ARELLIA

Strength, prosperity, perseverance.

The motto of House Douma, stamped like a seal on every banner, scribbled on every scroll and whispered into the ears of every citizen in this now rotting land. Once, those words were used to incite fear into every living soul who dared cross their House. They used to ignite passion and loyalty and excitement. When I think of this place as it is now; strength, prosperity, and perseverance are not the words that come to mind. It is pity.

Ilshala was once a great city almost rivalling Orris, with vibrant bone-like structures that loom over its town centre like long, curved spines of beasts. The buildings travelled along an eccentric district the citizens aptly named: The Jewel. It was a place of wonder, stretching for miles in nonsensical patterns and lined with cobbles embedded with magnificent gems of every colour. The roads were famous for their trickery, often leading tourists and merchants alike down winding alleyways to dead ends and paths that led you unknowingly to the outskirts. But none who walked The Jewel ever had anything negative to say. They were all in awe of such absurdity.

I had spent the years in my chambers studying this strange place and always felt a lingering melancholy at the mention of ‘the city that once prospered’. The mad artist, Sir Maesin Cassion, spent his remaining years carving out The Jewel in honour of his late wife who had been blind since birth. He had cited in one of his journals that it was her dying wish to see colour and to feel the world as she imagined it felt to everyone else. So the madman spent the years after her death planting rare flowers along the cobblestone roads of The Jewel and painted the surrounding buildings every shade of the rainbow. None could stop him. None dared, for it was an act of madness disguised as love. Love for a dead woman who would never see its magnificence, and could never walk the paths he carved for her.

Not long after, when House Douma was at the apex of their power, a devastating blight swept through every nook and cranny of Ilshala. It came from the far west, from the grasslands far beyond Nessaz. Common folk believed it was the wrath of the Mother. The blight turned those vibrant roads to ruin and seemed it took even the shine away from its Jewels, dimmed them until they were nothing but sad little rocks. The plague felled trees and rotted native plants. There was no cure, no explanation for such a travesty.

It happened during the year my grandsire breathed his last and my father was coronated. My father was only ten and six, a few years younger than I am now. The blight left many thousands diseased and weak. Soon, crops withered and livestock perished. People went hungry. Many lost Faith and crime began to fester and worse, it was all spreading to the capital. My father, the new king, believed it was a crisis for all Illyans, for if one city fell, then Orris would not survive. And without Orris, there would be no hope for the empire, no hope for House Virtris.

When I first read the accounts of this part of Illyan history, I saw my father for the first time in a different light. For as long as I could remember, he was but a tall, quiet shadow that radiated love and compassion. But, history did not see him as I did. He was a ruthless leader, and for a short time at the beginning of his reign, he was not loved by his subjects. He purged Ilshala and ruled them with an iron fist. Farmers who lost their lands and animals were not compensated but instead eliminated along with their livestock for fear that they harboured the disease. The city fell to ruin and people fled, stealing as much wealth as they could from The Jewel and the palaces, but traders did not want contaminated gold from the doomed city.

To my dismay, the old books said nothing more of the lives of the common folk who lived through this time and only continued on from accounts of the nobles.

During the calamity, my father issued a Cleansing of Ilshala. That day, three-thousand soldiers all bearing the sigil of House Virtris stormed the city and slaughtered those who were seen as ‘infected’. It was how he became known as ‘The Beast’ of Illya.

And since the devastation, House Douma has been in the midst of repair. Grasping and scraping every inch of Illya for a taste of what they once had. The glory of old Ilshala. That is why my brother and I are here. The streets are cleaner, structures rebuilt and the city seemed teeming with life. But it is just a mask. House Douma understands that to become powerful again, they must kneel to Vasilis.

“Strength, prosperity, perseverance.” Those words are muttered now under the breath of lady Liwet–like a prayer and a curse–as she fans her perspiring skin and drags up the corner of her painted lips to face her husband. She takes a quick glance towards me before abruptly looking away, ashamed. As if she knew that this facade would not hold and could crumble at any time.

“These mongering fools,” Vasilis sighs beside me and taps his fingernails impatiently against his beloved golden chair. He had taken it with him all the way from Orris, claiming the degenerates at Ilshala couldn’t possibly have a chair suitable for a King. “Look at them. Not long ago, sweet sister, these streets were filled with diseased-ridden monsters.” He clicks his tongue in disgust and waves a nonchalant hand towards a servant.

“Please mind your volume, sire, while we are in the company of their House.” I dip my head and speak quietly.

“I care not if they hear, perhaps it is what they need. This pretence will not last, sister. You will see.” I look away from my brother and towards the crowd. The banquet hall is much larger than I expected. High walls made of cold stone are illuminated by dozens of warm scones that line them. Proud banners of purple and black drape from the ceiling, and in between, beautiful candlelit chandeliers hang like clusters of starlight in this dark fortress. Stained glass windows with delicate patterns in muted colours line the back walls. It reminds me of a Nothern temple more than a palace.

“Do you like what you see?” Vasilis chuckles beside me. “You should start learning to. This place will become your home soon enough. And when you wed that animal, sister, ensure that he is happy.”

I grit my teeth, bite back a snarky remark, and turn to him. “Yes, sire.” The smile does not reach my eyes. I hold my hands in my lap, squeezing them until the flesh of my palms turns white–a habit I have yet to break–before letting loose a small breath.

Vasilis scrapes back his golden throne and taps his goblet lightly, demanding the attention of all courtiers in the room. All conversation quiets, and lively music from the corner of the banquet comes to a halt.

