Chapter Eleven
Ailantika, Tunisia – The King's Courtroom
A figure sat upon the throne. In many ways, it resembled the late king—but its frame, its presence, were unmistakably different. No one knew this more than the queen herself, now a shadow of her former self.
Her husband was gone.
Her children—murdered.
Only one child was unaccounted for.
And she? Treated no better than a puppet draped in royal garments.
Forced to do things she would have never dreamed of. The world, as she knew it, was unraveling before her—and she was powerless to stop it.
A sudden pressure—eyes. Watching.
Her head snapped up on instinct.
The figure scowled, quickly turning back to the servant it had been addressing.
Realizing her mistake, the queen froze.
It was almost time for their nightly gathering.
Held in honor of the king.
She had forgotten.
Clumsily, she rose and hurried out of the room.
Once she had gone, the figure removed its veil, revealing a V-shaped face, a long nose, dragon-dark eyes, and skin pale as bone.
To some, he was the Dragon.
To others, an ancient serpent.
An impaler to many.
But to the people of Ailantika, he was known as the Pharaoh—a tyrant pulling strings from the shadows, enslaving them all.
He had many names.
Countless faces.
His origin unknown.
A god of old—one who brought death and destruction wherever he wandered.
The Ceremonial Cave
Six shadowed figures stood at each corner of the cave, encircling a golden throne. At its base, a pool of water stretched deep into the earth.
He approached the throne, dressed in black as always. Three maidservants trailed him. Isabel, the last, carried a pail of blood.
"Hail the All-Seeing Eye!" they chanted.
He stepped into the water and sat, his feet immersed. Isabel followed, trembling, and handed him the pail.
Without so much as a glance, he emptied it over himself, then flung the empty container at her.
It struck her forehead. She flinched.
He sighed, and immediately, smoke—thick and gray—swirled around him. His legs fused together. Scales replaced his skin. His black hair lengthened, curling. His face shifted.
No longer a he.
But a she.
Eyes red as blood, lashes long, fangs bared, claws digging into the throne's arms.
Elspeth had returned.
Isabel stood frozen. She had seen it before, and yet—it never ceased to terrify her.
This was no human. Not anymore.
"Where are they?" Elspeth asked, to no one in particular.
A seventh figure emerged from the shadows.
"They will arrive soon, my queen. The missionaries have begun their work. The spy in Fiyord has been found and will be handled."
Elspeth smiled faintly.
"Good."
Soon, the others arrived—Queen Olive of Fiyord, Colin of Cyrus, and Arthur. They bowed deeply.
"Greeting, my liege," Olive said, her tone cautious. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"
"Your reports," Elspeth demanded.
Olive hesitated. "My liege, I regret to inform you... progress has been slow. But I did uncover the spy. I nearly succeeded last time—just grant me a little more time, and I—"
"Silence!"
Elspeth's roar echoed.
"So you failed again to kill one man?! How incapable can you be?!"
She turned.
"Colin!"
Colin flinched. "Elspeth, I... the prince escaped, but my men are searching. He won't get far."
Silence.
Then—laughter. Low and cold.
In a flash, Elspeth lunged, her serpentine body coiling around Colin—devouring him whole. His scream was short-lived.
The room fell into petrified silence.
Elspeth slithered back to her throne, turning to Arthur with casual grace.
"Well then, my child. Your assignment?"
Arthur, shaken, straightened. "Everything's going well, Mother."
"Good. I'd expect nothing less from my flesh and blood. And your sister?"
"We encountered a pair of siblings who sensed us. They might be connected to the one you seek."
"Interesting... Do not harm them. Capture them. If they resist—kill one."
"Understood, Mother." He vanished into shadow.
"Ethel," Elspeth continued.
"Find the Cyrussian prince. Kill him before he reaches Reigon."
"Yes, my queen," Ethel replied, stepping forward.
"And you, Olive... You need no further persuasion to kill the king, do you?"
