The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  Etolié stepped in, her dress a galaxy as it swirled and glittered in varying shades of purple and black – fitting, given her luminous, silver hair and her tendency to stare off into space. Some might mistake the sway of her steps as some ethereal quirk, but Flowridia had learned to blame her indulgent drinking habits.

  Still, Etolié was stunning, ageless. Flowridia thought her the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Celestials – those with the blood of angels from Celestière – often held an otherworldly sort of beauty, and Etolié was second generation.

  “Representatives from many kingdoms were at the coronation, but Nox’Kartha has yet to show.” Etolié’s frown pulled her entire face into a pout as she surveyed Flowridia’s appearance. “You look terrible,” she continued, and she immediately pushed Flowridia in front of the mirror and began pinning her hair away from her face.

  Flowridia flinched at the gesture. She studied her hair, her dress – one of Marielle’s, from her youth. “Demitri said I looked beautiful.”

  “You’re always beautiful, Flowers. But how old was Marielle when she wore this? Twelve?” With a wave of Etolié’s hand, the buttons all came undone at once. The dress crumpled to the floor. Flowridia instinctively covered her exposed form, but Etolié gave no care to her near nudity. “You will not look twelve at Marielle’s ball.”

  “I don’t own anything fancy.”

  “Well, I do. And fortunately for you, we’re the same size. I, too, have the body of a twelve-year-old.” Chuckling, Etolié grasped the empty air. In her hand, a perfect duet of yellow and lace appeared. “I’ll help you put it on.”

  From the bed, Demitri’s voice mingled with her thoughts. I still think you look beautiful.

  A blush darkened Flowridia’s cheeks. “Thank you, Demitri,” she said, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The tiny wolf watched the scene from the bed, his golden eyes shining from within a pile of blankets.

  Etolié glanced between the two of them. “I’ve never met a girl and her familiar quite so attached. I still think it’s odd he can talk to you.”

  Etolié finished adjusting the gown around Flowridia’s thin shoulders. Truly, the modest gown did look better, casting her aura in warm autumn shades, the dress and her hair a sunrise upon her earth-toned skin.

  “See? It even covers your feet. Now you almost look your age,” Etolié teased as she inspected Flowridia’s hair. “The flowers are cute. Keep ‘em.”

  Tiny white buds dotted the sea of her sepia hair, ships along the waves. Picked only an hour before, the white gardenias all followed a large yellow blossom stuck behind her ear. “I do this every day, Etolié.”

  “Keep doing it. All the Theocracy boys come running for a head full of flowers.”

  Flowridia grimaced at the jest. “Even if I look twelve?”

  “You look at least fifteen. Now, come on. No one will even notice your feet.”

  Instead of following her to the door, Flowridia stepped toward her bed and pulled the lump of blankets into her arms. She kissed the tiny head peeking out. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

  I would get squished and die.

  Slipping her hands inside the blanket, she managed to pluck Demitri out and cradle him in her arms. “I won’t be gone too late, dearest Demitri.” She kissed his nose and set him back down, smiling as he burrowed his way back under the blankets.

  Etolié immediately began plucking grey hairs from the lacy gown. “You’re not in the woods anymore, Flowers.”

  “And you’re not liberating slave camps.”

  Etolié’s dramatic sigh held resignation. “For now, we play the political game. When I decide to run for good, I’ll take you with me. Fortunately, Marielle is eighteen now, and I don’t have to be the only one making decisions.”

  In the oligarchy that was Staelash, there were three council members who made decisions, and it seemed Etolié had dismissed one entirely. “What about Khastra?”

  “Lady General agrees to everything I do. She hardly counts.” She beckoned Flowridia forward, and they traveled down the stone hallway and toward the stairs.

  Sconces attached to the walls held glowing crystals, bright enough to provide ample light even in the early evening. “What did you mean by ‘Theocracy boys?’” Flowridia asked as they skirted down the deserted hallway.

  “Representatives from the Theocracy of Sol Kareena are here, and most look about your age. With the size of their envoy, they’re definitely trying to kiss up to Marielle.”

  Flowridia’s feet barely touched the stairs as they stepped down, the motions smooth and well-rehearsed. “Why, though?”

