Chapter 2: The queen of beauty

꧁࿐DECREASH࿐꧂

The only sound that followed Ryalyn into the depths of the royal dungeon was the steady clatter of armor.

The guards shifted with every step, their boots striking against the cold stone floor as they dragged her through the narrow passageway. Torchlight flickered across the damp walls, casting long shadows that twisted and danced like ghosts of the past.

At the final gate, the guards threw the heavy iron doors open. The rusted hinges let out a long, tortured groan that echoed through the dungeon before they thrust Ryalyn inside.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the iron bars came crashing shut behind her, and the lock was sealed.

She stood there in silence for a moment, her fingers curling slightly at her sides as she glared at the men who had once bowed before her.

Men who had worn her crest upon their armor, men who had carried out her orders without question. Now, they stood before her as nothing more than her captors.

“Which of you bears the name Ser Grulock?”

The words tasted bitter upon her tongue.

Never had she imagined she would have to lower herself to ask anything of these men, the very same guards who moments ago had been laughing and whispering of how fortunate Ser Trevor had been to share the queen’s bed.

A tall guard with broad shoulders and a hardened face stepped forward with a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“He is not here.”

He replied, eyes traveling over her body, no longer filled with loyalty but with the arrogance of a man who wanted to take advantage of a broken woman.

“But if you seek a farewell service, my queen…” he said, leaning casually against his spear, “I would gladly offer my assistance.” His grin widened.

“I could warm your bruised body before sunrise. I swear you would not even know the moment you began begging for more.”

He had barely finished talking when laughter sprouted from his lips. The guard beside him quickly turned his face away, pressing his lips together as he tried to hide his own laughter.

“She does not want you,” the second guard remarked, shaking his head. “The ever-so-famous Ser Trevor was the one who captured her heart.”

His gaze returned to Ryalyn, studying her through the bars, and then his expression shifted.

“You know…” he began softly, “Many held great hopes for you.”

He said, then stepping closer to the cell, he rested a hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Perhaps you never saw it," the guard said, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. "Perhaps you were too blinded by desire to notice what stood right before you." He paused, inhaled sharply, and continued.

"It could have been you who captured the king's heart. He would have raised you higher than any woman in this kingdom. You had him completely ensnared."

He glanced toward his companion, as though seeking approval for his words, and the other man gave a slow, solemn nod.

“The queen of beauty,” the first guard said quietly.

“That is what the maids whisper of you in the kitchens. That is what they call you when they think no one is listening.”

His words carried no mockery this time, only disappointment.

Ryalyn did not answer. She kept her spine rigid and her expression blank, denying them the reward of a flinch or a sigh. The guards waited, lingering in the heavy silence for a reaction that refused to surface.

When she gave them nothing, they turned and stepped away, their boots echoing against the ground until it faded completely into the distance.

Alone in the darkness, she turned away from the entrance and moved deeper into the dungeon. The further she went, the less the torchlight reached, until she found herself swallowed by the shadows.

There, in the far corner, she lowered herself to the ground. The damp air of the dungeon wrapped around her like a shroud.

It seeped through her torn dress, crawled beneath her skin, and settled deep within her bones. Her once carefully arranged hair now hung in tangled strands around her face, and the faint bruises upon her cheeks bore the evidence of the guards’ cruelty.

She drew her arms tightly around herself, rubbing warmth into a body that no longer seemed to belong to her.

The chill only grew stronger, mocking every desperate attempt she made to keep it at bay, and her teeth began to clatter.

Like a widow mourning beside an empty grave, Ryalyn clung to the memory of the torment of having to remember how her lover had been removed from this world before her very sight.

Her wispy lashes were still damp and clammy from having to weep for too long, and two tracks of dried tears traced the length of her cheeks.

Now bound within the cold walls of the dungeon, her gaze remained fixed and unblinking, as though the world of men had already faded into nothingness.

As the hours waned, she drifted deeper into her own troubled thoughts, lost within a train of memories and sorrow.

She savored each breath that passed through her nostrils, knowing that by the break of dawn, the executioner’s axe would descend and bring an end to her existence.

