Chereads / Kingdoms in Crimson / Chapter 10 - Ashes of Intrigue

Chapter 10 - Ashes of Intrigue

Dawn was breaking over the ruins of Shadaria Veila, as if trying to hide the horrors of yesterday in the warm light of a new day. The sky, once covered in the crimson smoke of the fires, was now beginning to clear, scattering stripes of soft pink and gold light. However, this dawn did not bring comfort. Rather, it seemed like a silent observer, powerless to bear witness to the destruction.

The city, once full of life, now resembled a battlefield. The charred skeletons of buildings cast strange shadows, and the pavements were strewn with the remains of barricades. People dressed in simple work clothes wandered the streets, collecting stones and pieces of wood. Their faces were empty, their eyes avoided each other. They worked side by side, not exchanging a word.

Amidst the chaos of the slowly rebuilding capital, the majestic silhouette of the royal palace stood out. Its crimson-black spires, as if frozen in time, rose into the sky, symbolizing power and grandeur. The balcony overlooking the ruined square became the place of reflection of the Queen of Demonia.

Victoria stood motionless, like a statue, shrouded in a light morning haze. Her long hair fluttered freely in the light wind. Her pale face, almost devoid of emotion, was directed forward. Her blue eyes, reflecting the light of dawn, resembled the very heart of the war that raged only recently. She clutched the railing, feeling the cold metal under her fingers, as if trying to feel at least something at this moment.

She thought. Her thoughts were chaotic, but at the same time too ordered, like an avalanche rushing down a mountain, destroying everything in its path. "The city will recover, of course. But what about me?" — Victoria thought, looking down at the pale, hungry villagers, who moved slowly, listlessly, in their routine.

Memories flooded her. She remembered her old life, the one where the taste of fresh bread brought joy, where the sun warmed instead of scorched, where her laughter sounded sincere, and not like an echo of emptiness. Now it all seemed alien. The food had become tasteless, even the most exquisite dishes brought no comfort. The music that once inspired her now seemed just noise.

Victoria closed her eyes, trying to understand what had caused this change. "Have I become a different person, or have I just finally learned who I really am?" The question was painful, like a wound that cannot be healed.

Victoria looked down at the hands that clutched the railing. These hands had done so much - swinging a blade, giving orders, signing death warrants. Each of these moments left scars on her soul that could not be erased.

"Are these the right methods? Or am I really turning into a tyrant?" Her thoughts were as caustic as poison. She remembered Irfan, her father, who always said that power should not be cruel. But his words now seemed naive to her.

She laughed, but the laugh was short, almost joyless. "A tyrant. Me?" she said out loud, smiling ironically. "If I am a tyrant, then why do they all come to me for salvation? They scream when I punish them. They ask for justice, but they receive death. And yet they bow before me. No, I am not a tyrant. I am a queen."

This thought seemed comforting to her, and she felt a slight smile on her lips. However, deep down, Victoria knew: her reign was built on blood and fear.

Victoria's thoughts were interrupted by a slight vibration beneath her feet. Someone stepped onto the balcony behind her. It was Morgana, standing in her usual dark armor. Her face remained serene, but her eyes were worried.

"Your Majesty," she began quietly, coming closer. "The mass executions of the rebels have begun. The order has been carried out."

Victoria turned slowly, her eyes meeting Morgana's. The Queen nodded slightly and, smiling ironically, said:

"What do you think, Morgana, am I closer to justice now? Or is all this just a new illusion of power?"

Morgana did not answer. She knew that Victoria did not expect an answer. She only turned back to the city, watching it as if it were a chessboard on which her fate was being played out.

The dawn sun poured golden rays onto the square where justice would be done, but the light seemed only a dim illusion of hope among the heaps of destruction. The bulky gallows erected at the edges of the square became grim symbols of a new era. A crowd of townspeople dressed in tattered clothes gathered around, awaiting the execution. Their faces reflected a mixture of horror and suppressed indifference - they had seen enough death to be accustomed.

The captured rebels stood in rows, shackled in heavy chains. Their faces expressed everything from rage to resignation. Some whispered prayers, others cursed the authorities. But they all knew: there would be no salvation.

On the dais, surrounded by the royal guard, stood Victoria de Luna. Her figure was slender and majestic, and her crimson-black clothes emphasized her status. Morgana stood next to her, clad in ebony armor, her sword clutched tightly in her hand.

