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I had to travel once to the Kingdom of Light for some affairs to do with the Council.

I think the Council is growing suspicious when it comes to this land known for having colourful skies full of phoenixes.

The phoenixians are very close to the drakonians, almost like a younger sibling that wants the same piece of pie as their older brother.

I do not truly trust them either. I do not trust them because if the drakonians start something, the phoenixians will back them up.

They will probably stab the drakonians in the back afterwards, because that’s the kind of weird friendship they have.

They spend the entire time teasing each other, betraying each other and yet, they always follow each other into whatever chaos the other has encountered.

I cannot help but slightly envy their union.

Tabitha Wysteria

Vera moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridor, her steps nearly silent as she ascended the spiraling staircase of the east wing. The air was thick with the lingering scent of burning embers and polished wood, the weight of the evening pressing upon the stone walls of the castle.

The narrow servant’s door at the top of the stairs had been left ajar—a common enough occurrence.

The staff came and went through this passage, ensuring that the queen’s quarters remained undisturbed by unnecessary noise.

Rather than risk drawing attention, Vera slipped through the narrow opening, pressing herself into the gap to avoid the telltale creak of the hinges.

Inside, Queen Cyra stood at the centre of the chamber, her reflection fractured into endless pieces in the towering glass mirrors before her.

A servant was delicately placing red diamonds into her golden hair, the gleaming stones meant to match the multitude of rings coiling around her fingers.

The candlelight caught on every gemstone, making her shimmer like the embers of a dying fire.

Vera’s eyes flickered towards the bedside table.

The wet towels lay abandoned, stiffened at the edges, the lingering evidence of headaches the queen attempted—and failed—to keep at bay.

Scattered across the chamber, half-drunk cups of herbal tea sat forgotten, the once-warm liquid now cold and useless.

The physicians continued their efforts, brewing their elixirs and drafting their remedies, but the queen’s suffering remained untouched by their craft.

Queen Cyra turned, catching sight of Vera lingering in the corner.

With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed the servants, her expression unreadable as she crossed the room towards the grand oak table.

A single glass of deep red wine sat waiting.

Unlike the untouched teas, the queen never failed to drink her wine.

‘We need to talk.’

Vera stiffened.

‘The wedding is three days away.’ The queen took her time, lifting the glass and swirling the liquid inside before taking a slow sip. ‘As soon as he is married, Ash must learn that he is the Chosen One.’

A cold weight settled in Vera’s stomach.

‘Your majesty, we should probably wait.’

‘Why?’ Queen Cyra snapped, sharp as the crackling of a burning log.

‘The Chosen One needs a special dagger to kill the Cursed One. Without it, the curse will not be broken, and the prophecy will remain unfulfilled.’ Vera hesitated, pressing her lips together before continuing. ‘Until I find the dagger, there is nothing that can be done.’

The queen exhaled slowly, her gaze shifting towards the vast window where the night stretched endlessly beyond the castle walls.

‘The longer he is married to her, the more I worry he might start developing feelings… and will be unable to fulfill his duty.’

A reasonable concern. One that had haunted Vera’s thoughts for many sleepless nights. But her worry was not the same as the queen’s. For Vera knew the truth of the curse. Queen Cyra, for all her wisdom, did not.

The queen turned abruptly, sweeping across the room towards the towering shelves that lined the far wall. Tomes upon tomes lay stacked upon the polished wood, their spines worn with use.

Few knew of the queen’s quiet obsession with history—how she pored over the chronicles of every kingdom, reading long into the night, drinking in knowledge the way others drank fine wine.

She had once, in the haze of too many glasses, half-joked that she should have been a historian.

Vera had agreed wholeheartedly. Queen Cyra knew more than most scholars, her collection rivaling even the great Library of Flames.

And yet, as a drakonian woman, she was forbidden from setting foot within its sacred halls.

Everything she had learnt, she had learnt through the hands of servants who smuggled books to her chambers, a silent defiance that the queen never once voiced aloud.

