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“Get your ass up and be the Queen your people deserve,” a familiar feminine voice commands over the clinks and grunts of the battle below. “You don’t have the luxury of falling apart, not when your people are dying to protect you. ”

Nemesia, my General and the only person who would dare address me so curtly, crouches down beside me and places her calloused warrior’s hand on my back. Voice softening, she adds, “I know you’re tired. I know you’re grieving. We all are. But if we lose this battle, it might be the end. Our only option is to keep pushing forward. We need a plan, Laurel.”

I stand and look down upon the battle from the hilltop where our command is set up, desperation and fear threatening to consume me. Fae soldiers clad in armor fight in the Valley of Moormyr below me, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, the wild thayar flowers crushed beneath their feet.

Just five years ago, my parents brought me to a festival held in this very valley. Now, the crimson petals and dark green leaves are indistinguishable from the blood, mud, and other gore of a three-day long battle. No one prepared me for the stench of war, or the mess of it, and I’ve learned the hard way in the last two months what endless skirmishes, raids, and battles do to the once picturesque landscape of my kingdom.

Grief stabs my insides, sending me to my knees again as I remember my parents and the festival that was their favorite event in Thayaria. Tears run down my face as I crumple, curling myself into a ball. I’ll never be able to finish this war, will never live up to the legacy of my parents. They ruled Thayaria for three hundred years, providing our kingdom with three centuries of peace and prosperity—how could I possibly replace them? I’m nowhere near ready to rule, not at only twenty years old. I was supposed to have centuries of training and preparation before I inherited their throne. With the long lives of the fae, my parents should have lived long enough to pass the throne to me gradually, staying on as advisors until I was ready to rule on my own. Now I’m alone, with no one to guide me or tell me how to end this war.

“Pull it together, Laurel,” Nemesia hisses, though not unkindly, breaking through my inner turmoil. Nemesia’s hand doesn’t leave my back as I stand again, knees weak and limbs uncertain. With a deep inhale, I turn to face the closest person I’ve ever had to a sibling, her hazel eyes staring back at me with deep set resolve. She’s barely out of fae adolescence herself, our centuries-long lives extending what humans consider early adulthood well into our fourth decade. At forty years old, she’s what humans consider early twenties, while I’m practically a teenager. Despite her age, Nemesia was the only person I considered appointing General of my armies when the time came to choose her mother’s replacement. “We need a plan. And I will not make it without you,” she repeats, her tall, lithe body—so unlike my own—towering over me. Tendrils of white-blonde hair escape her braid as the wind caresses her sharp and angular features. Dark tawny skin ripples with muscles in a tense stance.

“We need a plan,” I repeat, nodding in acknowledgement of all the things Nemesia isn’t saying aloud. We need my magic . Magic that I’m barely capable of wielding and that no one understands, myself included. Magic that my parents insisted—demanded—I keep secret. They gave their lives trying to protect me, trying to keep the full extent of my powers and my lack of control over them locked away. But I knew this moment would come. No matter how hard my parents fought to keep my magic—to keep me— a secret, I knew it wouldn’t work. Part of me wonders if that’s why Mazus launched this war to begin with. He wanted me to reveal the secrets of the prophecy-blessed heir, now ruler, of Thayaria.

Nemesia gives me an encouraging smile, lips cracked from weeks of sun and wind exposure.

I can’t allow myself to dwell on the prophecy, not now, not when it has completely and utterly destroyed my life. A fated love that will unite realms is what I was apparently destined for, though in much more flowery language than that. My entire life I’ve been lauded and praised for all the good I would eventually do, envied for the fate that awaited me. But the prophecy is nonsense. All I have is magic I can’t control, the blood of my people on my hands, and an impossible choice. I squeeze my eyes shut and deeply inhale, then center myself within the current of the aether flowing around me. I hold my breath for three seconds, then slowly exhale—just like I was taught by the leymaster my parents brought in when I started displaying abnormal magical powers at the age of nine.

Opening my eyes, Nemesia still stares back at me, eyes wide with expectation.

“What if there is no plan, Neme? What if—what if I don’t have enough magic to stop this?” I ask softly, my voice trembling.

Nemesia takes my hands in hers, looking deep into my eyes and seeing through me , like she always does. “I’ve seen you tap into the aether deeper than anyone ever has, Laurel.”