  “Because Nox’Kartha will surely do the same,” Etolié replied, resignation apparent as she rolled her eyes. “Especially after Marielle insisted they send Zorlaeus to her party.”

  The thought pulled a smile to Flowridia’s face. “Those two are awfully cute.”

  “I expect wedding bells within the year.” On the first floor, Etolié paused and inspected Flowridia one last time. “Don’t tell anyone I let you out of your room without shoes,” she said, straightening the gown around Flowridia’s shoulders yet again. “But have fun. And don’t talk to anyone with a title higher than your own.”

  Flowridia frowned. “And how will I know?”

  “You won’t. Don’t speak unless spoken to.” Etolié looped her arm through Flowridia’s. “Now come, Lady Flowridia of Staelash. The ball awaits.”

  Nervous, she followed Etolié’s lead, knowing the eccentric Celestial had her best interest at heart.

  The enormous double doors opened at their approach, and Flowridia grew faint at the crowd of people. Many races – human, Celestial, dwarves, and others – met her eyes, and she might have backed away had Etolié not held an iron grip around her arm. Instead, they moved forward, the crowd parting at Etolié’s passage.

  Etolié had been born for rich crowds and majestic halls, whereas Flowridia often felt she would be better suited to be transformed into her namesake. Flowers were pretty, but no one expected them to interact with people.

  At the back stood the newly crowned Queen Marielle. Tall and curvaceous, clearly visible in the queen’s ample cleavage was an odd gem, one that glowed in the same fiery shades as her hair. She looked every part the young monarch, decadent and heavily made-up, but she frowned as she searched the crowd.

  She smiled wide when she spotted Flowridia and Etolié and ran forward at their approach. “Flowridia, I’m so glad you came!”

  “Etolié dragged me out-” Cut off by Marielle’s crushing hug, Flowridia held her breath, smothered by the queen’s plunging neckline.

  A looming shadow covered the trio as Marielle released her. Thalmus, nearly twice Flowridia’s height, stared down, wearing as rich of attire as Marielle would have been able to force on him. Upon their first meeting, Flowridia had recognized giant’s blood in his hulking figure, but he was as quiet and gentle a man as she had ever met. He served as the financial advisor to their kingdom and unofficial bodyguard to Marielle, though his knowledge of healing arts had intrigued Flowridia since their introduction.

  Flowridia looked up, smiling at her reserved friend. “You look as miserable as I feel.”

  Thalmus simply nodded. “But I am here for Marielle.”

  “Where is Nox’Kartha?” Marielle asked as she nudged Etolié with her hip.

  Etolié’s lip twisted into a mischievous grin. “I didn’t think they could come out before dark.”

  “Oh, hush,” Marielle said, still surveying the crowd. “They aren’t all undead and nasty things.”

  “Not if you hear the Theocracy talk,” Etolié muttered, watching with amusement as a well-dressed gentleman approached.

  The representative from the Theocracy of Sol Kareena– an elf, Flowridia realized, from his lithe physique and pointed ears – bowed low in Marielle’s presence, an empty wineglass balanced in one hand. “Queen Marielle, the archbishop sends his regards to you and your kingdom. Your fat
her’s legacy is a heavy one to bear, but he believes you will carry it with grace.”

  Flowridia watched as Marielle stood taller, regal as she spoke words to match her title. “Thank you, Lord Ashwood. Your presence is a delight to my kingdom.”

  “I’m to offer an apology as well – there has been an uproar in my kingdom, with the recent news of the Goddess giving birth. Plans for the celebration are already underway, and the archbishop heads the celebratory planning.”

  “Oh, of course,” Marielle replied, unoffended. “Magister Etolié says Celestière is radiating with joy. The child is a good omen to both the worlds.”

  “Numerous priests have announced their intention to pledge to Sol Kareena’s child during the celebration. Should any of yours wish to join them, we would be happy to accommodate,” he said, gesturing with the glass. “Such a delightful group of allies you keep.”

  “Unfortunately, not everyone is here,” Marielle replied with some regret. “Nox’Kartha has yet to arrive.”

  Perhaps Flowridia only saw it because she was looking, but a slight frown pulled at Lord Ashwood’s lips. “It certainly would be an insult for Imperator Casvir to arrive late.”

