In the heart of the ancient kingdom of Valoria, a place where the skies were as blue as sapphires and the forests whispered secrets of old, there was a young woman named Elara. She was no ordinary citizen; she was a protester. But her protest was unlike any the kingdom had ever seen before. For Elara wore a magical rope—an enchanted artifact that pulsed with a life of its own—wrapped around her waist and shoulders as she marched through the cobbled streets of the capital.

The rope had a mind of its own, shifting and coiling in response to Elara's emotions. When she was calm, it hung loosely like a simple belt, but when her anger flared, it tightened and glowed with a brilliant, fiery hue. Today, it blazed like a comet.

Elara's voice echoed through the streets, a clarion call against the towering spires of the royal palace, where the kingdom's most powerful magicians resided. "We demand justice! We demand equality!" she shouted, her voice carrying the weight of every non-magical person in Valoria who had suffered under the cruel and indifferent hands of the magicians.

For centuries, the royal magicians had ruled over Valoria with unchecked power. They lived in opulent towers, their lives filled with luxury, while the non-magical people—those without a single spark of arcane ability—were forced to toil in the fields, work in the mines, and serve in their homes. The magicians saw themselves as superior, and their disdain for the common folk was palpable.

Elara had witnessed the injustices firsthand. She had seen her father, a skilled blacksmith, reduced to a life of servitude because he lacked the gift of magic. She had watched her friends and neighbors work themselves to the bone, only to receive crumbs in return. And she had had enough.

As Elara marched, the crowd behind her grew. People of all ages and backgrounds joined her, their faces grim with determination. The magical rope around her shimmered, responding to the collective will of the people, and its magic amplified her voice. "We are not your servants!" she cried out. "We are not lesser because we cannot wield magic!"

The royal magicians, ensconced in their towers, watched the growing protest with a mixture of disdain and unease. They were powerful, yes, but they were few, and the people were many. They could sense the magic of the rope—a relic of a long-forgotten age—and they knew it was no ordinary artifact. It was a symbol of rebellion, a tool of defiance that could not be easily dismissed.

Elara reached the gates of the palace, her heart pounding in her chest. The rope tightened around her, as if urging her forward, giving her strength. "We demand an end to this tyranny!" she declared, her voice ringing out like a bell. "We demand a council where both magical and non-magical voices are heard! We demand fair treatment for all!"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, from the palace gates, a figure emerged. It was the Archmage, the most powerful of all the royal magicians. His robes were deep blue, embroidered with silver stars, and his eyes glowed with a cold, unearthly light.

"Enough," he said, his voice like the crackle of thunder. "You, girl, dare to challenge the order of Valoria? You, a mere commoner, think to wield power against us?"

Elara did not flinch. The rope around her flared with a brilliant light, and she felt its magic coursing through her veins. "I am no mere commoner," she replied, her voice steady. "I am the voice of the people, and our will is stronger than any magic."

The Archmage sneered, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. He could feel the power of the rope, and he knew that it was beyond even his control. "What is it that you want?" he asked, his tone grudging.

Elara took a deep breath. "We want an end to the oppression of non-magical people. We want representation in the council. We want to live as equals in this kingdom, not as slaves to your whims."

The Archmage was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well," he said, his voice begrudgingly respectful. "Let it be so. We will convene a council, where all voices will be heard. The age of oppression ends today."

A cheer rose from the crowd, and the magical rope around Elara loosened, its glow softening. She had done it. They had done it. The people of Valoria would finally have a say in their own destiny.

As the crowd dispersed, Elara stood before the palace, the magical rope now resting lightly on her shoulders. She knew that this was only the beginning. There would be challenges ahead, and the magicians would not easily relinquish their power. But for the first time in her life, Elara felt hope. The kingdom of Valoria was changing, and she would be there to see it through.

