Page 5 of Off with Her Head
Dawn bleeds across my kingdom in shades of perpetual twilight. I stand before my mirror—my oldest friend, my most trusted advisor—watching as silver mist swirls across its surface. The ornate black frame carved with ancient runes and thorny vines seems to pulse with each beat of my heart.
Unlike the mundane mirrors of other kingdoms, mine is a sentient thing, a conduit for blood magic other than Darkmore itself. The reflective surface shifts and ripples like water, never quite settling into stillness. Sometimes I catch glimpses of myself fractured across multiple timelines—the queen I am now, the queen I might become, the child I once was. But today, I need clarity,notpossibilities.
"Show me," I whisper, pressing my palm against the cool glass. A hidden thorn within the mirror's frame pricks my fingertip—a small pain I've grown accustomed to over the years. Blood magic always requires sacrifice. The mirror drinks the crimson offering eagerly, and images begin to form in the silvery depths.
I see armies marching. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers moving through iron-fortified corridors. Their armorgleams cold and lifeless, a stark contrast to the magic that flows through my own kingdom. The vision shifts, showing me battle formations, weapon stockpiles, training grounds filled with disciplined troops. This is Edmund's kingdom of Ironwood, preparing for...something.
But it's the next vision that makes my breath catch: a familiar face, one I haven't seen in years.
One I never wanted to see again.
"Mara," I breathe, and the mirror's surface ripples in response to my sister's name.
It’s been five years since I last saw her, yet Mara's face still causes my scar to throb in phantom pain. I unconsciously touch my throat where the thin white line remains—a reminder of my sister's treachery, of how close she came to taking everything from me. The mirror shows her standing in what appears to be a war room, her finger tracing battle maps with the same elegant precision she once used to trace magical sigils.
She looks different.Harder. The softness of youth has left her features, replaced by sharp angles and calculated coldness. Her black hair, once identical to mine, now bears a streak of white from her temple to the nape of her neck—a mark of the dark magic she attempted to wield against me. But her eyes remain the same: blue as a winter sky and just as merciless.
A knock at my chamber door breaks my concentration. The vision shatters like ice, leaving only my own reflection—pale skin, raven-black hair, lips as red as blood. The face that is a curse as much as a blessing.
"Enter," I say firmly, and my commander appears in the doorway, his dark uniform nearly blending with the shadows of my chamber. Unlike most in my kingdom, Commander Lysander doesn't fear me, though he respects my power. Perhaps that's why I keep him around—one of the few people who sees me as a queen first and a witch second.
"Your Majesty." He bows deeply, fist pressed to his heart in the traditional Darkmore greeting. "A message has arrived from Ironwood."
My fingers tingle with unreleased magic, small black sparks dancing between them. My mirror's visions are never coincidental. "And?"
"Your sister, Queen Mara, has announced her marriage to King Edmund of Ironwood."
Though I've just seen her face in the mirror's depths, the news still hits like a physical blow. I turn back to the mirror, hiding my expression from Commander Lysander. "The witch who tried to have me executed has found herself a king. How fitting," I force through gritted teeth.
The scar at my throat pulses with remembered pain.
Mara had led me to an ancient stone circle deep in the forest, claiming she'd discovered a ritual that would amplify my blood magic. Instead, she'd bound me with rope and forced me to watch while she dug my grave. It was my blood magic that had saved me when she cut me with her blade, giving me the opportunity to use the dark magic against her.
Mara escaped during the chaos that followed, disappearing into the wilderness beyond our borders. I'd spent the next year hunting her, only to eventually receive reports that she'd died during a winter storm. Clearly, those reports were greatly exaggerated.
"There's more, My Queen. Our scouts report increased activity along all borders. Edmund's forces appear to be—"
"Preparing for war." I finish his sentence, remembering the mirror's vision. "Double the training hours for our forces. She’s coming."
Lysander shifts slightly, the movement barely perceptible in the dim light. "The diplomatic summit with Underland—perhaps we should cancel, given these developments."
"No." I move to the window, looking out over my kingdom of eternal night. "The Queen of Hearts has access to intelligence we may need. And canceling would show weakness." I pause, considering. "Besides, if Mara and Edmund are planning something, we'll need allies."
"Allies?" Lysander sounds almost amused. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but since when does Darkmore seek allies? We've maintained isolation for generations."
"Since my dead sister returned with an army at her back," I reply coldly.
He nods, then bows and retreats silently, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my mirror. I move to the balcony, looking out over my dark kingdom. Black stone spires reach toward the purple-tinged sky while shadows dance between them like living things. Blood magic sigils pulse with red light along the castle walls, a constant reminder of the power that protects us—and the price it demands.
Unlike the vibrant chaos of Underland or the rigid order of Ironwood, Darkmore exists in constant dusk—neither day nor true night, but the liminal space between. The sky above is a tapestry of deep purple and midnight blue, punctuated by stars that never fully fade. Silver mist coils around the base of the castle towers.
My subjects move about like shadows themselves—witches and warlocks practicing blood magic in secluded groves, spectral hunters returning with ghostly prey, scholars bent over ancient texts in towers that defy conventional architecture. They are few compared to the populations of other kingdoms, but each is powerful in their own right. In Darkmore, we value quality over quantity,powerover numbers.
The diplomatic summit at Queen Scarlett's palace looms ahead. The infamous Queen of Hearts, known for her theatrical executions and iron control over her bizarre kingdom. I've heardstories of her perfectly maintained gardens where roses must be painted red with precise care; else, she orders immediate execution for the slightest error.
I've watched her through my mirror occasionally—a guilty fascination I indulge in when the loneliness of ruling becomes too heavy. She's fascinating in her calculated cruelty, her flamboyant displays of power so different from my own quiet authority.
A smile tugs at my lips despite my dark mood. What would the great Queen of Hearts think if she knew her reputation had reached even my shadowed realm? If she knew I'd watched her through my mirror, intrigued by the tiny woman with fire for hair who commands her kingdom with an arched eyebrow and a wicked smile?
