Chapter 2 #2
Then come the minds of the Bonded at a farther distance, battle-hardened veterans on the front, weary and angry and impatient. I stagger slightly, trying to hold the channels open.
But instantly, a hand meets my back—steadying me, pushing me upright.
Stark.
I swallow and widen my stance to avoid any further dalliances with gravity. When I open my eyes and lift the amplifier to speak, Anassa’s mind surges forward, meeting my own. Words gather in my consciousness, and Anassa’s influence urges them outward like ships sailing down every Bonded tributary.
This is the kind of leader I want to be. Direct. Honest.
“I want to address what you all heard from Killian earlier. You deserve to know the truth, all of you. Yes, I killed King Cyril,” I tell them, speaking aloud so the servants can hear while I echo the words in my mind, projecting them to all the Bonded.
Immediately, the Bonded who weren’t at the graduation ceremony respond with further shock and confusion, their reactions rippling back through me.
“I killed him, but I had just cause. He was not the man we thought he was. In fact, he was not a man at all. My actions were not driven by insanity, but by my conscience.”
I gather up the images I know will prove me honest. Unlike Killian, I don’t need to twist and alter them to emphasize my point. The truth is enough.
I show them everything.
The children behind bars, terrified and neglected. Saela, crying and reaching for me from her cell. Killian’s confession of his and his father’s true nature as Siphons, vessels for Alistair Brightbane. The way Killian’s fangs glinted behind his sickening smile.
The memory of shadowy magic writhing around us, bending toward me then and back to him as he used my magic to escape.
The effect is immediate. Gasps and exclamations echo across the arena. The older Bonded erupt into motion, breaking formation to gather in small groups or go to their wolves. Warriors and wolves pull away into their own corners of the arena to process and to confer.
Their feelings detonate in my mind as I maintain the mental connection. Anger. Disbelief. Horror. Grief.
The castle’s servants, unable to see what I’m showing the rest, look around in confusion at the chaos. I speak quickly because I promised them answers.
“My name is Meryn Sturmfrost. I am a descendant of the Sturmfrost Queens, the original rulers of Nocturna. My family was stripped from their rightful place on the throne by a Siphon named Alistair Brightbane.”
More memories. The ancient crown, which now sits atop my head. The book from Stark’s collection, detailing the royal lineage. My mother’s journals, with their cryptic drawings.
“Alistair Brightbane has been body-jumping through generations of kings, using blood magic to maintain his rule and erasing the memory of the true royal line. Cyril and his son, Killian, are both Alistair’s descendants and his vessels, complicit in serving him.”
With that, the arena falls back into silence. Inside my head is nothing but noise, though. What the Bonded are feeling… it’s chaos. Even as they process my memories and my words, more than a few resist.
My hold on the communication channels flickers and sputters as some minds rebel against me, against my hold in their minds. Barriers go up as some Bonded instinctively reach to shut me out, just as I used to do with Anassa.
I gasp and strain against it. I manage to maintain the connection, though in places it’s whittled down, like just the tiniest thread. Bonded all around the kingdom are fighting me, rejecting the awful truth.
Can I blame them? Would I believe a single piece of this if I hadn’t seen it all with my own eyes? My gaze skirts over to Anassa, and she sends a pulse of reassurance through our bond.
“Do not worry. I am supporting your claims with the wolves,” she says.
I grit my teeth and focus hard on the river of communication inside me. My temples begin to pound again with the effort.
Drawing as much strength as I can from Anassa’s support, I try a different tactic. Something that will help them to understand that I’m not the madwoman Killian is portraying me as.
“We can have a better Nocturna,” I say out loud while also thinking it to all who are listening. “We don’t have to deal with so much death in the Bonding Trials. People can have enough to eat, can be able to feed their families. I want to… I want to fix all that.”
The words come out jumbled, unpracticed. Nobody ever said I was good at giving speeches.
“I want to be a fair queen, someone you can be proud to serve. I’ll… I’ll listen to what people need. And I’ll do my best to do right by you all.” Every word sounds more awkward than the last, echoing in the strained silence.
“Give me a chance, and I’ll prove myself loyal to Nocturna. Let me try to be the leader our country deserves.”
Exhausted and out of ideas, I release my connection to the Bonded with a dreadful mental pull, like a fraying rope suddenly snapping free. It’s draining and jolting. The other Bonded recoil from the inelegant use of my powers, and I wince and wait to see what the response will be.
Silence. Then quiet murmurs, Bonded to Bonded, human to human.
“To be clear,” comes Sovereign Alpha Siegrid’s stern voice, reaching out to all the Bonded in the same way that I did from somewhere leagues away, “my family and I are the sworn protectors of the crown, and we recognize Meryn Sturmfrost as the legitimate heir to the throne. As your Sovereign Alpha, I expect to see that same loyalty from all true Bonded.”
It loosens a breath from my chest.
She’s down at the front, but her words will carry weight for all the Bonded there and here. And as the Sovereign Alpha, she and her wolf could theoretically command all the Bonded to follow her lead.
I believe I could as well, in theory. King Cyril certainly could, using the Dire Blade.
