“What in the name of the Goddess was that!” Not only did Kipling have the nerve to propose a duel. But her father’s insane enough to accept it. “I know what you’re doing; killing him won’t bring her back!” He pauses mid-step in the hallway, she doesn’t hold back: “Father, she’s gone.”

“There is a day when you will sit on that golden throne, wearing this crown of burden, and know the threats haunting these walls.” He holds her trembling hands, she studies the blemishes of his skin and the shape of his nails. Trying to memorize everything about him. “It is a monarch’s duty to protect their people. Even if the outcome is unfavorable, know I fought with all my strength.” He smiles, kissing her forehead, breathing in the last moments, “sleep peacefully my daughter, and dream of better things.”

He drifts into the shadows passing into the realm of specters beyond her reach. Already the marble under her feet crack. He vanishes as the world around her crumbles. A heavy numbness seeps into her bones as she passes through the throne room in chaos. The servants try to console the frightened guests. The knights struggle to calm the more vocal angry ones. She hears none of it, the blood swirls in her ears silencing even the most heartfelt words. She brushes their concern aside, directing them to those in need of medical attention.

Lord Beckham and Lex direct the troops, clearing out the guest and the debris. She doesn’t question their direction when they tell her to return to her quarters. Anywhere is better than among the cries and broken glass. She pauses at the panthers carved into the staircase banister and wipes her dripping tears. Where are you? But no one answers, no one ever does. Exhaustion drains her strength as she pushes at her door; expecting darkness, she finds a warm fire. Zack drapes his tunic over Sara who sleeps in an oversized chair.

“She refused to go anywhere else but here.”

“I understand.” She retrieves a blanket from her room; making Sara more comfortable as she snores. He goes out of his way to avoid her, sitting on the furthest end of the couch. There’s hundreds of more pressing matters outside her door, but right now the tension between them needs addressing. Guilt twists in her stomach, she hates to consider his opinion after finding her with his long-time friend. “About earlier… I’m not sure what you saw but nothing happened. Chris isn’t that kind of friend. He isn’t—”

“What he is or isn’t to you isn’t my business. But if I found you both by chance, I’m certain someone searching for a scandal will discover it easily enough.”

“They can search all they want,” she places the tiara on the table, “they won’t find anything.”

“Are you going to ask how he is?”

“I’m waiting for your report; he is your friend after all.”

“Kipling’s soldiers barged into Sara’s quarters; a fight ensured. He was knocked unconscious on the balcony. The doctor’s tending to him but he’ll live.”

“He must have nine lives. Where is Kipling now?”

“Taking the queen hostage provided an escape route. He’s outside the gate at a Bellaverian encampment. I have soldiers posted around the perimeter providing surveillance.”

“Do you think taking Margaret was part of their plan, or is he going rogue?”

“Lex doesn’t believe he’s ever loyal to anyone for too long. She was too shrill to be acting.” Despite the circumstances, seeing Margaret feel the consequences of her own actions in real time, makes her smile. She played with fire, and now she’s feeling the heat. “One more thing, your father asked Lex to retrieve his staff…”

So that’s his plan…

She takes the opposite end of the couch, tucking her feet under her as she lounges over the armrest. If her mind wasn’t foggy, she’d interrogate him more, but there’s no energy left. Neither her nor Zack speak, instead, they sit awkwardly aware of the other. His breathing is steady but she hears his nostrils flare on the exhale. She’s impressed at how calm he is, if only she kept her composure when she saw Kipling in Bellavere. Eclipse found her as a hyperventilating mess. But Zack’s holding himself together.

“That day in the carriage…when you told me. I secretly hoped you were wrong,”

“Me too. If I killed him when I saw him in Bellavere none of this would’ve happened.”

“I wish you did. But Margaret would’ve attacked regardless. Thanks to you we’re prepared.” She nods, accepting the small victory. “How are you holding up?”

“It doesn’t matter,” it’s impossible to describe the agony welling inside. “He made his decision and he stands resolute.”

She rests her head on her arms, staring at the fire. If only Kipling killed her in Bellavere, then she won’t have to witness tomorrow. But exhaustion wins its fight and she slips away. Her soundless dreams showcase ghosts passing through furniture and melting into walls. All ignore her, all except the girl. She’s dressed in lace with curls bundled in ribbons and she stands in the center.

She smiles, an elfish grin used behind her parents back; but it’s her finger that draws her attention to the fire. Flames sway to unseen music, their embers spark, popping, then float towards the ceiling where they burst into fireflies. Miniscule flying beacons twirl around the child who giggles and dance as they surround her.

“Moira, it’s morning…we fell asleep.” He nudges her.