The silence of the dungeon was shattered only by the steady sound of water falling from above.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound echoed throughout, descending from the vaulted ceiling where patches of moss clung. Each drop marked the passing of time as Ryalyn sat waiting for the final morning to arrive.

Yet, the fragile peace of the dungeon did not last. Soon, the soft padding of feet echoed through the vast, hollow passageways that led toward the royal dungeon, growing clearer with each passing moment.

Ryalyn closed her eyes, a small smile touching the corners of her lips. She had known this hour would come; she had already imagined it countless times.

What meaning could all of this humiliation hold if the rival queens of Decreash did not come to witness her ruin? If they did not stand before her and savor the sight of her fallen from grace?

She remained where she was, refusing to move.

Curled within the deepest corner of her cell, where the torchlight struggled to reach, Ryalyn kept her face pressed down, her body slouched forward in defeat.

The footsteps grew louder and clearer before finally halting just beyond the iron gate. A breathless silence fell over the corridor.

Only the presence of the figure standing before her cell filled the space for several minutes.

The stranger simply watched, studying Ryalyn, her narrowed, unforgiving gaze scanning the ruined queen. Eyes tracing every sign of her suffering: the disheveled hair, the bruised skin, the defeated posture.

"Do you believe this is your end?" the voice demanded. The moment she heard it, Ryalyn recognized the tone, though it was the last she had expected to hear in this wretched place. She lifted her weary head, her gaze locking with the Queen Dowager herself…the king’s mother.

“Nay..." Ryalyn replied, her voice but a fragile, trembling whisper.

"There is a life beyond this one waiting for me, where I might at last reconcile with the man I so dearly love."

"I speak of this realm we dwell in, Ryalyn," Azuhra answered. The Queen Dowager’s voice was perfectly poised and calm, yet there was a dangerous edge teetering just beneath the surface.

“I know of the world you speak of, Your Grace," Ryalyn said softly, bowing her head. "But it gives me a profound sense of relief to know that a greater afterlife awaits us all.”

“Why did you do it?”

It was time to cease the pleasantries, a realization Ryalyn had already braced for.

"Is that why you came down here, to seek answers to questions better left to the shadows?”

“Answer me when I speak to you, Ryalyn."

Her voice had taken on a razor's edge, precisely the reaction Ryalyn had schemed to provoke. She still knew exactly how to pierce Azuhra's icy composure.

Tossing a thick braid of rose-gold hair from her view, Ryalyn ran a dry tongue over her chapped lower cherry lip.

“The desires of a woman..."

"Spare me such nonsense.”

Azuhra's heavily ringed fingers gripped the cold, forged iron bars of the cell, her pupils dilating as she peered into the damp, lightless depths of the dungeon where her daughter-in-law remained hidden.

"If I were ignorant of your ways, I might have believed you. Yet, you are well aware there are far better ways to slake your lust. Do not take me for a fool."

At those words, a bitter laugh echoed from the darkness. Ryalyn dropped to her knees, crawling forward from the gloom into the amber glow of the wall-mounted torches.

“I would sooner call the sun cold than name you a fool, my Lady Azuhra," Ryalyn said softly. The torchlight danced across the pupils of her eyes, giving them the shine of obsidian.

"You have buried countless souls beneath your schemes while wearing the face of a saint. It was only a matter of time before I, too, was added to the long procession of those you ruined."

The Queen Dowager fell silent.

Her fingers loosened around the iron bars as she turned her gaze down the length of the dungeon passage, where darkness swallowed the flickering light.

"You have grown quiet." Ryalyn added, just as a bitter smile formed on her cherry-colored lips.

For so long she had swallowed her grief, refusing to let it surface. But the walls she had built around her heart were beginning to crumble.

"I once believed your greatest devotion was to your son."

She began slowly as she shook her head, lips trembling as she struggled to form the words.

"Your true devotion has always been to the game, nothing more than another move upon your board, so that the kingdom and your son's queens might forever remain beneath your hand."

