Oredison Palace, Gazda.

Four days after the poisoning.

The prince made a sound, a sort of outraged cry, but it was silenced by Viera blurting—"I beg your pardon?"

The man held up a hand to keep them both quiet and said, "You agreed on your day of announcement that, if you were to survive the Culling, you would take up your rightful place as queen."

Malcolm spoke through clenched teeth, "She didn't survive the Culling. There was no Culling."

The man nodded. "That may be true, but since she is the last goddess-touched girl, the crown still falls to her."

"Like hell it does."

Viera swallowed. "But, I can't—I don't want to be queen."

One of the Synod members snorted. "My dear girl, it's too late for that."

"Regardless of how you ended up in this position," The Speaker of the Synod said, "you are the only marked girl left standing. Erydia is, regrettably, in need of a sovereign. And you—"

"No." Viera shook her head.

For once, Malcolm agreed with her. "I'll kill her myself before I let her sit on my mother's throne."

Panic began to set in.

"I'm afraid it isn't your mother's throne anymore," the man said. "And it is not yours to decide."

She could feel Malcolm's eyes on her now, felt that sweltering hatred hiss against her skin. The room swayed as she realized what exactly was happening. She pressed the backs of her fingers to her lips as her mouth began to water. Viera was going to be sick. She would be sick in front of all of these people.

Viera shook her head. Over and over again she shook her head.

No. No, this wasn't happening. She wasn't going to be locked her forever with him. With Malcolm. That couldn't be—she couldn't be—

The prince stepped forward; his fists clenched at his side. "So, she kills my family—all the people I love—and you're going to crown her queen because of it?"

This felt like a dream, a nightmare. She needed to wake up. Wake up right now.

"These are the laws—"

"Then change the damn laws," Malcolm yelled.

She looked at the throne in front of her.

The Synod member held out a hand, palm out, towards the prince. As if he were trying to calm a frightened horse and not an irate man. "I understand that this is a shock to you," he glanced to Viera, who was still looking at that throne, "to both of you," he said. "But people are already beginning to grow restless. There is talk of doing away with the royal family and our ruling system."

Another of the men added, "Prince, if you intend to keep your kingdom, you will need to make allowances."

He was shaking with rage. "No. This isn't an allowance—it's treason. What she's done—"

"Is terrible. Unforgivable." One of them said, "But we need a queen and the goddess has left us with only one choice."

Malcolm shoved a finger in Viera's direction. "I will not marry her and I will sure as hell never bow to her."

"If you want to save your kingdom and your throne, you will."

The room fell silent.

Malcolm opened and closed his mouth. Viera felt the eyes in the room shift to her. They were all waiting for her to speak, as if she had something of value to say. She couldn't make herself look at anyone, especially not Malcolm.

It had been an accident.

He wouldn't believe her if she tried to tell him, but it didn't stop it from being true. Yes, Viera had enjoyed killing and had found pleasure in letting her power take control, but she hadn't meant to do it. All of this—the throne and the kingdom and Malcolm—it was the last thing she wanted.

The things she'd wanted were so far gone, it was as if they never existed. Those paper-thin dreams she'd created with Leighton were dust, little more than ash. And now this—they wanted her to be queen. The thought was enough to send her heart racing.

The title of queen came with so many unanswered questions, so many other responsibilities she couldn't even begin to understand. Viera would be a prisoner in this place, stuck with Malcolm forever. She would have no future with Leighton because her future would be here, with this man. A man whose bruises she still bore. And an heir. They would expect her to—

"Miss Kevlar, we need an answer."

She looked to the Speaker of the Synod and met his tired grey eyes. "I—Is it a choice?"

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "No."

Her throat burned and, for the first time since she'd entered the room, she looked directly at Malcolm. His arms were crossed and he was shaking his head. He'd kill her if she did this. And Leighton—If Leighton weren't already dead, he would be after this. Malcolm would kill him and he'd torture her and no one would help her. He would leave her starved and broken and no one would care.

Everyone would say she deserved it.

They would say she did it to get the throne.

And she didn't want it. Goddess, she didn't want the throne. But there was nothing she could do to make this stop. The choice had been made for her—the choice had been made when she'd lost control of herself and killed all the other options.

"Don't." Malcolm's voice was soft, a quiet sort of plea.

But her refusal wouldn't change anything. Even if she refused, they wouldn't listen to her. It was already decided.

"Miss Kevlar?" The man spoke again.

