Rage Of The Evil Queen

The Queen's Ultimatum
A heavy silence swallowed the room whole. Queen Lysandra stood still, poised like a blade unsheathed. Her violet eyes were fixed on her son, her jaw clenched so tightly it might shatter. Across from her, Prince Alexander stood rigid, hands flexing at his sides.

“I’ll ask you again,” Lysandra said, her voice low and controlled, the calm before a storm. “Is there someone else?”

Alex didn’t flinch.

“No.”

Lysandra arched one perfectly sculpted brow. “No?”

He met her gaze. “There is no one else, Mother.”

A moment of silence passed. Then another.

“You’re lying,” she said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She took a slow step forward, folding her arms. “Your voice is too still. Your face is too composed. You forget—I raised you. I know every flicker in your eyes, every twitch in your jaw when you’re holding back the truth.”

“I’m not holding anything back.”

Lysandra tilted her head. “Oh, so there is another girl.”

He hesitated for half a breath too long.

She caught it. She always caught it.

Alex sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s no one of consequence.”

“‘Of consequence’?” Lysandra echoed with a sharp laugh. “So there is someone. A peasant girl, perhaps? Someone you tumbled in the stables? Or perhaps one of those wide-eyed little things that bring you wine and forget to breathe in your presence?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t.” Her tone dripped with acid.

Alex clenched his jaw. “I haven’t broken any oaths. I haven’t disgraced you.”

“You think this is about me?” she snapped, taking another step forward. “This is about the future of Edralis! You are the only heir to the throne, Alexander. The blood of kings, the blood of conquerors, runs through your veins. Your heart doesn’t belong to some romantic fantasy. It belongs to this realm. To its people!”

“I know my duty,” he said tightly.

“Do you?” she challenged, circling him now. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like a love-struck fool! You think I haven’t noticed the changes in you? The nights you leave your chambers under the cover of darkness? The way you speak now, like a man torn in two?”

“There’s no one,” he said again. Firmer. Colder.

Lysandra stopped, her voice low and scalding. “I carried you inside of me for nine months. I birthed you with pain no man could ever comprehend. I made you. So don’t you dare stand there and lie to my face.”

Alex inhaled sharply but said nothing.

“I know the truth when I see it,” she said. “And I know you, Alexander. Better than you know yourself.”

She turned from him then, walking toward the tall arched window overlooking the garden terraces below. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, but no less dangerous.

“If there is another girl out there... someone who has your heart—some farm girl, or merchant’s daughter, or worse... some witch—then you need to forget her.”

She turned back to him slowly, her eyes glittering like amethysts beneath firelight.

“Because the Crown Princess of Astraellos will arrive in Edralis within a few days. And you will marry her, whether you like it or not!”

Alex’s breath hitched.

“You will kneel before her,” Lysandra continued, each word like the tolling of a war bell. “You will speak your vows with pride. You will put a ring on her finger and claim her as your wife. And you will do it with a smile so radiant the stars themselves will weep.”

“And if I don’t?” Alex asked, his voice like ice.

Her face sharpened. “If there’s a girl standing in the way of that future, I will burn her from your memory. I will scour every village, every town, every backwater forest until I find her. And when I do, I will not hesitate to slit her throat with my own bare hands if that’s what it takes to protect this kingdom.”

A cold and deadly silence fell between them.

Alex stared at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Lysandra met his eyes without flinching. She meant every word.

Then, three sharp knocks at the door.

The moment cracked like glass.

Lysandra’s head snapped toward the sound. “WHO IS IT?!”

A muffled voice from the hall. “Your Majesty—it’s the royal messenger.”

Another pause. Then she shouted, “Enter!”

The doors swung open.

The messenger stepped in with a hurried bow. He was young, flushed with urgency, his chest heaving from what was clearly a long sprint.

He bowed deeply. “Forgive the interruption, my Queen. Prince Alexander.”

“What is it?” Lysandra asked sharply, striding toward him.

The messenger lifted his head, voice strained. “I bring news—urgent news—that has begun to spread across the Eight Kingdoms.”

Alex and Lysandra exchanged a glance.

“Well?” she demanded.

The boy swallowed. “The God Witch… has risen.”

Time stood still.

No one moved. Not the messenger. Not the Queen. Not the Prince.

Outside, the wind shifted, rattling the stained glass windowpanes as if the world itself had caught its breath.

Lysandra’s expression was unreadable—her posture frozen, lips parted just slightly. Then her fingers tightened around the folds of her gown.

“What did you just say?” she whispered, as if daring him to repeat it.

“She’s alive,” the messenger said. “There are whispers from the eastern border. And again, in the markets of Valeshore. Word has reached the capital already.”

He stepped back, bowing again, trembling now. 

“The God Witch lives.”