Friend, Friend, Friend

  Days before the throne room would become a blade.

  Days before voices would rise like sharpened knives.

  Days before the empire would learn what it meant for a tool to refuse the hand.

  Vaeloria sat on her throne like it was a decision she had made.

  Emerald robes pooled around her feet, runes faintly alive in the stitching. Her crown was subtle—more thorn than gold—but the room still bent around it. Courtiers laughed when they were supposed to. Guards stood when they were supposed to. Even the air behaved.

  Her jester spun in the open space before the dais, telling jokes that were older than half the nobles pretending to enjoy them. He danced. He bowed. He made a face so ridiculous it should’ve been impossible to do with dignity.

  Vaeloria sighed anyway.

  Because the empire didn’t stop shaking just because someone told a joke.

  Because Thornevald’s “projects” had a way of growing roots.

  Because the War Office never asked permission.

  And because, at the edge of the hall, one of her dolls was doing something she wasn’t built to do.

  Mk.1 paced.

  Back and forth.

  Back and forth.

  Not on patrol.

  Not awaiting orders.

  Pacing like a person with a thought that wouldn’t let go.

  Her voice kept slipping out in the same small loop, half-whispered like a prayer.

  “Friend… hope you’re fine… friend… hope to see again… friend fixed me up…”

  Vaeloria’s gaze narrowed.

  Mk.1 never did that.

  Mk.1 stood still. Mk.1 waited. Mk.1 obeyed.

  So why was she repeating friend like it was the only word in her head?

  Vaeloria watched a moment longer.

  Then she spoke, calm as stone.

  “Mk.1. Come here.”

  The unit stopped pacing instantly and approached, posture snapping into place.

  “What’s got you worked up?” Vaeloria asked. “Normally you’re standing still.”

  Mk.1’s head tilted.

  “Friend,” she said again, softer. “Hope he’s ok.”

  Vaeloria’s fingers tightened against the arm of her throne.

  I’ve never known she was capable of feelings.

  She kept her face neutral.

  “Would you like to go see him?”

  Mk.1’s answer came too fast.

  “Yes.”

  Then—without waiting for permission—Mk.1 reached for Vaeloria’s hand.

  Not a command.

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  A pull.

  A tug like a child leading an adult toward something important.

  Vaeloria allowed it.

  Not because she was led.

  Because she wanted to see what had broken.

  Mk.1 moved with purpose.

  Out of the throne room.

  Past the mess hall.

  Down a stairwell Vaeloria rarely used.

  Down another.

  And another.

  The air cooled. The stone changed. The torchlight grew sparse.

  They passed doors Vaeloria had never opened.

  Then doors Vaeloria had never seen.

  Thirty minutes of descent.

  Thirty minutes of the castle becoming something else.

  Not a seat of power.

  A shell.

  A mask.

  What is this place? Vaeloria wondered, and for the first time in a long time the question carried a sting.

  Because queens were not supposed to discover new rooms beneath their own throne.

  Mk.1 finally stopped at a chamber door that looked too clean to be old.

  Too reinforced to be decorative.

  Mk.1 looked up at Vaeloria.

  “Friend,” she said.

  Vaeloria’s jaw tightened.

  She opened the chamber.

  Vaeloria entered without rushing.

  She didn’t need to.

  She was the Queen of the Elven Empire.

  Lieam’s mother.

  Tall and sharp-featured, silver hair braided like war-vines, eyes like polished obsidian—eyes that pierced clean through lies and left nothing to hide behind.

  Emerald robes flowed around her, etched with runes that glowed faintly as she moved. Her crown was subtle, but it carried the weight of ancient thorns.

  Lieam’s throat tightened.

  “Mother,” Lieam said.

  Vaeloria’s gaze swept the room once.

  Then landed on Lieam.

  “What brings you down here?” Lieam asked, forcing the words out steady.

  Mk.1 slipped in behind Vaeloria.

  The smallest of the Stitchborne.

  The loudest.

  She bounded straight to a coat draped near the bed and pressed close, as if she’d been waiting all day to see it.

