The village was called Asphodel. It lay on the borders of Mercius, where the golden wheat fields gave way to hills covered in scrub and twisted olive trees. The first sun, pale and sad, was barely visible behind the low clouds that stretched from horizon to zenith. The wind blew cold, but sweat ran down the foreheads of the peasants working in the threshing floors.
The church bell tolled at midday.
It was not a customary tolling. It was a quick, sharp, repeated tolling – the signal of danger. The peasants dropped their scythes and rakes. They ran to their houses. The women closed the doors. The men brandished sticks and rusty scythes.
Ierály arrived with the low tide.
The Contraranures emerged from the forest like shadows – black robes, bone masks, curved knives. They were not many. Some thirty, perhaps forty. But they moved in silence, orderly, their yellow eyes shining.
"The Shadow Queen!" shouted a man, pointing at the figure that appeared at the center of the column.
Ierály walked slowly, her hands behind her back, her dark brown hair swaying in the wind. Her cold green eyes surveyed the village – the stone houses, the small church, the peasants huddled in the square.
"Where is your leader?" she asked, her voice sweet, almost maternal.
Silence answered.
"Where is your leader?" repeated Ierály, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
A gray-bearded man, the oldest in the village, stepped forward. His hands trembled, but his voice was firm.
"We have no leader. We speak for ourselves."
"Then speak." Ierály stopped a few steps from him. "What do you give me in exchange for your lives?"
"Nothing. We didn't ask you for anything."
"You didn't ask. But I offer. Protection. Food. Shelter. In exchange for your loyalty."
"Loyalty to whom?"
"To me. To the Shadow Queen. To the lords of the abyss."
The old man spat on the ground.
"We do not serve demons."
Ierály sighed. Her smile disappeared.
"Then you die."
She raised her right hand. Her long, pale fingers closed slowly.
The spell was called **Hand of the Abyss**. Ierály had learned it from a scroll stolen from Derylini Academy years ago. Her mana – one thousand four hundred units, the highest reserve of any living human in Endomyar – concentrated in her palm. The black and red energy surged, forming a giant hand that descended upon the church.
The stone cracked. The roof collapsed. The bells shattered. Dust rose, covering the square.
The peasants screamed. The Contraranures advanced.
"Kill those who resist," ordered Ierály. "Enslave those who surrender."
The carnage lasted minutes.
The gray-bearded old man was the first to fall – a curved knife entered his chest. The woman who tried to protect her children was pierced by two spears. The children cried, clinging to the skirts of their dead mothers.
Ierály watched from the square, impassive.
"The survivors," she said, when silence returned. "How many?"
A cultist knelt.
"Twenty-three, leader. The weakest."
"The children?"
"Seven. The smallest."
"Take them. Children are easy to mold. They don't need promises. Only fear."
The Contraranures obeyed. The children were dragged to the carts. Those who cried were struck to silence them. Those who remained silent were pushed with indifference.
Ierály entered the destroyed church. The stained glass windows, shattered, shone with the sunlight coming through the gaps. The altar, broken in half, showed the statue of Desty – the goddess of love – with her face chipped.
"Destroy it," ordered Ierály, pointing at the statue.
A cultist raised his hammer. The statue shattered into pieces.
"The goddess of love has no place in my kingdom," murmured Ierály. "Nor any other god."
She left the church. The pale, sad sun illuminated the bodies of the peasants.
"We head north," she announced. "The next target is Malize."
"Leader," called a cultist, hesitant. "And the survivors?"
"The strong to the mines. The weak to the fields. The children... the children stay with me."
"And if Count Mercudoth sends soldiers?"
"The count's soldiers are mercenaries. Mercenaries can be bought. If they don't sell themselves... they die."
Ierály mounted her horse. Her black cape dragged on the beaten earth.
"We leave at dusk," she said. "I want to reach Malize before dawn."
The Contraranures formed a column. The carts of the survivors groaned under the weight. The children, huddled together, no longer cried. They only watched.
The village of Asphodel burned in silence.
---
In Malize, the news of the Asphodel massacre arrived at dusk.
Baron Orlan Malize, a fat man with a rosy face, received the messenger in the main hall of the castle. He read the letter in silence. His hands trembled.
"Ierály," he murmured. "The Shadow Queen."
"What does the baron order?" asked the captain of the guard.
"I order that the walls be reinforced. And that a messenger be sent to Decatry."
"To Decatry? Duke Andy is far away."
"Duke Andy is the only one who can help us."
The captain did not answer. He only bowed and left.
Orlan Malize was left alone in the empty hall. The candles flickered. The shadows danced.
"Shadow Queen," he repeated, in a low voice. "May the gods protect us."
The gods did not answer. They never answered.
---
Ierály arrived at Malize before dawn.
The walls, low and poorly guarded, did not resist the first spell. Her mana – one thousand four hundred units – concentrated in her palm. The black and red energy struck the wooden gate, shattering it into splinters.
The guards screamed. They ran to the battlements. Arrows flew, but the Contraranures were shadows – they dodged, appeared where they were not expected, killed in silence.
Ierály entered the village on horseback.
"Baron Orlan Malize," she said aloud. "I want to see him."
The baron appeared at the castle window, pale, his hands trembling.
"Shadow Queen," he stammered. "What do you want?"
"Your loyalty. Nothing more."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you die. And your family. And your soldiers. And your peasants. All of them."
The baron hesitated. He looked at his wife, his children, the soldiers around him.
"I accept," he whispered.
"Louder," ordered Ierály. "I want everyone to hear."
"I accept!" shouted the baron, his voice breaking. "I accept your loyalty. I accept the Shadow Queen."
Ierály smiled. Her smile was sweet, maternal.
"Then you live."
The Contraranures lowered their weapons. The baron's soldiers, the few who remained, looked at each other without knowing what to do.
"Your soldiers," Ierály continued, "now serve me. Your lands now belong to me. Your children... your children come with me."
"My children?" The baron paled. "Why?"
"To learn. To be useful. To serve the lords of the abyss."
The baron did not answer. He only lowered his head.
The children were taken. The soldiers, disarmed, were gathered in the square. The peasants, kneeling, prayed in silence.
Ierály watched from the top of the castle, her hands behind her back.
"The next target," she said to the captain of the Contraranures, "is Mercius. The capital."
"And Count Mercudoth?"
"Count Mercudoth can bow. Or die. It's the same thing."
The captain bowed and left.
Ierály stood alone on the balcony. The first sun, pale and sad, was rising on the horizon.
"The world is burning," she murmured. "And I will be the queen of ashes."