Everyone without magic sucks says the king. Let my people have magic! If you don’t I’ll shoot you and kill you.” Oh no don’t do that it’s only a matter of time before you cause a commotion and hurt yourself don’t do that you’ll be fine and then you’ll sit on the cylinder rotator and hang off the edge of a stream, ok I won’t do that but you have to promise me to let everyone have magic or else you won’t get a cookie, Ok I want the cookie, let me have the cookie. No I won’t let you have a cookie. Alright you can have the cookie if you let me have the ability to instantly make food appear. This is bargain I’ll make your digestive system appear

Amerie gazes at the crowd of people. It isn’t a huge group, maybe about fifty people.

She wishes she could be down there with them. Getting to voice her own feelings, but she can’t. Not while she is who she is.

“Princess Amerie, it would be of great importance to pay attention,” her tutor’s serious tone snaps her out of her daze. “Of course, Mr. Nevyle. I apologize for my distractedness.”

Nodding, he is already moving on with the boring lecture. It isn’t even that he is a boring teacher. The subject on royal trading and business is just tedious to her. She sneaks glances to her sides to see how well her siblings are faring.

They were, of course, seated by age. Her four oldest siblings were to her left and her younger brother to her right.

Cove, the heir to the throne, appears just as disinterested as Amerie. She keeps looking at the door, which may have to do with her personal guard, Thorne, standing there. They have this magnetic pull towards each other, always drawn close together.

Della is paying attention. At least more than Amerie is. She challenges Mr. Nevyle, depending on the topic, outspoken and passionate. Her focus is more on the interactions and who is involved.

Kent is being the annoyingly studious person he was. Jotting down notes, he listens intently to Mr. Nevyle and asks a question every so often. Always intent on whatever subject Mr. Nevyle drones on about.

Hale is twirling her pencil, sometimes stabbing the paper, making her paper look more like cheese than notes. If anyone could kill with just a writing instrument, it would be her. Every so often, she glances up and then goes back to her paper.

Spade, who she can usually rely on being distracted like her, is furiously writing down information. At first she wonders if he is writing a silly story or joke, but with his purposeful looks at their tutor, Amerie can tell that he is scribbling notes about the lecture like their older brother. He must find something interesting in business trading. Somehow.

“Can we talk about what’s going on out there?” Della asks, gesturing to the obvious group outside their walls. “That’s an actual issue that we could discuss and learn something from.”

Mr. Nevyle takes the deviation well and does not get annoyed. With six young royals, previous tutors could easily get irritated, but not him. It might have to do with his extensive experience. He was their mother’s tutor after all. “Well, Princess Adella, what do you believe their objective is? Their motivation?”

Della winces at her full title. Amerie shoots her an understanding look. She knows it reminds her of some rough times.

“They don’t like being treated differently. They feel like pain distributors should have protection,” Della gives her an equally understanding gaze, almost apologetic.

“With most of us,” Spade begins, but pauses when Mr. Nevyle clears his throat. He quickly amends, “With five out of the six royal children being healers, they feel as though they do not have representation. That the royal family glorifies healers, Miracles, which in turn pits people against Disasters.”

Her whole body heats up. Her palms feel like they are on fire. Clenching her fists, her nails dig into her hands. She knows her siblings are being as objective as they can. That they don’t believe that there is a difference between her and them. But she feels it.

“What is your perspective, Princess Amerie?” Mr. Nevyle questions, directing their attention to her.

Taking a deep breath, she knows he is looking for a clear thought. “They are hurt. Betrayed.”

Stopping in front of her desk, he taps the hard surface with his pointer. “Betrayed. A jarring word to use. Continue on that if you feel so inclined.”

His back is hunched but he is no less commanding.

“The royal family have not implemented any rules or laws that give them a say. As Spade and Della were beginning to say, they do not have the power to protect themselves with. It’s worse than not feeling heard. They are discriminated against. For something they cannot control. The royal family has that influence to make it easier for them, better for them, and nothing is done.”

When she finishes, she is a bit out of breath, a bit nervous to see Mr. Nevyle’s reaction.

“What if someone says that you are biased with you being a Disaster?”

Cove and Kent both begin to say something to protest him using that word, but she waves them off. Mr. Nevyle is trying to make a point, not insult her. She knows the difference.

“It is because of this bias that I should speak on this. Normal people cannot imagine the precautions Disasters have to take or the things they miss out on. I can because I am one of them,” her gaze drifts to the protesters outside, more connected to them now even though no distance has been closed.