I sigh, dropping her hands. Her belief in me is both fortifying and suffocating. I look back down at the battle. My armies have dwindled to a few hundred soldiers, while Mazus has battalions still waiting in his army camp just outside the valley who have yet to join the fight. My eyes lock onto a female Thayarian soldier battling three massive Velmaran males, and my body tenses with recognition. She was once assigned to my personal guard. Though outnumbered, she drives forward with her sword, stabbing one Velmaran soldier in the stomach and parrying to slash the arm of another. For a moment, there’s a flare of hope in my chest that she may be able to take them—before a fourth soldier comes up behind her. He knocks her to the ground and swiftly slices the back of her neck. She slumps to the ground and doesn’t get up again.

Bile rises in my throat, but I force myself to stay standing. My shoulders slump in shame—I cannot remember her name.

Resolve hardens in my chest. My magic will not be enough—not with how unpredictable my control is. Night after night of this war, I’ve practiced, trying to use my aether gifts consistently. But each night, my empty hands remind me of all I’ve lost. No, there’s no plan, no scenario where we win this war. I decide on what a part of me always knew was inevitable.

“Send a message to Mazus,” I whisper to Nemesia, not wanting to say the words aloud but having no other option. “I want an audience with him. And a temporary respite from the battle while we… negotiate .” Nemesia gives me a hard look, the angles of her expression creating a sharp line from her jaw to her pointed fae ears. “Until then, we hold the line in case he doesn’t agree to the ceasefire.”

“What are you planning?” she asks warily.

“He asked for my hand. And like a fool I turned him down, believing myself destined for something greater because of that damned prophecy. Believing I didn’t have to marry a centuries-old male who makes my skin crawl.” I will not allow fanciful dreams to kill my people for another minute. “Send the message.” The last words are firm and final, the whispering uncertainty gone from my voice. I give her a look that once upon a time she would have told me was my queen look, eyes hardened and lips pursed. Then, we would have laughed at the idea that I’d one day be a queen. Now she only nods, hesitating briefly before striding back to the tent. I hear her shouting orders to her commanders, firm and brokering no argument. Several fae leave the war tent to send out the message to hold the line and not retreat. Not yet, at least.

It was always going to lead to this. I’ve given up on the idea of fated mates and destinies. Those dreams died with my parents.

Thayarian soldiers—my soldiers—battle two and three opponents at a time while we wait for what feels like ages for a response from Mazus. They’re tired and faltering. Then, I hear it: horns blaring and the order to fall back from the Velmaran commanders echoing across the valley. The Velmaran soldiers dutifully depart, eyes on my soldiers and weapons still up as they back away from the line of fighting. The brows of my soldiers furrow in skepticism, unsure what’s brought the fighting to such an abrupt halt.

My eyes immediately find Nemesia when I walk into the war tent. Her hardened eyes and the tense shoulders of her lieutenants make my heart drop from my chest. Reaching the huddled group, I ask, “What are his terms?”

“We can’t accept them, Your Majesty,” Nemesia quickly answers. “We’re preparing a missive now with our counter proposal.”

“What are his terms?” I demand this time, using the voice laced with the aether that compels any who are less powerful than me to obey my orders. I once loved hearing my mother use this voice.

Nemesia sighs. “He wants you to meet him in his personal tent. Alone. He asks that you bring no weapons, no advisors, and no guards. It’s an outrageous demand.”

“I’ll accept.”

“But—”

“Tell him I’ll be there in an hour,” I interrupt, then turn away, unable to meet Nemesia’s eyes. I know what she’s thinking. That I can’t do this. That this is everything my parents fought for and gave their lives to prevent. But I’m not willing to sacrifice my people in a selfish pursuit of love or magic.

An hour later, the crimson silk of my empire-waist dress swirls around me as I scan the Velmaran encampment across the valley, a spring storm building that makes the air dance with electricity. This is the same place I stood three days ago as this battle began, with the hope of a decisive victory filling my chest. Now all I feel is cold resolve.

“Are you sure—” Nemesia tries to say.

“I’m sure. Be ready for anything.”

