The world was frozen; silent at last in the amber glow of morning. She was certain time itself had paused in the midst of the sunrise, as though it had looked down upon the earth and realized it should have turned back. The red in the sky could not compete with the red of the earth, a shocking shade of scarlet that could only be achieved in death. Death stained the grass, the dirt, the small patches of heather that had been purple the evening prior. She had lost battles before, but the scene that stretched before her did not speak of defeat in war.

This was slaughter.

The pounding of her heart matched the slow thud of her boots as she made her way up the hill, stepping around the bodies of the fallen. Every footfall seemed heavier than the last, building with the crushing weight in her chest as her eyes scanned the faces of those who had been lost in the chaos. They were fixed in agony and fear, eyes empty as though they had seen there was nothing to fight for. As though they had seen the end of the world...And truly, it was the end.

The instant she reached the top of the hill the air fled her lungs, leaving her breathless as she looked over the valley in which they come to their ruin. The scarlet stain of bodies stretched for miles, massacred like pieces of meat that had been thrown to the hounds. Without the chance to age and brown, the gore was still shining like the glint of armor in that bloody sunrise. This dawn, this new day, would be the end of her. Her kingdom had been brought to its knees; and then massacred, because bowing was no longer enough.

She might have fallen herself, had a pair of strong hands not reached out to grip the armor at her waist. Every nerve in her body sang with alarm as those fingers found the place below her ribs, and squeezed with a force that was inhuman. The sharp sound of the metal met her ears as her armor bent inwards, pressing against her skin with threatening force. He was reminding her, in no uncertain terms, that he had every right to crush her. It would be a cruel death; perhaps a fitting one, after what she'd done to him. When she gave no acknowledgement of his presence he pulled her back a step, forcing her against his chest in a move that was all too familiar. There was no tenderness now, but a reminder of the vow she had broken to him.

"I warned you."

"I had to try."

The grip at her waist tightened, causing a sharp pain to shoot through the lowest of her ribs. She would not give him the satisfaction of cringing; she would not flinch in the face of death. The cost of her betrayal had always been clear, but she had not expected that it would have no purpose. She had believed, with every fiber of her being, that this was a battle she could win. The sea of death before them was nothing but a reminder of how wrong she'd been. Her eyes burned with angry tears as he leaned forward, pressing his jaw against the curve of her cheek.

"I told you that you would fail."

"I couldn't have lived with myself..."

"How convenient, that you won't have to."

When she closed her eyes against sun, all she could see was red.

It was not the first royal wedding she had attended, though she could not say it was the worst. No expense had been spared in preparation for the event, evident in the hundreds of snow white roses that had decorated the chapel upon their arrival. They were not easy to procure, and she was certain that someone had spent half their life toiling over the lace on her gown. It was pretty, by anyone's standards. Long, lace sleeves gave the illusion of modesty; though the bodice was painfully tight, leaving little room for her breasts inside the gown. It was a popular style, pushing the limits of decency while the white material assured the world that she was indeed virtuous.

It was a lie.

Her full skirts had brushed either side of the aisle as she made her descent into matrimonial hell, and she supposed it was lucky that her 'father' wasn't there to give her away. Just as she was not virtuous, she was not 'Meara Renald, Princess of Barromire'. Last names were the creation of mortals, and what little title she'd had was lost long ago. They had called her the 'Hand of the King' for at least thirty years, though that would change soon enough. A few swift vows would name her Queen of Moara, a clever trick played beneath the eyes of Gods that were not her own. But, more importantly, beneath the nose of King Stephen. He would wed her under the guise of alliance, and she would murder him in their wedding bed.

It would be a lie to say that the death of mortals had ever had much effect on her conscience, especially when they were as old and grey as the King. Their existence was brief, fleeting, and they killed each other without any hesitation. The Fae could play cruel games without ending lives, but man was not so creative. They were violent, impulsive, and fascinating to observe. Kingdoms changed hands on whims, and she had entered the dangerous mission without a hint of fear in her heart. For one, she was not terribly easy to kill. But the King had no reason to suspect that the well mannered, pretty girl from Barromire was not the Kings youngest daughter. He was not keen enough to see the age behind her eyes, looking no farther than smooth skin and a supple body.

Even if he had, it would have been easy to convince him otherwise.

