Blood of the Sea, Chapter One

Five years ago, the Continent

Chapter 1: Enthrone

Veyda

Enya’s shadow pauses at the doorway of Veyda’s room, her flame-bright eyes piercing the darkness. Veyda smooths her hands over the waistline of the scarlet dress she threw on. They had talked about this moment for weeks; she knew it was time.

Enya hisses, “You ready, or what?”

In the pre-dawn dark, Veyda nods.

“Good. Let’s go.” Enya drifts from the doorway, leaving Veyda to trail after her.

The two of them exit their home; some might call it cozy, but Veyda always thought it was too restrictive. She doesn’t give it a parting glance, even going so far as to leave the door unlocked in their wake. This day will end one of two ways. Neither way leads me back to this doorstep. The finality of it felt good.

The shadows embrace them as they traipse through the sleepy stone city. Seyune dazzles in the sunlight, but starlight proves too weak to do much more than offer the two mages a glimpse of the city in between the shadows cast by the height of the buildings at their sides. Scaffolding holds up its fair share of houses still under construction. Seyune, the new capital of Farrah: it was proving to be exciting so far, yet Veyda knew dawn would herald a new building block in the story of the city’s beginnings. One made of blood.

Finely ground stone dust crunches under Veyda’s heel as she walks just behind Enya. From the back, Enya’s curly red hair bounces across her shoulders and falls mid-way down her back, fastened into a militant braid. Her orange robes billow around her knees, while the sleeves are worn cut short at the elbow, leaving her hands free - hands which glow red in the darkness as the mage pair close in on the silhouette of the burgeoning palace.

Veyda glances down at her own hands, her fingers curling into fists as a tendril of black-red energy sluggishly wraps around her wrists. She grits her teeth and follows after Enya, eyes alighting upon the forms of soldiers standing at attention outside the palace doors.

Enya’s voice splits through the dark, a wordless yell echoed by a ball of fire which bursts across the first soldier’s chest in a bloom of red and orange. His screams are immediate as he bats at the flames, even as they consume him like dried kindling - his scream falling short as his body slumps first to his knees, and then to the floor, wreathed in flame. Veyda pauses at the foot of the stairs leading to the palace doors, her gaze drawn up and up the white marble walls as fire clashes with swords and melts armor before her. The palace has haunted her dreams in the weeks leading up to this moment. Enya’s decision to wrest power away from the current monarch ringing in her ears alongside the screams of the dying. The worthy, rise, her sister had told her - hunger bright as flame in her eyes as Enya had leaned forward and clasped Veyda’s hands in her overly warm ones. We will be worthy.

A twitch in her chest tugs Veyda forward suddenly. She follows the sensation blindly, blinking slowly as her hands find the sticky substance pooling down the stairs towards her. She slowly raises her gaze, finding the slack-jawed expression of one of the dead staring back at her from their slumped posture, prone atop the stairway. She shivers, a dark urge bringing her finger to her mouth. Bliss erupts across her tongue and it’s as though she had never seen true color before, her eyes falling shut as the world around her grows bright - too bright - with pastels and auras. She squints, seeing flame wrapped around her sister as the fire mage lunges, striking again and again.

The palace doors glow like the promise of a proffered palm as they are thrust open, and more guards spill out onto the stairs. Swords of silvery steel gleam with the first rays of dawn - raised with the shouts of surrender! and treason!

Though Veyda sees their mouths form the words, she finds herself deaf to their cries, her gaze drawn instead to the pulse locked within the skin of their neck. With each beat of their hearts, the world seems to narrow in on that one focal point. Hunger burns through her body, and she reaches for it, fingers splayed out and grasping.

The first soldier falls to his knees, the crunch of bone nearly muted behind the roar of blood in Veyda’s ears. She opens her mouth, inhaling the sweet sanguine scent as the man screams, then chokes, writhing from an unknown source of pain, his eyes rolling back as he claws at his face. Blood - hot, thick and red - pours from his eyes like tears and lifts from his skin, spiraling through the air towards Veyda’s outstretched hands. The liquid coats her skin like a warm hug, seeping into her. She shudders, climbing to her feet as strength floods through her. The black-red bands around her wrists pulse and quiver, growing in length and thickness as they wrap up around her arms. Faster, faster the bands of magic churn in the air until it hums in her ears. The color morphing from that of old, dried blood, to the bright crimson of the freshly spilled.

As Enya falls to her knees, battered beneath a pile of swords, their gazes lock. Understanding colors Enya’s face like the flush of exertion already upon her cheeks. She scowls, but nods, and Veyda curls her fingers into fists once more.

The guards surrounding her fiery sister fall as ribbons of blood are ripped from their bodies and wreath themselves around Veyda like pet snakes. Deaf to the dying’s last gasps of air, Veyda climbs the stairs and offers her hand to Enya. The fire mage takes her hand, climbing to her feet, and slowly bows. A small smile curls around Veyda’s mouth, flirting with her lips and the curve of her cheeks.

Breathing hard, Enya takes a moment to push some hair away from her face, “You haven’t used your magic in so long…”

Veyda inclines her head and brushes past her sister toward the door, which hangs open like a slack jaw. “The hunger resurfaced.” She turns her hand over, an orb of pulsing red, almost liquid-like magic quivering in the air above her palm. When she turns back to her sister, she sees herself reflected in Enya’s molten gaze: a woman who now stands taller in her skin, her complexion pale, but her eyes a bright, bloody red. Veyda smiles, her teeth a little sharper in the corners of her mouth, “I think it’s time the worthy rose, right sister?”

Enya gestures for Veyda to go through the doors first, her posture cowed though still tense, brittle for battle. Veyda steps through the doors, the heat of the morning sun warming her back as the coolness of the stony interior envelops her. The air is crisp and as she inhales, the coppery heat of blood diffuses across her senses. Narrowing her gaze, she skips past the ornate sculptures, the gold ornamentations, the rich draperies covering the walls. She ignores the guards who rush her only to fall to the floor with the clank of armor and the scent of burning flesh. The heat of Enya’s magic chases after her as she waltzes up to the throne where the monarch sits.

The Mage-King throws his hands out, warding her off as his heartbeat skips, tripping over itself. His magic rushes to greet her, to stop her, to bind her, yet bloody ribbons rip through the magic, drinking it in as crimson spirals straight for his heart. Time seems to slow as his eyes flash wide, his hands gripping the arms of the throne as though the chair will save him, and then she is on him, her carmine-red lips brushing a kiss against the pulse in his throat as her palm lies against his fluttering heart: the organ nearly leaping through his skin.

“We are all but flesh and bone and blood, my king,” Veyda whispers. “It’s time the worthy lead our people.” Her fingers sink into his skin, the heat of pumping blood drawing her deeper, through bone which moves aside like warm butter under the advance of her magic; magic which is no longer tourniqueted like a bleeding wound, but rather bright, healthy, and well-fed like an obedient pet. She curls her fingers around her prize and pulls, watching the light in the Mage-King’s eyes stutter, his voice an empty gurgle as his hands flail only momentarily about his chest - his grasp reaching for her yet falling short as his heart beats in her palm. His life blood drips down her arm; a few droplets dribbling wetly against the floor.

As she holds his heart aloft, the blood still running down her arm, sinking into her skin and giving her the flush of a well-fed predator, the remaining mages in the room fall to their knees, casting themselves upon her mercy. Their heartbeats race with fear - the scent like a new kind of drug as it fills the air.

Enya, her sister, remains standing as the fire mage steps to the side of the room, proclaiming, “Hail, Veyda, our new Queen.”

The call is parroted back: “Hail, Blood Queen. Long may you reign.”