Page 4

I met someone today. The Council sent me to the Kingdom of Darkness for a meeting with the wyverians.

The Council has sent many of us to different kingdoms to try and strengthen our alliances.

I do not know if it will work. The gods are angry.

But upon visiting the wyverian castle, I met a wyverian out on the grounds as he was training with a sword.

He is the most handsome creature I have laid eyes upon.

I know the Council will not approve, we are meant to marry one of our own to keep the magic flowing through our bloodlines.

But he was gorgeous. Long black hair like a blanket made of darkness that I wished to wrap around my body.

And his eyes were so dark it felt like looking into two tunnels.

He did not speak to me, but I felt the way his attention lingered over me.

Tomorrow I shall be returning to the castle.

I hope he is there once again. Perhaps I shall strike up the courage to ask for his name.

Tabitha Wysteria

The castle was not really a castle.

It was a place made of nightmares. Born from the very bones of the mountain, it loomed over the abyss, its jagged balconies clawing at the sky, teetering on the edges of darkness, as if eager to plunge into the void below.

This was no gilded fortress of kings and queens—it was a sanctuary of shadows, a roost for creatures carved from the night.

Its halls stretched vast and cavernous, the walls and floors polished black rock, smooth as obsidian, gleaming like midnight under firelight.

In the great hall, a monolithic stone table reigned, its length fit for an army, its surface worn by centuries of counsel, war, and bloodshed.

A towering hearth stood at its back, where a blue eternal flame burnt ceaselessly, casting cold light over the chamber.

It was the only warmth the castle allowed.

Mal followed her sister through the hollow grandeur, her gaze drifting towards the sitting area nestled to the right—a fragile pocket of comfort in a kingdom of ghosts.

No matter what the world whispered of them—monsters, warlords, harbingers of death—Mal had never known cruelty within these walls. She had grown up with love.

She could still remember the way Kai and Kage would sprawl on the floor, lost in their board games, while their mother’s lullabies wove through the air like silk.

Haven, seated at their mother’s feet, would sit with her hands folded in her lap as the queen braided her hair, the weight of a crown already upon her shoulders.

And their father—a great man, a quiet storm—would sit with a book in hand, his deep voice conjuring tales of warriors who had once soared into battle upon the backs of wyverns.

And yet, no matter how much they loved her, Mal had always felt as though she were on the outside, looking in.

As a child, she had spent countless nights perched upon the ledges of the open windows, gazing at the endless expanse beyond.

Dreaming. Wondering. What lay beyond the kingdom that had caged her?

No other kingdom would ever welcome a wyverian princess, and yet, staying meant suffocating beneath a truth she could not name.

‘There you are, my darlings.’ The queen’s voice was silk and smoke, wrapping around them like the scent of old incense.

She lay draped across a velvet settee, poised in effortless grace.

Her horns—tall, elegant, adorned with black stones that shimmered in the dim light—marked her as one of the most beautiful creatures to ever exist.

Mal hesitated, watching as Haven crossed the room to their mother’s side, embracing her as though they had been parted for a lifetime.

Mal did not approach.

Her mother was a woman of wisdom, of kindness, a queen beloved by her people. A creature of light within a kingdom of shadows. Mal could not understand how someone so luminous had given birth to her.

Fur brushed against her fingertips.

Mal glanced down. A panther prowled towards the queen, its body dark as the void, its form shifting like living smoke.

A shadow.

Every royal child was given one—a beast born from nightmares and midnight, bound to protect them, to fight for them, to guide them into the Forest of Silent Cries when death finally came. They appeared at birth, emerging from the darkness like specters summoned from the underworld.

Mal had never been given one.

No creature had risen from the Forest of Silent Cries to claim her, no phantom had ever whispered her name, pledging itself to her cause.

Another reminder of how she did not belong.

She had felt the weight of her parents’ unspoken sorrow when she was younger—the pity in their eyes when she had been left behind while her siblings played with the creatures that were their lifelong companions.

Mal had envied them. Deeply.

She had ignored the shadows ever since .

‘Mal, what’s wrong?’