Victoria took a step forward, scanning the crowd. Her gaze was cold, piercing, like a sharp blade. It seemed that it could easily pierce any defense, revealing the very essence of those she looked at. She raised her hand, and the noise of the crowd instantly died down.

"People of Shadaria Veila!" Victoria began, her voice strong and commanding, echoing across the square. "You are here to witness retribution. This is not simply punishment for rebellion. It is a lesson. A lesson in what happens to those who dare challenge the king's authority."

She paused, letting the words sink into the hearts and minds of those present.

"You wish to know why they are here?" Victoria waved her hand at the rebels. "They claim to have risen for you, for 'justice.' But is justice betrayal? Destruction? The murder of your brothers, sisters, children? No. Their 'fight' is but a veil over their true intentions: greed, lust for power, fear of change.

One of the rebel leaders, a man with gray hair and deep wrinkles, stepped forward, his voice shaking with rage:

"We did not fight against you, Victoria, but against what you represent. You are a product of a system that oppresses and kills."

Victoria turned slowly to him, her gaze growing even colder.

— You speak of the system? — She smiled faintly, but there was bitterness in her voice. — The system is order. The order that allows you to breathe, to eat, to live. Without the system, you would be beasts fighting for every crumb. And if my system requires blood to exist, so be it.

The crowd froze, as if time had stopped. Victoria turned back to the people.

— I gave you a chance. A chance to see that even in chaos, there is a place for order. But they... — she pointed at the prisoners. — They chose otherwise. They chose chaos. And now they will pay.

Victoria turned to Morgana.

— Begin.

Morgana gave a short command, and the executioners standing next to the rebels took up their swords. Victoria stepped back, watching as hundreds of condemned men were executed before the eyes of the crowd. Their screams rent the air, but she did not flinch. Her face remained as cold as a marble statue.

Morgana stood behind Victoria, watching the proceedings with a grim expression. When it was all over, Morgana came closer.

"Why didn't you do it yourself? You used to kill them with your own hands to prove your power."

Victoria turned around slowly, her lips curling into a barely noticeable smile.

"Why?" Her voice was full of sarcasm. "Because I am above it. The Queen does not soil her hands with mice. Let their blood flow on the blades of the guard, not mine."

Morgana did not answer, only nodded slightly.

Victoria glanced at the assembled nobles, standing slightly to the side. They were watching the proceedings with different expressions on their faces: some were scared, some were delighted, and some looked indifferent. She noted every detail in her mind, analyzing their reactions. "Which of them can I use?" — she thought.

Her eyes fell on the young earl with the shiny red hair, who was clenching his fists as if struggling not to turn away from the spectacle. The baroness stood next to her, her gaze indifferent, as if she were watching a boring theatrical performance. Victoria remembered their faces.

"Loyalty cannot be bought. It can be forged, like steel. And steel is tempered in fire," she muttered under her breath. "Soon I will find out which of you is real metal, and which is just deceptive tinsel."

Her thoughts were interrupted by a guard who came up to report on the situation in other parts of the city. Victoria, without turning around, waved her hand, dismissing him.

"No doubt, Morgana," she said quietly, turning to her comrade. "I will make them my servants, or their blood will be spilled like the blood of these rebels.

Morgana merely nodded, looking at the queen with cold determination.

The sun rose higher, casting its rays over the ruined streets of Shadaria Veila. The city, which had been ablaze in the chaos of the rebellion only days before, was now beginning to recover. But the scars remained. The narrow streets were littered with the remains of battle - charred houses, stone-strewn squares, and bloody stains, reminders of the brutal clashes.

Victoria walked through the corridors of the royal palace, her footsteps sounding like distant drumbeats that echoed off the high vaults. Her dark dress glided softly across the marble floor, leaving behind a sense of inexorable movement. She approached the strategic planning office - a place that had once been the center of decisions and discussions.

Once, this place was filled with the voices of generals, advisers, and ministers. All of them arguing, proposing, accusing each other. And now... Now there was silence.

Victoria stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind her. The large oval table, covered with maps and papers, was still in place. In the center of the table lay a map of Demonia, with the hot spots of the rebellion marked in bright red. Empty chairs stood nearby, as if awaiting those who would never occupy them again.

