Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
RAVENNA
D awn bleeds across my kingdom in shades of perpetual twilight. I stand before my mirror—my oldest friend, my most trusted advisor—watching as silver mist swirls across its surface. The ornate black frame carved with ancient runes and thorny vines seems to pulse with each beat of my heart.
Unlike the mundane mirrors of other kingdoms, mine is a sentient thing, a conduit for blood magic other than Darkmore itself. The reflective surface shifts and ripples like water, never quite settling into stillness. Sometimes I catch glimpses of myself fractured across multiple timelines—the queen I am now, the queen I might become, the child I once was. But today, I need clarity, not possibilities.
"Show me," I whisper, pressing my palm against the cool glass. A hidden thorn within the mirror's frame pricks my fingertip—a small pain I've grown accustomed to over the years. Blood magic always requires sacrifice. The mirror drinks the crimson offering eagerly, and images begin to form in the silvery depths.
I see armies marching. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers moving through iron-fortified corridors. Their armor gleams cold and lifeless, a stark contrast to the magic that flows through my own kingdom. The vision shifts, showing me battle formations, weapon stockpiles, training grounds filled with disciplined troops. This is Edmund's kingdom of Ironwood, preparing for... something .
But it's the next vision that makes my breath catch: a familiar face, one I haven't seen in years.
One I never wanted to see again.
"Mara," I breathe, and the mirror's surface ripples in response to my sister's name.
It’s been five years since I last saw her, yet Mara's face still causes my scar to throb in phantom pain. I unconsciously touch my throat where the thin white line remains—a reminder of my sister's treachery, of how close she came to taking everything from me. The mirror shows her standing in what appears to be a war room, her finger tracing battle maps with the same elegant precision she once used to trace magical sigils.
She looks different. Harder . The softness of youth has left her features, replaced by sharp angles and calculated coldness. Her black hair, once identical to mine, now bears a streak of white from her temple to the nape of her neck—a mark of the dark magic she attempted to wield against me. But her eyes remain the same: blue as a winter sky and just as merciless.
A knock at my chamber door breaks my concentration. The vision shatters like ice, leaving only my own reflection—pale skin, raven-black hair, lips as red as blood. The face that is a curse as much as a blessing.
"Enter," I say firmly, and my commander appears in the doorway, his dark uniform nearly blending with the shadows of my chamber. Unlike most in my kingdom, Commander Lysander doesn't fear me, though he respects my power. Perhaps that's why I keep him around—one of the few people who sees me as a queen first and a witch second.
"Your Majesty." He bows deeply, fist pressed to his heart in the traditional Darkmore greeting. "A message has arrived from Ironwood."
My fingers tingle with unreleased magic, small black sparks dancing between them. My mirror's visions are never coincidental. "And?"
"Your sister, Queen Mara, has announced her marriage to King Edmund of Ironwood."
Though I've just seen her face in the mirror's depths, the news still hits like a physical blow. I turn back to the mirror, hiding my expression from Commander Lysander. "The witch who tried to have me executed has found herself a king. How fitting," I force through gritted teeth.
The scar at my throat pulses with remembered pain.
Mara had led me to an ancient stone circle deep in the forest, claiming she'd discovered a ritual that would amplify my blood magic. Instead, she'd bound me with rope and forced me to watch while she dug my grave. It was my blood magic that had saved me when she cut me with her blade, giving me the opportunity to use the dark magic against her.
Mara escaped during the chaos that followed, disappearing into the wilderness beyond our borders. I'd spent the next year hunting her, only to eventually receive reports that she'd died during a winter storm. Clearly, those reports were greatly exaggerated.
"There's more, My Queen. Our scouts report increased activity along all borders. Edmund's forces appear to be—"
"Preparing for war." I finish his sentence, remembering the mirror's vision. "Double the training hours for our forces. She’s coming."
Lysander shifts slightly, the movement barely perceptible in the dim light. "The diplomatic summit with Underland—perhaps we should cancel, given these developments."
