The Dead Queen (Thrones of Ruin #1)

Chapter 1

Some days, the power to heal feels more like a curse.

The soldier on the cot is young, maybe twenty, but already, he’s seen more horror than any man should.

It takes all of my strength to push the saw through the thick sinew of his leg, above the point where dead tissue has taken root. Two healers hold him down while a third stands at his shoulders, whispering calming words even though he’s fainted from shock.

Blood oozes like a bubbling spring around the saw. The bone resists beneath me, but it eventually gives way with a sickening crack just below the knee. I set the saw aside and wipe away the sweat dripping down my face.

But I’m not finished yet.

My hands tremble as I place them on the bleeding wound. I close my eyes, blocking everything out. The metallic scent of blood vanishes along with the dingy fabric of the medical tent.

In the quiet of my mind, I dig deep, searching for the spark of power inside my core.

As I draw it out of its hiding place, the light moves through my veins like cool water.

It spills out of my palms, knitting the soldier’s torn muscle and severed skin back together.

The power heals what’s left of the leg so thoroughly it looks like there was never a limb there to begin with.

But no matter how powerful a healer I may be, I can’t cure dead flesh.

It must be cut out. Otherwise, he’d still have the rest of his leg.

This is what it means to be the heir to the throne of Llwyn. By wielding the power to heal, I end up cutting people into pieces. Daily.

In Llwyn, anyone with noble blood can wield light and heal minor scrapes and bruises.

Those with strong ability can ease physical pain or draw out infection, too.

But only the royal family can perform extraordinary feats like this.

Even though it isn’t lost on me—nor anyone else, I’d wager—that I’m the only royal out here, dripping in our soldiers’ blood.

One might accuse my family of being more like the northern kingdom of Annwyn than we’d prefer to admit. There, they embrace death, going so far as to bring people back from the grave, including their immortal queen. It’s why Annwyn is known as the Kingdom of Corpses.

When I’m finished, I step back, breathless.

A healer in a blood-splattered apron nods to me out of respect. “Well done, Your Highness.”

The title is jarring in this place of gore, but no matter how many times I ask the other healers to call me Sienna, they never do. They wouldn’t dare.

I look down at my hands to see they’re shaking. My white apron is dark and sticky with blood, but the wounded man will live another day. And with a proper prosthetic, he will fight for Llwyn another day as well. We need all the help we can get to keep Annwyn away from our northern border.

When I look around the healers’ tent, it’s clear that protection comes at a high cost. There are at least a dozen men and women lying on cots. They’re the worst of the wounded, those for whom the other healers can do nothing. Many will die while they wait for aid.

A healer puts a hand on my shoulder. “You should go back to your quarters, Your Highness. If you exert yourself much more ...” She lets her sentence hang.

I’m risking burnout, she means. And maybe she’s right.

A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I last slept.

If I overextend myself, my power will recede deep into my core.

Then it could take days, maybe even weeks, to draw it back out.

Even though the tent is overflowing with makeshift cots and bloodied rag bins, I know I can’t take that risk.

And yet.

I bite down an ember of anger reserved for my father.

Our ancestors possessed power far stronger than any other noble family in Llwyn.

It’s how we’ve held the throne for thousands of years.

But you won’t see my father, King Corsac, anywhere near this wasteland of an army camp.

He wouldn’t sully the hem of his lovely cloak with the blood of people who fight for our kingdom.

My grandmother, áine, did though. And so here I am, trying to make her proud of me, even after her death.

I give the healer a nod before heading out of the tent and into the cool moonlight.

It’s quiet for a borderland outpost, no wounded troops returning at this hour.

Nearly everyone is asleep. We’ve only been at this location for one week, but already the camp looks worn.

I pass rows of barracks, spaced between well-trodden pathways like tidy stitches on a tapestry.

Mud splatters the heavy canvas tents. Laundry lines hang from posts, each speckled with collections of socks, trousers, and underwear.

I wipe more blood off my hands as I walk toward my tent. Guards in copper-plated armor appear out of nowhere to flank me. It frustrates me to no end that I’m shadowed like this, but no amount of begging will convince them to abandon me here on the edge of the world.

Trampled grass muffles our steps as we pass tent after tent filled with sleeping soldiers.

Somewhere in the night, a man screams. A night terror, no doubt.

Many soldiers are plagued by them. The undead creatures in the nearby battlefields are the stuff of nightmares, so I’m told.

The Annwyn border is guarded by legions of bears, wolverines, and wolves, all brought back from the dead.

When we reach my tent, the lanterns inside are lit, even though I’ve been gone for an entire day and night. I give the nearest guard a questioning look, but he offers no sign that anything is wrong.

I sigh and try to push down the anxiety roiling in my gut. This could mean only one thing.

Inside the tent, a nervous-looking messenger awaits.

When he spots me, he bows with as much grace as a newborn calf.

He can’t be over seventeen years old, likely a lower noble.

He’s dressed in the traditional copper livery of the Llwyn royal household.

In his hands, he holds a letter sealed with crimson wax.

I’d recognize that enormous seal anywhere. It’s my own, after all. A red fox, the symbol of the royal family.

The messenger’s eyes grow wide as he gets a proper look at me. Perhaps it’s seeing the elusive heir in the flesh. Or maybe it’s the gore soaking my clothes. His face grows paler by the second. So, it’s the blood, then.

“They’ve finally done it, haven’t they?” I ask the messenger.

Before he can respond, I turn to the washbasin in the corner of my tent. It’s simple and practical, no different from any other here in the borderlands. If the basin’s dented metal is good enough for the soldiers, it’s good enough for me.

After washing the dried blood from around my fingernails, I remove my apron to hide the worst of the gore. I tuck some of the stray strands of hair back into my braid. It’s caked in sweat and filth. Still, the longer I delay, the longer I can put off the inevitable.

A deep sigh escapes me. I’ve always known they’d drag me home, eventually. Me, the harebrained, foolish, stubborn heir. They’ve called me all of it, and worse.

Just like her grandmother, Father always said, as if it’s an insult.

The sting of grief is so poignant it takes my breath away.

It still feels like yesterday that we lost Grandmother to Annwyn’s corpse wolves.

Logically, I know it’s been much longer than that, but tell that to a broken heart.

Tell that to the little girl who lost her best friend.

Tell that to the heir who’s had no answers, no explanation for twelve damnable years.

A heart cannot heal from death. Even we mighty royals know that.

I splash tepid water on my face to chase away the grief.

Somewhat cleaner now, I look into the small cracked mirror above the basin.

Doubtless, the messenger expected an heir of great beauty and refinement.

Instead, water drips over my round cheeks, which are flushed with exhaustion.

My brown eyes have purple rims, and my family’s trademark auburn hair bursts from my untidy braid in a frizzy halo.

This is it. The heir of Llwyn. I can do nothing to change that.

I turn to the messenger and hold out my hand for the letter.

When he passes it over, I bite back a few choice words.

This man is not to blame; someone sent him here to confront the king’s rebellious, backwards daughter.

The one who ran away three years ago to use the royal family’s birthright, our healing powers, for war.

It’s better than being locked up in a gilded tower to fester until my father deigns to die and give me the Fox Throne.

The messenger bows, awaiting instruction. I crack the seal and unfold the paper to find only three words from my father.

“Come back. Now.”