Page 136 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
They glanced at each other and nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The guards proceeded down the passage and disappeared around the corner.
Aryana slipped up next to her mother. “I know where I get my fierceness from.”
Her mother smiled, and she pulled Aryana into a tight hug. “Go quickly and be ready. Take care, my love.”
“I will.”
Aryana raced forward through what must be an invisible barrier that would alert her uncle to her presence. She dashed into her father’s study, and with her eyes shut, moved across the floor heading toward the alcove. It grated on her, the time it took to slow down, but it was better than being stuck in her trauma again.
The scepter piece hung in its casing on the wall. She reached into the pocket of her cloak for the Neutrolisis Potion, ready to deactivate the protective barrier.
The door to her father’s study burst wide, and she spun, sword in hand.
Her uncle stood there with death burning in his blood-red eyes.
“You. I knew you’d return.” He looked a little disheveled, as if he’d rushed to get there. Which he most likely had.
“Yes, I see your paranoia has extended to halfway down the hall.”
“Is it paranoia if I’m correct? This time, you have no pathetic demon arch king to protect you. Now set down your sword and step away from my piece of the scepter.”
“It’s not yours,” Aryana shouted. “You had my father killed and then threatened my mother so that you could become king.”
Surprise shone in his expression. “So she finally told you.” Then he smirked. “Do you think I was the only one who wanted your father dead? Your father wanted to turn the vampire portion of the scepter over to the arch king. Plenty of other demons wanted to stop that from happening. But that matters little, now.Iam the vampire king.”
“When others learn what you did to steal my father’s crown—”
“Do you think anyone cares about how I obtained the crown? Once you become king, you’re king. And you? You’re nothing but a disgraced outcast, cast aside, throneless, and crippled by guilt over a father who’s long dead.”
She bared her teeth at him. “Let me take the scepter piece, and I will hold off on avenging his death.”
“You think I am afraid of you? I made you, child. Every swing of the blade, every calculation, every violent thought in your head was placed there byme.”
Inside the study, the weight of the past hung in the air. Aryana’s breath came in sharp gasps as she faced her uncle, standing in the same room where her father had been killed. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. “Then let us fight.”
An angry smile curled his lips. “I will slaughter you and hang your head from my rafters and allow the bats to pluck out youreyeballs. And perhaps, now that the charade is ending, I will place your mother next to you. Alive, but just, her blood dripping down onto my throne room floor.”
Her anger flared, and with a fierce cry, she rushed at him, her sword raised high. Her uncle effortlessly parried the strike, a twisted smile on his lips. “You’re never as sloppy as when you are trying to protect someone,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Aryana’s grip on her blade tightened, her resolve hardening. She would make him pay, not just for her father’s death, but for every lie he’d ever told.
Flickers of the past crept in as the room, the memories, tried to flood her. Uncle pressed her toward the wall, not looking the least bit fazed. His movements were precise, calculated. He was toying with her. With each step she took, each strike she made, recollections of that night came flooding back. The sound of her father’s voice, full of life and hope, the sudden, terrifying silence after the fatal blow, the cold, lifeless body of someone who had always existed just out of reach. It all rushed over her like a tidal wave. Her vision blurred, and for a split second, the figure before her wasn’t her uncle, but her father, standing there, blood staining the floor. The illusion was enough to weaken her resolve, and in that instant, Uncle seized the opportunity.
With a swift strike, he knocked her sword from her hand, sending it skittering across the ground. Aryana stumbled, her knees buckling slightly. She fought to steady herself, but the room seemed to close in around her, the air thick with memories of betrayal and loss. Her uncle’s mocking voice cut through the haze. “You think you’restrong enough to avenge him? Look at you, you are nothing.” His words stung, and the darkness of her trauma threatened to swallow her whole.
A cold ache pierced her right thigh. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as fresh panic surged through her—urgent, immediate. No.
Zarathos was in danger.
Every part of her yearned to be at his side. He needed her. Now.
And just like that, the fear fell away. The trauma quieted.
In that moment, her father’s voice echoed in her mind, urging her to fight. And beneath it, stronger still, came Zarathos’s voice: daring her to rise, calling her his queen.
She was his queen. Her mother’s life was on the line. Her father deserved justice. She was the vampire princess. The demon queen. She’d survived the Demon Trials, and Zarathos needed her one last time. She’d fight for him. For all of them.