"No." I move to the window, looking out over my kingdom of eternal night. "The Queen of Hearts has access to intelligence we may need. And canceling would show weakness." I pause, considering. "Besides, if Mara and Edmund are planning something, we'll need allies."
"Allies?" Lysander sounds almost amused. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but since when does Darkmore seek allies? We've maintained isolation for generations."
"Since my dead sister returned with an army at her back," I reply coldly.
He nods, then bows and retreats silently, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my mirror. I move to the balcony, looking out over my dark kingdom. Black stone spires reach toward the purple-tinged sky while shadows dance between them like living things. Blood magic sigils pulse with red light along the castle walls, a constant reminder of the power that protects us—and the price it demands.
Unlike the vibrant chaos of Underland or the rigid order of Ironwood, Darkmore exists in constant dusk—neither day nor true night, but the liminal space between. The sky above is a tapestry of deep purple and midnight blue, punctuated by stars that never fully fade. Silver mist coils around the base of the castle towers.
My subjects move about like shadows themselves—witches and warlocks practicing blood magic in secluded groves, spectral hunters returning with ghostly prey, scholars bent over ancient texts in towers that defy conventional architecture. They are few compared to the populations of other kingdoms, but each is powerful in their own right. In Darkmore, we value quality over quantity, power over numbers.
The diplomatic summit at Queen Scarlett's palace looms ahead. The infamous Queen of Hearts, known for her theatrical executions and iron control over her bizarre kingdom. I've heard stories of her perfectly maintained gardens where roses must be painted red with precise care; else, she orders immediate execution for the slightest error.
I've watched her through my mirror occasionally—a guilty fascination I indulge in when the loneliness of ruling becomes too heavy. She's fascinating in her calculated cruelty, her flamboyant displays of power so different from my own quiet authority.
A smile tugs at my lips despite my dark mood. What would the great Queen of Hearts think if she knew her reputation had reached even my shadowed realm? If she knew I'd watched her through my mirror, intrigued by the tiny woman with fire for hair who commands her kingdom with an arched eyebrow and a wicked smile?
I push the thoughts away. I have to .
There are more pressing concerns than my curiosity about Queen Scarlett. With practiced movements, I slice my palm and press it to the nearest sigil embedded in the stone wall. Magic surges through me, raw and tangible, racing along the network of spells that protect my borders. I can feel them strengthening, thorny vines of pure magic growing denser, deadlier .
The protection ritual is a necessary daily maintenance—like breathing or blinking for those with normal magic. Blood magic requires constant renewal, constant sacrifice. Small pains that prevent greater ones.
As my blood feeds the kingdom's defenses, I feel each soldier at the borders, each magical trap set for intruders. Darkmore may be smaller than Underland or Ironwood, but our defenses are unparalleled. My sister would do well to remember that before she marches against me with her new husband's army.
"My Queen?" One of my lady’s maids hovers in the doorway, careful to keep her eyes downcast. Unlike Commander Lysander, most of my subjects still fear meeting my gaze directly. The superstition that I can read souls through eye contact is unfounded, but useful enough that I've never corrected it. "We should begin preparing for your journey to Underland."
I nod, though my eyes remain fixed on the horizon where I know Scarlett's kingdom lies. "The black silk gown," I decide.
I’ll show her that I don’t need flashy displays or dramatic executions to command attention. She’ll see that true power can come wrapped in simplicity.
My lady’s maid bows and withdraws to carry out my orders. Alone again, I return to my mirror, watching as it continuously plays fragments of possible moments in time. Armies clashing. Magic flaring. And something else—something that makes my pulse quicken. A flash of red hair, a throaty laugh, the brush of fingers against skin.
"Enough," I snap, and the visions fade. I have no time for such distractions, not with a war looming on the horizon. Not with my sister plotting God knows what with her new king.
My lady’s maid returns just as I’ve finished pulling myself together, and I waste no time preparing myself for the summit. Unlike Queen Scarlett, who reportedly spends hours on her appearance before holding court, I prefer simplicity. My power speaks for itself; it doesn't require embellishment or loud acts.
