Chapter 47 A Bloody Queen
A Bloody Queen
ZOLA
S
omething terrible lived within Aurora Egan—a strength that could so easily turn to suffering.
Aurora descended from a long line of the most powerful Phoenicians—not by accident, but by design.
When Amun placed Theirri Egan upon the Iris Throne, it was under terms forged with every monarchy across the realms. Amun had shaped the kingdoms of each world, and with that came the solemn right to form their rulers’ unions, ensuring the Phoenician bloodline endured.
Aurora should have gone down as the strongest heir of the Egan name, the culmination of millennia bred for power.
Yet, the power she inherited proved difficult to maintain.
The kingdom of Iris was often rebuilt—metals and stones growing ever stronger with each reconstruction to withstand the force of her frequent outbursts.
When emotions ran rampant and parental influence plagued decisions, fires started. Eventually, the Royals decided she wasn’t fit to ascend the throne.
They didn’t have a say in the matter.
It was Amun’s decision, and he remained steadfast.
Aurora had yet to grasp how little power the rulers truly possessed. Still, she understood her destiny. The idea of becoming queen thrilled her—though the thought of marrying a man chosen for her filled her with discontent.
She was eighteen when she met Mial, a fellow Phoenician. He brought her flowers, weaving them into crowns and proclaiming that metals don’t make you a queen: fate does.
And she was fated.
Aurora would smile and tell Mial how thoughtful he was. She’d light the roses on fire when he was gone.
Eventually, Mial cracked her shell, crushing her armor and tearing her weapons.
She cried to him. He held her in his arms as she said, “I don’t wish to wed you.”
Mial held her tighter. “Nor do I,” he whispered.
Aurora stiffened, angry.
“I can’t imagine a more beautiful woman to spend my life with,” Mial amended. “I only wish I had the chance to find you for myself.”
Aurora moved out from the shield of his chest, looking up at Mial. For the first time she saw his hands were as tied as hers.
She did something peculiar: Aurora kissed him.
Then, curious and confused, she slept with him.
In the following week, an attack struck the kingdom. Aurora and Mial hid in an underground cellar, and he held her as if she were the most precious item in the world. She’d never been held like that before. Her parents had never shown her such tenderness.
And they never would.
They perished that day in the attack.
The entire world of Iris wore black, unified in their grief. Aurora wore red, a symbol of strength and the blood she promised to spill. She stood apart in her vengeance.
At the end of the mourning period, Aurora and Mial were crowned Queen and King of Iris.
Their descent into love was oddly tender for two beings in turmoil. Every night Aurora fell asleep in Mial’s arms. Over time, she confessed she was not happy her parents were dead, yet she was glad they were gone.
Months after their coronation, Aurora started showing.
Her stomach was larger than it had ever been.
While those around her rejoiced, she mourned.
Aurora doubted she would have the child.
Phoenician bodies were temperamental. The Solar Flame that burned within them was too strong for a baby to survive, unless the growing creature was stronger.
Her child had to be more powerful than her, the strongest Phoenician in existence! It would never happen. But she did not speak of it. In public, Aurora smiled and held her belly, as she knew she should.
Each night, Mial would make her tea. It was sweet, with a bitter bite that lingered at the back of her tongue. But it was good for the babe, and she believed Mial shared her disposition: that it was unlikely the child would survive.
Mial was often wonderful in private, though became dismissive in front of audiences. His smile, so radiant when addressing a crowd, dimmed noticeably when his gaze turned to her.
He seemed to relish being a king, a role he only assumed because of her birthright. He didn’t appreciate her as he should.
The further along she was in the pregnancy, the more Mial urged her to stay inside, away from meetings and her people.
Not to be a queen.
Until finally, left alone like a forgotten pet, she snapped. Their bedding quarters were burned, except for one strange and gleaming stone.
She fled the quarters before Mial returned, unsure if she would come back. Running to her advisor and only friend, she thrust the stone into Cynthia Constance’s hand.
“Is this what I believe it to be?” Aurora asked, biting her tongue to hold back her hysteria. Had Mial held the Soul Ruby their entire marriage?
Cynthia opened her mouth, though she did not speak.
Aurora lifted her gown above her stomach, revealing her midriff—scarred with an array of burn marks etched into her skin.
“I believed it was the babe,” she cried. “But this—”
No wonder the babe had survived.
Cynthia was unsure what to say, though this did not surprise her.
“Follow Mial this evening,” Aurora whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “Tell me of what you observe. I shall take my rest in your quarters.”
