What Remains After It Burns

They come for her when the third moon begins its ascent into the evening sky, when just a faint line of purple paints the horizon. Waves crash violently against the cliffside.

“It is time, Your Grace.” 

She needn’t turn to recognize who’s come to collect her. It’s a voice she’s grown up listening to, who’s given her counsel and taught her the lessons her father ought to—couldn’t—before leaving her to the den of vipers four summers ago.

With an ease from years of searching she finds her father’s constellation, shining brightest up above and she calls for his strength she does not have. She has never been weaker than she is now.

Carina, your loyalty has always been your strength. She hears the winds whisper. But what good will her loyalty do now?

Catching a breath seems impossible at the phantom weight of her father’s hand resting on her shoulder, when the air feels as if it’s about to choke her. 

“What is to be done with me?” 

She is not ready. I was never ready for any of this. She whispers back in her mind.

“Lord Blasius conducted a search and found traces and evidence of forbidden magic in the Eastern Tower.” Of course he did, she thinks with a pained smile. “Maids and soldiers were called into questioning and it seems Your Grace was the only one ever seen going in and out of the tower.” 

She does not tell Solon that it was Lord Blasius himself who led her to the discovery of the forbidden tomes, or that it was by his suggestion that she set base on the abandoned Eastern Tower for better concentration. 

Your Grace, forbidden though these may be they could prove to be of immeasurable help—desperate times call for desperate measures, we shall keep this between us, our secret for the Realm. Let us put an end to the sacrifice of our good men, let us return them to their wives and children. He said, and she believed him. She trusted Lord Blasius who’d been her father’s closest friend and advisor.

Exactly six days passed since the guards informed her she wouldn’t be leaving her room due to security measures of an ongoing investigation. It’d only been two days since she started suspecting foul play from Lord Blasius, his complete absence and the lack of information a mocking confirmation. 

There’s a strange relief mixed with the devastation and bitterness that follows. Relief from the truth that at last shines after so many days of darkened silence and speculation.

No, she does not tell Solon because her mentor already knows all that, has probably been aware of it all the while he’s been away from court doing whatever it is he’s been doing all these years.

“Thousands of innocents dead and the capital of Iliósa brought to the ground by giant sea waves and earthquakes. All that could’ve been accounted for as natural disasters… nothing short of a miracle for our side of the conflict seeing as it certainly destabilized Emperor Kleon’s thirst for conquest, what with most of his forces being annihilated... a ruthless but brilliant plan.” Solon commends before he adds, “If only the truth hadn’t made itself known.”

Over a thousand years ago when our land had been shifted into something almost unrecognizable the holy conclave decreed that magic of any kind that manipulated nature would be seen as high treason, a taboo. Her father told her once.

Lord Blasius is nothing if not thorough. He’s been at this game since before her father ascended the throne, a brother at arms with her grandfather. 

These men fashioned her a queen yet she’d always been a pawn. Finally she can see the hidden pieces set on this disadvantageous board she’s been thrown at.

“The punishment for the use of forbidden magic is the stake, Your Grace.” Her hand trembles against the stone window. It is not death she fears, it’s the pain that haunts her. She has seen a few executions in her lifetime, though none at the stake.

Out of all executions, burning at the stake is the least common one as is reserved for the use of forbidden magic or Kingslaying—also known as sacrileges. Solon himself taught her this lesson when she still clung to his robes, when they used to spend most of their time in the summer gardens or the observatory.

For how long has he been planning this?

She breathes in and turns her back to the window. She thanks whatever gods are out there watching out for her that she does not cry at the sight of him. 

I’ve lost.

Solon remains much the same except for the increased lines in his face and the white that weaves itself into his black hair and beard.

“Your Grace, it’s today isn’t it? How many—” He stops himself for a moment, and she wonders if it’s guilt. A part of her doesn’t wish for him to feel guilt, because guilt would mean somewhere inside he still cared for her. And anyone who truly cared for another would not do what he has done to her. Would not have left her as he did, with no word, no counsel, nothing.

“Fifteen turns.” She answers.

“So young…” He says in what is almost a whisper. “You were always so young.” She nods as their eyes meet. “You were never ready for this.” It pains her and squeezes at her chest, but she does not resent this honesty. No one is ready to rule at seven.

“No, I wasn’t.”

There is a weight in the silence that hangs between them. Of years shared together, of the innocent trust between a mentor and a pupil, of abandonment. Her tongue tastes sour like the yellow berries she used to bite when she was a child. Back when she’d squeeze her face and have her whole body shake and Solon would chuckle and take it as a sign for a break between lessons.

More has been broken than simply lessons today.

“Would it be possible for me to stop by the Wheel Room?” Before I’m executed, before I’m to burn at the stake. Is left unsaid. “I’d like to turn my wheel.” For the last time.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace.” 

Her eyes linger for one last time around her bedroom, a devastating need for it like she’s never felt before. Like she’d trade everything she has just to live the rest of her days inside of this room, forgotten by everyone else, left alone to be at peace.

The walk to Wheel Room is silent and flanked by a small retinue of guards. Solon speaks to whom she assumes to be the commander for a few moments before they set their pace. 

The autumn breeze makes the fire-lamps dance against walls, shadows painting the stones with hues of red, orange and yellow. It does not take long before they reach the familiar set of carved doors. 

“Wait here.” She hears him say as she pushes the doors open. 

Standing before her are thousands of wooden wheels carved into an enormous tree that takes up most of the imposing hall. Moonlight shines through the glass dome standing above it.

When you were born I came to this room and carved your wheel right next to mine, in the same way you’ll once do for your child. And at every turn of your wheel, we’ll come together to celebrate another blessing.