She ran her hand along the back of one of the chairs, remembering the faces of those who had once sat at this table. One of them was the face of the former treasurer Cassar Elton, who had so often tried to contradict her. Now his voice was silent forever. Her fingers lingered on the cool wood, as if the very memory of these men was ingrained in it.

She walked around the table, stopping in front of the chair where her chief military adviser, Horace Bellwood, usually sat. His rough voice and sharp remarks always irritated her. And yet, somewhere deep down, she had respected him. Until she learned of his betrayal.

"All dead," she said quietly, as if speaking to herself. "No more to point out my mistakes. No more to try to contradict me. Now I am alone."

Her gaze fell on the empty seat at the head of the table—her own. She sat down slowly, leaning back in the high back of the chair. Her fingers closed, and her gaze slid over the documents left on the table.

"Ministers, generals, advisers…" she began, her voice echoing around the room. "You wanted power, intrigue, whispers behind closed doors. And what did you get? Oblivion. All that remains of you is dust, scattered by the wind."

Morgana entered the office, closing the door behind her silently. She approached the queen in silence, but did not say anything. Her gaze fell on Victoria, who now seemed like a figure from myth, majestic and terrifying.

"Are you silent, Morgana?" Victoria looked up at her. "Or perhaps you wish to say something?"

"I will speak if you wish, Your Majesty," Morgana replied calmly. "But I know that you have already made all your decisions. My opinion is not needed here.

"You are right," Victoria smiled slightly, but her smile was cold. "I have become what I was meant to be. The single voice of power. The one who writes history in blood, if necessary. But sometimes I wonder... Who will I become next?"

Morgana bowed her head, her eyes flashing with cold confidence.

"You will be the one to lead this people through all the trials. Demonia needs you, Your Majesty. Even if it means spilling more blood.

As Victoria rose from her chair, she headed for the door. As she walked through the long corridors of the palace, she noticed a maid trying to throw an old window frame off the sill. The girl was young, her face tense as she struggled to hold on to the frame so as not to drop it prematurely.

"What are you doing?" Victoria asked coldly, stopping.

The maid turned around, and at that moment her foot slipped. The girl began to fall, but Victoria, with lightning speed, reached out and caught her by the shoulder. However, her words were cut off in mid-sentence when the window frame collapsed, dragging debris with it. The frame and debris fell right on the maid and Victoria's hand.

The girl's scream echoed through the corridor, but a moment later she fell silent as her body fell out of the window, leaving bloody traces on the stones. Victoria remained standing, her forearm torn off along with the falling frame.

She felt no pain. Only a slight surprise from the unexpected. She looked at the bloody stump of her arm, from which thick crimson blood dripped, leaving marks on the floor.

"I wonder," she muttered, bringing the stump closer to her eyes. "How quickly will it grow back?"

And, as if by her will, dark veins began to form at the site of the break, enveloping her arm. A few seconds later, she was already looking at a completely restored forearm.

"This is what it means to be the embodiment of strength," Victoria grinned, turning her palm. "I am real. The rest... are just pale shadows."

She looked coldly at the window where the remains of the maid lay, but did not utter a word of regret. Victoria turned and continued on her way, leaving a trail of crimson drops behind her, like a trace of a bloody reign.

The sun's rays flooded the throne room, but their warmth seemed alien among the cold stone and stern gazes. The nobles Victoria had invited sat on a long bench along the wall. Their every movement was restrained, their faces concealed tension. No one could predict what awaited them behind these doors.

Victoria's throne towered over the entire hall, its crimson upholstery sparkling as if soaked in the blood of her enemies. The queen of Demonia sat on it, her gaze wandering over those gathered, like a predator looking for prey.

Morgana stood behind Victoria, her figure motionless as the queen's own shadow, serving as a reminder that any bold word could lead to a quick death.

The first to appear before Victoria was Baron Randolph Kline, a middle-aged man with trembling hands. His face was covered in beads of sweat, which he tried in vain to hide. He bowed deeply, but this only emphasized his uncertainty.

"Randolph Kline," Victoria said, her voice cold and clear. "You were among those who supported the crown during the days of the rebellion. But tell me, why should I trust you with such an important post? What makes you worthy?"

Randolph tried to answer, but his voice was treacherous.

"Your Majesty... I... I have served... Always served the crown. I have never...

