Page 6 of Off with Her Head
I push the thoughts away.I have to.
There are more pressing concerns than my curiosity about Queen Scarlett. With practiced movements, I slice my palm and press it to the nearest sigil embedded in the stone wall. Magic surges through me, raw and tangible, racing along the network of spells that protect my borders. I can feel them strengthening, thorny vines of pure magic growing denser,deadlier.
The protection ritual is a necessary daily maintenance—like breathing or blinking for those with normal magic. Blood magic requires constant renewal, constant sacrifice. Small pains that prevent greater ones.
As my blood feeds the kingdom's defenses, I feel each soldier at the borders, each magical trap set for intruders. Darkmore may be smaller than Underland or Ironwood, but our defenses are unparalleled. My sister would do well to remember that before she marches against me with her new husband's army.
"My Queen?" One of my lady’s maids hovers in the doorway, careful to keep her eyes downcast. Unlike Commander Lysander, most of my subjects still fear meeting my gazedirectly. The superstition that I can read souls through eye contact is unfounded, but useful enough that I've never corrected it. "We should begin preparing for your journey to Underland."
I nod, though my eyes remain fixed on the horizon where I know Scarlett's kingdom lies. "The black silk gown," I decide.
I’ll show her that I don’t need flashy displays or dramatic executions to command attention. She’ll see that true power can come wrapped in simplicity.
My lady’s maid bows and withdraws to carry out my orders. Alone again, I return to my mirror, watching as it continuously plays fragments of possible moments in time. Armies clashing. Magic flaring. And something else—something that makes my pulse quicken. A flash of red hair, a throaty laugh, the brush of fingers against skin.
"Enough," I snap, and the visions fade. I have no time for such distractions, not with a war looming on the horizon. Not with my sister plotting God knows what with her new king.
My lady’s maid returns just as I’ve finished pulling myself together, and I waste no time preparing myself for the summit. Unlike Queen Scarlett, who reportedly spends hours on her appearance before holding court, I prefer simplicity. My power speaks for itself; it doesn't require embellishment or loud acts.
Still, diplomacy has its requirements. I select a few key pieces of jewelry—a black diamond pendant that amplifies blood magic, silver rings inscribed with protective sigils, a thin circlet of obsidian that serves as my crown. Each item is functional first, decorative second. In Darkmore, beauty without purpose is wasteful.
My carriage awaits in the courtyard when I’m ready—darkly stained wood and silver filigree pulled by two recently groomed black horses.
Commander Lysander waits beside the carriage along with my liaison, Lord Corvus. Both men bow as I approach, their expressions neutral despite the unusual nature of this visit.
"The border patrols have been doubled as you requested," Lysander says after clearing his throat. "And I've stationed our best scryers to monitor for any unusual activity from Ironwood."
"Good." I step into the carriage, the black silk of my gown flowing around me like liquid shadow.
The journey to Underland takes us through dark, nearly lifeless forests that mark the boundary between our kingdoms. As we cross the border, the perpetual dusk of Darkmore gives way to the bizarre sunshine of Scarlett's realm. The transition is jarring—like stepping from a dream into wakefulness, a reality suddenly brighter and sharper and somehow less authentic.
Underland sprawls before us in all its chaotic glory—a kingdom where logic bends like taffy and natural laws are mere suggestions. Flowers the size of trees sway in time to music only they can hear. Butterflies with wings of stained glass cast colorful shadows across paths that rearrange themselves when no one is looking. In the distance, I can see the Castle of Cards, its structure defying gravity as it stretches toward a sky too blue to be real.
It's both fascinating and disturbing. Where Darkmore's magic flows like blood, ancient and controlled, Underland's magic fizzes like champagne, unpredictable and intoxicating. No wonder Scarlett rules through such rigid control—without it, this place would dissolve into pure chaos.
As we approach the castle, I prepare myself for the meeting ahead. The Queen of Hearts will undoubtedly try to intimidate with spectacle and threat. She'll be dressed in something dramatic, surrounded by fearful courtiers, her entire presentation designed to emphasize her power.
Our carriage arrives at the Castle of Cards, where card-soldiers stand at attention, their paper bodies rustling slightly in the breeze. They eye us with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"Remember," I tell Lysander and Lord Corvus as we step down from the carriage, "we are here for information as much as diplomacy. Observe everything, revealnothing."
The interior of the castle is even more extravagant than my mirror suggested—marble floors in checkerboard patterns of red and black, ceilings that soar to impossible heights, strange magical creatures serving as courtiers and servants. A flamingo with glass-like feathers guides us to a grand meeting hall, its musical voice chiming with forced pleasantry.
The hall itself is a work of controlled excess—gold and rubies dominating the decor, playing cards incorporated into everything from the furniture to the tapestries. The message is clear: this is a realm ruled by the Queen of Hearts, her symbol omnipresent and inescapable.
We are led to a long table of red marble where place settings await. Notably, the head of the table remains empty. I have no doubt Queen Scarlett will try to make an entrance, to assert her dominance in this first meeting; however, I am secure enough in my position to allow it.
I take my seat with practiced grace, my black gown a stark contrast to the crimson opulence surrounding us. Lysander and Lord Corvus flank me, their expressions carefully neutral despite the strangeness of our surroundings. We wait in silence, observed by curious courtiers.
I sense her before I see her—a wave of controlled magic preceding her entrance like a rose-scented perfume. The doors swing wide, and there stands the Queen of Hearts in all her theatrical glory.
And despite myself, despite my preparation, I feel my breath catch.
The rumors, I realize, didn't do her justice. She's tiny—barely reaching my shoulder even in her towering heels—but she occupies space as if she were a giantess. Her red gown is a marvel of design, cinching her waist to impossible proportions while showcasing a décolletage that would be scandalous in Darkmore. Her hair falls in perfect waves of deepest auburn, like blood cooling into copper. But it's her eyes that draw me in—green as poisoned apples.
Chapter
Three