Olive laughed nervously. "Of course not."
She bowed and vanished, along with the others.
Isabel, drained, dragged herself back toward the castle, her mind racing.
So... a spy in Fiyord. The prince of Cyrus is on the run. Arthur and Sia have begun their mission in Tyrane...
But who is Elspeth searching for?
Could it be... someone vital to her revival? A final key?
If so—then perhaps—
We still have a sliver of hope.
She straightened, determination returning to her steps.
That Night – Malisha's Border
In the heart of the forest, Yvonne, Abijah, and their group made camp. Fires crackled. The men hunted while the women, including Grace, stayed behind.
Grace eyed the camp nervously, hoping to sneak away once the others were distracted with food.
Meanwhile, Abijah and twelve of his men hunted deeper into the woods. Whispers stirred among them—whispers about Yvonne. But none dared question Abijah directly.
One man finally spoke.
"My prince, when do we abandon those two women and return to Tyrane?"
Another chimed in. "Yes, we can take whatever valuables they have and leave them behind. That Tyranian woman has a foul mouth anyway. Where is Miss Ethel?"
A third: "Weren't they prisoners? Why are we treating them so politely?"
A gasp.
Abijah had drawn his sword, pinning one man's hand to a tree. The man screamed.
"You dare question my authority?" Abijah snarled.
"Who gave you permission to speak so freely? Do you wish for death?"
"No! Please, your highness!" the others cried.
Abijah scoffed. "Then shut your mouths. Unless you have more to say?"
"No, your highness!"
He yanked the blade free.
"Go back to camp and tend your hand."
Half an hour later, they returned with a pig and five rabbits. When Abijah learned Yvonne had gone to the stream, he took half the roast and went after her.
Unable to find her, he climbed a tree, listening, sniffing the air. Still nothing.
He waited.
From a distance, Yvonne spotted him. She turned to leave—but saw the tray of meat. Her stomach growled.
She sighed and approached.
Abijah sensed her before she arrived. He remained still.
"I presume you intend on eating that?" she asked.
"I brought it for both of us. Feel free to eat your fill."
"Alright, then." She turned.
"Wait," he called. "Eat with me."
She hesitated, then sat beside him, placing the tray between them. He watched her quietly.
Her lips moved—softly. A prayer.
"You're a Cyrussian?"
"I don't practice, but I believe."
Time passed.
"Aren't you eating?"
"You go first. I was taught to let elders eat before me," she teased.
"Then you must've had good parents."
He paused. "My apologies."
She didn't respond. Talking about her past wasn't something she did—not with strangers.
"Quick question—why didn't you discipline the Cyrussian princess? In Malisha, we don't tolerate disrespect."
"What, hit her?"
He nodded.
She sighed. "I have children. What example would I be setting if I hit her?"
He choked on his food.
"Wait—you have kids? You're married?"
"Adopted. I don't plan to marry."
"Why not?"
"None of your business."
"Fair enough. But in Malisha, we believe in blood, not adoption."
She rolled her eyes. They both smiled.
Suddenly, Yvonne winced. "Ouch! It feels like something's biting me—on my neck."
"Let me see."
He knelt behind her, lifting her hair.
A strange creature latched to her skin.
He chuckled. "It's a piq. They only drink blood. Harmless."
"It doesn't feel harmless!"
"Hold still, or I might pull your skin off."
She froze.
He cleaned the wound with his shirt—and pressed a kiss to it.
Her hand moved fast—knife raised—but she stopped, staring at his face.
"There's one on you, too," she said.
"Oh." He released her wrist.
She gently removed the creature, unaware of his eyes tracing her face—lingering on her lips.
"Done."
"Thanks."
"Whatever. Let's eat before it gets cold."
"And ride out early tomorrow," he added.
She nodded.
Back at Camp
Grace, unnoticed, slipped from the carriage, crawled into the woods, and untied a horse. She led it far before climbing on, riding off without a single glance back.