She feels no shame at the tears that now stream down her face, not here, not before her ancestors, in this sacred place that belongs to her, to them.

With a lightness she does not feel she climbs the small steps carved into the tree until she reaches their place. Two wheels, carved closer to one another, on the same branch. 

Normally we leave some space between the wheels, but I wanted you too much to let you be too far away from me.

Her fingers hover just so over her father’s before she leans down to kiss the name her grandfather carved with his own hands. The yarn turned a total of thirty six times.

‘I don’t know if I’ll see you where I’m going,’ she mouths more so than whispers to her father’s name, before setting her attention on her own wheel, turning it from fourteen to fifteen.

“My father once told me that whenever I found myself in need of help all I needed to do was come here and look into our past—at the map our ancestors left carved into these branches, charted into our bloodline—that all I needed to do was ask the wheels.” She speaks out loud, surprising both herself and Solon. “I never did—come here. I wonder if anything would’ve been different if I had.” Their eyes meet as she looks down over her shoulders. “Probably not. It is as you said, I was never ready.” He nods. “What shall become of the Realm? Will Lord Blasius wear the crown? Was that his ambition all along?”

“I do not presume to know the extent of Lord Blasius’ ambition, Your Grace.” Solon says with humor shared between confidants and she almost forgets the circumstances which have brought them here in the first place. “He has, however, appeared before court with whom he claims to be the lost daughter of Imahin, the princess Anisha.” She cannot contain the gasp that escapes her lips, her skirts twist as she turns to fully face him.

“Do they believe him?”

“Some do, others don’t, who knows what measures might tip the scales more towards one side or the other.” It’s his tone that catches her attention, his lack of concern. She feels her hands clam with sweat. What games are these men playing, what moves they make which she cannot see, cannot understand. Would she have ever been ready for this?

“What shall become of the Realm?” She asks again. What will become of her father’s legacy, of the thousand turn reign of her bloodline. 

This time it is something like pity she recognizes in his gaze, something sad too.

“The Realm shall have your brother to count on.” 

She blinks at him once, twice. And it feels as if her heart has stopped beating, but that’s not true, she can feel her deep pulse all the way through her ears.

“My… brother?”

“Your father’s son, sired by a northern whore.”

There’s nothing amusing about the information, but she can hear her laughs echoing across the hall.

A brother? Did my father know? Of course not, he’d have done anything for a son—legitimizing a bastard would’ve been the least of his troubles, so that means Solon knew it all—she cannot think about this, not right now. Not when she’s about to be burned at the stake, not when she’s about to die and be marked in history as the devil queen who murdered thousands of innocents using forbidden magic. 

But more than any of that, there is only one question she ought to ask, one she cannot go take the stake without.

“My father’s death.” It’s not a question so much as it is a statement, a demand.

“Your father’s sickness traces back to your great grandfather and a few others before, it had no cure and the progression happened at the same pace. A tragic disease and even more tragic loss—your father was a great King, Your Grace. No one would’ve wanted to see him rule into old age more than the people of this Realm.” And myself, hovers unsaid by Solon. 

She accepts his response. What else is there to do?

They are nearing the castle gates when it dawns on her.

“Will he be there?” And Solon understands, as he always seemed to have when she asked him incomplete questions.

“Yes, he’ll be standing next to Lady Hilaria, towards the southern bank, you’ll know.” He answers, their voices low.

“What did she name him?”

“After your father, Your Grace.” Orion. 

This time she bites back her tears.

“I see.”

Indeed she recognizes him immediately. Amidst the angry shouts, curses and scornful gazes, she knows him. And when their eyes lock, something in her breaks. 

He is the spitting image of her father. From his strong shoulders to his jawline, from the shape of his nose to the deep blue of his eyes and the waves of dark brown hair that end just below his ears. Just as tall if not more.

Someone reads her charges and more shouting ensues, the common people throw putrid vegetables at her and some hit her dress and even her face. But she does not take her eyes away from him, her brother.

Yes, he’ll be a great King. 

If only she could’ve been there to see it. She would’ve carved him a wheel, would’ve given him her loyalty. 

If only she could convey this to him. And maybe she does, in a way. 

There are tears streaming down his face when they start to light up her feet.

She smiles at him before all that is left of her are screams.

Mentorship prompt: a queen is under arrest for murder. Many loyal to her believe she is innocent, but her enemies believe she is a monster. Choose a scene to focus on surrounding this idea, whether it is her alone in a cell, or on trial, or speaking in secret to one of her loyal supporters, or something else entirely. Is she innocent? Is she guilty? Only you can tell us.

Here it is! Sharing this exercise felt a lot less extrenuous on my nerves than the previous short stories hahaha. I think just the psychology behind knowing I’m writing and sharing this in a mentorship capacity; that it’s a developmental process takes away almost all pressure I tend to put on myself.

Now on to the process itself and my ideas: when I first received the prompt I had a completely different world and set of characters in mind, but for some reason I just couldn’t advance past the first ~100 words. So the exercise of letting go of my attatchment to that first idea was fascinating, because the moment I did (and boy was I unecessarily stubborn), it immediately opened up the space for this story to come up. And I’m much, much happier with this than the previous one.

This piece took two sessions to be completed and the feedback I received from Natasha after the first draft was eye-opening. It improved the second draft immensely with just a few extra paragraphs of character-focused writing.

Personally I struggle a lot with ending short stories, so I intentionally chose Carina’s last moments in order to have a sense of closure to her arc, even if the ending was rather sad.

Thank you for reading this far!

Big love,