“Excellent. Royals must be advocates for people they do not understand and for people that they do. One of them almost always becomes forgotten, but both are crucial.” A smirk, not quite a smile forms on his face. That is the best accolades that anyone will get from him, so she’ll take it.

Kent raises his hand and asks a question, but she doesn’t hear it. She’s focused on the crowd. She is one of them. But also adopted into royalty. A bridge between the two.

Those Disasters and other supporters are far braver than Amerie has ever been.

But she wants to be brave.

——— In case it wasn’t clear, Miracles are people that have healing abilities. Disasters are those that can distribute pain.

I don’t know how I had got caught up in all of this. I had magic, there was no doubt about it. But I still believed that it was wrong that some people didn’t. I thought of all the things I use my magic for that others don’t have the ability to do. I believe it was wrong. I grabbed a sign off of the ground that summed up how I felt: no magic, no mercy.

You gave me a chance You listened to my words As they danced across the page. You enjoyed my thoughts We talked about Stories we’d read And what I wanted to do later. I’ll keep in touch I promise But know you impacted my life so much Even heard the “marriage” drama.

Well that “marriage” friend I had Is no longer one and didn’t last But that’s ok Because you were still One of the best people In that year When I needed a smile And a reading teacher To be there and cheer me on.

“Won’t you join me, lovely lady?” Prince Raphael said with an elegant wave.

“No.”

Looking from the dining hall’s gilded ceiling to the luxurious rug, Estelle pointedly refused to make eye contact with her host. The prince chuckled. Scrumptious tea cakes, chocolates, and mounds of fruit covered the grand table. Her traitorous stomach rumbled. She had eaten since breakfast yesterday right before she had been dragged to the dungeons.

“Don’t you wish to eat little rebel?”

“No,” Estelle snapped.

The prince surveyed his captive’s frail beauty over his wine glass. Her stomach rumbled loudly. Impatiently Raphael waved his hand. Golden light sprang from his fingertips and surrounded Estelle dragging her to a dining chair. After an half hearted struggle Estelle slumped in resignation. With a raised eyebrow the prince magically piled sweets before her.

“Won’t you say anything more to your lord and master than, ‘no?’” Raphael asked with big sad puppy dog eyes.

Mischief flashing in her eyes, Estelle reached for a slice of endicott.

“No,” Estelle replied.

Raphael watched her nibble delicately and ignore him blatantly. He chuckled into his wineglass.

“You imagine that I am some kind of monster. That I thrive on crushing the proletariat beneath my magical heels. You are wrong, fair lady. I want change too. I’ve pleaded with the queen mother. Argued with the Magicks. Change can’t happen over night. Do you believe me? Don’t you see your protests for the unenchanted only make things worse? Can I beg you for patience, pretty rebel?”

With a mouthful of gamer berry tart, Estelle mumbled, “no, no, and no.”

Raphael pounded his fist on the table. His magic ricocheted around the grand salon. Estelle paled and Raphael hated himself. Why won’t people be reasonable? He wanted her to understand that he wasn’t like the others of his class. He’d visited the missions and handed out bread loaves. Prince Raphael welcomed tolerance of the unenchanted. His reign after the death of his mother would usher in reform. He glanced over at his prisoner. Her eyes were downcast out of respect. Estelle refused to show him fear.

“If this were a fairytale you could convince me with your cleverness to free my subjects without magic. I would be charmed and overturn this oppressive system just to make you my queen,” Raphael said raising his hand and squeezing it into a fist. “But this is not a fairytale young lady.”

His appetite gone, Prince Raphael pushed away from the table. He made a note to donate the desserts to the orphanage to show his people the kindness of his heart.

I gazed at my father. Hesitant, I gulped then opened my mouth. “Who’s to say they don’t have their own magic? Leave them be. They are you as you are me.” It was the bravest thing I ever did in the eyes of the world’s greatest wizard, sorcerer of sunlight, emblem of magic. His reaction through me for a diabolical loop of uncanny mystery laced with potions and emphatic energy.

