I didn’t ask to be the Demon Queen

Lifetimes ago, Morgana Windwalker had been Serana. She was a child of noble birth, not destined for the open ocean but titled a River Princess. When she came of age, an enting of her parents’ mangrove had been bestowed on her. The mangrove had been moored at the mouth of a large river delta, and would soon travel onwards, following the coastlines, trading where possible and foraging where not, if that was needed. It was said that the mangrove was a direct descendant of Amethsire, and that carried with it a certain prestige. She was respected enough that when she set sail, many joined her. Rather than roam the coast like her parents, who rode the waves, she went upriver, and the Dergow was her domain. 

 

As she grew older and more experienced, Serana became known as the Princess of the Long River. She was happy, for a long time, ruling the cool blue waters of the river, and her principality stretched over a thousand miles. She traveled up and downstream as her mood and the winds went this way and that, and she was considered by many to be just, if not always kind. Her floating palace grew each year, and after a time she could no longer drift down the branches of the Dergow, but there was no real need for it. Over time, seeing the treetops of her emerald fortress float against the current was enough to instill a sense of order. Not many denied their monarch taxes when that monarch could sail a city-stronghold upriver to your doorstep. 

 

And the Princess herself was a fierce and powerful woman, who could hit her mark at a thousand paces and could draw her bow faster than you could blink. She subdued more than one revolt by herself, to show that fealty was preferable to opposition. 

 

She lived in balance with those who preferred to live on shore, and all respected her dominion over the water, and were glad for the connection she’d forged with the lizardfolk who lived on the steppes on the other side of the river. Trade flowed freely, though only ever with Serana’s approval.  Many times she’d considered growing roots somewhere, to have the mangrove expand and perhaps even build a natural bridge across the Dergow, to connect the northern Dragon Steppes with the fertile lands on the other side, but she always found reason to keep traveling, to keep sailing. Over the decades, towns became villages, villages became cities. Where her family had once docked, at the narrowest point of the Dergow Delta, now grew a city larger than any she’d seen, and they built bridges between its various islands. 

 

But every time she visited, the human and elven population -- because many Elf decided to live on shore in the growing cities -- showed their ingenuity by lowering the bridges below the currents to allow her to pass, and she enjoyed spending time there. 

 

As she was the Princess of the Dergow, so the lands too far for her rule also found themselves led by a monarch, and the decision to house their palace in the city by the Delta made sense, as it allowed swift and easy communication between the realms of earth and water.

 

But in the north, another citadel was built, just north of the Dergow, where crossing without her permission was quick and easy, where the river became too thin for her to sail. And a pretender to the throne built up an army and declared war, which raged all across the fledgling nation of Wydonia, and all the princess could do was watch. Soil and Earth were not her domain, and so she didn’t meddle. She didn’t meddle right up until the Dergow ran red with the blood of her subjects. The usurper’s armies marched on the capital, and its king called for her aid. 

 

She obliged, rooted her city by the capital, and marched with her armies out onto the field. She fought fiercely, and took down her opponents by the dozens. She was a great warrior, and her legend as a fighter had already spread throughout the nations. But at the last minute, she was betrayed. Hers and the usurper’s armies destroyed each other, and she could only rage as the Wydonian army swept across the battlefield and slaughtered Elf and betrayer alike. 

 

She was carried before the Wydonian royalty in chains, and as she cursed and spat at them, they burned her mangrove. The fires burned brighter and higher than any the world had ever seen, and her tears burned on her cheeks as she saw her emerald city float into the ocean and sink. No more opposition, no more competition could be tolerated, could be risked, they explained to her, as if this was merely a business transaction, as if she’d understand. 

 

So she cursed them, cursed them that one day she would return and she would see the nobility of Wydonia brought low and its rivers reclaimed. She cursed them a hundred, a thousand times, until the hangman’s noose pulled tight. It took minutes for the fire in her eyes to die. 