“I must say, despite our arduous journey here from Orris, my sister and I are grateful for the hospitality your small city has shown us.” Vasilis looks down towards Lady Liwet and her husband, sitting surprisingly straight-backed with a passive look on their faces. A facade.

“I have come to this city as my father once did, to aid one of the greatest Houses of Illya during this time of war. United, we may stand against heathens that threaten to destroy our culture, our lands, our homes.” Claps and cheers rise from the hall as Vasilis smiles audaciously, unaware of the hidden insults behind his words. “But I cannot do it alone. We live in a time of sorrow, my subjects, where those outside Illya have lost their senses. No longer do they fear our Angels.” A cry of disbelief from the crowd and a cheer of agreement. This is not a speech, it is manipulation. From the corner of my eyes, I see my brother’s steady hand reaching out to me. I must once more play the part. I take his hand and stand slowly.

“Tonight, we unite House Virtris and Douma, just as we once did two hundred years ago. I have made arrangements for my sister’s betrothal to Lord Amond, the shining sun of House Douma. We will strengthen Illya and bring glory back to Ilshala once more!” Cheers of delight erupts from the crowd, their faces pale and pink with Blood filled with wine and deceit. I bite my cheek and smile down at them. They dance and jump with glee, like swarms of small ants stuck in four walls, following one another until they die. No minds of their own. So easily manipulated, so easily steered.

My brother squeezes my fingers hard until the pain causes me to flick my eyes to his face. He grins at the crowd, waving his goblet and toasting to the nobles at peer up at him in awe. Their saviour. His eyes find mine eventually and his smile widens, disgust and hatred coiling around him like smoke.

“You will not disappoint me again, will you, sister?” I grind my jaw and smile back, pulling away from his grasp.

“I do not know what you mean, sire.” When I turn from him and turn to my right, I see my future husband staring up at me. Light brown skin flushed with pink, a crooked, handsome smile and large dark eyes. Wrapped in a silk dress shirt and immaculate ceremonial jacket, he strides slowly towards me with two cups in his hands. “Forgive me, my king, for I must speak to my betrothed.” I do not hear Vasilis’ words as I am already out of my seat and gliding towards Lord Amond like I am charmed. Play the part. Endure.

“Your Highness, you are a delight.” Lord Amond smiles sweetly and leans down to kiss my cheek. In the corner of the hall, Marcel flirts and laughs with Lady Rilliane. I watch as he holds her wrist and pulls her into him as a drunken courtier stumble by. She blushes pleasantly. Her grating laughter is like thunder in my ears. When Marcel sees me, he does not acknowledge me, he simply looks away as though I am not there.

“You are too kind, my lord. Forgive me, I am feeling quite tired from my journey and must retire to my chambers.”

Lord Amond takes my arm and walks me back slowly to my quarters. He is sweet and quiet, asking short questions about my childhood and my hobbies. I smile and tell him I love books, and spin a tale of an uneventful childhood. Lies. More lies. When we reach the doors to my chambers, reluctantly, he lets me go and blushes awkwardly before taking my hand and brushing a soft kiss on the back of it.

I grit my teeth as he walks away with a spring in his step. My skin itches and burns at the sensation of that small intimate moment, and when I am in my chambers, I throw my shawl onto the floor and scratch away the irritation until my skin peels and blood pools. I drag myself to bed and resist the urge to scream, to rip apart every corner of this room until nothing is left. Control, Arellia. Control.

I breathe deeply and close my eyes and drift towards uneasy sleep. I dream of a deep blue ocean and the smell of red wine. The feeling of a warm summer breeze. A haunting, sorrowful voice whispering my name. Arellia.

“Arellia,” I wake to the sound of another man’s voice in my ears. “My apologies for waking you at such an hour, princess.” I blink rapidly and see a looming figure at the end of my bed, tall and steady. When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see Marcel and his crooked smirk.

“What brings you here, Commander?” But he does not answer. In the moment’s silence, I find myself drawn to his hands. In the moonlight, shadows play tricks on your mind but I can see clearly the dark stain on the cuffs at his wrist. My eyes follow it downwards to his fingertips where he grips tightly, something I cannot see. I sit up slowly, my heart thundering in my chest. I swallow audibly and crawl towards the end of my bed where Marcel stands quietly and grins.

When I reach him, he tilts up my chin with his free hand and kisses me fiercely. His fingers are moist as if he had been out in the rain. But it does not rain often in the desert. I push him back and he kneels before me, plopping the object onto his knee and before my eyes.

It is a small thing, no larger than a ball I used to play with as a child. But unlike the ball, it is covered with tendrils of short dark hair. And if I look further, dark eyes lay open as he looks into nothing. His neck has been severed cleanly and I can see the white bone at the centre of his throat, oozing Blood onto the cold stone.

“A gift, for my Queen.” Marcel whispers. I brush the hair away from the man’s eyes and look up at Marcel, pride alight in his gaze. A bubble of laughter escapes me as I pull Marcel back into my embrace and kiss him fiercely. He stands abruptly, throwing the head onto the floor and gathering me into his arms and back into the bed.

I look at the object on the floor, now lit like a stage in the moonlight. Its eyes in an absent gaze towards my direction, Blood pooling around its neck and hair plastered to its once flushed cheeks. But despite the hollow unease in my chest, Marcel is a steady weight on top of me.

“Look at me,” He says, voice low in a whisper. “Forget everything else.” I flick my eyes to Marcel and watch as he trails soft kisses down the curve of my chest. Calloused hands peel back layers of my dress to expose my skin, now littered with goosebumps despite the warmth. My heart is a hammer against my ribcage.

“Arellia.” He says against my thigh, voice full of venom. I shudder, and with the sound of his voice and a slow flick of his tongue, I think of nothing else.