  “I only hope they haven’t run into trouble,” Marielle said, keeping her pleasant smile.

  “You are young, Queen Marielle, so a piece of advice,” Lord Ashwood said, and then he lowered his voice. “Nox’Kartha is often the aforementioned trouble.”

  Marielle simply nodded. “Your words are well-received.”

  He nodded in return and stepped away.

  Once gone, Marielle turned around, enraged. “I want spies on the Theocracy’s trail.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t want there to be any trouble.”

  Thalmus nodded and waded into the crowd. An impressive space parted around him, his size matched only by his daunting aura.

  Marielle stepped back up and toward her throne. Etolié placed a hand on the newly crowned monarch’s shoulder. “First lesson in diplomacy, Marielle: smile sweetly and always keep a dagger behind your back.” Straight out of the air, Etolié pulled out a tiny silver flask. She tipped it back and swallowed, grinning. “And never be sober.” Then, she made her way into the crowd.

  Marielle leaned in toward Flowridia. “Is that her first drink of the night?”

  “I can never tell,” Flowridia admitted. “Now what?”

  “Go socialize! Even though Lord Ashwood is unpleasant, it doesn’t mean the rest of them are.”

  “But Etolié said-”

  “Go, little wallflower. Make up a title and find some friends.” Marielle shoved her forward.

  Unfortunately, Flowridia stumbled directly into a nondescript young man, one who wore a servant’s garb. Horrified, she said, “I am so sorry.”

  But the young man’s face was sheet white, his eyes wide and wary. Ignoring her, he said, “Queen Marielle, Nox’Kartha has arrived.”

  The breath Marielle sucked in hitched, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Okay, breathe. Marielle, breathe.” She turned to Flowridia. “Pinch my cheeks.”

  Flowridia obeyed, gently pulling at the skin to make a faint blush appear.

  “Is Zorlaeus with them?”

  “I-I admit, my queen, if he was, I didn’t notice. Would you like me to find out?”

  “No, no,” Marielle said, flustered. “I’ll know it soon, if he’s here. You’re excused.”

  Flowridia took that as her cue to step away as well, but Marielle stole her hand. “Stay,” the young queen said. “Be strong with me.”

  Flowridia offered a shy nod, unwilling to explain to Marielle that strength was hardly transferable, but then fought the urge to squeak when the grip suddenly tightened. The double doors opened, and Marielle nearly toppled over.

  Flowridia had met Zorlaeus a time or two, the deep maroon of his skin in comparable tones with the boyish mop of hair curling around his horns. Humanoid by appearances, yet his ancestry was unmistakable – the demons of Sha’Demoni had bred with humanity in the same way angels had countless generations ago, any demonic talents diluted over time by human influence. They made up an entire race – De’Sindai – and most lived under the benevolent tyranny of Imperator Casvir.

  The man’s stance betrayed nothing but palpable anxiety. Flowridia found Zorlaeus endearing at best.

  But the elven woman who led him, pale and bone-thin, radiated a presence as wide as the walls of the ballroom. Her black dress, painted on by appearances, slit down to her navel, though her small cleavage barely cast a shadow. Tiny in every dimension, the woman surveyed the crowd with a predatory glint in her vivid, icy blue eyes.

  The sea of people parted, and Flowridia found herself utterly enthralled as the elf moved gracefully through the crowd, her feet as silent as the hushed onlookers. Three earrings, stone specks embedded into her pointed ear, flashed in the artificial light and matching stones glittered in her black hair.

  Was it rude to stare at someone who so clearly reveled in the attention? Marielle seemed focused on Zorlaeus, but all others watched the intoxicating woman he trailed behind.

  She bowed, and he followed in synch. “I am Lady Ayla Darkleaf, Grand Diplomat of Nox’Kartha,” she said, teeth flashing as she grinned. Wide and beguiling, Ayla’s smile reminded Flowridia of a wolf before it devoured its prey. “I come on behalf of Casvir.”

  Zorlaeus kept his gaze to the ground, but Flowridia saw the flash of panic in his wide eyes. “Imperator Casvir, First and Last of his name, Tyrant of Nox’Kartha, and Marshall of the Deathless Army, sends his regards, Queen Marielle,” he said, straightening his posture. His expression softened as he met Marielle’s eyes, and when the grip on Flowridia’s hand suddenly tightened, she thought it might lose all blood flow. “He wishes you the best and offers a small gift.” From his pocket, he procured a small box. Within shone a vibrant pendant: the Nox’Karthan seal, a skull embedded within a gold coin.