Aurora did not rest. She stayed up all night, clutching her stomach as she had in front of audiences.
She was having the child. That much, she now realized, was true.
The child would be stronger than her if it inherited power from the Soul Ruby.
In that moment, she mourned—not for herself, but for the dreadful life she was about to bring into the world.
What would a child do with such power? How could they possibly live beneath its weight?
The thoughts kept her awake until daylight. She watched the door, waiting for Cynthia’s return.
Cynthia sat on her bed, rubbing Aurora’s shoulders. “Have you rested?”
Aurora turned her head, expression stern. “Speak plainly. What is it?”
Cynthia fluffed the pillow. “Perhaps it is time you sought your rest.”
“Cynthia,” Aurora warned, her tone sharp. “What news have you brought to me?”
Her advisor looked down, shaking her head. “There is a faction beneath the surface, Your Majesty. They’ve learned of the child and the Soul Stone you took from Mial. They intend to retrieve it… and then, to steal the babe.”
The dreadful force that had always slumbered within Aurora finally awakened.
It was then, some might say, the Arcanes were born.
Aurora turned the red stone slowly between her fingers, its surface catching the light. “How do my old friends fare?” she asked. “The Aibeks?”
“Ilyria is well,” came the reply.
Aurora’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Good. Tell them I have need of their dungeons.”
What better place to trap a Phoenician—a being of Solar Flame—than the coldest world in the universe?
?
Aurora collected all those she could find. Anyone who had the slightest kinship with Mial, she brought to Ilyria. Each time she questioned one of her fellow Phoenicians, she offered them reprieve.
“Tell me what Mial seeks from our child,” she would say, “and I shall grant mercy to your soul.”
Every one of them denied, as if they feared their king before their queen.
Aurora decided to do away with that foolish notion.
She burnt the skin from every inch of their bodies, their cries of agony rising in a cacophony of confusion.
The Soul Ruby was enough to cut, enough to coax a scream, but not enough to tempt the truth.
That is, until Mial was rounded up with the others. In that shackled cell, he sat. He had gone into hiding after Aurora expelled him from the kingdom and began hunting his followers. Now, face-to-face once more, Aurora looked down on him.
“I love you,” he said.
“Do not speak to me as though I am delicate,” Aurora hissed, her tone sharp and venomous. Bitter in the way only a scorned lover could be.
“You are still my flower,” he whispered. Cynthia shook her head from beyond the dungeon threshold, as if sensing the small part of Aurora that yearned for love. Mial continued, “No matter what you may do to me.”
Aurora reached to burn him.
But the Soul Ruby would not scar his skin—as if it belonged more to his soul than hers.
The bars of the dungeon had been forged from fragments of the Soul Ruby itself. Cynthia had sliced pieces from it, filled the broken stones with her shadows, and reforged them into prison bars.
Shadow is the only force that can repel a Phoenician’s power, which is why Aurora’s parents appointed a Lyrian as her advisor. Yet the bars bent to Mial’s will—not to the rightful bearer of the Soul Ruby, the Queen of Iris.
Mial managed to free a group of his disheveled creatures.
Aurora and Cynthia, in a fit of rage, killed the rest. Cynthia’s strength and vigor surprised Aurora; she squashed the traitors like bugs between her fingers. Aurora wondered what they could do if they had tools.
“Shatter the Soul Ruby,” Aurora commanded. “Create weapons from the shards. We’ll need them.”
Cynthia shook her head. “Queen Aurora—”
“Do not continue,” she hissed.
“You will tamper with the balance of all things,” Cynthia continued. “I do not advise you to take this path. The Soul Ruby is what keeps Iris standing.”
Aurora, whose blood was churning with fury—burning until it no longer bled—said, “Then perhaps Iris must fall.”
?
The battle began. All across the universe, the Nepenthes were dying, followed by the Drae, Eunoia, and Folk. Bodies were sometimes severed into two pieces or ten. It seemed there was no rhyme or reason, only senseless killing.
Aurora went to her neighbors, offering each an alliance. She did not understand that the monarchies were servants to Amun.
None joined her. Not even Ilyria.
Soon, there was war. Despite the worlds sharing a common enemy, there was no union. The Phoenicians who escaped Aurora were now called the Arcanes, for no one could see the Phoenician beneath the burnt bodies.
But Mial was never seen among them. Aurora always searched for his red gaze, hoping it would meet hers, and she could break it.