Her mouth was dry and tasted of bitter poison as she said, "I don't want to be queen. Please, please just let me go. I'll leave the palace right now. Malcolm can be king and—"

"That's isn't an option, I'm afraid."

Viera's voice broke, "There are no options."

They were silent.

She looked to Malcolm, then to the gathered Synod. "Please."

***

That next morning, they made her queen. It wasn't a grand affair, only a small gathering of people, a few reporters and a stack of documents bearing the royal seal. The stylists had done what they could for the lingering cuts and bruises. The palace publicists tried to quell the growing gossip—but it was difficult when the gossip was more or less the truth.

Yes, Viera Kevlar had killed everyone in the Culling pool before the competition had even started. Yes, she had poisoned the king, the queen, and the princess. Yes, she previously tried, and failed, to poison the prince.

And today she would be Queen of Erydia.

The truth was so vile that it became easy for the press to plant further seeds of doubt. Malcolm spent the hours leading up to her crowning painting her as wicked and uncaring. He told them she had done it all for the throne and would have added him to the list of bodies if she didn't need him to produce an heir.

They believed him.

By the time Viera arrived in the throne room, dressed in a simple navy-blue dress and heels, the whispers where almost too much to bear. Most of the reporters and photographers didn't have the guts to speak to her directly. They waited until all the papers were signed and she was the most vulnerable—the room was its most quiet—then they took turns asking her questions.

Is it true you poisoned a little boy at school?

What made you decide to abandon your crippled mother?

Do you take responsibility for her death?

How long had you been poisoning your father before you decided to act?

Why did you choose to poison the guards and servants?

Is it true that you had a love affair with a city guard?

What made you decide to kill Princess Juliana?

People are calling you the "Coward Queen." Any comment?

Were you afraid of the other girls?

What would you say to the citizens questioning your right to rule?

Did you—?

She had tried to answer the questions. The words had been slippery and uncomfortable in her mouth, and still she had tried to explain. But telling them the truth—that she had not meant to kill anyone, that she did not want to be queen, that this was all some mistake—did nothing to suppress the rising hysteria within her. Every question drove her closer to that dark place where the poison whispered things she didn't wish to listen to and yet craved to hear.

Malcolm stood by the door to the throne room and watched her trip over her own words. Saw her eyes water and her fingers shake against the tabletop. This was what he wanted—to see her hurt. They could make her queen, they could dress her up and parade her around, but the Synod could not make Malcolm Warwick care about Viera Kevlar.

After they had declared she would be made queen, he had stayed in the throne room and spoke to the gathered advisors. They had argued late into the night. That girl, that defiant little bitch, would not take his mother's throne—he wouldn't allow it. Not after everything she had done. She had taken his family and she would not take the rest of his life too.

He had used that argument. Malcolm had told them she would kill him, that she was unstable and dangerous. No one, not one man in that room, had dared dispute that fact. They knew, just as he did, that she was unhinged. Many of them had lost colleagues and friends during her outburst—during her slaughter.

But no amount of arguing would change things.

They were stuck with one another.

And the Synod had made a reasonable point: they needed each other—he and Viera. Until an heir was born, he couldn't kill her and she couldn't kill him. Something about that made him feel just a little better.

So, he decided that maybe it was better this way. Having her as queen elevated his position as well. As king, he could keep her in line. Her very breaths could be monitored if he wished it. And he did wish it. He wanted to know everything about this girl. The obsession he had developed for her was further incensed by how easily she had turned the tables. How quickly she had established a sense of control over things.

He didn't believe for one second that she had done any of it by accident. She was clever—clever enough that he knew if he didn't put her in her place quickly, she would dislodge him from his own. Riling the press had been the first step in that reestablishment. There were others, more small moves he could make that would rattle her.

She was floundering, just as he knew she would. Her composure was slipping and the crowd was beginning to notice. The press was digging deeper, pushing her to answer questions that she didn't want to talk about. And when things got heated and she began to show signs of losing control—Malcolm swept in, like the valiant prince he was.

So, Queen Viera was escorted from the press conference and into an antechamber where she could take refreshment. After that, Malcolm took over her interviews. No one questioned it. In fact, many people thanked him for stepping in.

Then he told them the truth—or his version of it. She didn't want that. She argued with the Speaker of the Synod as he ushered her from the room. But the damage was done. And to fight it, especially in front of all of these reporters, would only further prove her inadequacy.

Malcolm loved every second of it.

