"Lady Anne
Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life!
Gloucester
Curse not thyself, fair creature, for thou art both."

—From The Tragedy of
King Richard III,
By William Shakespeare

MORDANIA CASTLE,
MORDANIA
YEAR 1675

JOVANA DUSANG SQUIRMED in her seat as her nurse pulled at her hair, her fingernails scratching the little girl's scalp in order to form a neat knot at the base of her neck. Today was the second-most—no, third-most—important day of her life. The first had been her coronation, which had taken place five days after her birth, and the day after her father's death at the hands of the Atlans. The second would be the day of her wedding to the Lord of Hartfall, Alastair Durand—the older brother of Mireille, her future lady-in-waiting. Today was the betrothal ceremony, where they would be declared bound only to one another, for the rest of their lives.

Frankly, Jovana didn't really think much of Alastair as a lifelong partner. For one thing, he always smelled like hay, as though he'd been tumbling about in the stables with horses. For another, even though he was Mireille's older brother, he was exceptionally rude to Mireille, who was Jovana's very best friend. Which seemed wrong, because weren't older brothers meant to be protective and caring? Jovana herself wouldn't know—she was an only child, and the only heir to the crown of Mordana.

"There," her nurse said, stepping back from the vanity where Jovana was fussing with her petticoats on the stool. "All done, Your Majesty."

Jovana hopped off of the stool hopefully. "So I can go now?"

The nurse clucked her tongue. "The maids still need to help you dress, and you haven't anything on your face or in your hair yet. And the crown! You need to wear that as well, Your Majesty."

Jovana sighed heavily and plopped back in front of the vanity, reluctantly readying herself for more primping. When was Mireille going to arrive? she wondered as the heavy, scarlet silk overskirt was arranged over her knees. She huffed, picking at the bright coloured dress. "Why do I have to wear red? Purple is my favourite colour."

"Brides of Mordania have worn red since blood magic was first discovered, little one." Nurse stabbed jewelled pins into Jovana's hair, causing her to wince. "It symbolizes the two partners' blood being mixed together in the betrothal ceremony."

Jovana shuddered in disgust and fear. Now she hated the colour red even more. "Is it going to hurt when I have to get my finger pricked?"

"A tiny pinch." Her nurse yanked on the laces of Jovana's red gown, and she sucked in a breath as it tightened.

Her nurse had just told an enormous lie. Jovana had seen her cousin cry out in pain during that part of her betrothal ceremony, though then again Shania had always been prone to crying at the slightest things even though she was twelve, six years older than Jovana and therefore supposedly stronger. Mordanian girls needed to be strong to do harsh labour while their husbands or brothers or father's were off fighting the Atlans that constantly invaded their territory, and needed to be as hardy as the mountain goats that were capable of surviving in the harsh snowfalls and jagged peaks that made up their country's barren landscape. Or at least, that was what she'd heard from her nurse. All the other adults in her life simply wanted her to be graceful and ladylike, poised and regal as befit a monarch. Sometimes, she wanted to be a beautiful queen. Other times, she wanted to be a warrior girl. But on most days, Jovana considered herself a fair mixture of both.

"Do I have to marry Alastair?" Jovana asked, putting on the jewelled signet rings on both her middle fingers that marked her as royal. They were heavy, and bore the Dusang insignia: a single droplet of blood, crossed with a sword. In jewelry form it was a teardrop-shaped ruby set in gold and divided by a thin line of jet. "He's so dreadfully boring! All he talks about is his horses, and fighting, and how his father allows him to train with the palace guards. Ugh! Who cares about such dull things?"

"You must marry him, Your Majesty, or you can never be a proper queen," her nurse snapped, for once chastising her. Usually her nurse was too fearful of the Queen Regent to be properly stern, instead spoiling Jovana or gently reprimanding her. "Alastair's family controls important strongholds, important Mordanian strongholds filled with soldiers. Soldiers that we need to fight against the Atlans, to keep them from invading. Proper queens need countries, and a country that is under foreign control is no country at all. It is a colony, and colonies do not have queens—they have governors, and the queens are all dead."

Jovana went quiet. Her mother always said that a queen's duty was to her people, and that Mordanian queens had no business going against their people's wishes. If what her nurse said was true, then she supposed she had no business not getting married to Alastair. A maid entered the room and placed the velvet cushion bearing a weighty crown on top of the vanity. Jovana sucked in a breath and steeled herself to lift it onto her head. Only royals could directly touch the crown; every jeweller who made it needed to wear gloves, and all servants who carried it were careful to always hold the cushion it rested on. When she was younger her mother had helped Jovana put it on, but ever since the engagement had been negotiated the Queen Regent declared that Jovana was old and mature enough to do it herself. With steady fingers she placed the heavy thing onto her braided chignon, and relaxed when it rested straight across her brow and not crooked as it sometimes did. This was a good omen, surely.

