It was pouring. Not a violent, murderous storm that pelted you in the face, but a soft, gentle drizzle that reminded you of the lackadaisical summer days.

The faint scent of my mother's lavender perfume lingered in my father's study, and there, sitting on the chair opposite me was the man himself.

       "Your mother has gone too far," he grumbled to himself as he dipped his fingers into the jar of salve. It was thick, yellow and greasy, but it helped to soothe the welts on my calves.

        "Don't tell her that I said this, but I don't think her military-style parenting helps much," I divulged. "Look at the Moreau children. I don't think that they will grow up and become sensible people."

         "Oh Anne, you are saying that because you had a fight with Corinne during their last visit. Otherwise, you absolutely adore them," my father retorted.

         "Corinne is tolerable," I admitted. "But Benedict is a foul human being. I doubt that he ever thinks of anything other than a woman's breasts!"

I was a child of thirteen summers, and such indecency on my cousin's part horrified me. My mother was convinced that he was just a curious teenager, but I was convinced otherwise.

People say that you can see a person's character from a young age, and Benedict's does not look too good. With that being said, I wonder about my own character.

         "Father, what do you think will become of me in the future?" I suddenly blurted out.

He glanced at me tenderly, then smiled. "Why, that is up for you to decide."

Those words confused my young brain, and I was quiet for a brief moment. For me to decide?

    "Oh, that is a very peculiar thought," I say with a giggle. "So I can become anything I want? A countess? A duchess?"

My father nods. "You can become anything, my dear Anne, as long as you are willing to do whatever it takes for you to get there."

       "Even a queen?" I gasped. "Oh dear, it must take a great deal of effort to get there."

       "It takes a great deal of effort indeed. But if you truly want it, too much is not enough. Becoming queen is the highest a woman can go, and only the strongest and most ruthless ones can succeed."

        "Oh? But I thought that a queen's job is to sit beside the king and look pretty," I mumbled.

        "It is not that simple, my dear. The entire palace will be under your supervision, and you must oversee the preparation of all those fancy banquets, like the ones we attend all the time. But most importantly, you must be able to influence the king and steer his favours towards your own family."

That sounded very difficult indeed. I thought of the glorious, splendid King Edward. How could anyone subdue him?

       My father then added, "In the race for power, no one can be innocent. Winning requires for your hands to be stained with blood, whether you'd like it or not. Your court becomes a battleground, and your throne is a trophy of your hard-earned, bloodstained victory."

The thought of blood drenching my hands made shivers run down my spine, but the longer I pondered about it, the less daunting it became.

         Like my father said, too much is not enough when it comes to power. It will never be enough.

The thought of endless power and glory beguiled me, even if it meant sacrificing everything I ever knew of. I was willing to do anything, to give anything, just for a taste of power.

And indeed, power is what I would get.

The cost of it? Everything.

     The overwhelming scent of blood and herbs assaulted my senses, and from far away, I could hear the priests chanting a mantra over and over again.

There was a distinct acrid taste in my mouth, reminiscent of the mellicansus root extract that my mother-in-law would add into my food whenever I had my monthly cycles, believing that they had blood replenishing properties.

      My eyes flickered open, but I could barely move the rest of my body at all. It felt so heavy and weighed down, as if I had turned to stone.

But I could still move my fingers, and I became vividly aware of the cool, white gold band on my left forefinger. In the dim light, the amethyst gems gleamed brilliantly, just like my father once had before the life was snuffed out of him.

      A sob escaped my lips as I was reminded of my father. My poor father, who had done all he could to place me where I am right now. My father, who trusted me with every grain of his being.

And now, he was gone. Will anyone ever hold me in such high regards as he did?

        "My Lady ?" I hear a familiar voice calling out for me, and moments later, I was assaulted by the sobbing mess that was Argenta.

        "You've awakened!" she sputtered in between sobs as she knelt by the left side of my bed. "You scared us all, My Lady. There was so much blood that night, it was like a massacre!"

Probably alerted by Argenta's wails, Lillianna came to take a look, and her face lit up at the sight of me. But first, she elbowed Argenta in the ribs, gesturing towards the sleeping form by my right bedside.

