She stood amongst the fallen with her blood tipped spear grasped tightly in her hand. Tortured souls screamed and rose into the dead of the night yet she did nothing, said nothing. She remained silent. Still. Even as one by one, the raindrops fell from the darkness around her, washing her and cleansing her of her sins.

The skies above her growled and the rain came down harder. The cold rainwater cut tracks through the blood that coated her arms and snaked its way towards her battle scarred heart. She remained unmoving, though her eyes shifted slowly across the landscape and the devastation that remained. The fires that shone in the blackness below crackled and spat their heated venom into the night despite the rain that fell.

One man approached her, lone and solemn, his boots squelching in the thick mud. "Arman has arrived, my Queen. His banner is yours." He bowed his head and made his way down the bloody track, towards the encampment where Aysá's prisoner stood bound by chains. She turned, only to catch a glimpse of the messenger before he was engulfed by the shadows. Aysá glanced back at the corpse littered fields below and then made her own way down the hillside.

The corpses became fewer on the long walk back to her tent. The silence of the dead gave way to the moans of the dying. She looked down at the few that clung to life but she did not stop, and her expression showed little in the way of sympathy or contempt. Those that wore her sigil, deep crimson with a black two headed phoenix, looked up at her with pride, knowing their sacrifice had ensured their victory. There were whispers as she moved through the carnage, eyes followed her but she remained focused on her destination. The mutterings of her name grew louder and louder as it moved through the remaining soldiers like a wave. Over and over they called to her, their weapons raised high above their heads in victorious salute.

By the time she arrived at her tent, the chanting of her name had grown into an almighty roar. Swords crashed against shields and clenched fists beat against armour clad chests, all pounding like a heartbeat. Those living remembered the dead and brought their spirits back to life with their vigour. The two guards that stood at the entrance to her makeshift quarters snapped to attention upon her approach and as she neared, they moved quickly to peel back the rich red fabric that covered the entrance. She handed off her spear and stepped inside without as much as a word or a nod.

Arman stood waiting for her in the centre of the tent. His feet clad in shackles and his wrists bound by chains. The blue of his tunic was stained with blood that was both his and that of the soldiers he had slain in battle. Dirt and grime covered him, staining the exposed parts of his body, black. He stood before her defeated.

"My Queen," he muttered, his head bowed and his words laced with respect and shame. He had underestimated Aysá and the men that followed her into battle, and now he was paying the price. The new queen said nothing, even as she stepped past him to a table that lay bare, save for a jug of water, a pewter bowl and a tray with two silver goblets. "I owe you my life, my Queen. My colours, my sword, my shield, they are yours." Her silence, despite his years of combat, unnerved him to the point where he was forced to look up at her. Aysá looked back at him, her face expressionless. "I am yours." He emphasised.

She took the jug from the table and poured its contents into the bowl. Arman watched her curiously through locks of his knotted hair. She was a difficult woman to understand; silent for the most part, calculating and cruel, devoted and passionate. Her fire made him both loath and admire her in equal measure.

Once the bowl was filled, Aysá brought it before him and set it down on the table along with a goblet already filled with sweet wine. She took her place opposite him in a chair beautifully carved with dragons and demons, with heroes and villains. "Drink." She said, motioning towards the goblet with a wave of her clawed hand. "You look like you could do with it." Arman stared at her, somewhat surprised by her gesture. "It's not poisoned." She assured him, yet she was met with silence. "Oh come now, Arman. You pledge what's left of your life to me, you swear your sword, your shield to me yet you cannot accept a simple drink." Arman edged closer to the table, his shackles rattling with each shuffling footstep. "Sit. Rest your bones" she encouraged. "Clean the blood from your hands and drink with me. For Cethyn, for the throne and for the fallen."

