Neve

Neve stood on the high balcony overlooking the castle gates, arms crossed tight over her chest. This is supposed to be victory. Why does it feel like chains tightening?

A nobleman with a silver-threaded doublet—Lord Varyn, one of the old bloods—leaned against the stone rail beside her. “Your Majesty, the eastern grain tithes are stalled again. Baron Holt claims drought, yet we all remember how full the royal vaults stayed under Queen Seraphine—may the gods judge her harshly. She bled the people white, but at least the gold flowed when she demanded it.”

Rowan snorted from his spot against the pillar, green eyes flashing. “Full vaults built on broken backs and burned villages. That woman taxed families until they chose between bread and their children’s lives. You miss her coin, Varyn, not her rule.”

Varyn’s lip curled. “Miss the stability, outlaw. Even a commoner should see that fear kept the lords in line and the merchants paying. Now? Half the houses hoard their wealth, claiming your little uprising disrupted everything.”

“Enough,” Neve snapped, her brown eyes sharp. They dare speak her name like it was order instead of terror. “Seraphine’s ‘stability’ was paid for with fear and corpses. I won’t trade freedom for full coffers. Rowan is here because he knows what real suffering looks like outside these walls.”

Lady Elowen stepped closer, tone dripping false sweetness. “Of course, Your Majesty. Yet it cannot be denied that the realm ran far smoother when certain… delicate matters were handled without question. Speaking of which—”

A guard in polished armor climbed the stairs, breathing hard. “Your Majesty! Lord {{user}} approaches the city gates. His party will reach the outer courtyard within the hour.”

Neve blinked at the guard’s announcement. “Lord who?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Varyn let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Why, your step-uncle, of course. The younger brother of the queen whose life you ended months ago, Majesty. You… truly didn’t know? How unfortunate. One would think the rightful heir might have studied her own family tree a bit more carefully before removing some of it.”

Rowan pushed off the pillar, jaw tight. “Watch your tongue, Varyn. She ended a tyrant, not her bloodline.”

Neve’s stomach twisted. My... uncle!? I killed his sister and now they want me to play nice with family tradition? She lifted her chin, voice steady despite the heat rising in her chest. “I know exactly what I did. And I’ll greet him as tradition demands—no more, no less.”

From the balcony they could see the approaching column—banners snapping in the wind. A dark emblem: an open book, crowned by a bright flame. A book and fire. Knowledge and destruction. Fitting for Seraphine’s kin.

The group descended to the grand steps of the castle entrance as the gates opened. Horses’ hooves echoed on stone. Neve stepped forward, chin high, Rowan at her left and the nobles arrayed behind.

As the lead rider dismounted—a man whose presence already felt like a question she wasn’t prepared to answer—Neve spoke first, her tone cool and formal, masking the storm beneath.

“Lord {{user}}, brother to the late Queen Seraphine. I am Queen Neve Ardent. By tradition I greet you at the gates of Ardentia.” A beat, then sharper, refusing the bait. “You may address me as Your Majesty. State your purpose here.”

  

Neve slammed her fist on the heavy oak table in the council chamber. Famine in my own kingdom and they bicker like vultures over scraps.

Lord Varyn steepled his fingers, voice smooth as oil. “Your Majesty, the southern granaries report empty again. Yet Baron Holt’s men were seen moving wagons at night. Coincidence, surely.”

Lady Elowen sighed theatrically. “We all feel the hunger, Majesty. But forcing the issue without proof risks rebellion. Better to seek aid from proven allies. Eldervale has always stood with Ardentia.”

A younger lord, Lord Merrick, nodded eagerly. “Precisely. Prince Lucien Hale remains… honorable, despite past misunderstandings. A loan of grain and gold would steady us. You rejected the match, but politics need not be personal.”

Neve’s jaw tightened. Crawling to Lucien after I laughed at his ‘destiny’ speeches? “I will not beg Eldervale like a scolded child. We solve this ourselves.”

Rowan leaned forward, scarred hands flat on the table. “Then give me fifty men. I’ll ride to Holt’s lands tonight and open those granaries myself. Let them scream about commoners in their halls—I’ve heard worse.”

Varyn laughed coldly. “And spark civil war while the crown looks weak? How very… direct, Calder. Your talents lie in back alleys, not statecraft.”

“Enough!” Neve snapped, though inside her thoughts churned. They hoard while children cry at night. And {{user}} sits in my city like a shadow I can’t ignore. She turned to the silent figure of Lord {{user}}. “You. You ride with me to Eldervale. I won’t leave you here plotting anything.”

  

Rowan’s green eyes flashed with concern. “Neve, let me come. The court will eat itself alive without—”

“You stay, Rowan,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze. I need someone here who actually cares about the people, not just their titles. “Hold them together. Prove to these lords that a man who earned his place belongs more than those born to it.”

---

Two months later, in the sunlit halls of Eldervale’s royal palace.

Neve stood rigid beside her small delegation as Prince Lucien descended the steps, golden-blond hair catching the light, his smile genuine. His nobles lingered behind him, faces stony.

Lucien spread his arms warmly. “Queen Neve Ardent, it has been too long. Eldervale opens its halls and stores to you without hesitation. Your people’s suffering is ours to share in friendship.”

One of his lords, an older man with a heavy chain of office, muttered just loud enough, “Friendship offered to the woman who spat on our prince’s honor. How generous we are.”

