Beyond the gilded throne, she stood: opulence personified in her cloak of flowing silk, the royal colour purple. The hood, drawn over her head, obscured her face.

“Shadow Empress of Ka’ilai,” I spat. On my back, the twisted scythe hung from its tattered belt. It groaned as I grasped its hilt, its ancient voice vibrating up my arm, through my chest, as it anticipated the blood it knew would soon be shed.

Brandished before me, my intention was clear.

The Empress continued to gaze out the stained-glass window before her, enthralled by the riots below, as if the sight of her capitol on fire mesmerised her. She spared no glance.

Without warning, I ran at the Empress and, scythe poised, I swung. She ducked at the last minute – a surprising show of agility – the hood of her cloak barely unscathed as she scampered. I followed through on the swing and hit the throne instead, its golden body crumpling under the force. I suppose the battle from the base of the tower had caught up to me; it was a struggle to dislodge it.

No longer mesmerised by the chaos below, the Empress was forced to look at me. She oddly cowered under her hood, drawing it over her face.

“Coward!” I screamed as the scythe finally came loose, balance swaying as its weight nearly threw me off. “You’ve led this land to ruin, always in the shadows, never showing your face! What, are you deformed?!”

I ran at her again. The scythe groaned once more, louder as it demanded the Empress’ blood. With its immense weight for momentum, I swung, too fast for the Empress as she barely dodged transection. The blade caught on her cloak instead and, following through on my swing, I tore its silken threads.

Her hood, torn from the body of the cloak, fluttered to the marble floor. The Empress’ eyes, no longer hidden by fabric, met mine.

Suddenly, I was looking at a mirror.

Instinct told me she must have been a shapeshifter, like the one from the Ka’naan forest. But shapeshifters reflect their prey with exact precision: the Empress looked like me, but her nose wasn’t crooked – had never been broken – and her eyebrows were tamed. Her hair was long, too, like a typical Ka’ili woman, and soft; her whole face was soft, as if she’d never gone a night without dinner.

And her eyes, wide in fear, were slightly greyer than mine; haunted by sights I had never seen.

The scythe groaned again, although this time, without bloodlust. It resonated in confused recognition, and from the surprised wince on the Empress’ face, I knew she had felt it too. The shadow Empress of Ka’ilai was no shapeshifter.

“Explain yourself!” I shouted. Shapeshifter or not, there were other creatures who could steal one’s face. Perhaps, the Empress was an illusion.

I swung once more; confused on its loyalty to me or the enemy with my face, it wouldn’t land a killing blow. Instead, it sliced the Empress’ leg as she tried to flee. Blood welled from the cut, deep, and the scythe resonated with apology – for cutting the Empress’ leg, or for denying me the kill, I was unsure.

However, it was clear: the Empress was no fighter; she was not me.

I held the scythe high, prepared to take her leg, when she cried: “Alias!”

The scythe halted upon the mention of my father, and quivered slightly in my grasp.

“How do you know his name?” I spat.

“A-Alias!” she stuttered. “The smith, who forged the Reaper’s scythe!”

“What of him!”

“Your father! O-our father!”

Even with the shadow Empress of Ka’ilai, the ruthless advisor who sold out her kingdom for greater power, trembling on the ground before me, I felt a weakness in my arms. “That’s impossible!” I said.

The scythe fell to the floor, my head began to spin, suddenly too heavy to hold upright yet weightless as I collapsed.

The curse.

“Just listen to me,” she pleaded, and I had no choice but to listen.

“How?” I weakly uttered. The Empress, leg sliced open, hauled herself into a sitting position, and dragged the scythe from my lax hands.

She said: “Alias; paramour of Lady Saphielle of the House of Xyrralei. Your mother - our mother - is Lady Saphielle.”

Of the feared House of Xyrralei; blood-thirsty conquers of the known continent, keepers of the hydra.

My mother: the matriarch of the House of Xyrralei.

How could this be?