A Whisper of Night

1.3 || ASTNORDEN 💫

Legend had it that Lord Arslan had been so adept with a bow that he could fell an entire army with two quivers of arrows. General Vardjen Sejer, who had fought alongside him in the War of the Crimson Knights, had always testified to the story's truth.

But whenever Astna demanded to know why her father's skills had failed him, the General could only shrug. Perhaps he thought himself invincible, he would say, a hint of sadness in his voice. All empires and all cities must fall. Why should men be any different?

Now, as she studied her reflection in the lake, she wondered if her father would be proud.

Everyone said that Astna resembled Lord Arslan. Judging from his portraits, his features had been sharp and dark, his eyebrows and mustache bushy even for the men of Valchtnalla. Although Astna had been mercifully spared the mustache, she was still forced to pluck her eyebrows every few days.

It was strange, she thought, to wear her father's face and not his crown and titles. In a few months, when Elsking came of age, Valchtnalla would be given to him...and she would be pushed into obscurity.

It's no use thinking such things. Astna shook her head and turned to Minister Foerling.

"So what do you think I should do? My lords can easily refuse me their armies – I'm not their rightful queen."

Foerling sighed. "Your subjects will not listen to you, Astna, until you give them a victory. A show of power."

She threw up her hands in frustration. "But there can be no victory until I have an army!" She was sick of the lake, she decided, and strode from the gazebo. Foerling followed leisurely, forcing her to slow down. "And negotiations with Scorvald are never fruitful. Either they've forgotten our existence or they enjoy making us wait. I'm tired of waiting. Three-quarters of our territory was stolen from us, Minister."

"Some would argue that Skeynvald was never our kingdom. Valchtnalla is your birthright."

Astna shot a glare at her. "Skeynvald is my birthright by my father's blood."

"Yes, my Lady...but a ruler is nothing without her people, and almost half your subjects don't want war. There are some who call you the Crimson Queen, you know. The High Priest of Madness."

Astna gritted her teeth. "I know what they call me," she said, although she hadn't heard the first title yet. The Crimson Queen.... It's a mockery, she thought. A mockery of my father's death and the war that brought down our kingdom.

They turned right along the garden path, up Agea's Hill. They walked this way almost every day, at Astna's insistence.

Black marble paved their path; Astna could see her reflection frowning down at her. They were treading on holy ground now, although none of the Old Faith resided here. From the hill, they could glimpse the top of Valchtnallan Hall and the city walls. If the day were clear, they would've been able to glimpse the fields outside the capital.

"I faced the same, you know," the Minister mused. "It was a treacherous path to this position. A path I might not choose to walk again, had I the choice."

Astna frowned. "Why not? Being the Minister of State is such a high honor."

She smiled wryly. "Honor does not guarantee happiness."

"But it could."

"Believe me: there are easier – and more honest ways – of obtaining happiness."

Lesser forms of happiness, perhaps, Astna wanted to say. But she held her tongue, for they had reached the top of the hill. 

The temple stood before them, dark and unassuming. It was made of pure black marble, marble which inhaled the warmth from the air like a hungry mouth. Twelve archways opened up into a miniature rotunda, where a single altar rose in the center. And on top....

"It hasn't hatched," Astna said quietly. She felt stupid as she spoke, like a child waiting for her birthday.

Foerling did not speak. Astna headed into the temple, staunchly silent as she entered. Behind her, Foerling murmured the customary prayer, asking for mercy and forgiveness and all the other silly things the gods demanded.

Astna's disdain for religion was no secret among her people.

Atop the altar rested a single egg, three times the size of her head. The shell glittered like a silver-streaked amethyst, although its value was far greater than any stone's.

A victory, she thought. A show of power.... Instinctively, she rubbed the scar on her right palm, a ugly stretch of silver. When she was no more than six years old, she'd been foolish enough to lay her entire hand upon the shell. The poison had nearly killed her.

"It is strange," Foerling said quietly, as if echoing her thoughts, "how much power such a beautiful object can wield."

"It is, isn't it?" Astna said. She could imagine herself flying, soaring, reigning over the land from the necks of a hydra. Legend claimed that the beast's scales were so poisonous that a rider was forced to ingest the essence of nightsong to survive the briefest of flights.

Such power, she thought. If only....

She shook her head, tearing her gaze away from the mesmerizing shimmer of the eggshell.

"It's no use dwelling on such thoughts," she said. "Let us go."

~~

So...what do you think of the egg? Do you think Astna will be able to get her army? ALSO, please let me know what you think of the new chapter format! Right now, I'm only separating the first chapter into shorter bits, just to experiment with pacing, etc. I'd really appreciate any feedback. :)

As usual, please vote and comment! Thanks for reading!

Tia