 

And then, centuries later, a queen, a new usurper, a Demon Queen, read her tale, read her curses and read of her plight, and grinned in the darkness of her citadel, and sent out her agents to find the bones of the angry dead.

 

Serana awoke, not as she once was. The world had lost its vigour, its warmth, its taste and smell. When she saw the world again, it was dull and lifeless, and she was as resentful as she was grateful for having been brought back. If she had stayed dead, sailing in the empty nothing for eternity, then she would not feel the rage she did now. But had she stayed dead, then her betrayal would never be avenged. And so she aligned herself with this Demon Queen, who vowed to return to her the river, and to bring an end to the tyranny of the betrayer kings.

Serana barely considered the offer before agreeing. It was obvious the Queen sought to subjugate, but the heart and fire that had made up the Princess of the Long River had stopped and frozen. She didn’t care. Her family was long dead. Her subjects had drifted lifelessly downriver to the open sea. What was there for her but vengeance? So she allied herself with the Demon Queen, loathe as she was to work with the woman, the Firebrand Elena, who had once burned the fields where Serana had sailed past centuries ago. She was no friend to fire, and only burned with cold hatred.

 

She found that her new nature was as air. She often forgot to have her feet touch the ground when she walked. She moved silently, like the whispers in which she spoke exclusively. And, as it turned out over time, it was impossible to keep her out of any place the air could come in, and in fear people gave her the moniker of Windwalker. When they asked her name, she found that the one her parents had given her tasted foul in her mouth, so she took on a new one, and she became Morgana. 

 

And then, one day, the Queen had summoned her, and told her to liaise, instead of spy. To cooperate, rather than undermine. Morgana had to trust that the queen knew what she was doing, that she had the right intentions, but doubt niggled at her mind. If the Demon Queen wanted peace, why all the build-up to war? If she wanted peace, what kept Morgana loyal? 

 

She spent her time in the palace, listening and waiting. She played her role perfectly, the ashen-skinned Elf, who was here to reassure everyone that the Queen wanted peace, that her invitation of Queen Anastasia was genuine. 

 

She was baffled, of course, when the news came. Not that the Demon Queen had kidnapped or murdered Queen Anastasia, as expected, but that peace had been brokered. Morgana could scarcely believe it, but still she waited patiently.

 

Then Queen Anastasia returned to her court, and she had been enraptured by the Demon Queen. She sang Queen Eliza’s praises, and proudly spoke of peace. She couldn’t say more, of course, because those were state secrets, until everything had been ratified and the Council had been informed. 

 

Morgana had snuck into the queen’s chambers at night and read the peace treaty herself. A mandate for all disenfranchised peoples to be returned their rightful place in society. A half-measure, Morgana had thought, which didn’t even include the Elf. 

 

She had felt betrayed, and briefly considered simply smothering Anastasia in her bed then and there, but had decided against it. 

 

And her decision was worth it. The next day, the Council of Regents declared the queen ‘corrupted’ and drew all executive power to themselves. Wydonia, already unstable, was now on the brink of collapse, and Morgana smiled to herself, chiding herself for not trusting in the Queen’s plans. 

 

She left the capital that day, of course, soft as a whisper and quick as a gust of wind, and nobody knew where she’d gone. But she’d received a letter -- far too nice and saccharine, obviously to mislead anyone who might intercept it -- to meet her Queen in Amestheryne. She hated the place, but she would happily oblige. Whatever the next step of the plan was, she would execute it with pleasure. 

 

She rode for two weeks until she arrived at Amethseryne, stopping as little as possible. Her horse didn’t tire as much as others did, seemingly touched slightly by the unnatural energy that kept her moving too. She didn’t need to eat or drink, though the animal did, but she made the journey in almost no time regardless. When she arrived at the great city, she refused to marvel at its size, at this monument to what her people had once been. She simply snuck inside, and prepared to wait for her Queen. 

