Oredison Palace, Gazda.

She was confined to the suite for the duration of her pregnancy.

Malcolm decided that she was irrational and couldn't be trusted, not with the safety of their child—the possible heir to his throne. The Synod agreed. So, guards were stationed inside and outside of her rooms, nearly two dozen of them, at all times.

Of course, if Viera really did want to kill this child, she could do so without even making a sound. The guards wouldn't know until it was over and done. But Viera didn't have any intention of killing this baby.

When the Erydian people found out their queen was in prolonged confinement, the news began to circulate. Of course, Malcolm appeared as the caring, fearful father. Viera was given the role of dangerous, volatile mother-to-be. She was formed into a woman who would easily, and without a second thought, kill her own child. It was a role people accepted without question. And it wasn't like she could leave her rooms to defend herself or explain.

Once again, Malcolm Warwick was writing the narrative and she was merely a character in it. And Viera began to settle into her new role as villain. She hated her guards, largely because they were hand-chosen by Malcolm and they only listened to him. She never hurt any of them, but she did everything in her power to make them very uncomfortable.

No one had really seen what it looked like when she used her ability, so Viera began feigning episodes. She'd sit in her bed and stare for long periods of time at one of the men—just stare. Sometimes, if she were feeling extra creative, she would twitch her fingers just a bit. Their imaginations would do the rest.

It spurred on the rumors, but Viera didn't care.

She was bored senseless.

Malcolm rarely came to see her and, when he did, it was always during a midwife's visit. They would examine her and make predictions about when the baby would be born, but they could never make full predictions on the gender. Malcolm was sure it was a boy and, in some way, Viera hoped he was right.

If the heir were born first, she wouldn't have to be with Malcolm again. But she worried that if it were a boy, Malcolm would certainly have full control of everything. He would raise their son and she would be left alone—just as she had been before. And the Culling would begin again, which Viera didn't want.

In her heart, Viera hoped for a little girl. She had always imagined that her first child would be a girl and, although everything else was different, that hadn't changed.

The midwife always said that the goddess would give them what they were meant to have when they were meant to have it. If the heir was to be born first, then so it would be.

As the months passed, Viera became more and more frustrated with her internment. The large suite felt small and there were only so many things she could do while trapped inside her room—and she was uncomfortable all the time. Her hips hurt and she threw up her food more than she kept it down—but the child was well and safe.

Viera had no idea what Malcolm was doing with her kingdom. Initially, the Synod had met in her sitting room, but as things progressed and more guards began spouting off how she'd attempted to poison them (as if she couldn't have killed them without trying if she'd actually wanted to) the Synod stopped coming.

Occasionally, her sisters would come to the palace and take tea with her. They had heard all the rumors and speculation as well, and while they laughed about what the press was saying, their visits were always slightly tense.

Viera was given one outing towards the end of her pregnancy. At her constant request, the palace housekeeper took her to see the royal nursery. It was a frightening distance away, nearly at the other end of the palace.

"Children can be quite loud," The housekeeper had told her. "Crying at all hours of the night. Traditionally, monarchs didn't have the time to fuss with the children so they were put here, where they could be tended to."

Well, that might be the case, but it wasn't how Viera wanted to do it. She requested a basinet be added to her room alongside the necessities for a newborn. The idea of taking care of a baby was terrifying, Viera had so little knowledge of children, but she was excited to learn. She read book after book, taking notes in the margins and doing her best to prepare in whatever ways she could.

She wanted this new adventure of being a mother—it was the first thing in years that had given her any hope. And while that darkness still swirled and she often felt distant from herself—she had instances where she felt like the old Viera. That girl had not killed anyone. She had dreams and aspirations. She had a man who loved her fiercely.

Now Viera had none of those things.

But she had this baby.

The idea of falling into the abyss was always tempting. But this baby would change things. Being a mother would change Viera, she was sure of it.

***

Two days before Viera turned twenty-three, she gave birth to a little girl. The labor had been long and difficult. Hours and pushing and hurting and teeth-clenching agony. By the time the child was born, Viera was weak and shaken—but she was happy. Happy and so very proud.