A note was found at the end of a bacon trail at Duckingburg Palace, and it read as follows:

“Good whatever time of day it is to whomever it concerns,

Yes, I have captured Pickles, the royal purebred. As I have understood, you need him for a breeding ceremony in about 24 hours to continue your familiar’s lineage, but in 12 hours, the last human reserve is set to be destroyed as per royal decree. I know they are seen as inferior, but we evolved from them.

I have seen it fit to call your attention to this by letting you know that if the decree is not revoked, and a level Z barrier is not erected for the protection of the last humans, Pickles will be casterated. Do not take me lightly, I’ve wanted to do it for some time now. It’s good for him, but I will relent if you cease and defend the human population.”

King Duckworth paced in the palace not knowing what to do. His familiar was family, but backing off would show weakness.

The Royal Seers weren’t able to determine Pickles’ location using mirrors, crystal balls, or magic eight balls. Any attempt was met with old Family Guy reruns from the early twenty first century. “What should we do, sire?”

With three hours to spare, the following decree was sent from Duckingburg Palace:

“Your King, the Pope of the Magic Union, has decided humans must be kept preserved as a part of our heritage. That is all. All hail me.”

After, he searched for Pickles, only to find him in the flour sack in the Palace kitchen. The king never determined the identify of the kidnapper.

Pickles was fine with this. He loved humans so much that he kidnapped himself. The life of a purebred was torture. He wouldn’t end his lineage without a good reason, but the King always gave in. That was the third time he’d pulled the stunt.

The atmosphere was electric, hundreds of people gathered outside the citadel holding placards aloft, chanting for equal rights. I wound my way through the crush of humans, most letting me pass unhindered, some openly staring at me in distrust. Conversations and shouting crashed over me in waves, indistinct but exciting. I carried my placard in solidarity to the humans around me, although I was not really one of them.

The glimmering citadel stood in the middle of Prang, the city that I was raised in, the only home I had ever known. It’s marble walls towering over me. A massive inner city for the pure blood Fae, to look over the greater city beyond. No-one really knew what went on behind those walls, only that humans and creatures like me were not permitted to enter. I had often wanted to press my hand to that cool marble, trace the golden veins through the coral stone. I wished to be granted entry inside, dreamed of walking through those streets.

The colourful banners and logos, glinting in the filtered sunlight, cast by the huge trees that grew everywhere. “Fairies play, humans pay!” Shouted back and forth through the crowd. Picking up more voices as it bounced through the gathered people. Energies built up to boiling point as the Royals hid within the marble walls of the citadel. Standing amongst them I could feel the rage in their words. A few people stood above the crowd on wooden crates or stools, telling their stories of injustice and cruelty at the hands of the Fae. I stopped near an older woman, crying about her son who was taken in the middle of the night by the soldiers. “I don’t even know where he is, they won’t tell me.” Sadly her story was only one in thousands.

Humans were very much second class citizens on the continent of Margel. Their short lifespans and non-existent magical abilities kept them down trodden. Although every once in a while a human would come along with magical potential, but the Fae refused to school them with their children, even going so far as to bind their potential behind specialised tattoos. These tattoos were all too familiar to me. The ink mixed with magics and enchanted to ensnare the magical abilities of another. My own tattoo glittered around my eyes in golden vines to keep me in check. Every time I looked in a mirror I was reminded of what I was, that I was inferior to ‘them’.

Human children were taught for menial labour, how to till the fields and gather the crops, the basics of farm life. Usually working service jobs in the community. Humans were stronger that the Fae. So it fell to them to do the heavy jobs. Whereas the Fae held loftier positions. They were the leaders in the community, using their magics to ensure good weather, better crops, less pollution. They kept everything calm and peaceful, until today. Something must have happened to weaken the Royals, to weaken the enchantment of peace caste around the city. My eyes lifted to the bright golden sky, the shimmer of spell work was no longer interlaced with the pearly clouds high above.