 

The mangrove city of Amethseryne was, despite it not being a proper Elf city, quite big. Thousands lived there, and it was easy to disappear. Morgana had learned how to disappear if she wanted to. Her skin was far too pale for an Elf, of course, and there were other things that set her apart from these landborne Elf, but nothing a hood and the ability to vanish into the shadows couldn’t fix. A city of this size, there were always abandoned trees, nooks and crannies she could stay and hide in. 

 

She searched through the new arrivals, to see if perhaps an envoy of the queen had already arrived. Of course, the Queen wouldn’t come down here, she’d be too busy destroying armies at her borders, but a trusted advisor would likely be able to hide here and pass on a messenger to the most lethal assassin in Wydonia, and the Windwalker would be able to continue her work. 

 

She finally found a group that had come down from the north, two noblewomen and their servants. Only because she was looking for someone did Morgana recognize Erza, and then one of the servant girls as the Queen’s aide. Their disguises were almost perfect; they looked like too cozy a group to be spies, huddled together like a small family around a dinner table in what had seemed like an abandoned house. Morgana studied them from the rafters. She didn’t recognize most of them there. They all had to be servants of the Queen. 

 

She jumped down and landed on the ground without a sound, and took down her hood. Many at the table immediately drew their weapons. Morgana judged them all, and was pleasantly surprised. Impressed even. The Queen had chosen the entourage well, although she was a little surprised by the presence of a small cat with a big sword, but it wielded it with enough precision and force for her not to underestimate it. Only two of the servant girls didn’t pull out weapons, and Morgana figured they were just that, servants to the Queen’s most trusted. 

 

“Morgana, I didn’t recognize you,” a woman said, and Morgana realized this was Kazumi, though without her tail and reptilian eyes it took her a moment. “Glad you could join us.”

 

Morgana smiled coldly as everyone around the table lowered their swords, bows and hands. “I’m here to do the Queen’s bidding, as commanded. Anastasia has been deposed, locked in her room, powerless. Already the council is fighting amongst themselves in a pitiful grab for power.” She raised her fist and grinned with malicious glee. “Now is the time to strike and bring down Wydonia once and for all.”

 

“I… No, that’s not…” one of the servant girls began, and Morgana shot her a withering glare.

 

“Quiet, child. I am the Queen’s chosen assassin, do not question me,” Morgana said.

 

“Liz…” another woman said, the mage whose hands had crackled with blue fire earlier. 

 

“Soon the rivers will be free once again, and run red with the blood of the tyrants. We will kill the false queen and destroy Wydonia from within,” Morgana continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “As the true Queen wills it.”

 

“No, I don’t want… Look, I get it…”

 

“Quiet your tongue,” Morgana repeated, her voice a whispered hiss. “Or I will do it for you.”

 

The servant girl frowned, clearly out of her depth, tears starting to form in her eyes. “We are not going to kill Anastasia! I get the whole… the river thing, but…”

 

Morgana approached the young girl with a glint in her eye and a sudden dagger in her hand. “You challenge me, child?”

 

“Oh boy,” the other servant girl said. She didn’t seem particularly worried. She clearly knew better than to stand up to the Windwalker.

 

“I… I do… we… We’ll find another way!” The girl seemed like she was about to crack, but Morgana wasn’t going to let her get away with a cry and a whimper. If she was too dense to learn her lesson, she’d be an example.

 

“You’re just an impudent child,” Morgana said softly. “You came from nothing, had your chance at something, and now you ruined it, and you’ll die as nothing.”

 

She gently raised her knife. Nobody in the room moved to stop her. Good.

 

“Do… don’t…” the girl began.

 

“Don’t what?” Morgana said as she put the knife to the girl’s throat. 

 

Except that suddenly the girl’s throat wasn’t there anymore. It was much higher up, and two giant black wings filled Morgana’s field of vision. A giant creature with long black talons and amethyst skin, towered over her, horns scraping the ceiling of the large room, and bared its razor-sharp teeth. 

 

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Morgana’s Demon Dragon Queen said.