THORNE AND ELOWEN DEMETRIUS

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

Birthed in my heart. Alive in my veins…

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

City of the Crown, The Northern Realm,

Thorne Demetrius and Elowen Demetrius stood over General Elyra Emberfall’s battered body, laid out on the Halelith- a glassy, semi-transparent platform designed for treating the wounded.

Most of Elyra’s injuries were on her back, so she had been placed face-down, giving the poultices and salves a chance to soak in and work their magic.

Elowen had pulled Elyra’s blood-matted red hair to one side and was halfway through working out the knots with a comb.

Thorne watched, unimpressed. ‘‘I don’t think you should be doing that. She’s currently fighting for her life,’’ said Thorne, the eighteen-year-old twin to Elowen.

‘‘I know,’’ she replied, enjoying the soft glide of hair under her fingers. ‘‘But if she’s going to die after all we’ve done to heal her, she might as well cross into the afterlife with lovely hair.’’

Thorne folded his arms and scowled. ‘‘You are such a girl.’’

Elowen paused, looking across at the face so much like her own- same eyes, same bone structure- only his was more angular, olive-toned, where hers was warm brown.

‘‘I hope, for your hair’s sake, that wasn’t meant as an insult.’’

‘‘And if it was? You’re going to turn it into icicles?’’

‘‘That option’s now on the table,’’ she snapped back launching an attack across the Halelith. She yanked his hair; tears sprang to his eyes.

Before his parents’ warnings resurfaced in his mind, he grabbed a fistful of her jet-black hair and tugged hard.

‘‘You ugly brute!’’ she shouted, pulling back with even much force.

They might have continued indefinitely had a groggy voice not cut in: ‘‘Is this how you treat your patients?’’

They froze, released each other simultaneously, and wiped their hands on their tunics.

Elyra tried to rise, but both pairs of hands shot out to steady her.

‘‘Not yet,’’ they said in unison, turning to glare at one another before Elyra groaned beneath them.

She sighed, ‘‘Just help me sit up’’

Elowen stepped back, allowing Thorne to prop her into a seated position.

Her face was a map of exhaustion and strain- skin pale and clammy, lips dry, and eyes bruised by fatigue and pain. She looked like someone who had clawed her way out of death’s grasp.

“How did you find me?’’ she croaked.

They each kept a supportive hand on her shoulder, in case her strength faltered again.

Thorne rolled his eyes.

“How many times do we have to say it? Elias told us to keep watch on you. Believe me, I had other things I’d rather be doing- but you clearly needed help.

You didn’t even tell the Elders you were going to fight those barbarians alone. If you had, you would have gotten treated a lot sooner.’’

Elyra’s head whipped toward Elowen.

“Do they know now?’’

Elowen smirked.

‘‘No.

We hauled your not-so-light self here and pulled a few convincing acts for the guards.’’

Seeing Elyra’s relieved expression, she added with a sugary smile, “And yes- we accept gold.’’

Thorne reached across the breadth of the Halelith and tapped his sister’s forehead with two fingers.

‘‘That’s rude. General Emberfall is barely patched together,’’ he scolded, as Elowen aggressively rubbed the spot in protest.

Then, to Elyra, ‘‘But yes- we absolutely accept gold, after your recovery of course.’’

Elyra shook her head in disbelief, though a fragile smile crept across her lips.

The Demetrius twins- children of one of the High Wardens of Lurienn – a province of the North revered for its mastery of the healing arts.

Younger siblings to Elias Demetrius, the soldier who marched beside General Ivan Juno Cassius in pursuit of the Chosen Sovereign.

Before he departed, he had tasked them with watching over her. She had protested and asked them to return home, but they had refused.

Vehemently urged them to return to Lurienn to assist their kin, but they were unmoved. Now they lingered like thorns in silk- sharp, unwelcome, and strangely comforting.

‘‘Come on,’’ Thorne said catching Elowen by the hand and pulling her away. He linked their arms saying, ‘‘Let’s get something rich for the General to feed on.’’

‘‘If you need anything,’’ Elowen called over her shoulder, ‘‘call for Thorne, he enjoys the attention.’’

He shoved her lightly with mock irritation, then tugged her back close.

Left alone, Elyra reclined, the Halelith cool against her back.

Her body ached, and her soul was still catching up, but her thoughts were already- with General Ivan Juno Cassius and the fate of those out in the dark.

If only she knew…

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

With the slow coming of sunlight in the South, a sealed missive arrived at Commander Zorgan’s minor palace. It bore the crimson insignia of Valcresh’s Main Palace.

His face was still shadowed with sleep when Dorian knocked upon his chamber door.

He had found little rest in the night; thoughts of a certain person filling and haunting him at the same time.

‘‘Steelheart be gone,’’ he muttered, flinging a pillow toward the door.

‘‘I would if I could, my Lord,’’ came Dorian’s voice, firm yet hesitant.

‘‘But this bears the red seal of the Main Palace.’’

‘Red?’ Zorgan blinked the haze from his mind.

He cast aside the tangled blanket and trudged to the door, pulling it open with a grunt.

Dorian extended the raven parchment, sealed in wax as crimson as blood. Zorgan broke the seal and let his eyes scan the etched lines.

A familiar ache pierced behind his eyes- it was both an order and a burden.

The King’s natal feast loomed, and he was summoned to a mission in Tavrodel- a kingdom positioned at the far southern reaches - to calm unrest in its fringes.

A week’s road and toil, followed by a courtly celebration in Valcresh. He was to attend, and he was to bring his wife.

A growl rose unbidden from his throat, twisting a snarl across his face as his fingers closed along the writ-shard, the parchment bending, groaning beneath the press of his ire.