      It was the King, with his head laid down on the mattress and his hands holding tightly onto mine. His mass of black curls tumbled down onto the deep purple bedsheets, concealing the lower half of his face.

But his eyes were visible, and I could see that they were swollen and puffy. His thick dark lashes were damp, as if he had cried himself to sleep.

I reached out my hand towards his face, pushing away the hair that obscured his features. His cheeks were warm, contrasting with my own cold fingers. Gently, I caressed his features, trailing my fingertips from his browbone down to his chin.

      As I wiped away the tears just below his eyelids, his eyes flickered open, staring straight at me. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, making his pale green irises look as if they were swimming in a pool of red.

       "Anne?" he stammered, now wide awake. At first, his eyes were wide open in disbelief, but as he slowly realised that I was indeed there, fully awake and alive, the tears returned.

        "Oh!" he exclaimed as he pulled me into an embrace. "Oh, my dear Anne! My Anne!"

His hands trembled pitifully, and he bore no resemblance to the great king who stormed this palace all those years ago. Instead, he was reduced to a grief-stricken husband, all because of me.

    "I was so afraid that you would die," he murmured as he buried his face in the crook of my arm. "I've never been so afraid before in my life, Anne. I thought I was going to lose you, and indeed I almost did."

My heart softened as I felt the sleeve of my nightgown grow damp, and my husband's shoulders shook ever so slightly.

    "It will not happen again," I whisper to him. They were the first words I had spoken since I woke up, and they sounded so weak, so fatigued. But it was more than enough for Edmund, and I feel his embrace around me tighten once more.

As much as I wanted to stay like this forever, safe and warm in his arms, I had more pressing matters at hand.

        "Edmund," I call out, and he lifted his face from the crook of my arm.

        "What is it, love?" he asked, eager to comply with my every whim.

        "What has happened to my brother? Is he alright?" I hastily question.

My husband's expression slightly dropped, but only for a split second. "He is alright, Annie. He will return soon. But first..."

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment.

           "Annie, this was the last letter sent by your father. It arrived at the palace during the night after you gave birth to our son. He had foreseen his assassination, so he bribed a page boy to send this letter to me. As you can imagine, it took him a while to arrive here. But what's important is that he arrived."

The parchment was thin and of cheap quality. Specks of reed and pulp were visible on the brownish surface, completely the opposite of the expensive coloured paper that my father was quite fond of.

The handwriting was sloppy too, and anyone could tell that it was written in a haste, but I could still recognise my father's handwriting.

To the King,

The hour of my death draws near. The little princess who grew up before my own eyes had become a tyrant, and she wholeheartedly rejects our treaty. Her guards follow my every move, and even the ants refuse to touch the food she had served for me.

I know that there is no escape for me now. Your Majesty, I must make a confession. The false army in the Cantergarrian mountains is in fact, real. I began recruiting soldiers following your ascension to the throne, out of fear that the Terrawinnians would attack. This is the most opportune time to use them, but I had no clue that this would be the outcome.

The soldiers I recruited were former mercenaries and assassins, all very skilled and experienced, though their backgrounds made it difficult for them to find a position within the royal army. A single soldier will be able to take on an entire platoon, and there are ten thousand of them. The Terrawinnians do not stand a chance.

Neither of my children knew of the army's existence. Both the Queen and Gilbert are completely oblivious. So please, if you wish to charge someone with treason, it should be me.

I created the army fearing for my daughter's life. If any of our enemies attack, then I can rest assured knowing that both of you are safe. An attack on you is an attack on my daughter, so you must not be afraid that I would try to harm you. As I will never return, I implore you to take good care of my daughter. She can be rough and temperamental, but she means well. And please, do tell her that I love her.

Now, it is crucial that you order the Cantergarrian army to march north. Make haste. Your mother knows where they are.

Your humble and obedient servant,

Cassian Winterbourne

I feel my throat constrict as I read through the letter, staring at each and every word until they lost their meaning.

       "The army is real, Anne," my husband says softly. "And they have marched north, joining Gilbert's soldiers. Your father was right-- the Terrawinnians had no chance against the army. Anne, we've won. Terrawyn is no more."

