CHAPTER 1
The night was dark and restless, the sky heavy with storm clouds that rumbled like a foreboding omen. The wind carried the scent of rain and sorrow, whispering through the towering spires of Valla's palace. The kingdom mourned.
Queen Abittah was dead,
She had perished in childbirth, leaving behind a daughter-Princess Alissa. Yet joy had no place in the air that night. The halls of the palace lay thick with grief, the flames of torches casting flickering shadows upon tear-streaked faces.
In the courtyard, five-year-old Prince Alistair stood among the gathered mourners. His green eyes, red and swollen, shimmered with unshed tears. His dark curls, usually well-tended, were tousled from restless hands pulling at them. He scarcely noticed the warmth of his father's hand as King Mathias knelt beside him.
The king, a man of quiet strength with short dark hair and piercing green eyes, whispered words meant to console. Whatever he spoke was enough to still the prince's trembling lips. Together, they watched as the pyre was set alight.
Flames consumed the queen's body, flickering hungrily against the night sky. The crowd stood in solemn silence, their sorrow carried upon the wind. The queen of Valla was no more.
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
"Your Highness, pray, slow your steps!"
Laughter rang through the grand halls of the palace as Princess Alissa darted past the servants. Her dark silk hair bounced wildly as she ran, her bright green eyes glimmering with mischief.
"You shall never catch me!" she called over her shoulder, her voice light with joy.
She halted abruptly, her gaze locking onto a familiar figure beyond the palace doors. Without hesitation, she took off once more, rushing toward the approaching rider.
Prince Alistair had scarcely dismounted when she flung herself into his arms. He laughed, spinning her about before setting her upon her feet.
"I have missed you, brother!" she beamed.
"And I you, ñuha prūmia," he murmured, gently stroking her hair.
"Have you forgotten your old father?"
Alissa gasped, turning swiftly. "Father!" She rushed into King Mathias's arms, pressing a kiss upon his cheek. "How could I ever forget you?"
The king chuckled, embracing his daughter warmly.
"Shall we take our leave, sire?" General Grendy's deep voice carried through the courtyard.
The battle-scarred general stood nearby, his keen gaze ever watchful. His mere presence commanded respect.
"Ah, old Grendy!" Alissa grinned, offering him a playful curtsy.
"Princess," he greeted with a slight nod.
"Is Adam to visit today?" she asked, idly twirling a strand of her dark hair.
"I fear not," Alistair replied. "He tends to his mother."
Alissa sighed. "A pity. I have learned a new magic trick and wished to show him." She pouted for a moment before brightening. "No matter! I shall show him upon the morrow!"
"And what of me?" Alistair teased, tickling her side.
She squealed with laughter. "Of course, I shall show you!"
She seized his hand, pulling him eagerly toward the palace.
A sharp caw overhead gave them pause. A raven swooped down, dropping a sealed letter into General Grendy's waiting hand. His expression darkened as he scanned the parchment before looking up at the king.
Mathias exhaled. "Shall we walk, Sir Grendy?"
The two men strode through the palace gardens, the scent of blooming jasmine failing to ease the tension in the air. For a time, neither spoke. Then, at last, the king sighed.
"What tidings?"
Grendy hesitated before replying. "Another witch has been taken. She is to be burned. King Tommen calls for you to render judgment."
Mathias's jaw tightened. "A hollow summons. No matter my words, the sentence is writ in flame."
"Aye," Grendy admitted. "Yet to refuse the summons is to court war. And we both know that is a battle Valla cannot hope to win."
The king gazed up at the storm-cloaked sky, his expression unreadable.
"Moreover," Grendy continued, his tone measured, "the princess is promised to Tommen's son. I know you seek to sever the arrangement, but we must tread with care, Your Grace."
A bitter smile ghosted Mathias's lips.
Without another word, he turned and made his way back toward the palace.
The storm loomed ever closer.
And the wind carried whispers of war.