Esadora brooded, swirling the dregs of her tea as she sat by the fireside. It was strange to be back within the walls of Eoscan, after all these years. It felt empty – most everyone she’d known was long dead and gone. Outside, the last night hung heavy with the promise of a shattered dawn. Nalvadian, sensitive to her worries, settled his strong arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against his chest.

“Cheer up,” he smiled, “It’s nearly the end of the world.”

“Precisely,” she sighed, “What am I going to do?”

“Take Jordan home, where she will be safe.”

“And leave you behind?” she scoffed.

He shifted, gently squeezing the fingers of her free hand. “Your power may be formidable, my love, but you can’t save us all.”

She blew angrily through her nose. “Curse this blighted world.”

“You don’t mean that,” he chided, “Andoherra has always been close to your heart.”

“Once, perhaps – but now it stands poised to destroy everyone I love.”

“Nothing lasts forever, no matter how high our hopes. Fear not, though. I will die a happy man, Esadora – I never thought to see you again, and yet, here you are.”

She smiled despite herself. “My heart never left you, you know.”

He winked. “I know.”

She tilted her head back and gifted him a tender kiss. He lifted her, turning her to embrace her properly, but a snap of magic seared the air. It burst through the door with a Lat’Nemele in its wake, and Esadora sprang away from Nalvadian with an indignant scowl.

“Calyx! We have closed doors for a reason!”

The Lat’Nemele did not pause at the acid in her voice. Her eyes were wild, her hair flyaway and her power sparking.

“Esadora!” she cried, “You have to come, now! She’s going to do it – we can’t stop her!”

“Who? What?”

But the Guardian was gone, exploded into Betwixt on a tide of frantic magic.

“What the hell was that about?” Esadora growled.

She flung her power out, scouring the Palace for anomalies, and then she felt it. It reached through the dark, humming beneath her – the hunger of Andoherra awakened. She leapt up with a startled cry, porting before she was steady on her feet. Nalvadian, ignorant of her reasons, nonetheless threw himself after her.

They erupted into the Great Hall, Esadora casting wildly about. She locked eyes on her granddaughter, six feet from the Throne. Calyx, Nerys, and Norae surrounded her, imploring – held at bay by a wall of her magic.

“Jordan!” Esadora cried, her face white with dread, “Get away from there, child!”

Jordan, face pinched with fearful resolve, stood her ground. She shook her head and took another step. A growl reverberated from the stark depths of the white marble Throne. She hesitated, her magic fluttering a warning inside her chest.

“Jordan, please!”

Esadora crossed the room with desperate strides, one hand outstretched in terrified appeal. Jordan met her gaze, and steeled herself.

“Andoherra is dying, Grandma… I have to do this.”

“It will destroy you, child!” Esadora was halfway across the room, approaching as fast as she dared without pushing Jordan to act rashly. “There is no way to salvage the magic!”

“There is,” Jordan whispered, “It’s in my blood.”

The Throne unfurled, its soft lines sharpening to terrible claws, blooming like some demonic flower. Marble vines stretched, clicking thorns in its eagerness, and Jordan stepped back as her courage failed. She lifted her hands with a sharp cry as living stone lunged for her, and Esadora ported with a feral howl. She exploded from the darkness, knocking Jordan aside, out of its range. Jordan looked up from where she had fallen, her heart jolting at the sound of crystalline barbs clamping shut.

Staccato thorns rolled, clacking delight.

And then Esadora’s screams began.

The others rushed forth, magic flared, but lashes of stone crushed their advance. Esadora’s form lifted high in the grip of stone talons, and Jordan leapt to her feet, shrieking against the unstoppable. The Throne reared high, spikes unfurling. They hovered, plunged. A terrible shriek tore loose from Esadora. Crystalline spines slashed with abandon; it mattered not which piece they claimed – Andoherra thirsted through every inch of her sparking skin.

Jordan lunged for her grandmother, but a desperate flash of magic from Esadora knocked her back.

“No, Jordan!” she screamed.

Jordan froze beneath her pleading gaze, sobbing hysterics, watching with crushing despair as her grandmother forfeited her life to save them all.