I stood in the middle of the crowd, a half-breed- Fae dominant, I was indistinguishable from the Fae in form, but I had human blood in my veins. My father was 100% human. As a Fae dominant, only my tattoo showed what I truely was. So I may look Fae, but I was as powerless as a human, and treated as something less than that. Some disgusting, shameful thing to be hidden away.

I often felt that I had a worse deal than the humans, at least they were kept well. The government fed and clothed all humans under their reign. The half-breeds were given nothing. My kind were forcefully sterilised to prevent ‘the pervasive mongrels from taking over the land’. My mother, who was fully Fae was also sterilised at my birth, and my father was jailed and subsequently executed under secontion 4d of Fae law. ‘A human proven to have fouled a Fae with their seed or unnatural lust, shall forfeit their life in the act, and be sentenced to death.’ I had that law driven into my head every day of my life. My poor mother suffered a mental breakdown after my fathers death, and was locked up in an asylum. So I was taken in by the church to study as a cleric until such time as I was able to gain employment. My fist clenched as the anger surged through me. I listened to the stories of the humans, their grief and pain flowed from their lips as they gave voice to the atrocities done to them. Their children stollen for no reason, the older generations taken to the ‘camps’ never to be seen or heard from again. “The fae have to pay!” Was screamed from behind me, to nods and mummers from the gathered. I nodded my agreement before moving on, closer to the citadel gates.

At 16 years old, I left the church to work at a tavern in town. It wasn’t glamours, but it paid the bills. The humans trump card was that they were physically stronger than the Fae, they were needed. It was a blow to the Royal to have the entire human population of the city revolt against them. The half breeds, the Fae dominant especially, they had no skills to offer. That’s why I was here. If the humans can protest, then maybe my kind could too. Standing beside the humans, I hoped that this day would hear all a change Fae politics. Bring about a better future for all the citizens of Prang, including creatures like me.

If I were being honest with myself though, I didn’t think that it would do any good. Nothing changed in this world without the spilling of blood, but we had to at least try. I raise the sign in my hand, high above my head, seconds before the bullets ripped through the crowd and chaos erupted.

“Your Highness, you’re a fool!” “What was I suppose to do?” “Arrest her!” “She is arrested…technically. I’m just protecting her.” “Why, Caspian, why her?”

I open my eyes, trying to distinguish the unfamiliar voice complaining to Caspian. Bright sunlight stings my eyes. I glance around the room. I’m in a lavish, four poster bed, with luxurious blankets. Gold gilded pictures and artifacts spot the marvelous, bright room. “Hey, Keyna. How’s your head?” I look over to Caspain and roll my eyes. He betrayed me. He kidnapped me. “Why would you care?” I gruff. “Good luck,” a man with red hair says. He leaves the room with haste.

Caspian steps closer. I see concern storming in his eyes, but I find no regret nor sorrow for what he’s done. “I’m not sorry about what I did. It was for the betterment of the kingdom, Keyna.” “That’s ridiculous! You can’t actually think what your father is doing is right—“ “I’m not saying that,” he interrupts. “But protesting won’t do anything, Keyna. I know my father. He is brutal and cold. He could care less about the powerless.” So it’s true then. The king really has no care for the powerless. I shake my head and attempt to escape, but the invisible bonds halt me. “Caspian, let me go,” I say sternly. “I can’t do that.” I struggle against the force holding me down. “Why not!” I breathe, a scream threatening to burst from my throat. “If I let you go, they’d kill you, Keyna,” he responds. “Who?” “The powerful. They are threatened by you. They fear you.” Fear me? A knock sounds at the door. Caspian releases the invisible bonds from me. I twist my wrists out of relief. “Your Highness, your father requires your presence,” a voice says from the door. Caspain bows. He walks over to me and says, “I have a plan. The powerless will not live in pain anymore. I promise.” He leaves.

After what feels like hours, Caspian returns to the room. Blood soaks his hands. “Cas?” I say out of fear. “The king is dead. I am now the king.” I shake out of fear. “Did-did you kill-“ “You wanted change, Keyna, and I brought it. The powerless are powerless no more. They are free.” Yes they are free but at what cost? “So I am free?” I ask hesitantly. Caspian laughs. “No, you will be my queen.”

Queen.