Chapter Text
Khalan hated her.
She hated the Queen. And she knew the Queen hated her, too. But still, Khalan’s heritage left her in the position she had. The Lady of the North, the leader of the Holloway house. Ivory Thorne, the Queen, didn’t like it, but there was no choice to be had. She couldn’t simply uproot history and throw the Holloways aside- it would cause chaos.
And so the tensions held in the air. Every time they met, the air was taut and simmering. Their voices stayed calm, but their eyes never did. Danger danced between them.
But still, nothing happened. Nothing was ever declared.
Not yet.
Khalan sat back in her council chair. She was accompanied at the small round table by her sisters, Thaelia at her right and Ayanae to her left. All three women were adorned in black dresses and intricate metal designs. The younger two, twins, looked so similar- with clever green eyes and soft, pale skin, there were very few differences between them. The most stark, of course, was their hair- despite being born with the same soft medium brown, over time, Ayanae’s had drifted towards a vibrant auburn, while Thaelia’s had dulled. The sisters had determined it was likely because of their magehood- Thaelia studied ice magic, while Ayanae practiced fire magic. Khalan resembled neither of the women in hair- her own was a dark, cold brown, and she kept it no longer than her chin. Her eyes, too, leant away from the twins’. They were a sharp hazel, with a gray ring around their outside, and a permanent cunning gleamed in them.
And most of all, she was more dangerous. Even without saying anything. She wore clawlike gloves, a step too delicate to be called gauntlets. But they were steel, and they were sharp. Rumors said they weren’t decorative, either- that they could cut a man’s throat, that the Lady could do it. That she had. If you asked her, her answer would always be vague. People learned not to question her.
Khalan looked between her sisters and sighed. “You know Wraitfell is becoming more upset with the Crown.”
Thaelia looked up sharply. “Of course I do. Our people think you should be Queen. You… you are our Queen, Khalan. We all know it. It’s not just in Wraitfell, either. Even the other regions refer to you as the Queen of Shadows, away from royal ears.”
“But the Queen knows anyways. Who knows how, but she does. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when the regions meet. Every time I go to Rosheim to represent us, I’ve seen the controlling look she gives. She hates it.”
“But you hate her.” Ayanae had finally looked up. “It’s not unknown. You don’t hide it, either. Or at least not any more than she does.” She looked away. “Everyone knows you’re the Queen here. The Queen of Wraitfell. We know you consider yourself Queen, and we all consider you Queen, too.”
Thaelia nodded in agreement. “She’s right. And I honestly think that the idea infected you from our people. And they’re right, and you’re right. The Queen of Shadows. The Queen of Wraitfell. Ivory’s just afraid of it.”
“She is,” Khalan cut in, “and it makes her that much more dangerous. Especially when our people are already starting to rebel. We have to find a way to quell them.”
“I don’t think we can, Khalan. In the end I think it’s inevitable. Someday Wraitfell’s going to be its own country. Someday soon.”
“I’m not going to be the first to declare. I won’t willingly send our people to die.”
“Neither will she. As much as she clearly despises you, gods, trust me, it’s obvious she does, it’s equally so that she doesn’t want to disturb the balance. Or I guess, what she thinks is balance, because, well… it’s not.”
Silence hung between the sisters. Ayanae and Khalan both knew that Thaelia was right, but it was hard to admit aloud. Eventually the eldest looked between the younger and spoke softly as she stood.
“We can get back to work this evening, or maybe just tomorrow. Come, let’s eat. Leave talk of war in this room. We needn’t think of what we might yet avoid.”
The twins looked between each other and eventually sighed, standing as well and pushing their chairs into the round table. They left their papers on it, knowing no one would disturb it. None of them spoke another word as they left the room.
Hundreds of miles away, in the heart of the kingdom, the Queen sat in her study. Ivory was poring over stacks of papers, many of them letters. Her gaze was steely as she read. It seemed every other roll of parchment contained news of the northern region’s people becoming more indignant towards the rest of the kingdom. The Wraitfellans were becoming a more and more troublesome thought with every passing day. But the Holloway house never acted out- when she saw Lady Holloway, she knew she wanted to, but she never did. There was nothing she could do for it.