"You speak the gossip of idle tongues."

"I speak what I have lived!"

Her voice thundered through the dungeon.

The tears she had fought so fiercely spilled at last, tracing shining paths down her pale cheeks.

“Your son is no fool to your folly. He only chooses to ignore you. But time will tell just how far you are willing to go to keep his wives under your control.”

Azuhra's jaw tightened, a cold smile touching her lips. "You have a sharp tongue. I will have the guards cut it out after your death and bring it to me on a golden platter, in remembrance of you.”

She said, releasing her clutch from the cold iron bars while exhaling a shuddered breath as her gaze turned vacant.

“Tired of my face already? You should bask in this moment, for you plotted against me.” Ryalyn whimpered in spite.

Azuhra whipped her head around, her long, raven hair snapping through the dim light like a whip. "I only exposed your adulterous ways!" she spat, her dark eyes locking onto Ryalyn's with a fierce, burning heat.

"I always knew you were nothing but a haughty peacock. Flaunting your form in fitted gowns and holding your head so high, simply because my son had favored you in court." Azuhra continued, drawing merely a quiet hum from the other woman.

“You came after me because you feared that once I won your son's heart, he would no longer heed your counsel. That is the only truth I know.”

Ryalyn muttered, already retreating back.

"Your end draws near. Your son has already made the foolish error of marrying five women. You are barking at the wrong tree. I had no desire to steal your son's heart, but there is one among the queens who hungers for it, and she shall be your ruin."

Azuhra managed a smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Insufferable creature," she finally said with a snarl, before turning away fully, eyes fixed at the far end of the corridors.

Ryalyn watched in silence as the queen mother turned to leave until the last remnant of her shadows disappeared.

She sat there in the gloom, waiting, until the final torch sputtered out and swallowed the dungeon in absolute darkness.

***************************

Before the morning sun could fully pierce the mist, Ryalyn was violently hauled from the damp, suffocating depths of the dungeon. Treated like a common criminal, she was dragged to the castle's highest peak, known as the holy ground.

It was a grim structure built along the outer edge of the fortress, a place where the condemned were punished before the eyes of Decreash so that the people might look on, tremble, and learn to mend their ways.

Today, Ryalyn was the main spectacle.

The moment her feet touched the stone, the crowd erupted into a frenzy, pelting her with rotting scraps, throwing thick mud into her tear-streaked face, and shrieking curses from afar.

Whore!" a little boy shrieked from the safety of his mother’s side, pitching a thick clod of dirt that slammed heavily into her jaw.

She looked up at the guard, bracing herself for the execution block, but the executioner bypassed the axe entirely. Instead, he forced a carved wooden bowl, brimming with a dark, bitter liquid, into her trembling hands.

She had waited all night for this moment. Her heart yearned to join Sir Trevor in the afterlife if the gods permitted it.

Without wasting a single second, she emptied the bowl. At first, a faint, almost bearable stir shifted deep within her guts, but it quickly turned merciless, spreading through her body like a thousand invisible thorns. She refused to scream or cry out, robbing the crowd of the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She collapsed to her knees, clutching her throat as a sharp gasp turned into a wet, bloody cough. Her blurred gaze drifted up and found a lone figure standing apart from the crowd.

Ragaleon.

He stood aloof from the crowd, distant and untouchable, a cad in royal robes with a crown resting upon his head, as though he were merely witnessing some passing spectacle and not the end of a life he had destroyed.

He was a vile man, possessed with a heart so hardened that he would not even grant her the mercy of a swift death by a sword.

He wanted it slow and intended to savor every twist of pain on her face and feed his cold pride on her dying breath.

She held his gaze as her knees buckled under the fading weight of life, her strength failing completely before she collapsed fully to the ground.

Eventually, her lashes fell still, and a chilly cold seeped into her fingertips. She felt her heartbeat weaken, each beat slower than the last, until the final thread of breath left her nostrils.

Ryalyn died with her eyes open, her gaze forever fixed upon the man who had condemned her. In the end, he had chosen death as her fate.