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Recent developments are going according to plan . Queen Laurel agreed to my proposal for emissaries, and my worthless son will be in the Witch Queen’s kingdom by tomorrow afternoon. The human armies are also growing their numbers rapidly, thanks to my soldier salary program that promises their families two generations of payments in exchange for their service. And the rapidly growing army did not come up once at the Forum of Royals. Not a single person guessed at my true motivations for sending Hawthorne to Thayaria, not even that obnoxious girl betrothed to him who’s too smart for her own good.

I place a single petal of thayar flower on the sterile workstation, then wrap it in enough swirling wind to keep it hovering in the air. While I observe the effects, my thoughts drift to my son and the potential for him to ruin plans that have been in the works for centuries.

I chuckle at the thought. Hawthorne is too kindhearted and weak-willed to go against me in Thayaria. That stupid boy cares too much for his friends and will do anything to keep them safe from the punishment I threatened. And his own natural curiosity will likely drive him to learn more about the female he was once told would be his stepmother.

That plan hadn’t worked out, and thank the aether for that. Had I culled her magic like I’d intended to, it would’ve destroyed the only chance I have at seeing my plans through. Not to mention, marriage doesn’t suit me. Once Hawthorne was born, I’d left his mother to pursue her own life and told her she was free to do whatever she pleased, as long as she stayed out of my way. But the bitch didn’t listen and poked her nose in too many unwelcome places. She was also too smart for her own good, and it cost her everything.

With another strong push of raw aether, the thayar flower crumbles into dust, and I sweep the remains into a small pile. Lowering my nose to the powder, I snort it up through my nostrils, reveling in the feel of power jolting through my veins.

My late wife’s face crosses my mind. Renowned for her beauty, I’d married her for her family’s line of powerful light channelers, hoping she would produce a strong heir. And she had, though Hawthorne’s magical abilities are eclipsed by other traits he gets from his mother. He is overly sympathetic, rash and impulsive, pleasure seeking, and loyal to his friends. But the people of Velmara have come to love him. I can’t do anything to their Shining Prince.

My blood boils thinking of that moniker. Velmara had once been called the ‘Golden Kingdom,’ named for its yellow hills that produce enough gold to gild every structure in the capital city twice over. When I took the throne from my father, I slowly seeded the moniker ‘Golden King’ out to the people. A slip to a courtier here and there, a typo in the transcriptions of my speeches. It was the first real success of my propaganda machine. Within one hundred years, I’d become the Golden King, the golden king dom forgotten.

But when Hawthorne was born and the Velmaran people realized the strength of his light channeling magic, they had dubbed him the Shining Prince all on their own. The name grates on my nerves every time I hear it.

I shudder, the control I keep in such a firm grip slipping. My eyes turn into slits, vision blurring with a yellow haze. Steam escapes my nostrils, and I feel my skin stretching and hardening. With a deep breath in, I reverse the slip, then take one more inhale to solidify my restraint.

Nicknames can be powerful. The Golden King persona serves me well, and coining the name Witch Queen for Laurel is one of my proudest accomplishments. Even those suspicious of me, like Queen Lobelia, still somewhat believe that Laurel practices the witchcraft of blood magic, not realizing it is I who seeded those beliefs. The people of the primarily human kingdom of Reshnar are absolutely terrified of the Witch Queen and her dark magic thanks to my stories about her, and all the commoners in Velmara fear what she might do to their children if unleashed.

I gave Laurel that moniker before the Battle of Moormyr as a way to justify the invasion of Thayaria. But it really took hold when Laurel released a wave of power so strong it was felt even in the Nivan Desert, every single Velmaran soldier, myself included, killed or aerstepped from Thayaria. The death toll had been in the thousands, sealing her fate as the blood-curdling Witch Queen.

People, human and fae alike, are so easy to manipulate. Just pull the right strings, suggest the right messages at the right time, and they’ll believe anything. Even easier is getting them to forget their history. For if the people of this world remembered its history, they would know that it’s impossible for Laurel to have used blood magic that day, or any day, for that matter.