But by putting this as an encouragement and not a direct command, Siegrid is giving our people something they haven’t had in far too long. Something that I want them to have, too: free will.
I can only hope it will be enough.
For a long, awkward moment, nobody in the arena moves. The sound of my own labored breath seems loud and pathetic as I look around, not sure what to expect next.
Leader Aldrich steps forward first, breaking away from a group of older Bonded, walking slowly, head held high until the moment he bows it. Standing apart from the crowd, he lowers to a knee. His wolf follows, bowing her head low, shutting her eyes.
Then Aldrich says, “I pledge my loyalty to you, Queen Meryn.”
Tears spring to my eyes at the acknowledgment, and I blink them back. Hearing his words spoken aloud, calling me queen… the moment freezes crystalline in my mind, and I know I’ll never forget it.
My friends Izabel and Venna step up next, their wolves flanking the twins. I bite my bottom lip, hard, to keep the tears from returning. They both salute me and then kneel next to Aldrich, their wolves lowering their heads in respect. Tomison and Nevah and their wolves join them.
It’s strange, at first, to see them like that. They taught me to fight. I got drunk with them. We survived together. And they’re bowing to me.
Their faith in me expands in my chest, painful and comforting at the same time.
The tension in the arena is thick as everyone waits to see what others will do. Anassa’s growl starts up again, and I sense her mind focusing, straining against something—having her own mental communication with the wolves, I assume.
Then the rest of the Strategos Rawbond class strides forward, one or two pairs at a time. Silver-white wolves kneel, their riders bowing or kneeling beside them.
Their mass support sends warmth shooting through me. Even Anassa stands a little straighter as we survey the line of Strategos wolves and riders, all acknowledging a truth I’ve barely digested myself.
I’m the rightful leader of the Bonded, and of all Nocturna.
After that, the rest of the Trials instructors step up, and a handful of Kryptos, followed by some Daemos and Phylax riders.
But it’s not the majority of the Bonded, I notice. Clutches of older Bonded riders still stand apart, speaking with one another in low voices or silently communicating with their wolves.
The castle staff all cluster close to the exits to the arena, watching the scene with wary eyes or edging quietly away. I can’t fault them for not wanting to get closer to this massive gathering of direwolves and riders, though, no matter their loyalties.
A number of Rawbonds hesitate, too. Many of them are people I’ve seen a dozen times, even fought next to in this very arena, but have never actually spoken with or had a real interaction with.
Fucking Killian. I spent so much time with that lying asshole, and less time than I could have getting to know my fellow Rawbonds. Now I’ll have to work extra hard to get them on my side.
“Now that you’ve decided they are even worth having on your side,” Anassa chides gently, and I realize I’ve been thinking toward her.
“You’re right,” I respond, sighing. “Though in my defense, maybe I would have paid more attention to building up support if I had known a little more about what was coming.”
Anassa gives a regal sniff and doesn’t respond.
“Please, rise,” I call, realizing that some of the Bonded are still bowing.
“I know the truth about the Valtiere line is shocking. And this is all very new. To be honest, I’m still figuring out exactly what all this means.
I hope that I can count on your help to make sure this transition is peaceful. ”
There’s sudden movement to my right, and I spin in time to see Jonah push through a group of my Kryptos supporters, sitting astride his wolf.
“You should mount,” Anassa warns, but I shake my head.
“I don’t want to escalate anything,” I insist. “There doesn’t need to be any fighting here today.”
Anassa’s tail swishes, but she lets it rest.
“You’re nothing but a gutter-born liar,” Jonah snarls.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but he turns toward the crowd, a bully with an audience.
“Are you really all going to let this king-killer steal the throne of Nocturna? What of our sacred mission as Bonded to protect king and country?”
Jonah and his wolf pace back and forth, knowing all eyes are glued to him, clearly relishing the moment.
“She claims that our prince is a Siphon. That his father, King Cyril, was one, too. If that were true, why would they have poured everything into eliminating the Siphon threat to our south? We’ve been at war with Astreona for centuries, with the kings’ full support!”
Jonah swivels to face me directly, his expression hard and ugly.
“No. What makes more sense is that this upstart slut wanted to be queen, to live a life of luxury instead of fighting for her country. But Prince Killian wouldn’t have her after she’d lost her mind and killed our king.
Like the spiteful whore she is, now she’s doing her best to steal what’s rightfully Prince Killian’s. King Killian’s.”
My breath leaves my body as I see people listening to him—believing him, or choosing to believe him. He’s inserted himself into a situation that does not concern him at all, crafted a discourse that is convenient to him, and to what end?
Because he’s a vindictive narcissist.
I look around myself in frustration, grasping at something, anything, I can do to make these people believe the truth.
What weight could my words or actions hold now, if they all think I’m a liar and a traitor? If they’re more convinced by the men who’ve held power here for centuries—and not willing to listen to a woman from the slums?
With a hiss of metal on metal, Jonah deftly draws his sword from his scabbard, raising it high.
My blood heats with panic as he opens his mouth and directs my people against me.
“True Nocturnans, to me! Death to the usurper!”