Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The queen's chambers were quiet but for the low crackle of the hearth.
Eliza Ducanis stood at the window, barefoot on the cold stone, the hem of her nightgown brushing her ankles.
Though smaller than Istrial's royal palace, the ancient fortress of Istrial Castle—where she had retreated to oversee the eastern front of the war—offered a commanding view of the plains.
Beyond the glass, distant fires flickered red against the night.
Orc fires. Enemy fires. She could almost taste the sharp, bitter smoke that drifted faintly on the wind.
Three months had passed since her father's death in late autumn. Winter's grip was beginning to loosen its hold on the plains, but the memory of loss remained sharp as ever.
Thankfully, the plains were otherwise quiet. There was no mage fire, no carts piled with bodies being led in a steady stream through the fortress gates.
On other nights, yes, but not tonight.
The reprieve was welcome, but there was something sinister about the sudden stillness.
Behind her, her maid bowed, murmured a goodnight, and closed the door, leaving Eliza alone with silence and echoes. She pressed her palm against the chilled glass, eyes narrowing at the horizon.
She thought about the never-ending war.
The war. Always the war.
As a child, she had listened to her father speak of border skirmishes with the Varak orcs—arguments over land so barren it hardly deserved the blood spilled over it.
She remembered those talks with little patience, thinking them small and distant.
But small sparks grew. Sparks became flames, and flames, left untended, became wildfires.
Her father had tried to explain the orcs' territorial nature, their ancient claim to lands humans considered worthless. "They don't think as we do," he'd told her. "Land isn't just property to them—it's identity, history, bloodright." She'd understood his words but not his caution.
Ten years of wildfires. Ten years of blood.
Her father's blood most of all.
The memory cut sharp and deep. She'd tried to patch it over with rage, but the grief inside her was still raw. King Orwald Ducanis had been felled on the battlefield by an orc blade, left broken in the dust of the Varak Plains.
With her father's body barely cold in the tomb, she had abandoned his cautious defense and ordered a scorched earth campaign that drove the orcs back twenty leagues.
The mages had balked at first—such use of fire was considered excessive even in war—but she had been merciless in her commands.
"Burn everything they love," she'd ordered, "until they understand what it means to take something from me. "
The news had been carried back by men with hollow eyes, their silence saying more than words ever could. She had buried him in Taelys, the ancient, abandoned capital, in the field of monarchs, crowned with steel before the body had gone cold. And in her grief, she had sworn vengeance.
Now the crown of Maidan was hers, and with it, the burden of a kingdom's hope.
Eliza turned from the window, crossing the chamber on silent feet. The rugs muffled her steps, though the weight of power made every movement heavy. Her body ached. Her mind was numb.
Her shoulders slumped.
Part of her wanted to crawl into bed and stay there—for a month or more—ensconced in the soft sheets and warm furs, away from the world of politics and violence.
But that wasn't an option.
She had cousins—weak-spirited, scheming—but none fit to rule. The bloodline and Maidan's fate sat on her shoulders alone.
They had doubted her at first, whispering that she was too young, too fiery, too untested. But she had ridden at the head of her army, her banner bright in the wind, and led her knights onto the plains.
Now, they called her hellion. A queen of fire. A scourge of the Varak.
She had earned her reputation—the hellion queen, the fire-heart—through calculated ferocity.
Where her father had sought compromises, she had answered orc raids with twice the force.
When her generals hesitated, she led the charge herself.
The blood on her hands was a necessary price for her people's survival.
That knowledge did nothing to quiet the screams that sometimes woke her in the night.
But she felt the toll of it all.
Fire burned only until there was nothing left to devour.
In truth, she didn't know how long this could continue.
Eliza sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers knotting in the thick furs.
She thought of the long winter pressing down on them, of the dwindling supplies, and the thin smiles of her people, morale stretched to breaking.
She thought of the promise she clung to—that when the snows melted and the mountain passes opened, their allies would come.
She'd sent word by hawk, and King Vael Nareth of the Ketheri had responded.
Ketheri reinforcements would ride north.
They would break the orcs. Drive them back into the dust.
If only she could hold out that long.
Doubt slid into her mind like a knife. What if they could not? What if orc strength outlasted them, as it always had? The Varak were relentless, terrifying up close. In terms of physical strength alone, they far outstripped humans. Their berserkers fought like demons. And their shadow-mages…
Even thinking of that dark magic chilled her. She'd heard the tales—they all had. Tales of orcs who stepped into shadow and vanished, who struck unseen, as silent as a whisper, who became death itself. Those stories had haunted the night for as long as she could remember.
Her people had survived only through mage-fire, steel, and sheer will.
But will had its limits.
Eliza closed her eyes, rage flickering beneath her ribs like banked coals. It didn't matter. Doubt or no doubt, exhaustion or no exhaustion, she would not yield. Not until every last orc lay rotting in the dirt.
She slipped beneath the furs, the warmth of the covers doing little to thaw the cold in her bones. The fires outside still burned, watching her like hungry eyes in the dark.
Her hand moved beneath her pillow, curling around the dagger she always kept hidden there. The cool steel felt reassuring against her palm—a queen's last line of defense.
Eliza Ducanis lay awake in the silence of her chambers, her people's fate pressing on her shoulders, her dagger steady in her grasp.
And in the night beyond her walls, the shadows stirred.