Mylzen bowed at her arrival and led the way down the corridor, Heren swiftly following. Her posture was straight and proper, a gait so thorough and practiced that no one would mistake her as one of the common folk. Workers and servants moved past in a hurry to tend to the manor. White marble walls designed to look similar to stone with edges that shined a pure gold passed Heren by as they headed toward “mother’s” throne. The walls needed to be cleaned almost daily to keep the luster shining and her “mother’s” contempt quelled. Ladders were often used to reach higher places and delicate care was needed to not scratch the expensive walls.  

The money that Heren looked at every day sickened her. Such lavish unnecessary pleasantries churned her stomach with no end. “Mother” believed designing their manor in a way would show that their family had endless power and wealth to any potential ally that came to visit. Heren couldn’t help but disagree. The halls only existed to satisfy the eyes of the owner. A standard bare stone castle would intimidate and impress any visitors just fine. Even with their walls screaming wealth, rarely would anyone visit the home of a powerful woman like “mother,” so making even their living quarters look so imposing only served to satisfy an endless greed.  

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be wearing black today, Misses,” Mylzen said, eyes forward. “You seem to be in a fouler mood than your clothing dictates.”  

“You needn’t worry. Black clothing isn’t a depiction of depression, despite how the latest trends would like to say. It’s to show a lack of emotion. A type of clothing worn when the wearer doesn’t feel anything at all.” 

“I see. It’s a marvel you’ve found no reason to wear such despicable coloring then.” 

Heren nodded. She’s only ever worn her black clothing once, and those were the days after mother died. When she had finished crying and mourning, all she felt was emptiness. Like she was lacking something that had once been present. She couldn’t feel elated for the death of someone she regarded as a parental figure, but for some odd reason, she couldn’t grieve for her either. For an entire week, she wore nothing but black. When she finally wore another color again, it was a lighter blue—the same color as the daytime sky—that depicted a floaty confusion. As if she were merely floating through the sky, flitting from place to place with no location to settle down in sight.  

When “mother” hired Mylzen as a guard specifically to protect Heren, she finally wore a more prominent color. She wore a jade dress that covered even her ankles with the hem hanging only an inch off the ground. It was a way to show off her excitement at having someone else to talk to. She never wore black again after that day, and unlike her pink clothing, she would appreciate it remaining in the closet.   

With it being nine years since she first met Mylzen, she could confidently say that he filled the void in his own way. He wasn’t the same type of parental figure that she looked up to like mother, but he was someone she could confer all her troubles to without risk of him telling “mother.” Mylzen also trusted her enough to relinquish some of his hidden fears and worries to her on occasion, though that was rarer than “mother” ever uttering a pleasant thought.  

Mylzen conferred to her on precisely two occasions, the first being a year after he was hired. According to his drunken self, he was sent out to work as Heren’s bodyguard mainly to improve his family’s place within society. He was raised specifically for the day that he’d someday work for the Jeseria family, and in turn, Heren. He worried that he wouldn’t live up to the task that his parents birthed him to accomplish, and he’d be disowned by his parents.  

Heren was nine at the time he confessed his worries to her, so she didn’t know what to say to deal with them. He was sixteen at the time and had already racked up two years of military experience. Meanwhile she had grown up within her family’s manor most of her life and wasn’t allowed to wander past the garden. She couldn’t even begin to help him, so she just let him talk.  

The second time he let loose some of his worries was when he felt like his men were disrespecting him. Mylzen came from an impoverished family, and most of the soldiers he led grew up in the middle class. He had risen up through his skills and credibility alone, and the soldiers below him knew it and hated him for that reason. Not just because he grew up poor, but it was because a poor man was in charge of their squad. Heren was fifteen at the time, so she was more understanding and had a lot more power she could abuse. In just a few months, she managed to shake up most of the soldiers that gave Mylzen trouble. He asked her how she did it, but she kept it secret. If he figured out her methods, she knew he wouldn’t want to be around her any longer, and she feared that.   

To Heren, Mylzen was much more than just a random guard. They were at least friends, but sometimes she thought he was even above that. If she were to put a word to how she viewed her protector, she’d say that he was like an older brother. Someone she could depend on, but not so invincible that she couldn’t help him in favor for all the times he helped her.  

“We’re here,” Mylzen said.  

They stood in front of a large double-doored entrance to her “mother’s” throne room. Two painted Limber Dragons coiled up the entrance, one each for the left and right doors. At the very peak, they stared at Heren and Mylzen with hungry eyes, neck frills spread wide, and two needlelike fangs protruding from the top of their mouths with rows of tinier serrated teeth on both top and bottom of their jaws. 

They were painted in a way so that their tiny—tiny in comparison with the rest of their bodies—legs looked as if they grappled onto the handles and top right corners of their respective door. Heren would sometimes call the throne room a Dragon’s Den, a term that Mylzen very much agreed with the first time he met with “mother.”  