On any other occasion, I would have laughed and chuckled with joy and glee, but now, I was silent. My heart felt empty, lifeless even.

When you think of victory, you think of merriment and celebration, but why do I feel hollow instead?

            My brother arrived at the capital three days later in pomp and splendour, with a massive entourage of prisoners walking on foot.

At the very front of the parade was the deposed Queen Margaret herself, her young son tagging along beside her. Her once glossy gold-red locks had been brusquely shaved off, leaving her bald with only a few patches of hair remaining.

       Her hands were bound together by a thick rope, and dangling on the end of the rope was the severed head of Henri du Terre, hanging by his long brown hair.

       Even though I thirsted for revenge too, the thought of my brother ordering for such a cruel punishment to be exacted horrified me. This woman had walked from Terrawyn all the way to the Phoenician capital, and I knew that it was not a show to please me, as the soles of her feet had become swollen and gangrenous.

Gilbert had truly shown no mercy.

      Though I was still weak from the ordeals of childbirth, I still wanted to witness my brother's glorious return to the capital. Edmund had carried me down from my chambers and set me on the throne beside him, as I was too weak to walk.

I could recognise the sound of my brother's footsteps anywhere. His steps were heavy and forceful, full of strength and determination. Even his gait was the same, but somehow, he looked as if he were a different person.

      His eyes were cold and lifeless, full of disdain. They were oddly familiar though, and my heart sank once I realised where I saw them before. His gaze was just like mine.

Dull and heartless, an insight into the owner's complete disregard towards another person.

My brother had become just like me.

     He struts proudly into the throne room, his head held up high. And behind him, the prisoners followed suit. In contrast, their heads were lowered in shame and defeat.

    "Your Majesty, I, Gilbert Winterbourne, Grand General of the Royal Army, greets you with news of our victory at the northern front!" he greeted. They were the exact same words he uttered a few years ago, and I remember my father smiling with pride as he watched how much Gilbert had grown.

But now, there is only me in this room, and I could not bring myself to smile.

    "We have captured the Palace of Montlême, and the city of Valenfort has been razed to the grounds, leaving nothing behind but ash. While there, I found a few trinkets that I thought you would like."

       One of his men stepped forward while carrying a black wooden chest. Gilbert lifted up the lid, and there, nestled within the chest were the crowns of the monarchs of Terrawyn.

Perhaps to match with the snowy terrain of the fallen kingdom, the crowns were made of white gold and inlaid with angelite and snow quartz. From afar, I could see Margaret trembling with rage as my brother picked up the crown of Henri du Terre and handed it to the King.

      Edmund wordlessly received it, perhaps too stunned to utter a single word. None of us ever expected that Gilbert would go this far, to showcase such brutality.

    "Excellent," the King eventually said. "Have them wiped and polished. We will need them for the coronation."

I turned towards Edmund, surprised. "Coronation?"

    "Yes, my love. To consolidate our power, we must hold a coronation, to proclaim ourselves as the rightful rulers of Terrawyn. Forgive me, there is no more Terrawyn. Only Northern Phoenicia."

Before I could even digest that, Gilbert suddenly spoke, "Sister, as I have promised before, I've brought back the head of our father's murderer."

      He proceeded towards Margaret, unsheathed his sword and chopped off the rope, allowing Henri du Terre's head to roll down on the floor.

Without even a shred of disgust, he chased after the head and lifted it by the hair.

       The deposed king's head was shrivelled and dried up, his cheeks hollowed out and gaunt. Chillingly, his eyes sockets were empty, perhaps pecked out by a crow.

Gilbert was true to his words, and he walked up to me and laid the head of Henri du Terre by my feet. The smell was horrific, to say the least.
         It could be likened to the stench of a carcass that had been left to rot under the sun, and even worse, some flies had laid eggs in the empty eye sockets, so when my brother dropped the head on the floor, some maggots spilt out and began to crawl on the marble floor.

    "Are you happy now, sister?" he asked softly, his voice low enough so that only I could hear him.

I could not answer.