The defeated warrior did as commanded and sat opposite the new Queen. The chains made it difficult for him to reach for the glass but he took hold of it none the less. Aysá smiled, causing the white of her teeth to gleam against the ruby red of her lips. She reached forward, plucking her own glass of wine from the tray. She raised it slightly and announced with a hint of sadness. "Cethyn." Arman did the same, his sadness echoing hers. He took a sip of his wine and set the goblet back down on the table, his chains still rattling.

Aysá placed her glass in her lap and stared at her defeated foe. He looked broken and battered, a fading shadow. He looked perfect. The Queen sat up straight and balanced the goblet on the arm of her chair. "We are no different, Arman, you and I. We are both broken and defeated; both bound by chains." Arman scoffed and shook his head, causing Aysá to lean forward, her golden eyes shimmering in the flickering candlelight. "We're both slaves to a higher power. We're both destined to be greater than what we are right now, right this second. We have a fire, a passion, a rage that when unleashed, will all consuming and unstoppable."

Arman looked across at her. He could see the excitement etched onto her face. He could see the fire in her eyes and feel its heat radiate out from her very core. She captivated him but he refused to let it show. He leaned forward as she did, his bound hands resting on the table. "There's only one person in this tent bound by chains," He held his bloody hands aloft, proving his point.

Aysá took a sip of her drink; paused to savour the taste, then placed it on the table and stood. She shrugged her armoured shoulders and moved around to his side of the table. She leaned against it and looked down at him. "Metaphorically speaking of course." Arman huffed and sat back in his chair to get a better look at her. She sat there, her skin as blood smeared as his, yet the blood looked more like dirt against her red flesh. Her long black hair was braided, but wild, adorned with ruby clips and speckled with mud. Her black, webbed armour was scratched and dented; each nick and blemish held a meaning and an air of perfection.

One by one, the candles that lit the room began to fade. Their light consumed by the demons that inhabited the shadows. Aysá moved away from the table with her face etched with a seriousness that echoed the tone of her voice. "Let me tell you a story…" Then, she too was engulfed by the darkness.

“Ina ishta sea natin, Aysá. Los calinta ventu ina beraap.” From the shadows, disembodied voices rippled through the air. Their ancient tongue called to Aysá through the silence of her dreams. “Ventu shan ilia nos gamanda. Shan sian mana. Hastin eta ventu hastin.” They whispered their prophecies of loyalty and betrayal, of war and death. They spoke of the heavens descending, of the blood that would stain the ground and the fate that would befall her. “Hastin eta ventu hastin”

Aysá awoke with a start, and fine beads of sweat glistening on her brow. The silk sheets in which she slept were damp and pooled around her waist, exposing her naked upper body to the heat of Kharon’s night air. She inhaled deeply and turned to the window, staring at the glow rising from the molten rivers that snaked through the blackness beyond the castle walls. She swore she could still hear the whispers of prophecy. “Shan sian mana, Hastin eta ventu hastin.” Their haunting melody made her heart pound against her chest and her breath burn in her lungs. She curled her fists defiantly, her long black nails tearing through the white silk. “I am the mistress of my destiny,” she cursed into the night. “I am!” The ground beneath her growled and the rivers pulsed with waves of liquid fire.  

Past the heavy wooden door, approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor. They moved quickly and stopped just outside the entrance to her room. A swift succession of raps against the thick timber caused the door to rattle. “M’lady!” a panicked voice called, then another barrage of knocking. “M’lady!” Aysá looked with narrowed eyes towards the darkened archway. There could only be one reason why someone would be disturbing her at such a late hour. She hurried from her bed; her half naked body wrapped in thin sheets, and wrenched the door open. A servant stood waiting, his chest heaving with breathlessness. He stumbled over his words as he tried to speak. Aysá stared at him, her annoyance at his inability to deliver a message growing by the second. He stuttered and stumbled for a few more seconds before nervously staring up at her. “It’s the King, M’lady. He’s calling for you. The healers are saying he has little time.” He bowed his head and backed away from her. The servant need not speak another word for Aysá had turned quickly, grabbed a robe that lay over a chair and pushed past him, towards the King’s bed chamber.

