Chapter 20
The Cursed Eyes
The study of Queen Elara was a chamber where elegance did not clash with discipline but lived in harmony with it. The chamber was spacious, yet nothing within it was wasted. Every book, every parchment, every sealed tube of wax rested where it ought, as though even disorder had been forbidden to cross its threshold.
The walls were lined with tall shelves of polished oak, filled not with idle tomes of poetry or gilded chronicles, but with the records of war, treaties with half-forgotten lords, and volumes of conjurer treatises, their spines cracked with use. Maps stretched upon frames stood at the corners, painted with the careful hand of the kingdom's cartographers, the borders inked sharp, and the rivers traced like living veins. A globe of burnished bronze, no larger than a man's chest, gleamed by the window, its surface pricked with small gemstones marking capitals and cities.
The furniture bore no gold, no gem. Yet the craft skills itself bespoke quiet power: the long desk carved from a single oak trunk, the chairs padded in dark leather, the curtains of deep blue velvet that fell like waves against the stone. Light fell from wrought-iron lamps crafted into the shapes of roses; each petal cradled a flame, their glow steady, unyielding. The scent of wax, ink, and faint herbs filled the air, blending into something at once clean and grave.
Outside the tall arched windows stretched Aethelgard itself, the capital of Veridia. From this height one could see the rooftops, their cream-coloured stone a soft contrast to Ardon's gilded vanity. The towers rose steady, not striving to pierce the heavens but standing as watchmen over their people. Streets wound below like veins, where market cries rose faintly, and bells tolled from distant temples. There was no gaudy floating island, no golden spire catching the eye. Instead, there was endurance, dignity, the weight of a city that had survived war, famine, and time itself.
Here, in this still chamber above a watchful city, sat Queen Elara.
Her posture bore no slouch, though her frame betrayed the quiet fatigue of endless duty. She wore no gown heavy with jewels, but a simple, elegant raiment: a fitted bodice of black, sleeves cut to reveal her arms, a mantle draped across her shoulders, and her crown a slender circlet of silver and obsidian resting slightly askew upon her brow. She did not adjust it; she had long ceased to care whether her crown sat perfectly.
Her hand moved across parchment with the discipline of one who had written more decrees than she could number. Each stroke was deliberate, each word weighed. This was not the labour of a scribe, nor the flourish of a courtier's quill. It was the writing of a queen, one whose words would bind men to march, merchants to pay, and cities to brace for war.
Yet though her hand did not falter, her eyes those eyes carried weight. Golden irises that seemed to catch and hold the lamplight, eyes that no servant dared look into for long. For within them lay truths unseen, veils lifted, secrets not meant for mortal sight. And though Elara wielded them with the discipline of iron, she bore them as one bears chains: powerful, yet heavy with unseen cost.
It was into this chamber that Kai entered.
The door did not slam, yet the creak of its hinges felt louder than it should, disturbing the solemn rhythm of quill on parchment. He slipped inside without ceremony, as though no wall of guards nor crown upon her head could ever remind him she was sovereign. To him, she was sister first, queen second.
He crossed the chamber with unhurried strides, his boots scuffing against stone, his coat hanging loosely about him. Where Elara's presence drew stillness, Kai's drew motion his every step carried a restless energy, a current barely kept in check. Since he had drunk the alchemist's potion days prior, that energy had grown tenfold. It brimmed beneath his skin like molten ore beneath a crust of stone, ready to break forth at the smallest crack.
Without waiting for permission, he dropped himself into the chair opposite her desk, sprawling as though it were his rightful seat. His legs stretched wide, his elbow perched upon the armrest, his chin tilted in lazy defiance.
"Elara," quoth he, his grin crooked, "tell me dost thou know how this war shall end? Between Ardon and Veridia?"
She did not look up. Her quill finished its line with deliberate grace. She sprinkled sand across the ink, waited, then set the parchment aside atop a small stack of sealed reports. Only then did she raise her head.
Her gaze fell upon him not merely a sister's look of long-suffering patience, but the gaze of a queen who bore in her sight the truth of men and the burden of worlds.
"Kai," she said, her voice low, even, yet edged with steel, "dost thou even know the truth of thine own eyes those golden eyes thou so lightly wieldest? Dost thou truly believe I might pluck the future from the air whenever fancy takes me, as if fate were but a page to be turned?"
The study, so still moments ago, now seemed to tighten, as though her words themselves pressed upon the air.
Kai leaned forward, his lazy sprawl forgotten, eyes widening. "We… were a House?"
Elara set her quill aside and folded her hands upon the desk. Her gaze fixed on him, calm but heavy."Aye," she said. "Before Veridia was a kingdom, before the banners of lesser lords were bound into one, we were but a House. Yet not a common one. House Veridia stood apart, for we bore a mark none else could claim — the Golden Eyes."
She lifted a hand to her face, her fingers brushing lightly beneath her eye. "The same that thou and I carry now."
Kai blinked, his voice uncertain. "And what did they… do? These eyes?"
