Chapter 3: Past Life – The Last Stand

Three days after her mother’s funeral, while all of Elyndra remained draped in mourning and whispered blame settled squarely on the unready weakling, deemed unfit for the throne and responsible for her own mother’s death, Katerina stood by the palace lake in black mourning silks.

In the past week, she had learned everything she could about the political state of Elyndra’s court. It had been brutal. She did not sleep. She could not sleep. She barely ate, hunger dulled by grief and vigilance. What she learned surprised her. There were still people loyal to Elyndra. Loyal to the crown. Far more than she had ever believed. Their quiet support was what allowed her to stand, when her father, hollowed out by loss, could barely rise from his grief.

Dravencourt had abandoned them. They had not sent so much as an ambassador to her mother’s funeral. There were rumors that the Queen of Dravencourt had fallen ill, but Katerina could not confirm them. It could just as easily have been an excuse.

So much for lifelong friendship.

He was there, though. Him. Maximilian.

As her mother was laid to rest, the wind had stirred. She felt it. Felt him. She looked up and saw him standing in the distance, his coat fluttering, his gaze fixed on her.

Whether he had come to gloat, she did not know.

The memory stiffened her spine now as her fingers tightened around the bracelet in her hand. No matter how she tried, she could not rid herself of it. She had thought she disposed of it. And yet, here it was again, like him in her heart.

Tears slid down her cheeks. She no longer knew what she cried for. Sometimes she curled inward, aching for her mother’s warmth. Other times, when his face surfaced unbidden in her thoughts, she felt only disgust at herself.

“Your Highness,” Lady Bernice, her lady-in-waiting, said softly, “you were right. Today, the Grand Duke suggested marrying his daughter, Lady Charlotte, to the second prince.”

Katerina wiped her tears. It was no surprise. She found, with a strange clarity, that understanding people’s intentions was no longer difficult. Perhaps she was not as unfit as they claimed.

“And the King of Velmont has sent a message,” the lady continued.

Katerina turned. Her knight shot the woman a warning glare, urging silence.

“What was the message?” Katerina asked.

Her knight hesitated. “His Majesty is considering the Grand Duke’s suggestion.”

“What was the message?” Katerina repeated, her voice sharper now, steadier. Grief had carved something new into her. Something hard.

Lady Bernice shuddered under her gaze. “The King of Velmont requests that you attend him privately,” she said flatly.

Attend him privately.

Katerina’s hands curled into fists. It had not even been a week since her former fiancé had branded her wanton, and now men summoned her as if she were nothing more than currency.

“In exchange for?” Katerina asked.

Lady Bernice only continued after Katerina glared at her. “Your Highness, the Velmont King was imperious…” Her face twisted with disgust. “He will spare Elyndra and annex it as a vassal state.”

“So there will be no war,” Katerina said quietly.

They would not survive one. Drafting peasants and serfs would only buy slaughter, not victory.

“Are you considering this?” Lady Bernice clasped her hand. “Your Highness, the King of Velmont is nearly forty. His queen is dead. His sons are closer to your age. He is a brute. He is not even offering marriage.” Her voice broke.

“Why should you bear this burden alone?”

“Because I’m born into it, dear Bernice…” Katerina inhaled slowly, holding back her tears. As she exhaled, her gaze fell to the bracelet in her palm. There was no longing left. No ache. No warmth. Only metal and stone.

She threw it into the lake.

It sank where the ribbon once had. The place where she had realized she loved Maximilian. The place where she finally let him go.

If an eighteen-year betrothal, sanctioned by crowns and sealed by protocol, could be destroyed by ink and a seal, then what difference was there between that and Velmont’s crude offer?

None.

At least this choice could save her people.

“I need to speak to my royal father,” Katerina said, her eyes clear, resolute.

Her mother once told her that love and trust were the two pillars of a good marriage. The naïve princess who believed in such far-fetched words had died with her mother.

What remained of her… would never trust again.

And love?