She barely register’s his worried expression as she rushes from the room. Nightmares and memories collide, spinning together until she can’t differentiate between them. Her steps echo as she crosses a group of lords standing in the shadows of the throne room, sheepishly eyeing the alcove door.

“Father don’t!” He stands alone with his staff and her composure crumbles. “Please.”

“Why now?” She motions to the weapon; a sight so foreign its like a dream.

“You know why,” he strokes her cheek. She nods; they’re expecting him to be the Mage they believe he is.

“I’ll pray to Zander for your safety.”

“Save your prayers, for another fool.” he grasps her trembling hands and kisses them. “Return to your room, close your eyes, and when you open them, the world will be a better place.”

He pulls the doors open; bathing himself into the morning light. She yearns to reach out, but he drifts into the sunshine before her fingers grab his coat. She’s cast in cool darkness as cheers erupt from outside; a crowd anxious for the king to exact their revenge. Zack clears his throat, wearing a sympathetic smile. He opens the door for her and they exit facing the grotesque cheering together. She needs to witness this moment. She isn’t hiding today. He won’t let her.

Officials cram onto the steps, craning their neck between the soldiers on guard. Everyone is there, like the palace split open spilling every servant and guest into the courtyard. Citizens line the street to get a glimpse of the fighting. Children climb the iron fence to peer into the center where Kipling and her father face each other. She notices Zack eyeing Kipling’s sword, studying the possibilities. But she watches the staff.

The magic flutters across the air, it tingles her skin, sending prickles over her arm. He’s doing it, its both relief and dread. Like trusting a new doctor with the surgical knife. The attacks are standard, Kipling feints towards him and he pushes back with a burst of air. It impresses the crowd. Their excitement flutters; unwavering hope dances in the air.

This is when their nightmare ends; with his death, their wounds can heal. Ugly red gashes torn into their integrity will finally fade; vanishing with each layer of skin until it’s a distant benign memory. His attacks hit their mark, pushing Kipling over the gravel. But the magic is inconsistent. She doesn’t know if he’s varying the strength to keep Kipling off guard or whether he’s failing to maintain a dependable standard.

Then Kipling dodges, sliding out of range and striking at the king. The blade bounces off the staff. The true battle begins. Fear churns in the silence, while Zack’s face asks her what happens next. But he should already know; it’s the same strategy she used against him. Disarm the opponent. The clumps of dust pooling around their feet are the first sign. A light breeze tickles the loose strands of her hair. Her palms sweat. A whirlwind ignites at his feet, as tall as a man, swirling in place before he sends it flying towards Kipling.

“Not this time Allan!” he shouts rolling out of the way at the last minute.

Her breath hitches as the dust devil shoots towards the crowd by the fountain. Three people in the front row collide with it, the force flings them backwards. The king readies another whirlwind, this time spinning faster and kicking up the debris at their feet. Her magic pulses, sending a warning to her brain. Between the shuffling of dirt, she notices it. His grip on his magic is slipping. There’s a sheen over the wind, it flickers in and out of existence. Going from nothing to full strength in a blink of an eye.

“Zack, get them to push the crowd back.”

He nods, grabbing the shoulder of the nearest guard, and wastes no time giving new orders. She pushes passed the spectators on the steps, forcing her way to the open space. On the ground dust floats overhead but she can still see the tornado. It’s faster now, lifting both men above her head. Unlike when she fought Zack, Kipling isn’t fazed by his magic. He uses it to his advantage, forcing himself into the sides and flinging himself directly at her father. He dodges, and both men spin around each other. One slashing one blocking.

Everyone’s watches the spectacle above ignoring the dangers on the ground. A stray gust of wind catches her dress, yanking her closer to the fighting. It whips her hair against her face and kicks up blinding gravel. She can’t see anyone through the edge of the sandstorm. It takes the air from her lungs. Her foot slips, she tumbles slamming into the dirt.

The wind pushes her downward; like a knee to the back. Crawling, digging her nails across the courtyard she reaches the stone fountain. The splashing water gets caught in the force and drops buckets of water over her. She catches her breath but the peace doesn’t last. The sand shifts, this time revealing a stray finger wind tunnel heading right for her.

Before she can get away, it crashes into her, knocking her into the sculpture and sending her careening through the air. It’s brighter outside the sandstorm, her left side aches, and she’s at the feet of a group of men. The screams behind her direct her to the speeding stone in front of them. She climbs to her knees, holds out her palms and uses all her focus to catch the stone panther head toppling towards them. The air in front her thickens, acts like a wobbly net and catches its prey. It floats in mid air; the smashed face roars in protest to her interference.

It slows, and she drops it and its fragments at their feet. This is why she struggled so much with this element. It expects control of not just the cyclone but each object that gets caught up in it. Some Mages can combine elements, but controlling two things at once isn’t her strong suit. She catches a glimpse of Zack, scooping a wayward child and handing him to his mother. Above the cyclone spins, two dark shapes twist among the sand.