"Perfect," her nurse murmured. The gold spikes of the crown shot upwards from her browbone; iron was woven between the gilded strands and encircling crimson diamonds that refracted in rays of blood red when the sunlight hit them. There were no delicate curlicues or gentle patterns; those would be too natural and organic like the elemental magic that their enemies possessed. Mordanians had carved out a space for themselves in one of the most inhospitable climates on this continent, and their crown needed to show it. There was no soft satin or silk lining to cushion the inside of the crown; Jovana had once asked her mother why and Adaira Dusang had replied that it was meant to symbolize that ruling was a burden and responsibility meant only for those who took it seriously. She herself thought that was simply a lie made up to save money by decorating the crown as little as possible.

Jovana bounced to her feet, her shoes pinching her toes slightly and the crown weighing heavily. She bore the pain, the discomfort of the pins and laces, the weight of the dress and crown, as simply the challenges of donning armour. A queen's armour, but armour that would protect her nonetheless. "It hurts my neck."

"Go on, child," her nurse said sternly. "There are difficult things in life we all must bear, for the sake of causes that are far greater than any of us."

Little did Jovana know how true that would be for the rest of her life.

//

COLD STONE FLOORS chilled her feet even through the jewelled ruby slippers, with no rugs to soften them. The interiors of the royal castle were as forbidding and impenetrable as Mordania's exteriors, the lack of tapestries or draped ensuring that the views of the city around the hill-fortress could be visible at all times in case of an attack. No copses of trees or rushing rivers surrounded the castle; instead, it was the strongest and most loyal magic-welders who were situated around it in order to protect the monarchy. The Durand family was one of the most loyal and powerful noble families, and their children had been Jovana's playmates for as long as she could remember. 

"Mireille!" Jovana called excitedly, rushing towards her best friend with a smile and outstretched arms. Fortunately, her mother wasn't present to witness her display of impropriety, or she would have sentenced Jovana to an hour-long lecture by her governess.

"Your Majesty." Mireille dipped down into the beginning of a curtsy, but giggling, Jovana pushed aside her arms and embraced her.

"That's quiet enough of that!" she scolded, then stopped herself when she realized she sounded like Nurse. "It's been ages since I've seen you last."

"I know." Mireille nodded animatedly, her blue eyes wide and her matching red dress swishing on the steel floor. "I haven't seen you since the coronation, and that was an eternity ago!"

"Don't exaggerate, sissy." Jovana almost rolled her eyes at the familiar male voice of her future husband, refusing to look at him. "It's only been a few months."

Though she'd had to see more of annoying Alastair than usual due to the betrothal, Mireille had been irritatingly absent from those meetings.

"Three months is a long time to be separated from your friends," Jovana defended Mireille. "Not that you would know, considering you have none to speak of."

"Jovana!" Mireille lapsed into familiar habits, elbowing the queen in the side. "Don't be so rude!"

Jovana sighed. "I shall do my best."

It was the closest thing to an apology that Alastair would receive from her. Queens did not bow to their subjects. Although she would need to tolerate Alastair, for both their future marriage and their current shared connection of Mireille. Because for reasons unbeknownst to Jovana, Mireille idolized her older brother and was constantly begging to spend time with him. In stark contrast, Alastair was constantly finding excuses to be rid of his sister. Jovana often thought that her devotion to Alastair was Mireille's sole flaw. But then again, she was quick to form attachments and quicker to maintain them with a strong fervour, which made her such a good friend for Jovana when all the other noble children's parents were too scared of her parents—or, sole parent, that was—to let them play with her. Though, she had to admit that her mother was fairly intimidating, and not simply in the way that all parents could inspire fear in their offspring at times.

No, Adaira Dusang, the Queen Regent, was the star of a thousand nightmares conjured up by both Atlan and Mordanian children alike: the bloodthirsty, wicked queen who had clawed her way to power, who had begun life as a lowly peasant girl and risen to be the Queen Regent of Mordania. The queen who would not hesitate to dine on the flesh and blood of her enemies, the one who had spent years training and honing her magic to be noticed in battle by the king—whose blood magic some said was even lesser than his wife's. Then again, her mother's strain of magic was rare. Most only had one of four types: The ability to control a person's organs, crush their bones, manipulate the movements of their limbs, or pry into the neurones and nerves of their minds—all skills that could be wielded from a distance without ever touching or even needing to glimpse the victim.  Some rare and powerful Mordanians had two or even three out of the four powers, but her mother possessed all of them. It terrified people into believing her a sorceress—and the bad kind, not the sort that went around being healers for the sick.

