The Throne of Lies

By Udita Sharma

'Sorry I made the poison so sweet. You always told me I was too good at being the things I shouldn't be. I wish I could say you were wrong.', she thought, as the cold glass met her fingertips. It had always been bitterly cold in Nalthis, but it was especially numbing this evening. The street was aligned with hordes of impoverished families buried in the snow. The war had left nothing untouched, ravaging the dingy alleys while the royal family hid behind the safety of their castle walls. The king, if he ever deigned to wake from his indulgent sleep, would promise that everything would be "handled" upon waking. The wind howled, biting at the feet of the restless—and the dead, who lay motionless in the snow. Was there even a difference anymore? No. As long as the storerooms at the base of the castle overflowed with gold, the king could sleep soundly on his fine linen sheets. Inside a dimly lit house on the corner of the street, Lauren slumped against a wall. The television glared in stony silence, while burnt dishes clung precariously to the edges of a flooded sink. Her mind wandered to the past. She saw him again—Arnold—bursting through the door, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His hair, a disheveled mess, bounced with each step as he hummed off-key tunes from a bygone era. He’d drop his coat on the nearest chair and stride to the kitchen like a soldier to war, grinning. Lauren snickered at the thought. 'Oh shut up please!'. They'd laugh their lungs out. Almost always, he’d forget the bottle of wine he’d promised to bring. But it didn't matter. Their lives had been like undercover agents—hidden, secretive, deliberately small. They avoided the dark streets, the crowded markets, the prying eyes of the outside world. Yet in their quiet corner of the world, they were happy. 'I think I’m going mad', Lauren muttered to herself, resting her tired feet on the dark grey couch that seemed to swallow her whole. She was a tall, skinny woman, somewhere in her thirties. Her face was ghost - pale, and her eyes - a beautiful ocean blue, shone only when she stood underneath the evening sun, and bore no mark of precedence. The creases etched deep in her palms told most of her story. Dried blood sank deep into the ridges between her skin, like a flowing river that suddenly parched in the dark winters. The doorbell was ringing in the background - a sharp, shrill sound. Holding a cold bottle of wine in her left hand, she took slow steps towards the door, taking in her surroundings. Blinking hard, she glanced at the misty window, plain walls, and the cracked floor caked in blood - she hadn’t bothered wiping it off for two long weeks. 'What the hell do you want?'. Lauren squinted and straightened her bathrobe. Nothing. Nothing but the piled snow. 'Another one of those kids trying to pull a damn prank', she groaned, and dragged her feet towards the kitchen, setting the bottle on the cold counter. Outside the rattling window, the fog slowly began to lift, revealing the dark neighborhood held on the shaking ground by two ropes; ropes that were sapped and savaged from carrying the weight of the kingdom on their blistered shoulders. Lauren's fingers brushed against a pile of letters that lay beside the shattered glass. She stared at the heavy breaths escaping her lips, as her heart pumped faster against her ribs. 'Don't do it'. She found her palm burying itself in the long shards of glass. Blood slowly trinkled down her shivering fingers. ' Ah dammit!', she sighed and snapped open the letter that sat on top of the pile.

From: The King Of Nalthis

To: Lauren Pierce

You are expected to be present at the court of Nalthis for questioning, about the death of Nalthis's most wanted criminal - Arnold Pierce. It will be decided there, if you shall be excused, punished or celebrated for the crime that you have potentially committed. The case will begin on 26th of July 1724. 

If the receiver is not present at the specific day and date, she will face execution.

'Celebrated ' . 'For murder '. ' Of an innocent man'. 'Of my husband'.

Her blood ran cold in her veins, heart racing faster. The ticks of the haunting clock hung upon the wall grew louder, and the noticeably cold air ran across her body, sending a shiver down her spine. As Lauren stared at the eccentric piece of paper, her initial feelings of confusion and horror gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. 'Lord, just kill me already. Don’t tie my exhausted fingers to yet another elegant rope hanging above a pool of blood and misery', 'Just kill me.'

Hours blurred together before Lauren finally staggered into the bedroom, her body heavy with exhaustion. Outside the window, the fog churned and twisted - that's when she said it. 'I have gone mad'. Shadows in the mist morphed into her reflection—a figure clutching a knife in her left fist. But she didn’t stab the king. She didn’t stab herself. She drove the blade into the sky, and scream until the sky bled. She didn’t know why, but it played at the back of her mind so relentlessly, that it tore at her sanity into shreds.

Four cold, unyielding days had passed, each one bleeding into the next. Time had lost all meaning; she felt no pain anymore, and her tears were frozen. She was trapped in an endless cycle of mourning and dread. The dim room around her was alive - The cushions pressing on her head, as if trying to smother the grief out of her numb scalp, shattered glass glaring at her in accusation, and the blood-stained floor screaming out of guilt. She mourned Arnold's loss, and it hollowed her from the inside. Unable to stop her spiraling thoughts, the scene clawed its way back into her mind. He burst through the door, slamming it shut with a thunderous crash. Blood trickled from a gash on his scalp. His breath was heavy, sharp enough to cut the air. 'Lauren, kill me' he snapped, cold mist escaping his bruised lips. She froze for a moment, as the words pulled hard at her throat. 'What? Arnold, no—' 'I’ve found a secret,' he cut her off. 'A secret that could shatter this kingdom.' His gaze darted to the curtained windows. 'They’re after me. They’ll kill me. They’ll kill you.' His words echoed into the heavy, suffocating silence. 'Promise me,' he said, trembling. 'Promise me you’ll never give up.' Before she could argue, it was already over.  The sound of hot blood pouring down his arm, echoed in her ears. 'I'll never give up - ' Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang on the door. She froze, her blood chilling in her veins. Lauren took deliberate, steady steps toward the door, her pulse hammering with dread and fury. The golden hinge groaned as she flung it open, the icy wind slapping her face. Standing before her, a man cloaked in black, emerged from the swirling fog. His dark clothing blended into the night, but his eyes bored into hers. 'You’re Lauren Pierce,' he questioned, although it sounded more like a statement. 'Yes,' she replied, her voice low, braced. “And you are?” He stepped across the creaking wood with a confidence that made her skin crawl. Without invitation, he seated himself in the leather-bound chair. 'A friend of Arnold’s,' he said, sinking deeper into the leather. 'And I know the secret.' Lauren’s breath hitched. Her fingers gripped the doorframe as if it could hold her steady. 'The king’s bloodline is a lie. This entire kingdom is built on a foundation of deceit.' The air thickened around her. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The man rose, and turned towards the door, his hand lingered on the hinge. 'Arnold trusted you with the truth,' he said, 'Now you need to trust yourself.' Before she could respond, he stepped back into the fog and vanished, leaving nothing but the faint echo of his footsteps. Lauren’s trembling hands clenched into fists—not with fear, but with fury. Her chest heaved as she whispered into the frigid silence. “You died for this.” She stepped barefoot into the snow, the icy sting biting at her feet. The castle stared back in the distance, its spires piercing the heavens like the jagged teeth of a beast. It wasn’t just a place. It was the enemy. Arnold’s voice roared in her mind, louder than ever: Promise me you’ll never give up. Lauren turned back into the house, grabbing the cold bottle of wine from the counter and a faded photograph of them from the mantle. At the doorway, she paused and screamed into the swirling snow, her breaths shattering the silence: ' Cheers to you, Arnold! ' She stepped into the night, the cold shooting through her with every step. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t stop. The castle awaited, and so did the truth.

By Udita Sharma