Its almost beautiful if it isn’t her worse living nightmare. Two wet drops hit her face, but there’s no rainclouds in the sky. The colour in Zack’s face vanishes when their eyes meet. He gulps, glancing upwards than back at her. His terror sends her into a panic as another drop paints her skin. Despite knowing otherwise, she touches her face. Blood. It stains the cracks of her dust caked skin.

A body crashes to the ground with a hollow thud. The wall of sand gradually fades revealing Kipling standing over the king’s limp body. He grunts, straining every muscle to pull himself to his feet. Once upright he tosses the broken staff aside and draws his gold hilted sword. The screech of metal cuts through her; crying in her ears. The fighters charge to the middle, their swords meeting with a clash.

Kipling blocks and takes the offensive forcing her father to deflect the onslaught of slashes. Remo avoids a thrust to the chest and slams her father on his back. She meets his eyes; his granite face cracks into a sly smile, with his blade leading directly to her father’s chest. Her voice fails; to protest or urge her father to stand.

“Rule with a sharp mind and a gentle hand, eh, your majesty?” he twists the Avalon motto, mocking everything her family exemplifies, thrusting the sword into her father’s chest.

He twists the blade before pulling it from the fleshy sheath. His excruciating scream slices through her body; his golden sword drops with a clatter. She’s at his side before she can blink, grasping his hand to her face. Sticky warm blood pools around her legs. No. Not like this. She watches the light fade from his brown eyes; unable to hear his last whispered words. Kipling’s laughter invades her grief like a knife. She wipes the last tear from her face (vowing never to shed another) and grabs her father’s heavy sword. Remnants of the tornado fall over them. Landing in small heaps as she stands.

“Kipling!” she calls in a voice she doesn’t recognise. “We aren’t done yet!”

“Put that away, Your Highness, before you hurt yourself. Or is it your majesty now?”

“You’ll pay for the blood you shed; I swear it on the bloody crown you shackle me with.”

“Empty threats, your majesty,”

“Don’t walk away! We aren’t finished.”

“Do you wish to die next to your father?” his face alight with childish amusement, “do not make the mistake of having me for an enemy.”

“The only mistake made is yours.” The dust is thick, the crowd shimmers on the edge of her vision, but Kipling’s stance is clear. “You should’ve killed me when you killed my mother.” The amusement vanishes as his face drains of colour. A flush frighten expression; a crack in Kipling’s stoic composure. She didn’t imagine it, his sword hand trembled.

“Emilia... is that you?” his lips whisper. He backs away, as sand rains like a tipping hourglass. The crowd scatters as gravel showers over them and in the chaos Kipling vanishes. She’s about to follow but Lex interjects with a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Your Highness enough. The duel is over Moira, please. Let us grieve… then we’ll fight.”

Lex gestures to the guards rushing to the whimpering people and she notices their dishearten faces. She lost a father, but Lex witnessed the death of his dearest friend. The people lost their king. There’s an outburst beyond the fence but he already has a head start. And Margaret somewhere is a hostage. All this was preventable. None of it had to happen. Lex’s grief tries to stick itself on her, but she pulls away.

“How did he get in here?” she says through gritted teeth. “If we had resources looking for him, how did he end up here?” He doesn’t answer, she asks again.

“He surprised our guards. The archers took them out one by one.” They said she was safe. They lied.

“In the end, we all must answer to the Gods for our failures.”

Her father’s groomsmen place the body on a stretcher draping it with a white sheet; cementing her loneliness as they carry him to the palace. She hopes he finds peace because he shattered hers. She is no more a king than her lifeless father. But the audience waits with bated breath for words her lips can’t speak: the words her heart didn’t believe. The stable hand kneels when she glances in his direction. Two soldiers follow his example. The crowd reluctantly bows, hesitant of the absent daughter who’ll rule their lives. She pities them; their futures now tied to her clouded fate.

“Come, Your Majesty, we should dress you into something more suitable,” he whispers.

“You mean less bloody.” He walks one space behind, a formality for monarchs. Her subjects avert their gaze. She shares in their grief but with Lex’s words, those two simple words, she’s elevated to a pedestal— isolated until death. “Lex, order them to stop.”

“I can’t, Your Majesty. No more than you can stop the sun from rising.” Zack and the whimpering Sara mix amongst the lords and ladies standing on the steps. The palace looms over her, the cold shadows prickle her skin as she ascends the stairs. At the top Lex addresses the crowd. “The king is dead,” his voice, although full of grief, cuts the silence, “long live the Queen.”

“Long live the Queen!” the aristocracy shout.

“LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!” The crowd follows.

May my end come quickly, and death painless.