gateway for her retributive rage.

"And you wanted him to die." This wasn't a question, and she didn't treat it as one.

"If he dies, it's his mistake." Her gaze was a terrible, dark thing.

"He'll suffer, that you know. But, if I may ask, why not take his bride-to-be and simply kill her? Do you want to lose your warrior?"

They saw her face change from cruel justification to ugly interest at their offering. Pride kept her from accepting it. "She's not worthy of my attention. Surely you know that."

"And if he finds the portal?"

The Regent gave a long-suffering sigh. "He's still dead. No one makes it back from the other side alive."

Truth, at last, spread from her painted lips. She claimed the portal. Shame it wasn't hers to own.

They delighted in how little she knew them. They were from time beginning. They would be until time ends. Like others of their kind, they executed life on both sides of the portal.

The queen didn't know who they were. They smiled.

After hours of playing her willing slave, they were dismissed from the court, easily transitioning to another skin, another name. Another lie to be told. Time to visit the poor and beleaguered. Time to visit the bride-to-be, Mato. They enjoyed her, for she hid from the world with smiling lips and careworn body.

They enjoyed her... and in this, their name was Ru.