Victoria raised her hand, silencing him.

"Enough," she said coldly. "You have served, as you say. But tell me, Randolph, if tomorrow I ordered you to execute every one of your subjects, who would dare say that you had failed to obey? Would you be prepared to do such a thing?"

The baron hesitated, his face twisted in fear.

"Your Majesty, it would be... It would be a difficult choice..."

"Difficult?" Her voice grew sharper. "Demonia has no use for those who hesitate. Be gone."

He was led away, and Victoria waved her hand, calling for the next candidate.

Next was Count Larenz Erving. He was young and seemed more confident than his predecessor. But that confidence quickly vanished under the queen's sharp gaze.

"Count Erving," Victoria began, crossing her fingers in front of her. "You are known for your connections among the merchants." Tell me how you plan to use your influence to strengthen Demonia.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice growing more confident. "Trade is the lifeblood of our state. I can ensure a steady flow of resources and taxes..."

Victoria bowed her head, her eyes narrowing.

"Resources and taxes? That's all? What if I told you that your influence among the merchants is just a smokescreen? That you are a puppet, and the strings are in the hands of those who have conspired with the rebels?"

His confidence wavered.

"Your Majesty, this is a lie... This is slander..."

"Slander?" Her voice became cold as the winter wind. "Then tell me, Count Erving, why did I find your name among the correspondence of one of the rebellion's leaders?"

His face turned pale, and he began to stutter, but before he could say anything, Victoria waved her hand, and one of the Ephernites came closer. Count Erving's last look was one of horror as the steel blade pierced his heart.

"The weak and traitors have no place in Demonia," Victoria said quietly, rising. "Next."

The throne room was once again filled with an oppressive silence as Elissa de Valdemar approached Victoria with grace and confidence. The Duchess's gaze was sharp as a blade, her posture the embodiment of absolute self-control. Victoria looked at her with a stony expression, but inside she felt a tension, as if before a fight.

"Elissa de Valdemar," Victoria began, her eyes narrowing coldly. "You were not invited, but here you are. Well, let me find out what brings you to my throne room.

"Your Majesty," Elissa began, bowing slightly but maintaining her poise, "I am here to speak with the queen, who, by all appearances, has managed to suppress the rebellion. It is… impressive. However, I have not come for praise. I have several questions to which I hope to receive honest answers." Victoria raised an eyebrow slightly, but her tone remained icy.

— Questions? You dare to come here uninvited and demand answers right away? Isn't that presumptuous for a duchess who is still alive only because I allowed her family to maintain their position?

Elissa smiled. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

— Presumptuous, perhaps, Your Majesty. But I am used to looking at reality from its harsh side. And to be honest, isn't it presumptuous to execute hundreds of people without trying to understand the reason for their rebellion? Tell me, Queen, what was your goal when you first ascended the throne?

Victoria tensed, but quickly pulled herself together. She leaned forward slightly, her voice ringing with a metallic echo.

— Goal? Too simple. To strengthen the Demonia, to unite it under one will, to destroy those who put personal ambitions above the common good. I did what was required. I gave Demonia order.

"Order?" Elissa asked, her smile widening. "You call thousands of corpses and a city in ruins order? Oh, forgive me, I must not understand the meaning of this word. Perhaps you can enlighten me? How is your order different from chaos?"

The throne room filled with heavy air. The nobles standing by the walls watched silently, like statues. Victoria rose from the throne, her figure inspiring fear.

"Chaos is when rebels dare to go against their queen. Chaos is the weakness of power. Order is a single will that drives the entire state. And yes, sometimes order requires sacrifice. You are probably too young to understand this."

Elissa took a step forward, her gaze sharp as a dagger.

"Young? Perhaps. But not so young as not to understand that true power does not need blood to prove its strength. Tell me, Victoria, do you really think that your power is unshakable? You sit here in this hall, surrounded by fear and death, and call it victory?

Victoria laughed. It was the laugh of a man who had long been accustomed to hiding anger behind cold contempt.

"Unshakable? You seem to have forgotten where you are, girl. This is my throne room. My power is proven. If anyone dares to doubt it, their fate will be the same as those you saw in the square."

"Then tell me, Queen," Elissa's voice became quieter, but even more frightening, "what will happen when you face an enemy who does not fear death? When blood can no longer be your argument?" When will the people begin to whisper that the queen is nothing more than a tyrannical symbol? How long can you hold this throne when fear turns to hatred?