With a nod of her head, Mylzen walked up to the doors and grabbed the handles. He opened the doors with a grunt, a bright orange light coming from the crack in between the doors. When the doors fully opened, Heren walked in with Mylzen behind her. He shut the doors once they were inside, leaving the two of them alone with the woman on the throne.  

Cross legged and in a slothful but confident posture, Heren’s “mother,” Yenna, stared at them, eyes just as hungry as the Dragon’s that guarded the entrance. Her pure black hair was settled into couple buns held together with clips and string. Heren tried that style before, but she couldn’t get past how tight it made her scalp feel. Depending on the way she tilted her head it would even burn from the pain. 

Instead of wearing a traditional royal mantle, Yenna instead wore a buttoned longed sleeve robe, the right side of the cloth falling to her thigh while the left remained still at the hip. Instead of wearing a skirt, she donned a masculine pair of black pants with slip-on shoes covering her feet. According to her “mother,” it was the type of clothing their ancestors wore before the takeover of Cavel the Eighth three hundred odd years ago. No one protested her decision to wear such clothing to her face, but some of the other Kings and Queens across Hendricks thought of it as treason. They saw it as her trying to reform the country and raise it back to its roots as Illenaor. She managed to get away with it, however, because her power was just that immense. No one dared cross her. 

On both the right and left walls were paintings of their ancestors throughout the years. From fathers and mothers to even the most minor of cousins, their likeness was painted and hung in the Dragon’s Den. Between each frame was an Irestone lamp, set only to shake two Irestone. Because the lamps were so dim, the den glowed in an orangish hue instead of bright yellow.  

The top Yenna wore was a deep violet. Violet symbolized the wearer's serious ambitions and drive to see those ambitions fulfilled. Wearers of violet always seemed to have a plan or were devising a plan, and they’d stick through until the very end, whether it was successful or not. The perfect description for Yenna as a person, for better or worse. 

“Heren, my daughter, how was your night,” Yenna asked. 

Heren took a deep breath before answering. 

“I slept well, mother. As you can tell from my clothing, I’m not feeling particularly peppy today. Apologies if I seem disinterested.” 

Yenna nodded and corrected her posture. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward as if she were taking an interest in Heren. Heren knew better than to trust that. 

“Will you ever start getting over the death of that maid? I never understood your interest with her.” 

Heren had to force herself to remain calm. Her hands clenched, fingernails threatening to tear the skin from her palm. Focus on the pain, and she needn’t say anything too controversial.  

“Anyway,” Yenna continued. “I have some esteemed guests coming over the next day. For just tomorrow, I want you to wear something a bit more cheerful. Like a peachy pink or emerald green. If you don’t particularly feel like expressing a dominant emotion, a dull gray should work aplenty.” Yenna returned to the relaxed position she favored. “Now, out with you. I can’t bother with your face today.” 

Not wanting to give her “mother” the time of day, Heren stalked toward the doors. Mylzen had already opened the doors sensing her writhing emotions. Heren exited the den without even looking back at the woman. The door to the den closed behind her and Mylzen caught up to her to walk shoulder to shoulder. His mouth was slightly ajar as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t come up with the correct words.  

Heren appreciated Mylzen’s concerns, but it was nothing that Heren hadn’t dealt with before. In fact, that conversation was the most positive “mother” and she ever shared. She just insulted her grieving and the face that she took care of for her passing mother. Mother always loved to apply foundation to make her look more grown saying that a woman’s greatest feature was their beauty. “The woman with the most beautiful face will be approached by the most worthy of suitors,” she would say. 

At the time, Heren wasn’t too interested in the idea of marriage. As she grew, however, she saw the importance of finding a potential suitor. A marriage to a wonderfully powerful family could get her away from that woman after all.  

“Maybe I should’ve picked a slightly lighter blue,” Heren said. 

“Why is that Misses,” Mylzen asked. 

“My eighteenth birthday is only eighty-six days away.” 

Mylzen nodded understandingly. “Ah, the Marriage Ball. You must really want to get away from the mistress quickly.” 

The Marriage Ball: an event where all of the powerful families’ eligible bachelors and bachelorettes get together in a party whose purpose was to scout potential matches. Though it was called the Marriage Ball, the purpose wasn’t to hitch two woefully unprepared young adults. That was the long-term goal, but the actual purpose of it was to judge the incoming generation of heirs. The men and women that might one day take control of their dynasties were judged by the heads of each respective family. The grand purpose of the ball was for parents to invest their children's futures depending on the potential of the new generation.  

Every aspect of the newest generation was scrutinized by the parents. From how their children bantered and if the alliance was worth the investment to if the new head seemed suitable enough as a leader to even put effort into grooming them for glory. That was the true nature of the ball. It was the best time to forge alliances and shake oily hands as they gambled with the lives of their spawn.  

Heren knew of that, and she didn’t particularly adore it, but the ball was the best way for her to escape the clutches of her “mother.” “Mother” was unable to find another suitor after all, so she’d be looking to pair Heren with someone of much grander pedigree. Since “mothers” position within the country was also profitable, Heren could essentially choose anyone that she fancied. As long as they were of similar rank or higher, of course. That left the children of other territories and the young prince of Hendricks himself. Although, if Heren were aiming for the young prince, she’d have to wait at least five years since he was only on his thirteenth rotation.  

