Page 2 of Wrath of the Never Queen

“You heard the good people of Mossgarde,” the king calls to the executioner. He ignores the screams of his son.

The executioner nods, shoving the queen roughly to her knees and positioning her covered head over the block. The taunts of the crowd reach new heights, laden with vitriol. The prince matches them, screaming and battering his deformed claws against the bars of his cage. The queen raises her head slightly, hearing him, and balls her hands into fists. The smell of blood is in the air.

The king raises his hand as the executioner raises his axe.

When the head of the queen rolls, Mossgarde cheers.

The werewolves and the dragon, unsettled, leave quickly. The king allows them, for now. He will not soon forget their silence. Turning away from the body of his wife, limp and bloody and empty of life, he raises his hand for quiet.

“There is still the matter of my son,” he says. The prince, almost in response, lets out a piercing shriek, causing the people nearby to wince. “She has cursed him most cruelly butI believe there to be a cure. The late queen confessed to me—perhaps due to a fleeting sense of guilt—the curse she inflicted can indeed be broken.”

Optimistic murmurs ripple through the crowd, even as they grimace at the sight of the prince. The king presses his fingertips together, letting this information settle before continuing.

“True love,” he says, smiling and spreading his hands in front of him. “True love can break the curse. And so, we must band together in this most trying time to free my son from his affliction.”

At his words, the citizens throw curious glances at one another.

“I hereby announce a royal law,” the king continues. “Once my son comes of age, each year thereafter, one young woman must volunteer to break the curse. This brave young woman will be fed and housed in my castle, and if she gifts true love to my son, she will even be named Queen.” He pauses, sweeping his hands out in an open gesture he believes signifies his generosity. “For the very act of volunteering, her family will be paid most handsomely.”

Parents hold their daughters close, even as the temptation of payment and the allure of royal status looms.

“Let us show we cannot be divided by the actions of one vindictive woman. Begin preparing your daughters now—in eighteenyears’ time, they will all be heroes.”

The king gives a cheery wave before turning his croca away, his guards following closely behind. Even as he leaves, it is not unnoticed that the chopping block remains.

Chapter 1

25 Years Later

Shivani

Book clutched to my chest, I flee my house and run for sanctuary.

My feet pound the wooden bridge draped across the swamp, slapping the surface of the water. I ignore the damp splashes and press on, weaving across the network of raised buildings and bridges. I pass several startled villagers and ignore them as well. My arms are laden with the too-heavy book, and my legs tangle in the long fabric of my skirt. Reluctantly, I slow. Somewhere, I know he is either running behind me or still at the house, waiting for me to return.

My chest burns and my eyes water with angry tears, but I force them back. I do not want to give him the satisfaction.

It is early in the day, the first thin sheaths of morning light filtering through the cracks of the tree canopy. In the distance, through the purple haze of the lanterns, people filter quietly into the village square. Even from afar, I notice the glint of armour. Mornings are slow in Mossgarde and mostly consist of the king’s pernicious guards collecting taxes, often in the form of food or drink. My father has not paid his due in some time and I have very little to spare after feeding us both. I swerve away from the village square and its guards.

Instead, I half-jog across the narrow, lesser-used bridges, moving towards the outskirts. The buildings here are derelict and the platforms groan underfoot. Faded posters cling to the walls by a single nail, benches with worn grooves from being used, homes sitting with no occupants. Ghosts of old Mossgarde. It is a struggle for me to imagine our small village as a bustling town with all this space being used.

Once I am far enough away from the village square, and with a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure no one has followed, I slow to a walking pace. I suck in deep breaths of air, pleasantly crisp against the usual stuffiness of Mossgarde. When I reach my destination—a secluded spot behind the back of an old shop—my body finally relaxes. There is a small breeze on the outskirts, enough to blow some of the humidity away. I swat at some lingering insectsbefore finding a mostly intact bench to rest my book on. I take another deep inhale, slowing my heart.

A stubborn streak of sunlight forces its way through the swamp and I step into it, tipping my face up. Travelling merchants say Mossgarde is a dark, gloomy place, but I know nothing else. For now. One day soon, I too will feel the warmth of the sun drench my skin instead of the constant glow of witch magic lanterns.

For today, however, this quiet spot in Old Mossgarde remains one of two places I can reliably go when I need to leave my father behind, his voice rising and his breath stinking of ale.

My collection of lost items is tucked into the corner of the platform, hidden under a pile of damp leaves. I make my way over and pull one of them free—an old bucket, half red with rust. Grasping it by its rough rim, the handle long since gone, I place it carefully on the other side of the platform near my book. I take a few long strides away from it and suck in a deep breath.

My ophid, the long muscle running along my spine, is taut. All witches are born with an ophid. It holds our magic. Our au’mana. My ophid twitches, impatient and aching to be used.

I focus my magic, drawing it out until a purple glow emanates from my skin. I raise my hand, letting it swirl across my palm likesmoke. Au’mana should smell like salt, although I have become so accustomed to it, I rarely notice anymore.

Unlike dragon magic and siren spells, au’mana draws on emotion. The stronger the feeling, the more powerful the magic. My aunt has told me of other witches who train for decades, carefully pulling on threads of emotion to fuel their au’mana so no one emotion dominates the others.

For me, however, I am often ruled by wrath.

I draw on the deep well of anger towards my father and my au-mana responds. I flex my hand, aiming it at the rusted bucket. In an instant, the bucket glows lavender and I feel it in my grip as though I am holding it in my palm. I close my eyes and use my au’mana to rip the rust away. Magic washes over me, warm like sunlight, as it cleanses the barrel. I smile, rolling my shoulders to stretch my ophid.

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