“Civilians of the Old World… Today, another Queen from beyond our borders comes to pay respect to our traditions. She will stand against herself, proving her mastery over our blood doppelganger. “ Her voice echoes in the arena, amplified by the blood magic.
The cheers erupt, but the noise is drowned by deep, steady drumbeats that shake the air and thrum through my chest, rattling my bones; a primal rhythm that makes the air itself seem to pulse.
Who would have guessed they possessed such a sense of rhythm?
“Hand, Seleste Berigander.” Margorate grabs it, and I sneer, barely containing the question of whether she washed that bloody knife, because even I know not to antagonise her further while she is the one slicing me. So I bite my tongue and swallow the question with my gigantic will. Also, I pat myself on the back, mentally, sayingGood girl.
A sting of knife parting my skin interrupts my inner monologue. “Ouch!” I hiss, focusing on the dark blood dripping into the cauldron.
“No tears, Queenling?” She mocks, but I don’t spare her any attention, while the contents of the cauldron boil and now balance on the cusp of leaking from the giant pot.
“Try not to waste the drop of my blood, that shit is expensive,” I comment, settling on a nonchalant demeanour.
“I reckon not that much, given you share it so easily.” She gazes at the wrist as though the gloves could not hide the blood bond from her eyes.
Clever wench; we both know she’s won that argument.
There’s no time for my ego to sulk. Margorate tosses some black powder into the cauldron, and my nose wrinkles immediately.
The stench intensifies, making me turn away and struggle not to gag.
Does she plan to poison me with that before the trial even begins?
I barely manage to stop the breakfast Riven forced into me from escaping. I have to swallow it back down, the burning sensation scalding my throat and, to my utter despair, Margorate grins at my struggle.
She inhales through her nostrils, as if studying its very essence. Her bushy brow furrows, and in a low tone she asks, “What have you done?”
When I don’t reply, she gives the smallest shake of her head and returns her gaze to her cauldron. Before I can ask what she means, the drums grow louder, and the whole crowd begins chanting. Does my heart race in anticipation, or are the contents of the cauldron actually poisonous?
“Biga bogo samo dumo aroma!” the crowd chants in a language I don’t know, and Margorate joins in. Her throaty voice sounds exceptionally good.
They must be mumbling because my education is superior, and I know every language on the continent.
Soon, the whole circle is shouting, repeating the words over and over and a black mist slowly appears in the centre of the salt circle.
I strain my eyes to identify the shape, but suddenly the chant is broken by a loud bang… and another me materialises.
The crowd breaks into cheers while I take the doppelganger in.
She looks so… royal. Deserving. Her... my hair is longer and looks absolutely stunning. Our face paint is spot on. And that emerald green tunic? Worth a fortune.
Sheer Queen of Fashion.
I can’t help but smile. Quite an impressive impersonation of me, I must say. Need to ask if it’s a future thing or their interpretation.
Both versions are acceptable.
I take a few steps towards her. The dust brushes the uncovered spots on my feet, and I cringe inside. I should have worn something other than sandals.
Sighing with exasperation, I check my well. Peaceful and waiting.
Her unique golden orbs regard me with impressive stillness.
I raise my hand to wave but halt as her lips curve into a sneer.
“What are you even doing? You were disowned. Trisha should be here.” Her voice sounds like a Fae fucked a ghoul; melodic but raspy, seductive yet haunting at the same time. But the words coming out of her foul mouth?
I swallow the lump in my throat at the reminder of Trisha, and my admiration for the mediocre clone is cut in half.
