6. Penelope
Penelope
What was the meaning of life without history?
The tale of my lineage used to be one I was torn over. I’d been ashamed that the first king, David Evans, had thought us treasonous and stripped us of our title. But then came anger. Not for what was done but for what my parents allowed it to become.
Their greed defined our present.
Their desperation shaped my future.
Regaining a title, any title, was all that mattered to them. It didn’t bother them that they were sacrificing the happiness of their only child to obtain it.
That was what broke me.
But the more I was forced to face the past, the more I began to understand it.
I stopped looking at how it made me feel and focused on what I could do with it. I couldn’t change what had been taken, but I could decide what came next.
History.
It lived on through important moments.
Stories.
Heirlooms.
Blood.
History wasn’t just something remembered, it was something protected.
With everything I had learned of Vaughn’s history during my time with Marian, the stories didn’t lie. But they had been buried.
Information on The Black Line was scattered, hidden in old newspaper clippings, forgotten articles, and the lore on historical blog sites that were obscured and required effort to uncover. If the past was true… why had it been erased?
The more I searched, the harder information became to find.
History.
Tradition.
It was the only real marker of truth. Tradition existed so nothing could be forgotten. History was something meant to be preserved. Enforced. And when history and tradition collided… we didn’t get honor. We got ritual.
It wasn’t about glorification. It was about not letting legacy die.
“Breathe, Penelope.” My lids closed through my whisper.
Sacrifice didn’t scare me—completely ruining such an important ceremony did. I didn’t do good with failure or mistakes. Which was why I needed to calm and focus.
My lids opened, and my heart only hit against my chest even harder.
I didn’t recognize the woman before me. She’d come far in the last year and a half.
Had it been so long since Vaughn had come to me at the boutique? Well… close. And here I was, standing before a mirror in my black gown and the queen’s robe, taking in the way the candles made the crown on my head sparkle.
Robe.
Crown.
The royal blue looked almost black in the dimness.
Behind me, the large lion crest stood out with its white, gray, and black accents.
The significance of what I wore was everything.
It had my fingers tracing over the soft material.
I reached along the front, grabbing the edge to cover more of my dress when thick thread on the inside caught my attention.
I pulled back the robe, taking in the quote that was sewn into the silk.
By crown and blood, we carry what was taken. We restore what was lost.
Never forget.
My stare lifted back to the mirror.
Swallowing through the significance was almost impossible. This had been hers. The true queen. The queen of the fallen. The murdered.
Emotions were overwhelming. The weight of it pressed in. That could be Vaughn… me... us…
No.
Never.
His line would not end with us.
I couldn’t let his line end.
I would not lose him. I couldn’t even think about it. I wouldn’t. But that became impossible as my eyes rose to the crown. It was the same one she had worn when she faced the public. And now it was on me.
Gold framed my head. The structure was delicate, but there was nothing soft about the slender lines rising in smooth curves.
A diamond rested in the center, larger than the others.
It demanded attention. Everything else seemed to exist around it.
Gold curved outward from that single point, and subtle engravings lined the band.
I moved in closer seeing the lion hidden in the etching.
History.
And now… it was mine.
But not as something to wear. It was something for me to grow into. To become.
“Breathe. Just breathe.”
Turning, I paused, grabbing the knob.
My shoulders drew up. My spine straightened. I lifted my chin, twisting and opening the barrier. For a moment, I couldn’t move. Not because I was afraid, but because Vaughn stood in the shadows at the back of the room, already watching me.
Walk.
The voice within demanded, and I obeyed, keeping my head high as I headed to the center of the room where the Judic were already in place, standing around the large, candlelit circle.
The Magister was at the restrained slave’s feet, and I knew from the empty space, I was to stand above her head.
Where I expected the dark-haired slave girl to be awake, she appeared asleep.
Taking my spot, I stepped onto the upside-down crown of the crest, above her head.
For a long moment, silence filled the space. Finally, the Magister spoke.
“It is not tradition for an Intended to stand within the Holy Night ritual. This place belongs to the queen.” He paused.
“But The Judic sees promise in you. They believe…
perhaps your sacrifice may be beneficial.
Therefore, they have voted for you to spill the blood.
To speak the words. …To influence our fortune to truth.
“Tonight, Penelope Taylor, you are queen. You will speak the words. You will spill the blood. You will understand your place. And you will feel her pain. Blood… for blood. Sacrifice… for rebirth. We start with the history. With words created from her, for you. You will remember these, but you will only read them out loud tonight.”
The Magister took a delicate, folded paper from his pocket, handing it to me. I swallowed hard, staring down at words that blurred together through tears.
“Out loud, Penelope.”
I nodded, taking in her handwriting before beginning to read her words out loud.
Before there was silence from death, there was a crown. It meant more than a castle. More than a throne. Our kings ruled by blood. By right and by name.
I stood beside my king. Never behind or beneath, but equal in his reign.
It was not equal to his sacrifice.
I glanced up to Vaughn, watching the emotion and candlelight flicker across his face. I looked back down, continuing.
He was not given power. He was born into it. But blood turned against blood. Not by the enemy, but by those who swore loyalty.