Her tone grew slower, almost measured, as though she were reciting words handed down through generations.
"The Eyes could peel away the veils of the world. Stone, flesh, spirit — all was as glass before them. They could peer into secrets no conjurer could touch, no sage could speak. To look with such sight was to see threads — threads that bind all things, men and beasts, kingdoms and fate itself. Some of our forebears learned to pluck those threads, to change their tune. To guide destiny."
Kai's mouth parted slightly. He shifted in his chair.
"You mean… we could change the future?"
Elara's lips curved, not in mirth, but in a grim shadow of it. "Some believed so. They called it the god-gift. Others whispered it was no gift, but the Eye of a god itself, fallen into mortal hands. And still others claimed it was a tear — a tear of some divine being who wept upon our forefather, and in that sorrow was given the power to see all things."
She leaned back, her crown tilting slightly in the lamplight. "Which tale is true, no man can say. But this is truth: the Eyes gave us power beyond measure, and for a time, we were feared. We were sought by kings and hated by rivals. Some called us blessed, others cursed. Yet none could deny the strength of House Veridia."
Kai's golden gaze flickered with restlessness. "Then why are we the only ones left?"
Her eyes grew darker. The lamplight caught them in gold, but the gold seemed heavy, not bright.
"Because the Eyes, for all their sight, could not save us," she said quietly. "We thought them a shield against betrayal, against envy, against time itself. But pride blinded us more than sight revealed. Enemies struck. Allies turned false. Our kin dwindled, one by one, until the banner of House Veridia was torn down and burned. None remained — save us."The words struck him harder than any blow. He opened his mouth, shut it again, then spoke softly.
"All gone… but us?"
"Aye." Her voice was firm. "We are the last. The bloodline wanes. The Eyes rest only in thee and me."Kai sat back, his grin gone, replaced by something between awe and unease. He tried to mask it with a shrug, though his voice trembled. "So… then why not use them now? If thou canst see threads of fate, why not see the end of this war? Whether Veridia shall stand, or fall?"
For the first time, Elara smiled — but it was not warm. It was sharp, almost cruel in its honesty."Because I cannot, Kai. Not truly. I can glimpse. I can catch fleeting shapes — shadows, fragments of what may be. But never the whole cloth. And each time I look, it tears at me. To gaze too long is to lose oneself in the void between truths. Thou thinkest the Eyes a lantern, but oft they are but a fire. They burn the hand that holds them."
Kai leaned forward, stubborn, his childishness breaking through again. "But it hurts, aye? Still, it is possible."
Her laughter came sudden and soft — not in delight, but in disbelief. "Possible? Aye, little brother. As it is possible to leap from the battlements and hope to sprout wings before thou strikest the ground."
She leaned closer, her voice low, steady, unflinching."Kai. Dost thou not see? The Eyes are no gift. They are a curse. I believe one of our ancestors looked upon that which no mortal should see. Something vast. Something beyond gods themselves. And for that trespass, our line was marked. Generation by generation, we are bound to this sight. And each bearer pays its price."
Her words fell like stones in a still pond, their ripples spreading into silence.
Far to the east, beyond rivers and mountains, where the skies seemed always gilded with a brazen light, the capital of Ardon gleamed. Its floating manors drifted like islands above the clouds, their gardens spilling silvered water into the air. At the highest height, the royal palace stood, vast as a city, its golden spires piercing heaven itself.
Within its throne room, the scent of incense and rosewater mingled with the gleam of polished marble. Nobles in silken doublets clustered in careful ranks, their whispers hushed to nothing as the Queen of Ardon sat forward upon her seat.
She was young — too young, some whispered, for such power — yet her presence needed no years to command. Her eyes, green as cut emeralds, held a depth that made men tremble when they met them. They were eyes that promised delight one moment and destruction the next. Beauty was her armour, cruelty her blade.
At her feet, a servant knelt. He trembled upon the marble, his hands pressed flat, his forehead bent low. His voice shook with desperation.
"Mercy, my Queen… I beg mercy… spare me!"The court watched. None moved, none spoke. For though King Theron commanded with thunder, it was his queen who wielded silence like a knife.
Her lip curled, not in pity but in disdain. She leaned forward, her voice soft, each syllable shaped with elegance that only deepened its cruelty."Mercy?" she repeated, as though the word itself were foreign. "Thou hast wasted thy master's grain, stolen from his storehouse, and come crawling to me for pardon? Mercy is not thine to beg."
Her green eyes flashed, and for an instant the servant seemed pinned by them, as though his very soul were caught in their depths. He whimpered, pressing his face to the floor.
"Rise?" she said, her voice silk and steel. "Nay. Crawl."
A ripple of unease passed through the gathered lords, though none dared protest. The man obeyed, broken, dragging himself backward across the marble like a worm. The queen leaned back, her lips curving in satisfaction, her eyes gleaming cold as the jewels in her crown.
And so, in that hall of gold and splendour, mercy had no throne.