This girl wasn't very good at hiding her emotions. It was endearing, really. She wore them like a second skin, as if she couldn't feel them if they were tucked away. As the prince—the new king—took her place on the dais and began answering the questions of the eager reporters, he wondered how long it would take her to learn to mask it.

***

The wedding would take place the following week, the official coronation that same day. Viera had spent much of her time between the crowning and her wedding sequestered away, attending Synod meetings, and becoming acquainted with the running of a palace and government. Malcolm proved to be far better at it than she was and so it became easy to allow him to speak over her.

Although the questions and requests and documents were passed her way, he soon began filtering things—leaving only the smallest of decisions to her. Even when she protested, the Synod worked alongside him to exclude her. They hated her too.

Viera told herself that it didn't matter. She told her self that this was just fine—that she was just fine. Having this relationship with the prince, one that was diplomatic and almost entirely silent, was better than how things had been before.

Still, she worried things wouldn't stay so peaceful between them. They'd only managed it up until that point because they'd worked to avoid being alone with one another.

The days leading up to the wedding were busy and it was easy to find something else to do, somewhere else to be. If Viera didn't look at Malcolm, she could sometimes pretend it wasn't happening. She could sometimes forget that she was on the edge of binding her life to his.

What she could not forget—had not forgotten—was Leighton.

She used what little alone time she had to ask about him. She received no real information. The people who had been at the dinner and had seen him taken away by the guards, where mostly dead now and the ones who were living had been told to keep silent. Of course, Malcolm was to blame for that. Wherever Leighton was, the prince didn't want Viera finding out.

Still, she tried.

Every time she asked about him, said his name aloud, she held her breath. She had laid awake at night trying to decide what she would do when she learned the truth of where he was. There were only a few natural answers—either he was dead, imprisoned in the palace, or he was back in the slave camps.

She wanted to believe that if he were dead, she would already know it. But that seemed romantic, not reasonable. Leighton being dead was a very real possibility, one she couldn't prepare for or know how to handle.

If he were alive, she would do what she could to get him out of wherever Malcolm was keeping him. According to the paperwork, she was queen. And by the end of the week, she would be declared the sovereign. That would leave her with full control of Erydia. The Synod was already working to assemble her court, which would include new private guards. These were people she'd have a hand in appointing, since they would ultimately be responsible for her safety. If Leighton were alive, she could make him one of her guards and maybe—maybe they wouldn't have the future they'd always dreamed of, but they might still have a future.

It would be his choice. If he wanted a position in the palace, with her, she would grant it to him. But he could always choose to leave, to have his freedom. She would understand if he chose to never see her again.

Whatever happened, if Leighton still lived, she would help him rebuild his life. He would never have to worry about anything ever again. All of this had been her fault and she would do what she could to fix things.

She would try.

Reality began to set in when the servants started to arrive and move her things to the Royal Suite. Whether or not Viera and Malcolm were truly in love, whether or not they could stand to look at one another, they were expected to have children and live together as a married couple—as a united front. Countless other kings and queens had shared a suite. It was the normal thing to do.

But the very idea of it made her sick.

The Synod had spent hours telling Viera it didn't matter if she and the prince were in love. They had obligations to rule and raise a family together. Her job, as queen, was to bear a son. A son that had to be from Malcolm's bloodline—but the thought of him touching her like that, after everything he'd done...she wasn't sure she could do it.

"These things take time," one of the Synod members had said.

Viera wasn't sure time could fix what had broken between her and the prince. She wasn't sure it had even been intact to begin with. It was a game of matching blows—he had hurt her, she had hurt him—and now they were stuck together forever, or until she decided exactly what to do about all of this.

And something had to be done.

Every day she felt less and less in control of herself. That darkness in her swelled, ebbed, and flowed like waves. She couldn't seem to get a hold on it anymore. Where there had once been a mental tether and chains, now there was only a cell with a broken door. The poison in her, while still contained, had begun eating at her defenses.

And even though she couldn't be killed by poison, and certainly not by her own venom, she knew it could devour other parts of her. Every moment that passed, each day trapped in that palace with those staring people, brought her closer to drowning in that dark ocean.

It terrified her. Kept her awake at night. Sometimes she worried that she might fall asleep as herself and wake up as someone entirely different. Still Viera and yet...not.

She wanted to ask for help. The priestess and healers might have a tonic that could quell her ability and give her mind space, just long enough that she could rebuild the barrier between that roiling power and who she was. But the person she'd been with Leighton, the one who had gotten on that train with him, was dying. She didn't need a healer to tell her that.

