For every end, there is always a beginning.
The king would come to realize, many years later and thousands of steps beyond the ones he currently takes, that this was the start to his impending demise.
Edric sets a formidable pace through the twisting gut of his pristine castle. As a child, the coiling corridors used to taunt him, trap the princeling in a confusing loop with every corner he rounded. Even now, it reminds him horribly of the maze that is his mind, and how any word that enters through the shifting gate—his gaze—will meet a stony wall before breaking into a series of jumbled syllables—or rather, what his father liked to call “a disgraceful lack of competency.”
But his father is no longer here, leaving behind only the memory of a sniffling boy who struggled to read.
Edric’s polished shoes tread swiftly past the servants who slave over them every evening, the feet within navigating him confidently through the castle.
A distant memory indeed.
It was long after ridding his son of this “shameful illness” that Landan Azer finally met his end, though, it was regrettably far more pleasant than Edric’s cruel journey to literacy. His soul drifted peacefully from the frail body it had inhabited, which seemed entirely too gentle a death for such a harsh man. But with the kingdom now squirming in the palm of his hand, Edric thinks fondly of that fruitful time with his father, feeling a growing sort of gratitude for the man who pushed him along this path toward power.
Cruelty molded him into a king, where kindness would have only crippled him.
The crown curls atop his head, burrowing into the blond strands of hair like a drowsy mutt. Each gaping hallway drips with the honeyed rays of sunset, seemingly slowing his pace as if they were clinging to his shoes. But the king pushes past every oozing puddle of light. Because there is little in this life that Edric loves more than power—and he is heading right for it.
The queen is rarely seen outside her quarters this late into the pregnancy. Even still, Iris was hidden away long before the growing of a spare in her womb. Love and paranoia are quite fond of each other, habitually mingling into a suffocating protection.
Edric pauses before the familiar slab of wood that separates them. He often finds this moment to feel like the end of a maze he’s been stumbling through since he was a boy. Here, there is no taunting castle or befuddled mind. It all falls away at her feet.
It takes four beats of the king’s fluttering heart for the door to swing open.
Iris has always been the type of beautiful that can only be inarticulately described as breathtaking. As a descendant of an Izrami queen, she bears their tanned, freckled skin and bright eyes. And yet, Iris Moyra had never set foot on the seaside kingdom’s rocky soil.
Over a century ago, a family feud had divided the royals of Izram, forcing several of Iris’s ancestors—whose claim to the throne was nearly as weak as their relationship with the woman who sat upon it—to settle in Ilya. A handful of years had passed before the Plague swept through, isolated the kingdom, and gifted the descendants of those bickering royals more power than they could have ever earned with a crown on their head.
Edric, with his lust for power, married the woman before him nearly a decade after the Purging. With every Elite being contained to Ilya, no powerless princess beyond the border would be allowed to taint the king’s line further. But the pairing of Iris’s royal blood and rare ability was shocking enough to finally entice him into settling down.
Iris was stunning like the sea, as though her skin were seeped in saltwater until it shimmered. Edric tells her as much, smiling when the words draw out a warm flush atop her cheekbones. That golden hair cascades down her body and over the large swelling of her belly, like water carving a trickling path around a stone. She gently tugs the king toward her, pressing soft lips against his with a lingering sigh.
Once released from his wife’s captivating clutches, Edric begrudgingly glances around the room. “Did you dismiss the servants again?”
Iris rests a delicate hand atop her stomach. “I’m fine, Ed. They don’t need to be swarming me every waking moment.”
“Iris”—Edric smooths a hand across the fabric draping her rounded belly—“you know they are needed for your safety. This baby is coming any day now, and for your protection…”
The king stops talking then, because he recognizes the look on her face. Iris is gentle, in soul and body. But her expressions are less so.
“What?” Edric insists at the narrowing of those brilliant, blue eyes.
She takes a breath, the type that sounds like loving someone despite their flaws. “All you do is protect me. And, of course, I am grateful for that, but…” Iris raises a hand, somehow encapsulating the entire kingdom with a single gesture. “But it has been years since the people have heard about me. Seen me. For all they know, I died shortly after giving birth to Kitt.”
“And I would rather them think that,” the king utters slowly, “than use you against me. I won’t risk an enraged Ordinary putting you in danger to hurt me.”
Iris pads slowly atop the carpet, her loose nightgown dragging green fabric behind her feet. “The Purging was over a decade ago. Your paranoia cannot keep me trapped here forever.” She grasps his face, cupping him in the warmth of her presence. “In our five years of marriage, I have done little more than hide away.”
Edric rubs a hand behind his neck, a habit his father plagued him with. It’s as though every prickle of agitation builds beneath the skin there and chips away at his sanity.
Ordinaries remain in his kingdom out of spite, hiding until their swelling anger has them committing some final act of violence. They all die in the end, as the weak always do. But it is the defiance of it, the constant worry that his queen may get caught in the cross fire.
“Soon,” the king sighs. He pulls Iris’s soft hands into his own. “I will free you of these walls shortly. Once I’ve disposed of these lingering Ordinaries, you will be safe. They are a mistake I am remedying. And the Elites are just as eager to be rid of them.”
The gentle queen ponders this for a long moment. “Good. Because I would like very much to show our child to the kingdom.” She guides her husband’s hand along the swollen curve of her belly. “The castle may be good at keeping secrets, but I am—”
“Not,” Edric finishes for her, knowing his wife more than he has ever wanted to know anyone. “I know, Ri.”
“But despite it all, I love you.” She draws a circle above the king’s thumping heart as she says it, just as she has so many times before.
“Thank the Plague for that,” Edric responds earnestly.
Iris’s soft laugh morphs into a hiss when she clutches her belly. The king shudders at the sight of his wife in pain, shifting suddenly from stoic royal to concerned spouse. Threading an arm around her waist, he guides his groaning queen onto her bed. It is only after adjusting her legs and propping a pillow behind Iris’s back that Edric allows himself a long breath.
“Are you all right?” The question is laced with his own terror for her.
“Yes, I will be fine.” Sweat glistens on her brow. “Just labor pains, dear.”
The king nods in an attempt to expel that lingering fear within him. His father always hated when he showed any sign of weakness—and Iris is exactly that. Clearing his throat and smoothing the worry between his brows, Edric lets his gaze fall to the bedside table. Her beloved jewelry box sits there, filled with each of the queen’s coveted pieces. Iris has a passion for beauty, and despite her confinement to the castle, she has never missed an opportunity to sparkle in even the dullest of halls.
But that pristine box is not what holds the king’s attention. No, it is the pink rose sprawled peacefully atop the wooden lid, and its accompanying folded piece of parchment.
Iris notes every emotion that crawls across her husband’s face. First, interest. Second, curiosity. These are both followed by a tumble of more sinister feelings: Scrutiny. Concern. Jealousy.
“A gift from one of my handmaids,” the queen answers flippantly, though no question was voiced. “I rarely get to walk the gardens, so she thought to bring a bit of the gardens to me.”
With her belly wrapped in one arm, Iris uses the other to toss the gift beneath the jewelry box’s lid. She traps the flower within the wooden walls so simply that Edric won’t spare it another thought. Instead, he will continue on until met with the end that begins in this very moment.
So, when Iris cries out in pain, and a dampness spreads the covers beneath her, the end is very near for Edric Azer. At least, for that dwindling bit of warmth within him.
