They called Zaria Reed many things after the fall.
Queen.
Tyrant.
Usurper.
Plague.
Whore.
Saint.
The titles became more ridiculous with every passing decade. Apparently, time has the same effect on memory that alcohol has on honesty. Give people enough years and they'll transform any catastrophe into mythology.
My personal favourite was Queen.
As if she ever sat on a throne.
As if she needed one.
Others preferred Tyrant.
That one came mostly from old men who spent centuries abusing power and became deeply offended when somebody else did it better.
The more dramatic accounts claimed she seduced senators, ruined dynasties, started wars between Houses and convinced entire bloodlines to destroy themselves.
One story claimed a man abandoned his wife, children, career and inheritance after spending two hours in her company.
Another insisted she hosted private gatherings where people willingly surrendered fortunes for an invitation.
One particularly creative fool claimed she'd once entertained hundreds of admirers over a single winter before sending them all home convinced they'd never loved anyone else.
Absurd.
The number changes every time the story is told.
Sometimes it was fifty.
Sometimes five hundred.
Sometimes a thousand.
People always add zeros when they're frightened.
There were stories about disappearances too.
Stories about devotion.
Stories about obsession.
Stories about blood.
There are always stories about blood.
Most of them were nonsense.
Not because Zaria wasn't dangerous.
Because people prefer legends to accountability.
The truth forces people to admit they participated.
The legend lets them pretend they were victims.
The truth is that before she became everyone's favourite excuse, before historians started writing books about her and idiots started quoting those books, she was a bartender.
And I noticed her first.
Not literally.
Hundreds of people saw her every day.
What I mean is I recognised what she was before anyone else did.
Or at least I thought I did.
That mistake ended up costing rather a lot of people their lives.
⸻
I was born into House von Arendt.
If you've never heard of House von Arendt, congratulations.
That means we failed.
A great many people spent a great many centuries making sure the name mattered.
YOU ARE READING
Beyond Reach
ParanormalThe first time Lucien von Arendt saw Zaria Reed, she was standing behind a bar arguing with a customer over a twenty-dollar tip. The last time he saw her, kings were kneeling. For over a century, Lucien has blamed Zaria for everything. The collapse...
