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The Devil From Deira 46
The months that followed were unlike any Deira had ever known. The smoke had long lifted from the hills, leaving behind the smell of earth and rain. The once-ruined streets now rang with laughter, the kind that felt almost foreign after years of fear. Farmers returned to the fields that had been trampled by horses, their plows cutting through the same soil that once drank the blood of soldiers. Markets reopened, children chased each other through the courtyards, and the bells of the cathedral tolled for life rather than death.Peace was not an announcement; it was a slow, trembling rebirth.In the heart of this renewal stood the castle, rebuilt stone by stone, though some walls still bore the faint scorch marks of war. Yet even they were left untouched, as though Deira herself refused to forget. Within those new halls, Queen Isabelle moved softly, her steps careful but assured, her hand often resting on the swell of her belly.Each morning, she stood by th
The Devil From Deira 45
The night after the battle was eerily silent.No drums, no horns, only the sigh of wind through charred stone and the faint toll of the mourning bell that rang for Deira’s fallen. The war was over, but peace did not yet know how to settle its wings upon the kingdom.Queen Indira was captured before dawn.She did not resist. Her silks were torn, her crown gone, her once-imperious face calm as she was escorted through the ruins of her own making. Servants and guards alike watched her pass in mute disbelief. The woman who had ruled their lives through fear now moved like a shadow among the ashes.She was confined to her chambers under guard. The same room where she had once plotted her empire now stood stripped and dim, the mirrors draped in mourning cloth.That night, she requested parchment and ink.When the guards returned at sunrise, they found her seated by the window, her head tilted slightly as though she were still deep in thought. The goblet beside her was empty. The poison had
The Devil From Deira 44
The night over Deira bled crimson.Queen Indira stood by her chamber window, the smell of smoke seeping through the silken curtains. The distant palace glowed faintly, the rebellion had failed. Adrian lived. Malcolm’s silence was damning.Her rings scraped against the windowpane as she turned to Alastair. “End it,” she hissed. “If the son lives, the mother must burn. Burn them all, the castle, the woman, the unborn seed.”Alastair hesitated. “Your Majesty, the winds…”“Do it,” she snapped. “While the night hides our shame.”Outside, the loyalists gathered with torches and oil. The plan was cruel and simple. Surround Adrian’s castle, bar the gates, and set it aflame. Let the smoke finish what the sword could not.But fate, that treacherous hand, turned their cruelty inward.As the first torch touched the outer walls, the wind shifted. The flames, instead of crawling toward the castle, curled back, fierce, hungry, alive. The oil spilled. Sparks leapt like spirits seeking vengeance.“Wat
The Devil From Deira 43
The first screams came with the sunrise.From the high walls of Adrian’s castle, the watchmen saw the royal banners advancing — crimson silk and black-armoured riders moving under forged decrees that bore the Queen’s seal. Alastair’s plan was perfect on parchment: strike before dawn, seize the prince, present him to the throne as a traitor.But parchment burns faster than flesh.Before the soldiers reached the capital gates, Adrian’s scouts intercepted the message. By the time Alastair’s men entered the royal grounds, Adrian’s army had already crossed the river under cover of mist, steel whispering from scabbards.When the sun rose fully, it rose upon chaos.Flames licked the velvet banners that hung above the marble corridor. The air reeked of smoke and iron. Adrian’s blade met the first wave of palace guards with merciless precision. His black cloak, slashed and ash-streaked, swept behind him like a shadow made flesh.“Hold the eastern wing!” he shouted over the din. “No fire near t
The Devil From Deira 42
The days after the poisoning bled into one another — long, heavy, and gray.The once-lively corridors of Adrian’s castle had turned into a place of whispers. Every creak of a floorboard seemed to carry suspicion. Every unfamiliar face, danger.Adrian had not been seen outside the west wing for two days. He kept to Isabelle’s bedside, his voice low, his fury colder than steel. When at last she could sit up without trembling, she reached for his hand and found it rigid as a soldier’s blade.“Adrian,” she murmured, “you must let this rest. I am alive. That should be enough.”He turned to her then and the look in his eyes frightened her more than any sickness. “Enough?” he said softly. “They tried to take you from me. They dared to reach into my home, into our lives, and you say it should be enough?”“It will destroy you.”“It already has.”He stood abruptly and left the room before she could say another word.Outside, the castle’s courtyard echoed with the metallic clang of training swor
The Devil From Deira 41
The palace doctor’s visits had stopped days ago, at Isabelle’s insistence. Since that night in the room, she had learned to hold her pain where no one could touch it, deep enough that even Adrian would not see. Her body still bore faint bruises where Malcolm’s hands had gripped her arms, but it was her silence that ached the most.The world was already heavy with secrets; one more, she thought, could drown quietly without notice.So she smiled through her morning walks and recited her duties as though nothing had cracked beneath her ribs. Spencer was the only one who noticed the tremor in her voice.That morning, they walked along the castle gardens, a stretch of dew-kissed roses and gravel paths shaded by budding trees. The air smelled faintly of rain. Spencer, ever the loyal knight, trailed half a step behind, speaking softly about the soldiers stationed near the gates.“Adrian’s orders were firm,” he said. “No one without clearance enters these grounds. Still, I saw new faces among
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