Chapter Text
This is utterly pathetic. I should be somewhere in a position far greater than this, not some mangy guard dog giving its life for pointless battles. I had everything I ever wanted right in my hands, I was the perfect soldier, yet it wasn’t enough. Now here I am, burning up in the dreaded sun and tarnishing my clear skin. Ridiculous.
That’s all Minthara could think as she polished her sword. She could feel the bile bubbling its way into her throat, begging to be let free. She contemplated it for a minute, seeing the filthy excretion spill all over the floor. She almost let it loose, yet that would be improper. Her instincts would never let her be improper. How she had forced herself to become a Dark Justiciar under the new commanded army of Cormyr, just for some pocket change, it was embarrassing. After her banishment to the surface, everything had changed for the worse. For the first time, the former drow noble had to worry about the one thing she never had to keep track of, something an esteemed member of House Baenre has never had to concern herself with.
Money.
That’s all this world boils down to anyway; how much money someone has or how much they make, how much they have put away or how much they gain. In her former days, money was an abstract concept. Back in her glory days, the servants of House Baenre catered to her every want and whim. It was glorious.
Sitting here and wallowing wasn’t going to fix anything. Minthara could lament her sorrows all she wanted, but it wasn’t going to magically make gold appear out of thin air. That would be nice, if gold could just appear. Everything would be okay, everything would fix itself–! She hissed in pain as a sharp sting made its home in her hand. She peered down to notice her flesh seeping with deep crimson, pooling in her palm like a lake. Before she could address the situation, the door to her quarters swung open.
“Hael’lrin, Her Majesty would like to see you. Report to her immediately.”
Minthara heard that foreign name ring in her ears. It didn’t settle like it should have. She didn’t recognize it as herself, seemingly lost in the blood now beginning to drip down her hand. The name was lost on her until her fellow soldier yelled in her direction, only then did she recognize that dreaded name was her own doing.
“Hael’lrin! Did you hear me?! Queen Viconia has asked to see you, and I would not keep her waiting.”
She gave a dismissive wave, rifling through her room for some kind of cloth or bandage to try and clean up the small mess she had made. Minthara shoved a towel to her palm to stop the bleeding before she crudely wrapped her hand up in a long gauze bandage. She dusted herself off, grunting at the sharp pain felt in her wound. With that taken care of, she marched her way to Her Majesty’s chambers. She couldn’t help but feel uneasy about the sudden call; a ruler does not usually spend their time talking to soldiers unless they are receiving a promotion or calling for their execution. She hoped the latter would not come to pass.
The walk to the actual chamber was grueling. Minthara found it unnerving to hear her shoes click down the corridors; she was far more used to the click of her heels striking fear into servants hearts, watching them bow and grovel as she passed. As she stood in front of the shimmering midnight doors, the overwhelming feeling of fear coursed through her body. It ravaged every inch of bone, every drop of blood, every fiber and every cell as the heavy oak doors creaked open.
The chamber itself was decorated from top to bottom. Stained glass windows adorned the walls, casting a glow of soft moonlight upon the room. Minthara began her walk to the throne, longing to reclaim her rightful place upon it. Before she could get too close, two armed guards crossed their halberds in an X fashion. She could not proceed any further, so she fell to one knee in front of the queen. She grit her teeth as she uttered the words–
“Your Majesty, I came as soon as you called.”
The Queen of Cormyr peered down upon Minthara, her gaze belittling and condescending. Queen Viconia DeVir, an ex-drow noble, part of a house long destroyed; she turned to Shar in a moment of cowardice, or so stated the rumors. Her commanding presence radiated through the room, imploring one to bow at her feet. She rose from her throne, taking deliberate steps towards Minthara; a flick of her wrist commanded the guards to quickly lower their halberds. She clicked her tongue, an unspoken demand for Minthara to rise. Deep purple eyes narrowed into slits, pools of pure malice tracing up and down over Minthara’s figure, scanning every detail. A coy smile snaked across her lips, letting out a condescending tut before she spoke.
“My my, what could a drow noblewoman like you be doing up here on the surface? And in my army, no less. You’re quite a long way from home, Minthara.”
Minthara bit her tongue. She wanted nothing more than to sheath her blade down the passage of Viconia’s throat. The fantasy burned in her head, singeing her brain like a hot iron. As much as she would love to retaliate, she knew the best option was silence.
“I summoned you here today to give you a job. My heir, Princess Shadowheart, is set to marry Grand Duke Ravengard’s son this coming winter. Given that it is only the beginning of spring, you shall have plenty to do.”
Minthara’s last thread of patience pulled taut, then snapped under the pressure.
“If you expect me to spend the next several moons babysitting your helpless little princess, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Ah-ah-ah. Enough whining. You have two options; you either take this mission and complete it without a single complaint, or I can send your decapitated head on a pike back to House Baenre. I’m sure they would love to use you as garden decor.”
Minthara felt her mouth fall open in shock, quickly closing it to retain her composed image. Every nerve in her body screamed bloody murder, begging, pleading for death, yet she couldn’t bring herself to disagree. With a curt nod, Minthara accepted her new life, sacrificing her precious dignity for survival.