Jovana thought the rumours to be rumours alone—her maman, Queen Regent though she may be, was no monster, but loving and kind in her own way even if she was never warm. Even if her blood on occasion seemed to be as cold as the horror stories made it out to be—well, her mother had taught her that a queen's reputation needed to be founded on one characteristic, and that one attribute needed to either spawn fear or love in the hearts of her people. She supposed her mother had long ago chosen whether to be feared or loved. But Jovana would rather pick love, devotion, and fidelity than have hushed whispers behind her back about how many lives she had ended or battles she had won.

The priest cleared his throat, ceremonial knife in one hand and a container of anointing oil in the other. "The ceremony will begin now."

As they were forced to walk arm-in-arm towards the altar, Jovana snuck a look at Alastair. It was unfair that one boy could be both so exquisitely handsome and insufferably rude. In his burgundy suit that matched her dress, he cut a fine figure. There was a gracefulness to his profile that reminded her of ancient statues, and his deep brown eyes—a shade darker than his hair—were what Mireille would have described as "eyes that could make a girl melt." Not that Mireille would say such a thing about her own brother, of course—

"Your Majesty," the priest intoned. From his impatient tone and Alastair's annoying smirk, she guessed that he had been calling her for a while. Jovana resolved not to flush, instead dropping Alastair's arm and stepping away from him. "The ceremony is about to begin."

She nodded, stepping onto the metal platform that was made from three types of metal—iron since it was an ingredient in blood, copper for its similar colour to blood, and finally steel for unnaturally strong things that had been forged from fire and pain. It was meant to represent the mixing of two magic bloodlines and the strength of the bond meant to be formed between them. Jovana summoned that strength now as the priest pricked her finger, blood flowing into the ceremonial bowl and mixing with Alastair's. He bore the pain unflinchingly, meeting her gaze as though challenging her to cry, to look weaker than him. She lifted her chin, nostrils flaring, refusing to give him an ounce of satisfaction. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother nod in approval.

"Very good," the priest said as he swished the bowl, blood sliding around its black, enamelled sides. Jovana hoped he didn't spill any of it—there was no part of her that wanted to lose even more blood even if it had only hurt a little. "Now, for the vows."

He lifted his arms, the wide sleeves drooping past his elbows and hanging by his ribs somewhere in the shapeless tunic and robe he wore, both of the garments in shades of red. "You simply have to repeat after me. Jovana will go first, as she is the sovereign."

"I vow to be the fire that burns in your hearth, always supporting you," she echoed the priest.

Alastair's mouth tugged upwards as though at the incredulity of the statement. She glared at him. Even if she despised him, she wanted to take this seriously for the sake of their nation—for her nation.

"Now, Alastair." The priest turned his attention to him with a disapproving frown.

"I vow to be the sword at your side, protecting you in all seasons," he said, his expression blank as he mimicked the priest.

And on it went, with more and more ridiculous vows and metaphors.

"I vow to be at your side always, never deserting or forsaking you for another."

"I vow to provide for you and our offspring for all the days of our lives."

"I vow to be the bright star in your sky, forever guiding you on the right path."

"Your breath shall be in my lungs, my blood in your veins, until the two of us are too intertwined to be taken apart."

And even worse, Mireille had the audacity to look happy! Happy at their terrible union! Sure, it was the union of her brother and best friend, two people she loved, and she obviously wanted for them to love each other, but still. It felt like a betrayal of both Alastair and Jovana. In total the whole betrothal made her want to vomit, and not because of the blood. Finally, it was over after what felt like a never-ending string of ludicrous promises that could never and would never be fulfilled. It was all so poetic and flowery that she might have loved it if she could imagine herself loving Alastair.

They stepped off the platform, still hand-in-hand. At least Alastair's hands weren't sticky or clammy with sweat, the way boy-kings' hands had been when she'd danced with them before. But she was still entirely too eager to be rid of him until the official beginning of their marriage. She met her mother's gaze, where Adaira Dusang stood beside the throne that would one day be Jovana's. Her mother nodded in approval, the severe lines of her face remaining cold but her green eyes crinkling with love. Next to her was Ilyas Durand, Mireille and Alastair's father, as well as the current lord of Hartfall. He wore a proud expression with a smile that didn't quite reach his blue eyes as he gazed at his son.

It was funny, really, how Lord Durand's eyes were the same colour as his daughter's—yet his looked like ice, like the blue shadows in the snow on a deceptively sunny day that left you reeling and blinded and desperately seeking shelter. While Mireille's eyes on the other hand were welcoming and friendly, her visage always bearing a cheerful grin or an out-of-breath laugh. Yet none of them were laughing when the gates of Mordania Castle burst open and Atlan soldiers flooded into the hall.