While members of the Synod were present, Malcolm didn't attend the birth. She didn't know where he was or why he didn't come, but she was thankful for those first few moments alone with her daughter.

She didn't let the girl out of her sight. When Viera was not holding her, she was in the basinet at her bedside. The midwife advised that Viera try to sleep, she had lost a lot of blood and needed to rest, but she couldn't get herself to calm down. Her entire body was on high alert.

The world—this palace—was a dangerous place for her daughter and she couldn't begin to protect her. And Viera was afraid of what the king would do when he finally decided to come see their child. Malcolm had been so certain of a boy, she worried how he would react when he found out that they'd been given a daughter instead.

She fed the baby once and asked a million questions about the little princess. Viera wanted to know everything. How much does she weigh? Is that normal? How often does she need to eat? Does she need to be bathed? Is she—?

When it was clear that Viera would not rest on her own, the midwife administered a sleeping draft. She lied to Viera and told her it was medication to ease the pain, but within minutes of drinking it the queen was sound asleep.

Viera awoke to the sound of a baby crying—her baby. Her daughter.

Her eyes felt stuck shut as she tried to open them. The bedroom was dark, the only light coming from the moonlight streaming in from the large bay window. She turned her head, trying to find the basinet, but froze when she saw Malcolm seated at the foot of her bed. His back was to her and he was looking out the windows, his arms cradled around the quieting infant.

For a long moment, Viera lay still and watched them. Malcolm cradled the baby with more tenderness than she had ever seen from him. She hadn't known what emotions she would feel when she finally saw this—finally had to come to terms with the fact that it was Malcolm and not Leighton who held her first child. The raw anger filled her first, followed closely by a bone-deep sorrow.

She used her shaking arms to lift herself up into a seated position on the bed. The movement caught Malcolm's attention and he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Viera waited, not sure what was going to happen now. All she knew was that she wanted to hold her daughter. His hands, however gentle they now were, could hurt and break and bruise—and Viera was so afraid of him.

Hesitantly, she held out her arms, a silent request. The corners of Malcolm's lips twitched and he turned to look down at the baby he held. "A girl," he said quietly. "She's beautiful."

Viera only nodded, her arms still outstretched to take the baby from him.

He looked back to his wife. "They said you did well during the birth."

Again, she nodded. She wanted to ask where he had been and why he was there now. Cold dread pooled in her stomach but she didn't let it show. Her throat was dry, raw with emotion, as she whispered, "Give her to me."

He ignored her, his focus still on the baby.

Her voice was raw as she whispered, "Malcolm, let me hold her. She needs to eat."

"She'll take a bottle."

"No," Viera shook her head. "I can feed her. The midwife showed me how—"

"I spent all day thinking about names."

Viera had too.

Hours before she went into labor, she had decided on the name Uriel. During her confinement, she'd read a small series of novels that had a character by that name. It sounded lovely and strong—two things she hoped her daughter would be. But she hadn't seen Malcolm to tell him.

Viera swallowed and reminded herself that they were married—this, their child, should be something they could agree on. Surely, they both wanted what was best for her. Maybe, for once in all the years they'd known one another, they could find a version of peace—a truce of sorts.

She bit her bottom lip then said, "I like the name Uriel."

Malcolm smiled and nodded slowly. "Uriel" he repeated.

Viera pushed forward, "I thought maybe we could call her Uri for short. But to everyone else she could be Uriel. Princess Uriel. Uriel Warwick. It's a name she could grow into."

He adjusted the now sleeping baby in his arms before he turned to look at Viera. "Did no one tell you?"

Viera did not feel like Viera as she asked, "Tell me what?"

"The proclamation went out an hour ago. By now it is already done."

She was breathless. "What's done?"

"Her name." His smile turned vicious. "It's already been decided."

She blinked at him.

He turned slightly so he was looking directly at Viera. "I couldn't decide what I wanted the name to be. I juggled a few different ones, but none of them were good enough. Then, I thought about you and I, and how much we both enjoy symbols and small details. We've gone through so much together."