The vows were ill fitting for what a mortal marraige was, but they had a habit of layering their lives in ceremony and facade. A royal wedding was a young woman marrying an old man, so that he could have an alliance and sons. And she would, in return, have security. Perhaps it was not a fair trade, but the world was not a place where equality thrived. She had no hesitance taking Stephen's hand, reciting her vows with a solemn sense of duty, and giving him an appropriately nervous smile as he leaned forward and placed a light kiss on her cheek. They were married on the promise of faithful devotion, for as long as they were both living. It would be brief, but it earned her a heavy crown of solid gold placed atop her warm brown curls.

Life was ironic, if not the smallest bit cruel. As they made their way to the great hall for the feast and festivities, Meara could not help but turn over the strange coincidences in her head. She had been born to a royal family, but wore a crown only because they disowned her. She had given herself to a man who would become King, and found herself on a throne only because his love was not returned. Though, she could not claim that the cold Moaran castle compared to the Autumn court....pushing the distant memories away, she put on a smile as the court bowed before their King and Queen. Stephen was jovial, overjoyed by the nuptials, and no doubt the promise of their wedding night. It was a good thing, she supposed, as it would be the last night of his life.

Nobles had traveled from near and far to behold the wedding and coronation, and Meara wondered if they were disappointed. It was not nearly as momentous as she had imagined, no matter how lavishly the great hall was adorned. The wedding was short, simple, and the coronation was just another vow. She had expected to feel more powerful with the heavy crown upon her head, but her wine tasted no sweeter than it did on any other night. Perhaps it was because she knew it was a ruse? She would relinquish the Kingdom to Barromire, and her status would fall back to where it had been before. Meara was Queen for the night, nothing more, and her mind was not on the party at hand. Instead she watched King Stephen swallow a goblet of wine, picturing what it would be like to cut his throat mid swallow.

Messy, most definitely.

He caught her staring, and patted at his beard with an ornate napkin. The man was nearing fifty, though he had remained trim and muscular into his old age.

"You are a quiet thing, little dove." He informed her, smiling as he cut into a large portion of red meat. "Always watching, always listening, smiling, but never saying what you think." He wasn't wrong. She had chosen her words carefully since arriving, knowing well that she could not afford to shatter their plans on her sharp tongue.

"Is silence a flaw?"

"Some would call it a virtue."

"You don't seem to hold that belief."

"I'd rather know what's happening inside that pretty head of yours."

"You need only ask, your grace."

He watched her take a careful bite from her own plate, and she wondered why so many of the nobility were still working on their first course. Why hadn't their soup been replaced with meat?

"What did you think of the wedding?"

"I thought it was lovely."

"I don't believe you."

He wanted to play, but he didn't know that he was the mouse. Taunting the cat never ended well.

"The roses were a little plain."

The comment made him choke, and he laughed heartily at her displeasure. "White roses are very difficult to find."

"Regardless, I would have liked a little color."

"Well, I'll remember that the next time we're wed." He indulged her in a conspiratorial smile, and she allowed her lips to curve a fraction of an inch. It was a relief when he was distracted by the Duke to his right, allowing her to scan the party a second time. There was something odd about it, something off in comparison to the festivities they held in Barromire. If she'd had another few minutes to herself she might have realized that the guards at the doors were holding strange weapons, or that some of the guests had begun to droop in their seats. Instead there was nothing but shock, an electric jolt down her spine, as ten foreheads fell against the long table at once.

Thud. Thud thud thud...thud.

They fell in groups, one after another, as though timed to when they had taken their first bite. Faces fell into bowls, against goblets, still and unblinking as their loves ones shrieked in panic. A few were dragged out of their chairs in a panic, as though they could be rescued by wives or daughters, but many were left in favor of panic. Nobles burst out of their chairs, screaming in horror as though the great plague had been released upon the world. Her hand twitched for the knife beside her plate, but stilled in an instant as something pressed against the base of her throat. The 'guards' positioned behind them had stepped forward in mutiny, holding their blades to the throats of their 'rulers'.

It was not the plague, nor betrayal, nor mindless murder. Meara realized it a split second before he made his entrance, flocked by the men with whom he had already claimed one kingdom-, no, two.

Ciaran Forthaimhal had already won.