She tossed her white hair, braided with thorns, over her shoulder with a deep sigh. White crystal earrings the same shade as her dress shook with the movement. She bent to begin yet another reply in her signature silver ink. It could be hard to read, but it was customary for the Thorne house. So many things were customary for House Thorne.
Ivory barely noticed the words she wrote- she was more concerned with what might happen if she were ever to go to war with Wraitfell. Sure, it would be five regions against one- the numbers should be enough. But Wraitfell had the highest concentration of mages in the human kingdom, far more than the other five regions combined. And they had one more thing that the Crown didn’t.
Demons.
It was only a rumor to most, that the Holloways had once been related to demons. That they had once been demon nobility, not human. A scary tale that children would tell their siblings late at night. A fun campfire story for adults, or maybe intimidating. But it was true, and Ivory knew it.
She couldn’t complain, not really. She herself was descended from the Fair Folk, and much like House Holloway, House Thorne had simply slowly interbred with humans until they could barely be told apart, until their true nature was human. In truth, her own blood might have been the twin to Lady Holloway’s.
But unlike the Thornes, House Holloway had never completely disassociated from their origins. They had at least one living demon relative, she had heard. And they were in contact with that relative. It troubled her to think of. If the Holloway house had contact with a demon by their family name, then they may have multiple more demons on their side.
She didn’t know if she could handle battling that.
Ivory hated the thought. The woman who so silently battled her in mind, who hated her as much as was mutual, having such an upper hand was infuriating. But Ivory had numbers, and steel meant more than most people assumed. Magic is strong, but enough men could still overpower it.
The same could not be said of demons, though. Ivory didn’t know many specifics, but she did know that demons certainly didn’t work by human rules. She had one in her hire, her daughter’s bodyguard. Their powers weren’t learned, like a human mage’s would be- they were born. And they were oft strong. Hell, their throne was decided by which demon had the willpower and the most terrifying power to be able to overthrow the last. They sparred and killed for fun, the rumors said. She didn’t know the power of whoever sat on the throne of the demon kingdom now, and she wasn’t if she wanted to. But she was sure that demons are to be feared. And if she was so sure that the Holloways had at least one on their side, then she was sure that they were to be feared, too.
It was all she could do to pray that this bubbling conflict would never boil into civil war- but she was no fool. It was a prayer that would never reach the ears of the Six. It would catch in the wind, and ride until it was forgotten. It would never be answered.
As she rolled up and sealed the letter she had just written, she wished she could escape the inevitable. She didn’t want to roll the dice and see who would have the luck to win a game of violence.
No one truly wins at war, anyway.
It had been months since that evening, but once again the Holloways sat at their round table, with many more papers than before laid in front of them. It was late in the evening- all of them wore gentler dresses, silvers and grays instead of the typical black. Khalan still wore her bladed gloves. Candlelight illuminated the room instead of the sunlight that had in the spring, autumn’s moonlight punctuating it through the windows.
Tensions had only gotten stronger, almost exactly as Khalan had said. Of course they did; the woman was rarely ever wrong when it came to strategy and planning. She almost hated her own correctness. Every paper scattered on the table read something about disagreements between Wraitfell and the Crown.
Ayanae sighed, looking up from the five or six she had kept in front of herself. Both of her sisters looked to her. “Khalan, you know I’m happy to help you with this, but I don’t want to keep ignoring all these trade issues. The Crown hates our prices. They’re threatening to cut us off from the imports we get from all five other regions.”
Khalan’s temper flared- it was visible in her eyes. It wasn’t against her sister, of course it wasn’t. It had simply become a sore subject. “They want us to stay part of the country, yet threaten to cease trade with one of their own regions when we set prices that fit the quality of the product and feed our economy properly?” She scoffed. “It’s like Ivory wants war. If our trade representatives don’t have the kindest attitude, that’s a silly thing to be angered over. But our prices are fair.”