Victoria clenched her fists. Her eyes flashed crimson.

"You dare lecture me on power when your family only exists by the grace of this throne? You speak of hatred, but forget that without my 'cruelty', your duchy would have long since sunk into treason and anarchy."

Elissa bowed her head, her voice coldly confident.

"And yet you have not answered my question, Your Majesty. You have won this battle, but the war for the hearts and minds of the people has only just begun. And if you continue to rely on fear alone, then one day even those who bow their heads before you will find a way to overthrow you. As they did with your predecessor.

Victoria stepped forward, her figure now towering over Elissa. But she did not flinch, her face remained calm.

"Remember, Elissa de Valdemar. I am the Demonia. And while I stand upon this throne, none shall dare challenge me. You may speak as much as you like, but words will not stop a blade. Now, get out of my hall before I decide your wit is worth too much."

Elissa smiled, but her eyes were cold.

"As you say, Your Majesty. But remember," she turned and walked slowly toward the exit, "this throne is but a stone. And the people are the earth beneath it. Remove the earth, and the stone will crumble."

Her words echoed through the hall as she left. Victoria stood still, her gaze dark. The nobles were afraid to breathe, let alone whisper. The silence was frightening, but the tension in the air promised that this conversation would only be the beginning.

Elissa de Valdemar walked slowly out of the royal palace. The stone streets of Shadaria Veila still smelled of smoke and blood. She walked with an easy grace, as if the world around her were her own theater and she the leading actress. Her gaze darted over the bustling crowds, some weeping, others silently watching the corpses of rebels hanging from makeshift gallows. The wail of sirens, muttered prayers, and suppressed cries created an oppressive background, but Elissa walked with a slight half-smile on her lips.

Finally, her gaze settled on a familiar face. It was Baron Dairon Geldrim, the once arrogant noble who had dared to turn against the crown. His body, like the others, was mangled, his arms hanging lifelessly at his sides, his face frozen in an expression of horror. Yet even in his death, he retained a remnant of aristocratic pride that seemed to mingle with the dirt and blood on his clothes.

Elissa bowed her head slightly, as if studying a rare specimen. She approached slowly, her steps so quiet that it seemed as if even the earth dared not make a sound beneath her feet. Crouching down in front of the lifeless body, she reached out and gently lifted the baron's head. His eyes, empty and dead, looked straight at her.

"Dairon, Dairon," she began, her voice almost gentle, like a mother scolding a child. "I warned you. Warned all of you. But you seemed to think that your pathetic attempt to change the order of things could be successful. How naive you are. How... weak."

She chuckled, her fingers gently stroking the baron's dead skin, as if she were talking to a living person.

"You believed you could overthrow the queen without discussing your plans with me, your mistress? How ungrateful you are. I gave you everything: influence, status, wealth. And you… you thought you could do without my favor. How far you have fallen, Dairon. And you know," she leaned forward slightly, her smile widening, "you deserve nothing but contempt."

Elissa stood up, wiping her hand with her handkerchief, as if trying to erase the traces of her touch with the rebel. Her gaze moved to the square, where the executed bodies created a horrific picture.

"Look at them," she muttered, her voice full of cold disdain. "They wanted freedom, but they got death. This is what happens when weakness tries to disguise itself as strength. The Demonia is weak. It has always been weak. But it is only a matter of time before I change it."

Her eyes narrowed, and her voice was almost a whisper, as if she were talking to herself.

"I will change everything. The Demonia will burn. Not with the crimson flames of this pretender queen, but with my righteous fire. She thinks she has won, but her victory is but a brief moment in the infinity of my power."

She paused, then suddenly chuckled, as if remembering something.

"Ah, Victoria. Your plaything… this blade. Do you think it makes you stronger? I fear you are mistaken. You are nothing more than a vessel for chaos you cannot understand. But nothing." Soon… very soon, I will rid Demonia of your presence.

Elissa turned, her steps light and graceful again. She cast one last glance at the square, her voice so quiet that only the wind could hear it.

"And from you, father. Alas, you too are not destined to remain on my pillow of greatness. You both take up too much space."

Her figure disappeared into the crowd, but her words hung in the air, like a harbinger of an approaching storm.