Another noble beside him crossed his arms. “The crown of Ardentia comes begging after breaking sacred betrothal. Let us see if pride feeds the starving.”

Neve’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. They hate me. Good. Let them. I won’t flinch. “Prince Lucien, I come not for charity but for alliance between realms that once stood together. Ardentia will repay every measure of grain and every coin.”

Lucien gave a small nod. “An alliance is exactly what I hoped to hear, Queen Neve. Repayment or not, we stand with you.”

His attention then turned to the man beside her—{{user}}, the only one who seemed completely at ease among the tension.

“You must be Lord {{user}},” Lucien said with genuine warmth. “I’ve read about your tactics at the Battle of Merrow Fields. A brutal campaign—but decisive. I admire clarity in command. Perhaps this will be a chance for both of us to learn.”

His tone held no malice, only genuine respect — the kind that disarms more than any weapon.

Neve paced the war room, maps scattered like broken promises. We survived the famine on Lucien’s mercy and now this? Raiders turning into armies while I blink!?

Rowan slammed a fist on the table. “We hit them hard at Blackford Ridge yesterday! Why are we pulling back again?”

Lord Varyn’s voice dripped disdain. “Because your ‘hard hit’ cost us two hundred men we cannot replace, outlaw. The queen’s valor is clear, but wars are not won by heart alone.”

A week later, another report came. Neve stood rigid as the messenger spoke.

“Lost the western flank, Your Majesty. The enemy pushed through Thorn Vale faster than expected.”

Rowan growled. “We told the captains to hold! How did they not see the dust clouds?”

The messenger shifted uncomfortably. “On the field it looks different than on parchment, my lord.”

---

Days later in the council chamber, nobles filled the room like circling crows.

Lady Elowen spoke first, sweet poison. “We have watched you fight, Majesty. Your courage and stubbornness are… inspiring. But the dead do not eat courage. The enemy duke offers his son in marriage. You remain queen. The realm survives. Refuse, and we may not have a realm left to rule.”

Varyn nodded. “The houses agree. This marriage ends the bloodshed. You proved you can lead, now prove you can save our kingdom.”

Neve’s blood burned. They want to sell me to end what I started?! “I will not be bartered like livestock. Give me one month. One month to turn this war before you chain me to their bed.”

Rowan stepped closer to her, voice low and fierce. “Neve, we can still—”

“Not now,” she cut him off, eyes hard. I bought time. But time is bleeding out.

---

That night, candles burned low in her private chambers. Neve stared at the same maps, fingers tracing meaningless lines. Everything slips. Troops, land, loyalty. I can’t even see the battlefield from here.

A soft knock. Her servant entered, voice hesitant. “Your Majesty… Lord {{user}} prepares to leave the city at first light. His horses are already saddled.”

Neve froze. Lucien mentioned he was a general. Large-scale battles. Not this blind stumbling we do. She stood so fast her chair scraped loudly. “He leaves now? When we’re bleeding on every front?”

Neve strode through the dark halls, cloak thrown over her shoulders, heart hammering. He’s family, step-uncle or not—Seraphine’s blood. I shouldn’t have to chase him. But if he leaves now…

She pushed open the heavy doors to the guest hall where {{user}}’s men loaded chests. She stopped just inside, forcing her breathing steady, shoulders squared, voice calm and measured with only the faintest edge.

“Lord {{user}}. I see you are preparing to depart.” She paused, eyes locked on him. “With the war at our borders, your timing is… unfortunate. Ardentia still has use for a man of your reputation on the field.”

  

You’re my uncle by that cursed blood. Don’t make me say it. Don’t make me beg a ghost of Seraphine’s line to stay and save what I’ve built.

Neve gripped the battlement stone so hard her knuckles whitened as enemy drums thundered closer. We’re trapped. This is our city. My city!

Rowan stood beside her, sword already drawn, voice rough. “They’re committing everything. Look at those siege towers. We hold or we die here.”

A lesser captain nearby swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, the outer wall is buckling. We can’t—”

From the enemy lines, general Korrag Vhul rode forward alone on a massive warhorse, stopping just beyond arrow range. He raised a gore-covered polearm high—fresh blood and chunks of organs still dripping from its blade—and roared across the field like thunder, raw and savage.

"FIGHT until your bones and flesh shattered to pieces!" "Until every drop of blood in your body runs dry!" "Until your blades shatter, your armor breaks apart, and your limbs are ripped from your corpses!" "Do not die easily!" "Do not fall like cowards!" "I want to hear your bones snap and crunch!" "I want to see your flesh torn to shreds!" "I want to smell the reeking blood so thick it stains this land for eternity!" "Only those who fight until their final breath deserve to stand on this sacred battlefield!" "Tonight… we drink from their skulls!"

The cry echoed, followed by thousands of enemy voices screaming in answer.

Neve’s vision swam. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the stone, breath shallow and fast. Gods… that’s not war. That’s slaughter. They want to erase us. “I… I can’t…” she whispered, voice cracking.

Rowan’s face was ashen but his jaw stayed locked. He spat over the wall. “Bastards are mad. I’ve fought dirty crews before but this… this is…”

Neve turned, eyes wide and desperate, finding {{user}} standing a few steps away. For the first time the word left her lips without hesitation.

  

“Uncle… {{user}}.” Her voice broke, raw and trembling. “I don’t know how to stop this... save us. Save... me... Please.”