The uncontrollable power lurking beneath Princess Alethia's skin can either be the savior of the Four Kingdoms or its destruction.
Princess Alethia was raised on three principles: (1) Mercy is for the weak, (2) Emotions are an unwanted distraction...
A/N: Above is a photo of how I see Galen in my head. Not drawn by me. Credit belongs to an unknown artist. Happy reading <3
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Alethia's heart raced, and her cold, clammy hand gripped her sister's tightly. She glanced over at her father, Galen. He walked slightly in front of her, a longbow on his shoulder and a quiver of arrows strapped across his back. The brief moment of happiness had faded. The presence of her father guaranteed an inauspicious outcome. Her blood rushed to her ears as she thought of the ways her mother would make her torture him.
She wouldn't do it. She refused to do so. But the words that her mother had drilled into her taunted her.
Loyalty is everything.
Nothing good was going to come from them entering that room. Terror gripped Alethia's heart, causing it to throb harshly. Years of mastering how to control her feelings were crumbling.
Emotions are an unwanted distraction.
The sudden appearance of her father had thrown Alethia off. Barriers that she kept high fell as her father glanced at her, squeezing her free hand with his large one.
Surrounding them were at least twelve guards, who tightened their formation in the already cramped hallway. The clanking sound of their metal armor filled her ears, pounding on her head like a hammer. Alethia gritted her teeth.
At Galen's side was a young male with a long black ponytail trailing down to the middle of his back, hands balled up in fists at his side. Alethia didn't know his connection to her father, but she hoped that he'd protect Galen.
Roxana's grip on her hand loosened as the throne room appeared in front of them. The doors were open, giving them an unshielded view of what awaited them inside.
The young man cursed under his breath. Alethia's lips pressed together. Inside were rows upon rows of guards clad in armor standing alongside dead bodies her mother had risen. Many of them she recognized as past prisoners, servants, and guards her mother had forced her to kill in the past. Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard.
As if sensing the distress that was occurring in Alethia, her father slowed his stride to whisper in her ear. "Don't fret, my little dove. We'll get out of this somehow."
Her heart ached at the sound of her childhood nickname and his familiar optimism. But he was wrong. There was no way they were going to survive without it costing them. And that's exactly what Alethia feared. She feared for her sister. She feared for her father. And she feared for herself—for the things her mother would want her to do. The things the ruthless monster lying dormant underneath her skin was willing to do. Even now she could hear the words whispering in the back of her head.
Mercy is a weakness.
Alethia shook her head, eyes glistening as they entered the throne room. The guards surrounding them split to stand at the outer perimeters while the others stood in front of her mother.