Her mother’s voice was gentle. Knowing.

‘Where’s father?’

‘With your brother Kage, looking over maps,’ the queen answered. ‘Why?’

Mal did not answer. She merely lifted her gaze to the blue flame burning in the hearth, watching the panther curl itself beside it, its molten eyes locked onto her own.

How she longed to kneel beside it. To feel its darkness wrap around her, to let it pull her into the void where she could finally, finally disappear.

Instead, she turned away, stepping towards the ledge of the open window. Below her, the abyss yawned wide, stretching into eternity.

A fall from such heights would be death to any other.

But wyverians did not fear the fall, not when they possessed wyverns that would keep them from falling.

No, Mal feared a many number of things, but falling was not one of them.

The great doors of the main hall groaned open, their weight echoing through the cavernous chamber like the sigh of an ancient beast.

King Ozul entered first, his shadow-hounds rushing ahead, their spectral forms weaving through the air like liquid smoke.

They sniffed at the air, at the walls, at the souls within, their glowing eyes sweeping the room as though they could pierce through bone and blood to taste the secrets hidden beneath.

Kage followed seconds later, his movements deliberate, his expression carved from quiet irritation.

It was no secret he resented being pulled from the sanctuary of his books—the thirdborn had always been the scholar, the dreamer, the one whose hands were better suited to the spine of a tome than the hilt of a sword.

He was slender where their father was broad, poised where their brother was tempestuous, and his gaze—dark, sharp, unfathomable—belonged to their mother entirely.

The queen's favorite.

None would dare utter it aloud, and yet it was written in the soft curve of her lips whenever she looked upon him, in the quiet reverence of their walks together, in the way she sat perfectly still when he played the violin, as though his music had the power to tether her soul to this world.

Mal had spent years pretending not to notice, years looking away whenever their laughter trailed down the halls, the sound light, effortless, like the wind stirring the dead leaves in the gardens.

She had learnt long ago that envy was a silent, creeping thing.

The king strode towards the great stone dining table, his steps measured, his presence that of a mountain—unshaken, immovable. He whistled once, low and commanding, and his hounds followed obediently, settling at his feet like shadows given form.

He sighed as he sat, the weight of the world carved into the lines of his face.

Mal studied him closely, noting the strands of silver that now wove through his black hair, the weary way his shoulders slumped—a king who had known love but not war, who had built his rule upon the loyalty of his people rather than the fear of his enemies.

He was still as formidable as he had been in his youth, and yet Mal could see it—the passage of time, slow and relentless, catching up with him at last.

She knew the way the maids stole glances at him as he passed, the admiration that shone in their eyes.

And she understood. It was not just his strength, nor his handsomeness, nor even the crown upon his head that made him revered.

It was the way he ruled, the way he loved, the way he carried the burdens of his kingdom without complaint.

The moment his gaze lifted, their eyes met.

Mal moved without hesitation, perching herself on the arm of his chair, pressing a kiss against his cheek. The scent of earth and iron clung to him, of smoke and steel and something ancient. His large hand settled over hers, fingers warm, grounding.

‘We need to speak privately,’ he said, his voice a whisper of thunder beneath his breath.

Mal's grip on his arm tightened.

‘I went to see the Seer today,’ she whispered back.

A flicker of something indiscernible passed through his dark eyes.

He nodded once, his expression unreadable, and coughed lightly, as though clearing his throat.

A distraction. The moment passed as the rest of their family arrived, the fragile intimacy of their conversation dissolving into the presence of others.

It had been their secret for many years.

It had begun when she was still a child, small enough to walk beside him and feel as though the world had shrunk to just the two of them. She had thought, perhaps, that it would be her turn, that she would have something that belonged solely to her—a connection, a closeness, something sacred.

And yet their walks had not led them through gardens of laughter and stories, but to the edge of the Forest of Silent Cries.

To the Seer.

King Ozul had taken her there time and time again, his steps steady, his voice measured, seeking something—an answer, a truth hidden between prophecy and madness. And then, one day, he had stopped.

As if whatever he had been searching for could not be found .