And to ask for help might make things worse. Everyone already thought she was unstable. The servants all talked, none of them quietly enough to keep Viera from overhearing them. All the rumors about who she was and what she'd done, while threaded with small ounces of truth, where mostly fiction. They said she would kill anyone who looked her in the eye, so people stopped looking at Viera altogether.

"Do you know why it started?"

"What, the poisoning?"

"Yes."

"No, why?"

"Apparently, she didn't like that one of the other girls wore the same dress as she did and—"

It was exhausting. Dozens of new stories emerged, each one more ridiculous than the last. She killed those people because one of the servers spilled wine of her dress. It had to do with her wanting to have the first serving of an iced cake. She let the queen and princess suffer longest so they'd know who killed them. The prince is terrified of her, says she'll poison him in their marriage bed. The healers are worried the poison will keep her from being able to have an heir anyway—

It went on and on and on.

***

Malcolm invited her father and sisters to live within the palace. While both of her sisters had declined the invitation, wanting to avoid the scandal surrounding her crowning, Viera's father had been more than willing to take up a place as close to her as possible. 

But she found ways to keep him away from her.

Viera told the palace housekeeper that her father was prone to chills and that he would need to be housed on the south side of the palace, preferably in a room that held adequate sun and warmth. Meanwhile, her things were being sent to the north end of the palace, making it at least a twenty-minute walk from her rooms to his.

They danced around each other—a tiresome thing considering how Viera was already actively avoiding Malcolm. The palace was large, but there were only so many places she could hide, especially with a large group of guards as her ever-present escort.

But she tried to find some peace. The palace had extensive gardens and she spent whatever hours she could sitting in the shade or cultivating the small herb garden. These moments were few and far between, often squeezed into the early morning hours before breakfast or meetings. The coronation and the wedding took up everyone's attention.

The press was still hostile towards Viera and this was an opportunity to showcase her in a softer light. She could be a blushing bride for all of Erydia to see and admire. Or at least that's what the publicists and press-secretary wanted.

***

Malcolm drank himself into a stupor the day of their wedding. While he said his vows to her, she knew he didn't mean any of the promises he made. He would not love her—and she would not love him. The best Viera could hope for was an understanding between the two of them, and even that seemed like wishful thinking.

Malcolm made a show of himself at the wedding, slurring his vows and referring to Viera as "the murdering whore" in front of the priestesses and everyone else in attendance. He had not bowed when she was crowned, even though he'd been told time and time again that he was supposed to. People pitied him, she could see it in their eyes, in the way they whispered amongst themselves.

Viera was his excuse. If Malcolm was acting the fool, it was because he was being forced to marry her, the girl who had broken the Culling rules and killed so many innocent people. He didn't deserve to be forced to be with someone like that.

She had spent that morning telling herself that she would not cry. That had been her mantra for days. People could whisper, Malcolm could call her names and drink himself silly, but she didn't owe him a reaction. She knew that was what he wanted. But that day, of all days, he would not get one.

It became easier to do as the wedding day went on and more drink flowed—passing everywhere but into Viera's own trembling hands—the hurt and guilt she felt turned to a dull sort of anger. The poison whispered things to her, weaving its own musings around the orchestral notes floating through the ballroom. She tried, very hard, to ignore it.

While guards and courtiers and fine ladies surrounded Viera, all begging for her attention and approval, Malcolm had taken up a spot on her throne with a girl on his lap. People gawked and a few of the Synod members mumbled their disapproval, but no one said anything to him. Most of them just frowned and made excuses for him.

No one waved away the servant that brought him yet another glass of wine, or told him it was his wedding day and putting his hand that high up another woman's skirt probably wasn't the most appropriate thing to do.

This, Viera realized, was probably regular behavior for the Crown Prince.

Malcolm believed that the world belonged to him; everyone else was merely allowed to live in it for his own amusement. When he grew tired of people, he cast them aside. This was easily seen by just how quickly he grew tired of the women fawning over him.

They rotated places; one sitting on his lap for a time and another perched on the arm of Viera's throne. Then, when that grew bothersome, he would banish them and call forward another girl, and another. And they came so willingly.

He was now a king, after all.

But Viera was queen, a position of higher importance, whether Malcolm Warwick cared to recognize it or not. While she didn't want him—not at all—it annoyed her that he could be with whomever the hell he wanted and she was expected to belong to him, like she was a doll he could move and play with whenever it suited him. Even so, she liked him better when he was drunk and looking at other girls.

It meant he wasn't watching her.