Our freedom's consuming itself

A woman sits in a chair, alone in a dark room. Her golden eyes cast lightly over the night sky—over her kingdom, her father’s kingdom. Her hair is swept into a beautiful, intricate bun at the nape of her neck, the blackness of it blends with the shadows of the room surrounding her. Her deep red lips are turned in a worried frown. Her fragile, manicured hands clutch the chair just barely enough for the white to show in the tips of her sweet-smelling fingertips.

An explosion slashes through the silent, warm night air. It’s in the distance, but it causes her young brow to furrow, causing her face to age drastically—causing her eyes to reveal the age she truly feels on this desperately apprehensive night.

A door opens. It’s a grand door—large in size and intricately decorated with gold. She’s not thinking of the beauty of the door tonight, though.

“Your Highness, I come bearing news,” a solemn voice echoes behind her. She does not move, every muscle tense against the comforts of the chair beneath her. Her focus moves to the place on the wall where the light meets the dark; a shadow of a man stands there, stretching across the floor in contrasting relief. She draws command to her voice, gathering her composure.

“What news, sir?” she asks simply. Her voice is higher than usual, and the servant behind her takes note of it.

“Our friends to the North have been infiltrated. We have come to understand that the heir to their throne has been murdered,” the servant replies clearly, yet politely.

“Thank you. You may leave,” the woman replies softly, composure draining from her body as quickly as the blood has just drained from her face. The door closes, and she is left in a darkness that is now much deeper and darker than it was before. Her suspicions had been confirmed. If there was war in the North, there would also be war in her kingdom. Thousands of innocent lives were about to change, many would be taken for a reason they didn’t understand.

The woman rises on shaky legs, stepping closer to the window where a deceivingly sweet breeze is drifting by. The rest of her news is finally sinking in—the worst part of it. Her biggest secret, forever undiscovered, is now irrelevant. The love of her life is dead. There can no longer be dreams of joining the North and the South through marriage. He is gone—dead at the hands of men who make a living of destroying peace and love. The last eyes he had seen were those with unforgiving hate burrowed deep within.

A single tear falls down her cheek. This is all she can allow for the fact that the relationship had been a secret. She can only truly mourn within her thoughts, outward mourning is prohibited. The tear traces her jaw line before falling gracefully down her neck and into the cloth of her fine gown. Her world is changing around her, and her brain is already working to find the right form of vengeance to use upon those who have brought this upon these most peaceful kingdoms.

The golden eyes light with the flames of righteous hate. She is about to embark in something that no daughter of a king has ever attempted before. Her palms tingle with the bright power that allows her to fight like the warriors in her ancestry. She has her mission. She is to fight for vengeance. She is to fight for love.