By the time she had arrived, word had spread that his final moments were near. Flickering candlelight illuminated small pockets of men, twelve in total, huddled together in deep conversation. She knew them to be King Cethyn’s most trusted advisors, trust she thought to be misplaced. As she passed, their whispers fell silent. Some eyed her wearily, others bowed their heads respectfully, but there were few, in their cowls of deepest purple, which refused to even acknowledge her. She paid them little attention as she pushed passed them and opened the heavy door that lead to the King’s chamber.

Arman was already there, clad in simple robes of black cotton. He knelt dutifully at the side of the dying King, his lips moving silently in prayer. From the shadows, Aysá could see that Cethyn’s face was pale and gaunt, his eyes sunken and sorrowful. He had become a shell, a husk from which all life had been nearly drained. The fading king heard Aysá’s approach and his head rolled weakly to the side. His grey eyes fell upon her. She bowed her head respectfully and ventured closer only when he beckoned her to do so with a wave of his frail hand. Aysá knelt beside him, opposite Arman, though he did not look at her or her at him. Her focus remained on the ailing ruler.

“My King,” She whispered. Arman looked across at her, and though his face was weary, his eyes screamed his mistrust. Aysá ignored him, even as his stare burned into her. Cethyn, in his weakened state was oblivious to the tensions between the two and faint smile crossed his withered face. He tried to speak but his breath was heavy and laboured. Weakly he raised his hand and cupped Aysá’s face, his thumb grazing gently across her crimson cheek. “I’m ready” he murmured, his voice cracked and horse. Aysá nodded and stood. She turned to summon the twelve that waited in the darkened corridor, but the King caught her wrist. He stared up at her, his eyes pleading and desperate. His lips moved but his words were trapped in his constricting throat. Aysá smiled reassuringly and slipped out of his grasp.

The timber door creaked open and once more the whispers fell silent. Aysá eyed them with the same distrust that Arman had for her, but she pushed her feelings to one side for the sake of duty. “He’s ready for you”. Her voice was flat and void of feeling. She moved aside and extended her arm, inviting them into the chamber. They moved in single file until they stood gathered at the foot of Cethyn’s bed.  Eleven of the twelve stood unmoving, while the last sat behind a candle lit table, a length of parchment unrolled before him. He took the quill that sat ready in a pot of black ink, and waited patiently for the King to begin his address.

The King looked up at them and fought to prop himself up. “My Lords,” he croaked. “Until…until today I have failed to name a successor, but now, as the hour of my death approaches, one must be named.” Gasping coughs ripped through him, forcing what little air there was, out of his lungs. His chest rattled as he fought to breathe. Aysá knelt beside him, and lifted a goblet of water to his dry lips. The coughing subsided enough for him to take a sip, quenching, if for a moment, the burning in his throat. “I have two children, legitimately born to me of the Queen. My first born; a daughter, with eyes of molten gold and a spirit of the fiercest fire. And a son, born with the strength of ten men and a will of hell forged steel. Both are wise and fair, worthy of the throne.” The eyes of the twelve shifted between Aysá and Arman. Aysá lovingly pressed her lips to her father’s cold hand, while Arman sat waiting. “However, only one may sit upon it.” Cethyn looked to each of his children and continued. “Aysá, my daughter, serve your brother as you have served me.”  She bowed her head; unable to look at either one of them. She passed it off as respectful obedience but inside she was seething. “My lords, bare witness” he continued, “I declare my only true-born son, Arman, heir to the throne of Kharon.” There was no ripple of applause or offers of congratulations to the young prince. The advisors stood in silence, watching sadly as the ailing King fought to breathe. Aysá looked to Arman, “My Prince?” she questioned. He didn’t bother to look back at her; he simply nodded and resumed his prayer.