She crushed at her ears as an unholy keening stung through the air, gaining intensity until it was an unbearable shriek. The room trembled. Underfoot, massive flagstones heaved, rolling like the sliding scales of some gigantic viper. A brilliant flash of light ignited in the heart of the throne, shining like a new-born star. Its incandescence expanded, engulfing Esadora’s crippled form, drowning her in liquid light. Those bearing terrible witness shielded their eyes against the burning glare, and it brightened until they could feel its heat on their skin. Jordan stared at her grandmother’s silhouette as long as she could stand, but she too, at last looked away.

The brilliance blinked out suddenly, plunging the room into darkness. Slowly, lumostones winked on.

Esadora was gone. Not a trace of the Worldkin remained, bar the silver stain of her blood on the white marble Throne. Jordan collapsed to her hands and knees, unable to breathe for the horror in her heart. Her face twisted with the pain of her loss, and she beat her fists against the ground. Around her came the echoes of her sorrow – even Nerys stood with an indescribable shock etched onto her disbelieving face.

In dreadful silence, Calyx pulled Jordan to her feet, supporting her as she sagged.

“It’s not over, Jordan,” she whispered, voice bleak and brittle as winter, “Come, you must take your Throne.”

Jordan blanched, baulked, broke free and tried to run. But she collided with Nerys. The dark Lat’Nemele caught her shoulders, meeting her distraught gaze with deep sympathy. She, too, knew what the kiss of darkness felt like.

“Come, Jordenna,” she said softly, “Do not let your grandmother’s sacrifice be in vain.”

“You have to continue the cycle,” Calyx nodded, her face fiercely impassive, “Andoherra must know its new Queen. Quickly now – before the sun rises.”

Numb, Jordan let the Lat’Nemele manoeuvre her to stand before the innocuous Throne. Norae cried out in protest, sharply echoed by Nalvadian, but Nerys snarled to keep them at bay. When Jordan stood where her grandmother lately had, she broke into a fresh wave of sobs and covered her face with trembling hands. The Lat’Nemele released her and stepped back, immovable Guardians on either side of her shivering form.

“You must take the Throne of your own volition, Jordan,” Calyx said quietly, “No one may force you.”

Jordan turned, raking her nails down her face, leaving red marks upon her cheeks. She met their gaze, refusing to look at the brooding, bloodstained Throne behind her. She shook her head over and over in mute appeal, but Calyx offered no further words of empathy or encouragement. She simply stood statuesque beside Nerys, bearing witness.

Jordan felt her heart flutter, wild as a trapped butterfly, and closed her eyes. Her magic reared up in protest, urging her to flee – away, anywhere. But a whisper interrupted her decision to fly, and she opened her eyes in surprise. Turning to the Throne, she came face to face with her mother and grandmother. Both shimmered softly, wearing gentle smiles.

“Grandma!” Jordan’s breath exploded with desperate longing.

There, there, child. Esadora’s voice tremored, ethereal.

“I’m so scared!” Jordan choked, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.

Esadora nodded. Of course you are, dearie. No one said being the Queen would be easy.

“We should have gone home! Grandma, I’m so sorry!” Jordan lamented. She shuddered with guilt, and fresh tears pricked at her eyes, but Esadora shook her glowing head.

No, Jordan, you were right. Our duty is to Andoherra.

Asbeth stepped forward, laid a featherlight hand on her arm. It’s your turn, now, Jordenna. You will be the greatest Queen since Malevelyn herself.

Esadora smiled, translucent. We’re so proud of you.

Jordan managed a watery smile herself.

“D-does it hurt?”

Both spirits nodded grimly, and Jordan sucked her breath through her teeth.

“Will I die?”

They shook their heads.

You will live, Jordan, Esadora whispered. Long and well and happy. And so will Andoherra. Be brave now, girl. You are Jordenna Bal’Talanor, daughter of Asbeth Bal’Talanor, granddaughter of Esadora Bal’Talanor, descendent of Malevelyn The Blessed, and Ascending World Queen. She paused, and fire burned fierce in her eyes. Own it, dearie.

Asbeth nodded proud agreement, and Jordan looked from one to the other. They smiled encouragement, and, somehow, she drew valour from their ethereal gaze. With the world watching, waiting, she turned. Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

She took a deep breath…

And sat down.

[ END ]