“Any last words?”
Eleanor struggled to lift her eyes to meet the gaze of her captor. Her vision swam, her head aching. She could barely remember the last few hours. But she knew three things for certain.
One. She had been kidnapped. One of her numerous enemies, no doubt. Which one, she couldn't tell. None of the armed men around had any distinctive House symbols. They must have been mercenaries then.
Two. A sword was being pressed to her throat. A slither of sharp pain prickled at the place where the metal met her skin. Something warm trickled down into her bodice. Blood. Despite making certain not to move too much, she still felt herself nudge her head backwards, only for the cold steel to press closer. She winced.
Three. She might die tonight. Rough hemp ropes bound her tightly to a chair. Pain flared at her wrists, torso, and legs from the tension on the bindings. There was no light in the room, save for a dim moonbeam shining on one of the men before her, most likely from a small high window at her back. There were no escape routes in sight except for that window and the thick wooden door at the far wall. Unlikely she'd make it there before someone gutted her.
Oh, right. And she knew one last fourth thing.
Four. It wouldn't matter if she died.
“I said, any last words?”
The sharp nasal tone of the voice penetrated into the dizzy haze of Eleanor's mind. Blinking rapidly, she forced her eyes to focus. There. She could see him clearly now. The man who spoke was of medium height, lean, had a scrawny mustache, wore heavily used gear, and of course, had a sword strapped to his waist. She'd seen many exactly like him over the course of her career, from the muddied boots all the way to the cold, driven look in his eyes. Only, they'd all been in her employ. No mercenary had ever gotten close enough to harm her.
“Who hired you?” Eleanor enunciated slowly, her own voice too high-pitched for a muddled brain.
“Got anything else to say, Your Majesty?" he asked. “Whoever hired us don't matter. You should be more worried about running away, I think.”
“A mercenary ought not to be giving his captives advice,” Eleanor said with a small smile. “Is it House Cot-harni?”
“No.” The man stepped closer. “You really not gonna bargain?”
Eleanor ignored the question. “So, is it the Cot-harnis?”
The man eyed her shrewdly, as if she might suddenly snap at him like a snake. “No.” He exchanged glances with one of his accomplices. Then, loosing a resigned breath, he met her eyes again. “We got terms. If you agree to them, we let you go.”
“Is it House Jetereya?”
“No.” One of the mercenary’s eyes twitched. “If you swear to step down as queen, we won't kill you.”
“House Groth-leh?”
“Your Majesty, I really think you should start worrying about what's happening right now.”
Eleanor shook her head. “I will let you take my life. You need not fret. Simply allow me to satisfy my curiosity first.” She leaned closer, letting the sword dig deeper into her skin. More blood dripped down to her collarbone. Ignoring the pain, she kept that posture. “Who paid you to kidnap me?”
The mercenary met her second for second, chilly gaze for chilly gaze. A minute passed. “You don't want to stay alive?”
“Answer my question, sir. I believe you owe me at least this.”
“House Livria.”
Eleanor let the seconds pass before leaning back again. The sword followed. “House Livria. What a surprise. I suppose they grew tired of remaining in the shadows. They have my admiration.” Eleanor let her head incline forwards. “Do tell them that.”
“These your last words?”
“Yes. I suppose they are.”
“You really don't want to live?”
Eleanor shook her head, an amused smile tugging at her lips. It was almost as if they wanted her to live themselves.
The mercenary’s brows knit together. “Why not?”
“You are lying, for one thing.” Eleanor’s head leaned to the right. “And no one will come to rescue me. Do you not suppose I should accept my death in these circumstances?”
“We have terms.”
“You have said that. I don't quite think you mean your words, sir.”
“You'll live.”
“No. I won't.”
She'd already planned for her premature death years ago, when she was still fifteen and being harried by her uncles and aunts into etiquette lessons and history lectures. Even as she'd been scribbling down hasty notes, plots were being drawn out, erased, done over again, then filed away into respective corners in her mind. Before sleeping, she would write them down into a yellowed journal, tucking it under her pillow. As the orphan daughter of the dearly departed King Agnos and Queen Polpia, she'd known she was a simple pawn.
Over the years, she defied that title. She disobeyed her aunts, exiled her uncles, locked up her cousins. Distrusted every courtier who tried to ply her with sweet words, shut her ears to the tantalizing music of bards, surrounded herself with armed hands, and generally, made herself alone.
Did she regret this?
Eleanor knew she did not. Her people could eat. Her people could have shelter. Her people had clothing.
Despite never trusting anyone with her life, except for those bought with coin and blood, she'd erected a stable council behind her. Five men and five women entrusted to the kingdom’s service. They would not come for her. They needed her death to win the trust of all the old, fusty nobles who populated that court. Both she and they knew her time on this earth was done. Her duty was done. Her work was done.
Finally.
“You have satisfied my curiosity, sir.” Eleanor nodded to him. “You may take my life.”
An hour later, the reign of Queen Eleanor Thereni Hispacia of the House of Banthard was declared over. Her name could now finally join her mother and her father's on the House’s long, long obituary. They say her decapitated head wore a child-like smile.