Wyrd: Book One of the Witch War Trilogy - WATTYS 2018 WINNER!

Chapter 12: Where Her Opulency Reins in her Fury

The Empress stood, glaring out the castle window, encasing herself in a greatly determined calm.

As she digested the news, she watched the people down below: small dots moving through the winding paths of her lush, verdant gardens and into the teeming hustle of the city proper. Individuals spread out from the castle gates like busy ants moving through a labyrinth of brilliant white marble against a backdrop of majestic, snow-peaked mountains in the distance.

She had quite the view from her tower: cobblestone streets spread out from her gilded castle on the hill like the spokes of a wheel. From her vantage point at the epicenter of her vast estate and Kingdom, she could see temples, cathedrals and church steeples glowing golden in the midday sun. Spaces of lush green park interspersed with sun-kissed stone apartments adorned with intricate lattice-work balconies. Cute steepled houses with sprawling wild lawns sat beside stunning Empire-owned mansions and the aristocratic palaces with their meticulously manicured hedges. Manmade ponds and fountains gave way to the colourful and rich merchant districts at the periphery, while a river of turquoise wound its way around her estate and then down the middle of the city, clean water sparkling and dissecting the Queendom of Epicure in two. A series of ornate bridges arced over the water in splendor, glorifying the history of her rich dynasty and the triumphs of myriad military victories.

Normally, when she looked upon her city, it was with a fierce and hard-earned pride.

Not at this very moment though. Her fingernails pressed into the flesh of her palms, drawing blood, as even her thriving kingdom did nothing, nothing at all, to calm her anger.

She turned ever so slowly.

Her deliberate, measured steps clicked on the cold stone, to the accompaniment of her sweeping train as it brushed the floor, moving starchily in her wake. She had chosen the crimson gown because the pale, ivory skin of her bosom and hands – yet to be creased by age though old she supposed she was – stood out in contrast against the rich hue. 

The Empress was tall and statuesque, her rigid posture the product of a lifetime of discipline. She wore an elaborate bustle, a fashion generally more fitting for the youthful. It suited her still. Her eyes were a very dark mahogany, her irises, she knew her vassals sometimes whispered, were almost rimmed with red. A white widows peak framed her sharp face, accentuating her high cheekbones. An intricate golden crown laced with rubies lay atop the snow-white hair that was swept up and away from her eyes, an ornate ruffle showing her slender neck and highlighting her features.

She knew she cut an intimidating figure and she relished the fact. She had cultivated and honed her presence – her authority and greatness – until it was a sharp-edged weapon. She had seen other people, woman mostly, using their auras to project beauty and sexual attractiveness, or kindness, generosity and humour, in paltry attempts to use these traits to win status or popularity. Great men, great women too, never questioned her superiority. It was telegraphed in the way she walked into a room, what she wore, how her eyes beheld others, in the seething magic restrained in the confines of her body just waiting to be unleashed. When she walked into a room she inspired intimidation, fear, awe, and respect. Though her reputation – what she'd achieved – proceeded her, others didn't need to have seen a portrait to recognize her power. She had carved a kingdom out of laymen's stone, clarifying it of rabble and ringing out the blood of her enemies, tricking the base rock to become diamond: hard, resilient, rich, beautiful, pure and unyielding. She had fought, she had conquered, and she would continue to do so. Forever.

The Empress stalked towards the envoy.

Her face must have conveyed her barely contained rage, contorted into a facsimile of insouciance, for the messenger shrank, his arm coming up to shield his face, his body turning away and into itself in fear. The utter display of cowardice did nothing to ingratiate him to her. He was a weakling; sniveling and abhorrent. And, she considered, had not been sent because he had drawn the short straw – no, this one had been chosen because the rest couldn't care less if he returned alive. Well then...