  Marielle kept her smile for Zorlaeus. She released Flowridia’s hand to accept the gift. “Tell Imperator Casvir ‘thank you.’”

  Flowridia took a step back, uneasy in Ayla’s presence. The woman loomed like a storm cloud behind the brilliant sun of Marielle and Zorlaeus. Even in the bright lights, her cheekbones looked capable of cutting diamonds, especially when she smiled at Lord Ashwood’s approach.

  “Lady Darkleaf,” the man said. “Appropriately late for one of your kind.”

  Ayla laughed at the slight. “Didn’t you know? We Nox’Karthans can only come out after dark.”

  Etolié had made the same joke – so it was merely a joke, right? Flowridia watched as Ayla’s laughter increased at Lord Ashwood’s obvious discomfort.

  Marielle, however, resumed her regal aura, though Flowridia knew her heart palpitated in Zorlaeus’ presence. “Lord Ashwood, I wasn’t aware you and Lady Ayla had met.”

  “I have not had the honor until now,” the ambassador said, “but her reputation precedes her.”

  “My reputation?” Ayla said, placing a hand against her visible sternum. “Oh, you flatter.”

  “We Sun Elves never forget one of our own.” His stare held no humor, but he took a small sip from his drink.

  Ayla chuckled yet again, this time with less sincerity. “A pity. I have not considered myself a Sun Elf in a long time.”

  “Then it is good a country of monsters so benevolently accepted one of their own,” Lord Ashwood said, and before Ayla could respond he returned his attention to Marielle. Flowridia, however, kept her stare on Ayla, watching her amusement rapidly fade into anger. “My country extends their best wishes, and I hope it will be no insult to you if we leave tonight.”

  Marielle’s gaze tore away from Zorlaeus. “No insult. But if we can fix your accommodations in any way-”

  “Your accommodations have been more than adequate and more than kind. But I do not wish to subject my people to share a roof with something I would not sleep within a hundred miles of.” Lord Ashwood bowed low, maintaining eye contact with Marielle. “C
ongratulations, Queen Marielle.”

  As he walked away, Ayla’s spiteful glare followed. She turned to Marielle and smiled, though her eyes stayed the same. “Another gift, Queen Marielle. I hope you shall enjoy it.” With purpose, she strode toward the center of the room, all attention shifting to her.

  Marielle stepped closer to Zorlaeus and whispered, “She won’t eat my guests, right?”

  “Not with as short a leash as Imperator Casvir keeps on her,” he replied, and Flowridia watched Zorlaeus lean closer, letting their arms brush.

  “Attention, guests of Queen Marielle,” Ayla said, her voice ringing out to every corner of the room. Slowly moving, she turned in a circle, letting her gaze rest on each face – including Flowridia’s. Their eyes met, and she felt a chill travel down her spine and further still, warming and settling somewhere deep. “Keep your music, but dim the lights,” Ayla continued, her gaze finally shifting away. “I have a gift for the queen.”

  The lights grew low, and Ayla’s eyes fluttered shut, a certain grace in the pose she assumed. The music continued, and Ayla let her movements match in time, dancing on silent feet upon the polished stone floor. Flowridia knew little of dance, only enough to watch couples move and sway, but unquestionable talent lay in every minute motion of Ayla’s body. An artist, with how she twirled and bent, each lithe muscle of her body held in absolute control.

  Ayla wove nearer to the crowd, approaching a shadow cast by one of the guests, and vanished when her foot touched the darkness. A hushed gasp filled the room, and Flowridia’s hand reached up to cover her mouth when Ayla reappeared, but several feet away, emerging from the shadow and skipping into the next. She disappeared, flickering in and out like a candle. A beautiful display, yes, but Flowridia sensed a purpose behind it; a warning to those who would dare insult her.

  At the conclusion of the song, Ayla stood with poise, bowing and shutting her eyes to bask in the rousing applause. Captivated, Flowridia found she could not even join in the ovation.

  “Incredible,” she heard Marielle mutter.