I stride down the hill and cross the expanse between the two war camps. Fallen fae litter the landscape, impossible to distinguish friend from foe. As I walk, the noxious mud squelches beneath my feet with blood and other gore. I try to avoid getting the bottom of my dress dirty, slowly picking my way through the maze of severed limbs and abandoned weapons. Halfway across the expanse, I realize that it’s pointless, and Mazus should see what walking across the battlefield he created causes, even if it’s just a ruined dress.

As I approach, Velmaran soldiers break out in hisses of “witch,” and my cheeks heat with shame. Mazus was the first to use the word, and it’s taken off in the last few months of war. Narrowed eyes and pursed lips greet me when I finally reach the edge of their encampment, the soldiers on guard wary of me. Air channelers probe my body for weapons using wind, and when they’re satisfied I’ve complied with the terms, they nod to a guard standing outside what must be Mazus’s personal tent.

I feel a tingle of Mazus’s magic along my shoulders and tense, knowing what’s about to happen and yet still unprepared for the jolt of aerstepping magic that brings me face to face with the Velmaran King. Internally rolling my eyes, I look up at the man who declared war on my kingdom, labeled me a witch, and claimed he had to defeat me for the good of the Four Kingdoms. As if my very existence threatened the safety of our world.

Mazus Vicant embodies his moniker—the Golden King, he’s called. Tall and tanned, he towers over me as his handsome face pulls into a glowing smile. Olive, green-brown eyes stare down at me, like a forest at twilight. Such an unusual shade that I’d know them anywhere. Despite his otherworldly beauty, the way he carries himself and the hollowness of his expression, like he’s chiseled from stone, make my skin crawl when I’m in his presence.

“I would have aerstepped you across the battlefield,” he says with a look of disgust on his perfect face, surveying the bottom of my dress. “I simply assumed you would use that deep well of power you keep hidden to avoid the filth now covering the bottom half of your dress.”

I clench my jaw. Play nice, you’re trying to marry him after all. “I only wanted to ensure you knew I was coming and for your guards to adequately search me,” I say with sickly sweetness.

“You need not lie to me. I know you have little control over your magic, witch .” I try to hide my flinching at his words, but I’m unsuccessful. He notices and gives me a menacing grin. “If only you’d agreed to marry me. I could’ve counseled you, and we might have been able to avoid the tragic accident that led to your parents’ deaths. Committed by one with too much power and too little guidance.” My fists ball, and I feel magical energy begin to pulse through me. I try to speak, to scream at him the truth of his treachery, but he cuts me off. “No, there’s no need for lies between us. I know why you’re here, why you sent your pleading message to call for temporary peace and a meeting with me. You want to surrender. Want to beg me to wed you as a last desperate attempt to get me to agree to end this war.”

It takes all the willpower in me to hold my tongue. He just needs to stroke his own ego first. Let him get it out . This doesn’t change your plan.

“And since I’m demanding no lies from you, I’ll hold myself to that same standard. I’m the Golden King, after all. Driven by honor and duty and all the things my people believe me to be.” He grins, flashing his bright white teeth in what feels more like a snarl than a smile. “The truth is, I don’t need to marry you. Not anymore. I don’t need to end this war in a peace treaty. I’m winning. Decisively . And considering you aren’t even half as beautiful as my first wife, and certainly more trouble than she ever was, I have no desire to shackle myself to you in marriage when I can take what I want so easily.”

My chest tightens, panic rising. “Mazus, Your Majesty, please—my people—”

Disgust crosses his expression as he cuts me off. “Laurel, begging like this is beneath you. And certainly doesn’t make me want to marry you. Weakness is repulsive. ” He practically spits the last sentence, but I barely comprehend what he’s saying. The distinct buzz of magical energy from the aether builds in my body. No, not right now. I need to stay in control. Sweat gathers on my brow from the effort of pushing the magic down. “As we speak, my soldiers are picking off the pitiful remaining army you have. I’ve sent my best assassin after your General ,” he spits the word, as if the idea of a young female general disgusts him. No. No, no, no. Not again. I can’t lose another person. The buzzing intensifies, and this time I can’t dampen it. It shakes my bones and churns my organs. I’m consumed by rage and so… much… energy… “I will take you back to Velmara to experiment on. Thayaria will be absorbed into Velmara, and we can forget all about this pitiful excuse for a war.”