Still, diplomacy has its requirements. I select a few key pieces of jewelry—a black diamond pendant that amplifies blood magic, silver rings inscribed with protective sigils, a thin circlet of obsidian that serves as my crown. Each item is functional first, decorative second. In Darkmore, beauty without purpose is wasteful.
My carriage awaits in the courtyard when I’m ready—darkly stained wood and silver filigree pulled by two recently groomed black horses.
Commander Lysander waits beside the carriage along with my liaison, Lord Corvus. Both men bow as I approach, their expressions neutral despite the unusual nature of this visit.
"The border patrols have been doubled as you requested," Lysander says after clearing his throat. "And I've stationed our best scryers to monitor for any unusual activity from Ironwood."
"Good." I step into the carriage, the black silk of my gown flowing around me like liquid shadow.
The journey to Underland takes us through dark, nearly lifeless forests that mark the boundary between our kingdoms. As we cross the border, the perpetual dusk of Darkmore gives way to the bizarre sunshine of Scarlett's realm. The transition is jarring—like stepping from a dream into wakefulness, a reality suddenly brighter and sharper and somehow less authentic.
Underland sprawls before us in all its chaotic glory—a kingdom where logic bends like taffy and natural laws are mere suggestions. Flowers the size of trees sway in time to music only they can hear. Butterflies with wings of stained glass cast colorful shadows across paths that rearrange themselves when no one is looking. In the distance, I can see the Castle of Cards, its structure defying gravity as it stretches toward a sky too blue to be real.
It's both fascinating and disturbing. Where Darkmore's magic flows like blood, ancient and controlled, Underland's magic fizzes like champagne, unpredictable and intoxicating. No wonder Scarlett rules through such rigid control—without it, this place would dissolve into pure chaos.
As we approach the castle, I prepare myself for the meeting ahead. The Queen of Hearts will undoubtedly try to intimidate with spectacle and threat. She'll be dressed in something dramatic, surrounded by fearful courtiers, her entire presentation designed to emphasize her power.
Our carriage arrives at the Castle of Cards, where card-soldiers stand at attention, their paper bodies rustling slightly in the breeze. They eye us with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"Remember," I tell Lysander and Lord Corvus as we step down from the carriage, "we are here for information as much as diplomacy. Observe everything, reveal nothing ."
The interior of the castle is even more extravagant than my mirror suggested—marble floors in checkerboard patterns of red and black, ceilings that soar to impossible heights, strange magical creatures serving as courtiers and servants. A flamingo with glass-like feathers guides us to a grand meeting hall, its musical voice chiming with forced pleasantry.
The hall itself is a work of controlled excess—gold and rubies dominating the decor, playing cards incorporated into everything from the furniture to the tapestries. The message is clear: this is a realm ruled by the Queen of Hearts, her symbol omnipresent and inescapable.
We are led to a long table of red marble where place settings await. Notably, the head of the table remains empty. I have no doubt Queen Scarlett will try to make an entrance, to assert her dominance in this first meeting; however, I am secure enough in my position to allow it.
I take my seat with practiced grace, my black gown a stark contrast to the crimson opulence surrounding us. Lysander and Lord Corvus flank me, their expressions carefully neutral despite the strangeness of our surroundings. We wait in silence, observed by curious courtiers.
I sense her before I see her—a wave of controlled magic preceding her entrance like a rose-scented perfume. The doors swing wide, and there stands the Queen of Hearts in all her theatrical glory.
And despite myself, despite my preparation, I feel my breath catch.
The rumors, I realize, didn't do her justice. She's tiny—barely reaching my shoulder even in her towering heels—but she occupies space as if she were a giantess. Her red gown is a marvel of design, cinching her waist to impossible proportions while showcasing a décolletage that would be scandalous in Darkmore. Her hair falls in perfect waves of deepest auburn, like blood cooling into copper. But it's her eyes that draw me in—green as poisoned apples.