He ran his thumb along the brown peach-fuzz hair on the baby's head. For a long moment he just looked down at the baby he held. She was so small in his arms, so desperately fragile. Viera reached forward again, wanting nothing more than to take the baby from him. She just wanted to feel the weight of her. Viera needed to know that she was safe.

Safe and away from him.

"I wanted something that would mean something to both of us." He glanced to Viera, his lips twitching into a smile as he noted her reaching arms—saw the sweat gleaming on her brow. Malcolm looked down at the baby, his voice growing soft as he said, "So, I named her Britta."

Viera shook her head.

He turned to her again, took in the queen's shocked expression. "That was your alias, so I assumed the name must be important to you." His smile widened and he shrugged. "That way you will always remember how we met—I thought it was a sweet gesture."

She just looked at him.

Her blood felt like fire. Her skin was not her own. The air in her lungs was cold as ice. There were so many things he had taken, so many ways he had hurt her—and this, she didn't know how to process it alongside the raw, bleeding hole in her heart where Leighton should be. She could not see past her own regret and anger.

When she didn't speak, he sighed and stood up from the bed. The baby began to fuss as he adjusted her small frame against his chest. Viera pushed the blankets away and tried to get up, but her legs shook too much and the whole room spun as she collapsed onto the mattress once more. She reached out a hand, for the baby, for help, for that shred of herself that still fought the darkness rising up to devour her whole.

He didn't even look at her, just rounded the bed and moved towards the door. "Malcolm," her throat was so tight even speaking his name was too much. "Malcolm, please. Where are—"

He paused at the door and turned back to her. Took in her glassy blue eyes, curly dark hair, and trembling mouth. She looked wild, untamed. This was his queen, the person the goddess had cursed him with.

"Malcolm?" The name was broken on her lips.

He nodded to someone in the hall and the midwife stepped forward. Viera again tried to stand, tried to get out of the bed and across the room, but her body failed her. Malcolm passed the baby to the waiting midwife and held the door open while the woman exited the room, taking the wailing child away.

Something in Viera's chest began to break.

"Britta will remain in the nursery under close guard. You are not to seek her out or attempt to see her at all."

"Why?" It was the only thing she could say, the only word that could make it past her trembling lips.

"You can't be trusted with her."

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

This was a nightmare. It was yet another layer of hell. Panic swelled, heavy like a blanket, and she scrambled for something to say, for a way to make it all stop. Inside of her, that darkness opened an eye, looked right at her. He had taken everything she loved and now this—now he was going to take her too.

Viera couldn't catch her breath.

"Malcolm, I would never—"

He pursed his lips. "You told me you would make me suffer. You expect me to believe you wouldn't hurt her as a way to do that?"

The baby still cried in the other room.

Viera covered her mouth against a gut-wrenching sob. She couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't make herself snap out of this paralyzing terror. A chasm opened within her heart and the poison seemed to sniff the air. She felt that roiling darkness smile.

Her body was speaking, her mouth forming words—she was begging. And yet she couldn't hear anything over the high-pitched screaming in her ears.

He only smiled, said something to her—"You've done all of this to yourself"—and then he was gone, taking the baby with him.

And Viera was not Viera anymore.

She didn't know who this person was, this entity that wore her skin and held her name. Her mouth tasted of hemlock and nightshade—she welcomed it. Welcomed the heat and pressure and cool numbness that swept in and ate away all else.

She felt something fragile and essential break within her. It was a severing from herself, a jagged break from the power that always whispered and coaxed. This was what she had wanted all her life, to not feel it, to not be joined with it anymore. But now it was there and Viera, the person she had always been, the person Leighton had loved—that girl was gone.

Dead.

As dead as he was.

This person, the dark entity that now wore her skin, it would make Malcolm pay for everything he'd done. If he had thought that girl was dangerous, he would be terrified of this new one. No one—not the king or the Synod or the goddess—would tell her what she could and could not do.

She licked her lips, tasted the sheen of poison there, and smiled.

That girl was weak, afraid.

Queen Viera was not.

End of Culled Crown Novella

***

Thank you for reading this far. Don't forget to comment, like, and share. For more information on The Culled Crown series and other projects, follow me on Instagram (@briannajoyc) or check out my website (www.briannajoycrump.com).