SOMETHING UNDERGROUND

I am not a queen because I rule, I rule because I am THE QUEEN.

Birthed in my heart. Alive in my veins…

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

In the Infernal Keep of Valcresh, Valcresh, The South…

After a patrol of soldiers had made their rounds, ensuring each unit was quiet -eerily so- another soldier began his march down the dim hallway.

His voice boomed, unforgiving and sharp, slicing through the stillness:

“We are expecting a guest. Not just any guest- Prince Commander Zorgan of the Southern Army, a high-ranking leader under Valcresh, and soon-to-be heir to his land. A Prince. A Commander.

He is coming here, to this pit, to find someone, one of you.

Perhaps a corpse. Perhaps a barely breathing shadow of a person.

You will all be brought to the surface. You Will Keep Silent.

Your hands will be shackled and chained to one another to maintain order.

You will stand in line, like creatures that still remember how to walk on two legs. When the Commander looks upon you, you do not speak. You do not blink. You do not meet his eyes.

If he tells you to fly, you sprout wings and take to the skies without hesitation. If you disobey, the Queen will personally ensure your body is separated from your body.

He will choose one and only one. Do not assume it is you. It isn’t.

You attempt anything foolish – an escape, a stunt, a whisper – you will be butchered to the ground, and your cellmates will enjoy a bit more space in their hellholes.

I’m certain they’ll thank you for it.

Now- compose yourselves. Your gates are about to open. Remember, there is no escape; there never was.’’

The message echoed down the hall two more times. Then came the grind of stone and metal, gates sliding and chains rattling.

They ascended in chains, one after the other, swallowed by a shadow as they climbed.

For a while, there was only darkness, stale air, and the clink of metal. Then, without warning, light spilled over them- real light. Sunlight poured over their faces and though they squinted and flinched, they gladly stood in it like prisoners rising from the grave.

They were lined up in neat formations, shoulder to shoulder, row upon row, under the watchful eye of the pacing soldiers, once every soldier stood still in the wide yard, the iron gate creaked open.

Horses rode in, hooves striking the ground and kicking up dust.

Most had never seen him before, but there was no mistaking him.

The man rode at the center, hair pulled back in a tie, but a few strands hung loose, dancing with the wind.

Unlike the soldiers flanking him, he wore no armor – only a black coat traced with sharp gold patterns, and matching slacks.

The soldiers bowed slightly, one hand across their chests, in sharp salute. He returned it with a small nod, enough to be seen, nothing more.

Silence followed him like a shadow as he began his slow walk along the first row. His gaze was sharp and searching, two dark eyes set deep, boring into every face like he meant to find the truth behind their bones.

Prisoners held their breaths and avoided looking at his face and it wasn’t due to the earlier warning they had received; it was the aura that went before and after him.

Soldiers stiffened as he strode past, hands behind him. He had that same easy smile, the one that didn’t reach his eyes- but they felt it, the weight he carried.

It wasn’t about being the King’s son. It was the kind of weight only blood and death could earn. He would always smile softly, but his hands had written brutal stories in war.

He had been named Commander a few cycles back, not out of privilege, but because he had earned it.

There was a whisper whenever he was absent, that he had joined the army, the night after his twin brother had been cremated, slipping among sacks of grain and supply carts.

He had participated in that war, using his smallness to slip under blades and bring men twice his size to their knees. He was but a boy, small and furious. A child smuggled by grief, eyes black and burning, too small for war but too angry to die.

By that war’s end, blood had kissed him from brow to boot and his gaze had turned obsidian. His parents had been struck with worry, no one knew how he survived, only that he did- and in surviving, he became something else. He had been forged in the fires of war, not born into command, but carved from it.

Now taller than any of them, he walked tall, each step a sentence and each glance a command.

Dorian though erect in his stand, followed Zorgan with his eyes.

He couldn’t help but think how Zorgan was a different person when he was with the Lady of his minor Palace. No one here would believe him to be the same person if they could see him in her presence and compare it to how everyone was in the moment.

A negotiation had been struck with the Strays: they would surrender their stay and occupation of a Southern outpost in exchange for a prisoner – a man Zorgan himself had captured near a cycle ago.

And so, Zorgan gave up a few hours with his wife to walk these lines and pick out a face.

He trusted himself to find him.

Seventeen rows in, he slowed.

Helga, Elias, and Ivan Juno Cassius stood in this row and he paused, noting how Ivan stood taller than him. His smile widened subtly.

Black eyes locked with green, and he offered a single nod of acknowledgment. Then he moved on until he came upon a man whose appearance halted him again: dark, soot-toned skin, red matted dreadlocks, and a matching beard. Odd contrast but Zorgan saw past it- he saw the man. This was whom he had come for.

Helga did too and her eyes widened.

That man, she remembered him.

Once, he had been one of the Asharais – servants in the temple, assigned to assist Priestesses in sacred duties. He had left the North a few cycles past when the North was despairing and desolate. Word had spread that he had joined the Free – the Strays.

“What’s your wife’s name?’’ Zorgan asked.

‘‘Myrra,’’ came the answer, hoarse but steady. ‘‘And your firstborn?’’

‘‘Corren.’’ The man replied curtly.

Helga was stunned. That such a man had wed and fathered children… Men like him- an Asharai- a man sworn to serve, to aid intercessions between mortal and the Heavens.

Asharais were chosen to serve priestesses alone, devoted to Heavens’ work.

‘So how?

Indeed, there might be no saving for the North if our true ruler isn’t found soon.’ Helga couldn’t help but worry.

Zorgan gave a signal and a soldier trailing him motioned for the bindings to be brought. Another soldier darted forward, unlocked the man’s restraints, and the freed man collapsed before Zorgan.

‘‘Thank you, Commander. I owe you my life’’

Zorgan rolled his eyes.

‘‘I have no use for it. If I have your life, I’ll end it myself, but that can’t happen now.

It seems your people have a need for you’’

The man quivered, staring up at the Commander who had moments ago worn a smile.

In that instant, he saw the ruthless Commander behind the Prince’s face.

Helga wanted to scream at Zorgan and the man. She knew the ‘people’ that were being spoken of weren’t her people.

They were the people of the Free Lands, and she had a smidge of an idea of the worth they must have placed on his head.

Something underground was happening.

Slow, but surely and Helga wanted to know what it was. Fast.