Thaelia sighed, sitting back as well. “But we can’t feed these tensions.” She snorted. “Well, we can, but somehow it seems foolish.”
“I’m not going to starve our people to allow the Crown to extort us.”
“And what will we do, then?” Ayanae said. “Our options aren’t infinite.”
Khalan stared at the papers in front of her and sighed deeply. “I’ll have the scribes send a letter to Rosheim, tell them I want to speak to Ivory at our border, and a day or two later I’ll ride for Azaentell. The town’s almost exactly on the border, and there should be somewhere we can meet. The Queen and I, I think, need to have a chat.
Thaelia’s gaze jumped to her sharply. “Khalan, do you have any idea how dangerous that is? She hates you, you might as well risk your life!” She bit her tongue before continuing. “Send me instead. I’m not the leader, and with all respect, I think I’m calmer than you.
“No. If I’m going, then you and Ayanae need to stay here and lead in my place while I’m gone. You work better together than I do with either one of you, and I trust you to safely run Wraitfell. It’ll only be a week or two, anyway.” She raised her right hand gently and spread her fingers, allowing the bladed jewelry to glint in the candlelight. “Besides. They think this is just Wraitfellan fashion, they won’t try and strip it from me. I don’t think I’ve ever been seen in public without it, but it simply matches my dress. No one will ask questions.”
Ayanae watched the gauntlet for a moment before motioning for her sister to continue. “And you intend to do… what, exactly, with it?”
Khalan raised an eyebrow. “If a command is given to kill me, I will take the Queen down as well. Mage or not, Queen or not, she will fall to a sliced throat the same way any other would. And, despite as much as I wish not to declare war, I expect you two to at least claim independence in the time that they are trying to force Princess Melora to the throne.”
The twins looked between each other before staring back at their sister. Ayanae’s gaze was soft, but Thaelia’s was solid steel. They nodded in unison, and no other words were said.
Khalan had arisen earlier than usual, far earlier than both her sisters. The dawn had barely begun as she slipped into the same black silk dress she preferred, pulling her leather boots on afterwards, and finishing with those same clawed gloves on each hand. She left her chambers quickly, combing her hair flat with just the backs of her fingers.
She made it to the scribes’ hall quickly. Wraitfell had so much correspondence that Khalan had brought fifteen, maybe twenty scribes into her employ to write what she and her sisters did not need to. About half of them had awoken and made it to their posts by the time Khalan swept into the room. She went directly to the front of it to pull the head scribe from his business.
She held a small roll of parchment out to him. Her voice was cold.
“Write this in blue ink, our bright blue, and send it to Rosheim. Seal it with navy wax and our coat of arms. Address it to the Queen. Make sure the importance of the correspondence within is known to whoever you give it to.”
The scribe took the roll of parchment in his spindly hand and unrolled it, scanning over its contents. He frowned with concern as he skimmed the letter, and looked up to his Lady. His Queen.
“Lady Holloway… are you sure of this? With current tensions, I don’t think the Queen will take well to such an invitation.”
Khalan raised an eyebrow. Her voice was even more icy than when she had begun.
“It isn’t an invitation.”
The scribe watched her with careful eyes for a few moments before simply nodding. “Yes, my Lady. I’ll be sure it reaches her.”
“Thank you.”
And before any more words could be spoken, she walked out of the chamber. Her boots, with supple soles, made little noise on the tiled floor as she swept through the keep, back to the room with the round table and all the papers. Back to the room where she so often teetered on the edge of war.
But she wouldn't work today. No papers would be signed, none but the letter she had sent. She thought, for a moment, that she should have written it herself, but decided having it rewritten would be for the better. Coming not from the Lady, but from her scribe, would feel impersonal, and far less hostile. Less like a step towards war.
That, she thought, was enough to cut the difference. She didn't want war. She didn't want to sacrifice a single life for independence- peace or nothing, she told herself. Yet her sisters were right. She was Wraitfell's Queen, not their Lady. She was their leader, and, they prayed, their savior.
"But prayer is not reality," she said as she sat at her chair, "and I am not a savior."