  “Friend,” Mk.1 said, soft and certain.

  Vaeloria’s expression didn’t soften.

  “I came down here,” Vaeloria said, “because this defective doll kept repeating one word.”

  Her eyes flicked to Mk.1.

  “Friend. Friend. Friend. She couldn’t stop.”

  Vaeloria’s hand settled on her hip.

  “So I asked her to show me her friends.”

  A pause.

  “And I discovered there is a facility under my empire.”

  Lieam’s stomach dropped.

  Vaeloria’s voice sharpened.

  “Care to explain?”

  Lieam swallowed.

  “It’s not mine,” she said quickly. “It’s Father’s. He wanted a place to call his own. He wanted a way to expand power for the kingdom.”

  Vaeloria’s staff tapped the stone.

  Pink ice formed—thin, elegant, lethal.

  It spread at her feet like a warning that didn’t need to be spoken.

  Lieam’s shoulders tensed.

  Vaeloria walked past her.

  Straight to the bed.

  Derpy was out cold.

  A small bubble of breath rose at his lips.

  Vaeloria stared down at him.

  The bubble popped.

  Derpy’s eyes cracked open.

  He looked at her like she was the last thing his half-asleep brain could process.

  “Sleepy,” he mumbled.

  Then, with the blunt honesty of exhaustion:

  “Hi… pretty lady. Wish you were my wife.”

  And he dropped back into sleep.

  For a fraction of a second, Vaeloria froze.

  Color rose faintly at her cheeks.

  She had been feared.

  Obeyed.

  Worshiped.

  But no one—no one—had ever said something like that to her.

  Not like it was normal.

  Not like it was safe.

  Vaeloria’s gaze shifted.

  To the books.

  To the boy.

  Then back to Lieam.

  “Were you assigned to him by Father?” Vaeloria asked.

  Lieam shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “They brought him here. Whoever led the search for the original Riven placed him here.”

  Vaeloria’s staff struck the floor.

  The sound snapped through the room.

  Lieam’s voice cut off mid-breath.

  Vaeloria didn’t look at her.

  “Mk.1,” Vaeloria said.

  Mk.1 straightened.

  “Get your sisters.”

  Mk.1’s eyes widened.

  Vaeloria’s tone left no space for argument.

  “Move him up to the castle.”

  Lieam’s pulse jumped.

  Vaeloria turned her head slightly—just enough for Lieam to feel the edge of her attention.

  “Since you, your Father, and I’m guessing your dolls want to keep secrets from me,” Vaeloria said, “he will be mine now.”

  A pause.

  “Consider him my new toy.”

  Lieam’s stomach twisted.

  Toys don’t last long when Mother gets her hands on them.

  She didn’t say it.

  She didn’t need to.

  Mk.1 darted out.

  Within minutes, Mk.2 through Mk.4 appeared.

  They moved with practiced efficiency, lifting Derpy and carrying him out.

  Mk.3’s eyes lingered on him.

  Worried.

  Lieam noticed.

  Since he arrived, two of them have gotten attached.

  And now Mother just claimed him.

  Vaeloria walked out as if the decision was already history.

  Lieam stayed behind, staring at the empty space where Derpy had been.

  What’s next?

  Morning came.

  Derpy’s eyes opened to a bigger room.

  A royal chamber.

  Too fancy.

  Too soft.

  Too expensive.

  He sat up fast.

  His hands went to his neck.

  Blight Vein was still there.

  His eyes searched the room.

  Lewd.

  Mia.

  Sphinx.

  Nothing.

  His chest tightened.

  Air wouldn’t go in right.

  The edges of the room started to tilt.

  Panic clawed up his throat.

  Blight’s voice slid into his head—cool, steady.

  Relax.

  Lewd has Mia and Sphinx. Remember.

  We were kidnapped.

  Derpy’s breathing hitched.

  He tried to force it down.

  Tried to make his body listen.

  But the fear didn’t care where he was.

  It only cared that he was alone.

  And somewhere in the castle above him, a queen had decided he belonged to her.

  And that was worse than chains.