“I would like some leenara tea,” Heren said. They approached the royal tearoom that only “mother,” Heren, and the tea maker were allowed to access. Seeing it made her crave the sweet yet slightly bitter tasting red liquid.  

“Yes Misses. Would you like some company or drink alone?” 

“Alone, if you don’t mind.” 

Mylzen nodded and opened the tearoom door. She walked in and the door closed behind her. The tearoom was small, but there was a cozy air to it. The carpeted red floor felt soft beneath her bare feet. She could smell hyrezian flowers burning in a bowl nearby, making her chest melt as if her heart were set ablaze like a fireplace. Heren couldn’t help but calm herself with the smell. 

Heren sat at the only table in the room after telling the tea maker that she desired leenara. The woman nodded and went through another door that led into a small kitchen filled with nothing but tea and coffee ingredients.  

As Heren waited for her tea to be made, she thought of what she would do when she gained her newfound freedom. Though she hoped that she’d wow a suitor on her first try and convince her “mother” to allow her to be married off, she knew that dream would only end in pain. Almost like the day that she believed her mother would be the one to brush her hair for the Marriage Ball. That dream died astonishingly quick.  

No, she couldn’t believe the illusion that she’d succeed on the first attempt. Most of the suitors didn’t succeed at all in finding their marriage partner. Even if two of them truly loved each other, if the parents found the marriage unsuitable, then they had no hope of engaging.  

Heren wasn’t worried about the latter event happening. As long as Heren chose someone of high status, “mother” wouldn’t bat an eye at her proposal. What she worried about was if she had the skill to discover a suitor that would be desperate enough to fall for her. She wouldn’t lie to herself and say that she was a desirable woman. Mother had always made her look her best, and when she died, Heren tried to carry on with making herself look beautiful. However, her attempts were only cheap imitations that failed to capture the beauty she once had.  

Rarely did she ever wear pinks, reds, or greens—colors that boasted about having the most positive shades. Blues, grays, and browns were what she wore most often. There were occasions when she wore a more positive color, but they were happening less frequently and with no pattern depicting when she’d wear them.  

Clothing color was of course criticized during the Marriage Ball. Depending on the color a man or woman wore during such an important day, the right color could bring an edge to a certain family. Reds and purples were particularly common. Red colors showed how passionate the wearer was to be at such an event, meanwhile purple colors, particularly the lighter ones, would signal the wearer to be confident and goal oriented. They would make particularly interesting leaders if they gained control of the family name.  

Every color Heren wore the most was uniformly frowned upon. To wear such colors during such an important event would only damage her reputation and lessen her chances of being proposed to someone of her choice in a timely manner. There was always the decision to lie and wear one of the brighter colors, but if caught, that would hurt her reputation far more than if she were just truthful.  

The number eighty-six was as much of a grace to hear as it was heart pounding. Eighty-six would either determine if she could leave her home and change for the better, or if she must go through another year of depressing solitude, broken only by her “mother’s” mean spirited gibes.  

Heren looked up at the upper right corner of the room. The Irestone lit the room in a distinct orange to give the illusion of a relaxing evening. Because the Irestone wasn’t so bright, that left the corners of the room dark. In the darkness of the corners, she could see something blending in with the black. 

Sideways eyes. Canine teeth. A spindly body that resembled a skeleton more than a person. The monster looked at her, occasionally blinking from left and right instead of up and down. Its arms and legs pierced into the wall to remain in the darkness the corner provided. Its struggle to remain firm was mere fabrication, however. It could teleport between patches of darkness, and though its clawed nails dug into the marble walls, no marks remained to show that it was present.  

She stared at the creature, fascinated more than afraid. All fear of the creature left her gradually as she grew more used to seeing it. “There was no reason to fear something that could be looked upon.” A quote from a book she read about the ever-increasing understanding of their world. Though she knew nearly nothing about the monster, her fear had nearly vanished because she could look at it.  

It never once attacked her or even attempted to attack anyone else. It just stared at her from the darkness. Sometimes she would see it in her dreams, and she once called them nightmares. Time eventually turned those nightmares into confusing dreams. They just sat in a dark void and stared at one another until she woke up. Sometimes its mouth would move, but it never said anything. She read a book about lip reading in order to understand it only for her to realize it was speaking in an entirely different language.  

Still, all it did was sit in patches of dark. Waiting for something. Always watching. 

“Here’s your tea, Misses.” 

The tea maker sat a saucer with a cup filled with a steaming red liquid in front of her. Heren thanked the tea maker and sipped on the cup. Warm and sweet with a hint of bitterness to it. Just the way she liked leenara tea.  

As she drank her cup of leenara, she watched the darkness. The creature disappeared the moment the tea maker entered the room. It would only appear to her when she was alone. That used to disturb her, and it still should in all honesty, but she just couldn’t muster up the fear.