She no longer knew what that word meant.

*****

Eighteen years passed.

Princess Katerina of Elyndra became Queen Consort of Velmont. Her husband, Dorian, King of Velmont, formally named her Queen of Elyndra, binding her birthright to his crown. Whether there was love in their marriage, she could not say. Trust existed, measured, and careful. What they shared in abundance was respect, forged through endurance rather than affection.

Dorian asked for her suggestions before making any big decisions. He didn’t hide her beneath the traditions and customs of their land, even when his court disapproved of her. For a brute, he was surprisingly respectful of her and supported her.

Maximilian married Lady Charlotte after the Grand Duke rebelled. Elyndra lost a sliver of its land to that betrayal. When his elder brother died, Maximilian ascended the throne of Dravencourt.

And then, just as Katerina conceived, just as Dorian proclaimed her Queen of Elyndra, Dravencourt’s posture shifted.

Maximilian began to pursue her. No, pursue was too gentle a word. He hunted her. Relentlessly.

She fled him across borders and years, and still he found her: patient as desire, crowned and cruel. He did not pursue her to catch her, but to wear her down, to let time do the work his armies could not.

Wherever she ran, he was already there, waiting like night at the edge of a wound, knowing her blood by name. His presence wrapped around her life like a vow she had never given, tightening with every step she took away. He did not need chains. He only needed time.

Eighteen years. Three miscarriages. Two stillbirths. The brutal death of her son. Countless attempts on her life. And, more recently, her husband’s growing indifference. All of it traced back to one man. The man she had been betrothed to for eighteen years.

And now her enemy king: Maximilian.

In the Vale of the Laurel Fields, Queen Katerina stood alone as rain fell in sheets across the valley. Her green eyes cut through the downpour as she took in the banners of Dravencourt, Elyndra, and Velmont descending through the mountain passes.

The war had dragged on without mercy. Lives were lost. Treasuries were emptied. Commoners starved. Still, Maximilian refused to call for a ceasefire.

Her lips curved into a faint smirk, one meant only for herself. Rain mingled with the blood at her mouth, staining the white of her nightgown the color of bruised fruit. Her velvet robe clung to her shoulders, heavy with cold and water.

She had known happiness once, in her thirty-six years. It had tasted bright and sharp, like citrus on the tongue, vivid and alive. Holding her newborns had brought a different feeling, softer and steadier, like the apples of Elyndra, sweet and grounding.

But this feeling now, the bitterness rising from her gut, was something else entirely.

The sweetness had soured. It lingered, acrid and unrelenting, like a pomegranate gone bad, its jeweled seeds bursting with acid instead of juice. The color remained beautiful, the red still rich, but it stained everything it touched.

That was the cruelty of betrayal. Even ruin carried the taste of memory.

And there he stood. Her ruin. The enemy king.

King Maximilian, the enemy and origin of it all. Tall, hardened, seething. His reddened eyes locked onto her as he mounted the platform, nostrils flaring, teeth biting into his lower lip as though fury were the only thing keeping him upright.

What have I done to deserve such hatred? Didn’t he get everything he wanted? What does he still expect from me? My life is all there is left!

Pain split her head with every drop of rain striking her skin. Katerina clenched her jaw and tightened her grip on the dagger until it pressed hard against the signet ring on her finger, as she whispered…

“The threads of fate have woven this meeting; so let it be that my hands taste your blood, and your name be buried in ash. On this day, hatred perishes with love.”

He charged, his longsword flashing dully beneath the grey sky.

She walked straight toward him, armed with a dagger small enough to mock the gravity of the moment. Blood ran from her nose and mouth. Her knees trembled. Fear tasted like rain on iron. Yet beneath it all, her resolve beat steady and unyielding.

If death will end it… I will fight; I will bleed. I will not beg.

Today, everything ends, and I will meet it standing.

If there is another life beyond this one, I pray I will never meet him again. In that life, at least, I want to live quietly, freely, and on my own terms.

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