He takes a step toward me, and I react instantly. His body freezes, eyes widening in shock and horror as he realizes I’ve stopped his ability to move. I stare at my own hands, unsure what magic I’ve used and how to undo it. Looking at Mazus again, determination settles across his expression. He grunts, breaking my magical hold on him, then calls for guards to bring in iron shackles. I vaguely sense the guards arrive, distracted by my fury and the effort of keeping my magic under control. If I let go and unleash it, I’ll have no ability to direct it, not in this emotional state. Not to mention the years-long plan to keep the true depth of my power hidden, the plan my parents died for , will be ruined.

Soldiers grab me and pin my arms to my sides, their grips so tight it makes my arms ache. I scream in fear, but there’s no one coming to save me. My parents are dead, thousands of my soldiers have already fallen, and Nemesia… the only person left in this world who I love is probably already dead. Mazus steps toward me, a dagger and several vials in his hands. He slices down my arm and a whimper of pain escapes me. Tears collect in my eyes and blur my vision. I try again to break out of the soldiers’ hold, whipping and contorting my body in any position I can think of to break free, but to no avail.

Collecting the crimson blood that seeps from my skin, Mazus grins at me with malice. I panic, unsure of what’s happening. Iron shackles clamp around my wrists, and then Mazus is speaking with his aether-voice, able to compel me because of the iron, even though I have more power than him.

“Laurel, use plants to slice your wrists,” he commands, and my magic rises to follow his command, even as my mind pushes against the order. If I don’t get out of here, I won’t survive what he plans to do with me. Of that I’m sure. I grunt, and with every ounce of magical prowess I possess, I ignore the compulsion. His eyes widen in a lethal fury as his hand wraps around my throat, squeezing tightly. I try to bring my hands up to pry him off me, but they remain shackled at my sides. My eyes water, and my nose runs. He issues the command again, and I manage to fight it off, but just barely. The iron is quickly draining me of my power. I have to get out of here.

I can’t move my hands, can’t breathe, can’t even thrash my body, so I close my eyes and focus on the only thing that might save me—magic. My skin buzzes with more intensity than I’ve ever felt. With barely the whisper of a thought, I stop the aether from flowing through Mazus’s veins again, an awareness of how to use the magic washing over me. Before the guards can react, I’ve halted them as well, and I easily duck out of their grasp. The iron on my wrists melts away. With an explosion of light, I take one step forward in the tent and the next is on the grass of my war camp. My arm still drips with blood from Mazus’s cut.

The bodies of my slaughtered soldiers are everywhere. Only a few remain, desperately trying to fight off the Velmaran soldiers sent to decimate my forces. I want to help them, but my thoughts are on the war tent and Nemesia. Without thinking, I’m aerstepping again through a pocket of magical current and then I’m in the tent. A soldier has Nemesia pulled tight against his chest, dagger poised at her throat and ready to slice.

The buzzing inside of me builds to an unbearable level. I can’t breathe, and the world around me becomes fuzzy as my sight diminishes. All I feel is the jostling of the magical current as it rises, unchecked, within me. The tent shakes, steel poles bending towards my orbit. The soldier holding Nemesia looks up for a brief second, hostility flickering across his expression. With barely another thought, I find the magical current flowing around the soldier, then focus in on where it collects around his heart. I wrap my power around his magical source and squeeze, willing the aether to stop flowing through him. He drops.

Relief fills my lungs as Nemesia gasps for breath. Before I can reach her, another dagger whips through the air. I turn, realizing too late that the King said he sent his best assassin for Nemesia, not a soldier.

I can sense the magic being channeled through the steel of the tiny blade as it whips towards Nemesia’s heart.

It will not miss.

The pressure inside of me builds and builds—filling my stomach, my lungs, and my throat with sizzling, burning magic—until I erupt . With a screeching bellow, I force magic into and then out of me in massive amounts, thinking only that I want this all to be over. That I want my people safe and the Velmaran soldiers gone. That I want King Mazus to suffer like he made me suffer, and that I want him defeated. With a final, hoarse yell, all the magic within me pours into those desires. I won’t be able to hide the truth of my power after this, but I don’t care.

When all the magic drains from my veins, I collapse in a heap on the ground, relieved that death will finally take me.