The Crown was stolen. The throne was taken. The king, my king… was silenced.
They called it justice.
They called it treason.
They called it truth.
They lied.
My throat tightened through the words at her pain.
A queen is not meant to survive her king…But I did. And a queen does not bow nor does she beg.
She never forgets.
On the night the king fell, I gave blood in his place.
Not for mercy or forgiveness.
But for remembrance.
I swore his name would not die. That his bloodline would not end. I swore the Crown would be restored…
I failed.
The words blurred again through the building tears.
I pray you do not.
Until we reign again…we all bleed.
My hand lowered, and silence followed.
I looked up to take in the black veil over The Magister’s face. Had he seen my hand shaking? Did he hear the thick emotion in my words?
Weight blanketed from my head to my shoulders not allowing me to forget the cost of the queen. Her crown. Her robe. The reminders were just as real as the betrayal to the Masterson line. It had the tears continually burning my eyes while I tried my best to keep them in.
The Magister reached back within his robe, removing another paper and handing it to me.
“As you speak the final words, you will give them form. Wrist to arm. Ankle to thigh.” He paused. “And the throat… to finish what they started. Then, you will mark the crown with your own blood.” The Magister withdrew a dagger, handing it over to me. “Begin.”
The weight was real…
I placed down the paper at my feet. As I lowered and reached towards the junction at the woman’s shoulder, I felt the heaviness of the thick dagger.
I felt the weight of the robe and crown.
And I didn’t fight it. I became one with it.
I kept myself poised, adding my own weight behind the push of my hand as I drug the blade towards the young woman’s wrist.
Skin split, and red oozed from the long wound. It raced a river to the platform below, almost appearing black in the dim room.
I glanced down at the words.
“By blood… we remember.”
Silence.
I leaned over, moving with the direction as I slowly dragged the blade towards her other wrist.
“By blood… we carry.”
Grabbing the paper, I stood, meeting Vaughn’s intense stare as I moved around the circle to stand by The Magister. I lowered again, holding to the vows as I leaned forward, pushing the knife into her inner thigh and cutting all the way to her ankle.
The woman didn’t move. She didn’t stir or jerk. I knew she was alive. I could see her breathing, but she was unresponsive. Was this how the queen preferred it as well? Or had this been done for me?
I let the questions come and go. It was irrelevant. It just was.
“By blood… we endure.”
Endure, yes. Vaughn had lived his entire life trying to survive. Now, that would be my life too. Once I passed the trials and word got out, we’d be hunted just as his parents were. But we would endure. And we would survive.
Leaning forward, I made the last incision to her legs, letting the pooling blood drown me in thoughts. It was all so much. I’d spent the last week hiding my emotions. Trying my best to be cold and hard. The ritual left no room for lies.
“By blood… we reclaim.”
I stood, heading back to the top. But I didn’t stand back on the crown. I lowered to my knees, cupping the woman’s sweet face with one of my hands. I kept my stare on it as I leveled the weapon across her neck.
“What was taken…” I pushed deep, dragging the knife across the length of her throat. “… will be restored.”
Even though the woman wasn’t reactive, her body was. Her lips parted, moving the smallest amount as crimson gushed out.
I brought up my hand, placing the tip level with the pad of my index finger. I pushed in, watching as my own skin split and blood beaded at the surface. More questions. More pain. More… heartbreak at the history I was becoming part of.
I traced the red over my lips. Lowering, I kissed the upside-down crown, placing my bleeding finger on it with a vow of my own.
“For what was lost.” I paused, not holding back. “For what is now mine.”
Slowly, I stood, taking my place as I held to the dagger. No one spoke. No one moved. My past had me wanting to ask a million questions. Should I not have spoken? Should I apologize?
For what? For being honest? For claiming what I felt in my heart belonged to me? I would not apologize for that.
The Magister slowly bowed his head. Still, seconds passed before he finally spoke.
“We will see you next Holy Night… Intended.”
With that, he rushed from the room, and The Judic quickly followed. My lips parted in confusion as I turned my head, watching them leave. Footsteps had me looking over as Vaughn approached.
Even he didn’t speak. His lips softly met mine, and he took the dagger, placing it on the table along the wall.
He quickly bandaged up my finger, taking my good hand to lead me back to the room I’d come from, easing the robe from my shoulders.
Slowly, he pulled the pins free, removing the crown.
When he lowered to his knees and hugged around my waist, my tears wouldn’t stay in.
They fell down my cheeks. With their escape, came a tidal wave of ‘whys’.
Why was no one talking?
Why did things have to turn out as they did?
The questions came, but they stayed inside.
A queen wouldn’t break. She wouldn’t think of herself when the man at her feet needed her. And Vaughn did need me. He didn’t say it with words, but his actions spoke for themselves. He… needed me.
The realization had the weight lifting.
My hands cupped his jaw, bringing his face up.
“You’re not alone anymore. I’m going to pass these trials, and I’m going to be the best queen for The Order. The Crown will be yours again. We won’t stop until it is. This ends with us. Okay?”
He nodded, hugging around me tighter, repeating it. Believing it, just as I did.
“This ends with us.”