The Blood Throne of Sahirra

[accuscripter]

The wind howled through the broken spires of the Citadel, carrying with it the scent of ash and the distant cry of mourning horns. The sky above Sahirra was not blue that day. It was a bruised gray, darkening with every beat of war drums that echoed through the capital. Somewhere beyond the veil of smoke, the clouds wept; but none louder than the child who had just become a ruler.

She stood barefoot in the ruins of the palace courtyard, small fingers clenched into the folds of her blood-stained gown. Her name was Aeryn, daughter of Queen Yssa and High King Thalen, but the name no longer mattered. The child they'd loved had died moments before they did. What remained was a throne, still warm with smoke, and a girl with red hair in a kingdom that had no place for such a thing.

She had watched it happen.

One moment, her mother was laughing. The next, she was on fire.

It wasn't a flame like any soldier's torch or oil-born blaze; it was black, oily, unnatural. Magic that hissed like serpents. It crawled over Yssa's skin, devouring her from the inside out, leaving behind nothing but bone and a crown scorched into her skull. Her father tried to save her, of course. Lunged forward, roaring like a lion. The black fire took him too, swallowing him whole. He screamed her name until he had no lungs left.

Aeryn had not screamed. Not even when her handmaid pulled her behind the silver tapestry. Not when the stones cracked and the throne chamber split open like a heart. She had stared with the frozen silence of prey; a silence that did not break even when it was over.

Now, only the bones remained. And the smoke. And the child with hair the color of blood, and eyes the hue of desert amber; both cursed by centuries of courtly lore.

They say rulers must bear eyes the shade of shadowstone; pure black, deep and sharp. They say no red-haired child has ever ruled Sahirra, not since the bloodcurse of the Scar Wars. Aeryn had both.

That should have been enough to bar her from the throne.

But there was no one left to deny her.

The High Orator placed the crown in her hands. It was still dented from the blast, part of it melted, but it gleamed all the same. The Orator's voice echoed from beneath his veil.

"By the laws of flame and blood, by the pact of the Thousand Thrones, by the will of Sahirra and its sky…"

A pause. He looked down at her, voice tightening.

"...do you accept the burden of sovereign rule?"

Aeryn looked up. Around her, black-robed nobles stood like statues, lined along the courtyard's rim. None knelt. Their eyes were hard, their necks unbowed. She knew what they saw: a child soaked in soot and taboo, trembling at the bones of her parents.

A spark flared in her chest. Something strange. Hot and sharp, like a thorn under the skin.

She stepped forward.

"I do."

The crown was placed on her head. It slipped slightly over one ear. The wind snatched at her cloak, nearly pulling it free, but she did not move. She stood, chin raised, as the sky cracked with thunder. Somewhere in the distance, bells rang to declare her name. But no one cheered.

Aeryn's first act as queen was to bury her parents herself.

She refused the priests. Refused the pallbearers, the gold-stitched funeral veils, the ceremonial birdsong. Instead, she dug the graves in the Garden of Stone with her own little hands, her maid tried to get her away, "Your Highness! Please! You are Queen now, it is below you!" but all in vain. Her hands calloused, bleeding, shivering in the cold of twilight. The guards stood back, confused but silent. Aeryn whispered to no one. She did not cry. Maid forcefully pulled her back and motioned the guards to dig the graves. She still didn't say anything, instead this six year old child tried to get free from the cold strong hands, holding her, but after all she was just a child.

Finally after her parents were buried, she planted one lily for each; red for Yssa, white for Thalen; and pressed her forehead to the mound of earth until her skin was dirt-streaked and raw.

When she finally rose, her eyes were darker than dusk.

That night, the Royal Court convened behind her back.

Old men with oil-slick beards. Grandmothers with rings on every finger. Priests who smelled of ancient parchment. They gathered in silk and fur to speak of the new queen, and whether a realm could survive a girl born of omens.

"She is too young," said High Minister Varr. "Barely six winters to her name."

"Too cursed," muttered Lady Hareth. "Red hair is a mark of the untamed. The Unblessed."

"And those eyes," spat someone else. "Amber like the beast-folk of the Dune Vale."

"Who knows after her parents, what chaos she will bring to us" another voice echoed from behind.

They spoke as if she were not in the palace at all. She was standing in the shadow of the ceiling alcove, still in her burial cloak. She heard every word. Her fingers curled around the iron railing. For a moment, she almost whispered. Almost begged.

Please... help me.

But the words never left her mouth.

She had no one left to beg.

She returned to her bedchamber that night without speaking to anyone. No servants followed. No guards kept watch.

Outside, lightning struck the far hills. Inside, Aeryn sat by the glass window, hands curled around a knife meant for bread.

She did not sleep.

---

​

Three Days Later

They tried to kill her.

It happened in the Hour of Emberlight, when the sun casts red across the horizon and the sky glows like an open wound. She had just walked into the Solar Hall for council. Behind her, the great stained-glass windows burned with light; scenes of ancient queens, battles, gods.

The knife came from nowhere. A shadow leapt from the balcony.

Aeryn turned.

The assassin's blade met the air an inch from her throat.

A scream shattered the silence; not hers, but the attacker's. His body convulsed, seizing midair. Blood burst from his eyes. His bones cracked audibly.

He dropped to the ground like a bag of shattered glass, crimson pooling from every orifice.

Aeryn stared.

It had not been her hands.

It had been… something inside her.

The court gasped. Guards surged in. The assassin was dead before they touched him.

Aeryn looked down at her hands. They shook. Her hair had darkened slightly, the tips brightening. By the time she was escorted out, streaks of deep red had begun to appear in her curls.

From that day onward, they bowed. Every viscount, martial, duke, minister, slaves and maids, everyone.

Not out of love. But out of terror after seeing a bloody response given to their by a child no older than their grandchildren. She didn't even chant a spell or looked the victim in the eyes. They were scared.

And for the first time since her parents' death… as she was hussled out of the court and everyone looked at her with shock, Aeryn smiled.

"Chapter 1 is live! Share your first impressions, theories, and reactions in the comments below! What do you think is coming next? Let's get the discussion started! Your thoughts might just shape the story ahead... "