Queen Cyra pulled a thick tome from the shelf, its leather binding worn but elegant, the rich gold of its cover matching the warm hues of the Fire Kingdom’s books. She placed it upon the table, stepping back with a quiet grace, her wine glass hovering near her lips as she observed Vera.

‘I have found some information about where that dagger might be.’ The queen’s voice was measured, but there was something in her tone—something watchful.

Vera approached swiftly, her fingers brushing the cover of the tome. It was unfamiliar. The scent of old parchment clung to it, but the binding… Not drakonian.

Her stomach turned.

The queen saw the flicker of recognition cross her features.

‘It is from the Kingdom of Light.’

Vera froze .

The Kingdom of Light.

Since the beginning, the two kingdoms—Fire and Light—had always been the closest, like siblings bound by a shared devotion to their god. They had survived the Great War together, emerging on the other side still standing, still bound, when the other lands had crumbled into chaos.

Both worshipped the Sun God. Both held their power above all else. Even now, as time pulled the kingdoms in separate directions, their bond remained, unbreakable. And their people, forever intertwined.

Drakonians spoke the common tongue, but all of them learnt phoenixian—the language of the Kingdom of Light. A language of light and radiance, of reverence and pride.

Vera did not speak it. She had not been raised within the walls of the Fire Kingdom, had not been taught the language of its closest ally. And if the queen discovered that she could not read a single word written upon these pages…

She would know something was wrong .

‘Well?’ The queen’s eyes narrowed in frustration.

‘Uhmm…’ Vera stepped back, shaking her head. ‘I do not think this will help, your majesty.’

‘Why not?’

Think, think of something. Give her a little crumb to snack on.

‘The dagger belonged to Tabitha—she cursed the kingdoms. The curse will be broken by that weapon, no other.’ Vera felt her throat tighten. ‘The dagger must be in the Kingdom of Magic.’

The queen nodded, rolling her tongue over her teeth.

‘There are only ruins in that kingdom,’ Vera finally said. ‘But perhaps it is hidden in the witches’ castle.’

It was not. The witches had scoured every corner of their land for the dagger, searching in forgotten tombs, ruins swallowed by time, and places where even the bravest feared to tread. And yet, it remained lost.

Vera had deftly steered the queen’s attention towards her homeland, knowing well that no one dared enter the wastelands .

If Queen Cyra believed the dagger lay hidden amidst the crumbling remnants of a kingdom long turned to dust, then let her believe it—there was nothing she could do about it.

And that deception, at least for now, granted Vera the most valuable of things: time .

What Vera did not expect was for the queen to point her finger at her and say, ‘Someone must enter the wastelands and retrieve the dagger. You shall do.’

‘Me?’ Vera shrieked in panic.

‘You are a maid, no one shall miss you. Be quick.’ The queen dismissed her with a wave of her hand, rubbing her temples to make the headache that was starting go away.

‘But I am the princess’s maid, your majesty,’ Vera said softly as to not anger the monarch. ‘Surely she will notice my absence.’

The queen’s face grew taut.

‘We shall tell the princess that you have fallen ill and I will send her another maid. You should not be worrying over such extrinsic affairs. Your duty is to me, not the wyverian princess. Hurry along now, child. Time is of the essence.’

With a curt nod, Vera turned, slipping through the servants' door with the same practiced grace she had spent years perfecting.

Somehow, without meaning to, Vera had entangled herself in a web of her own making.

For years, she had crafted her disguise, constructing the character of the anxious, unassuming maid, her glamour woven so intricately that no one had ever questioned her place.

But now—now she would have to unravel it all.

The role she had spent so long perfecting would have to be discarded, her face altered, her demeanour transformed.

The wyverian princess would need a new maid. And Vera would become her.

She exhaled sharply, her irritation simmering as she strode down the winding staircase, the cold stone pressing against the soles of her feet with each hurried step.

The witches did not know where the damned dagger was. But they knew one thing for certain—it was not in the wastelands. That alone was enough to set Vera’s teeth on edge. Her patience was running thin.

And when the curse was finally shattered, when the witches rose from the shadows and took back the power that had been stolen from them—

Vera was going to slice the Fire Queen’s throat for wasting her time.

…

Three days left.