Queen of What?

"WHERE THE HELL IS LANCE?" I stare hard at Cheyenne who stands with her hands over her face. She has a genuinely hurt look on her face but I don't care. If anything, it aggravates me further. Without faltering, I move even closer to her, owning my new height in an intimidating posture. "Cheyenne, I will only ask this once, where is Lance?"

"Your Gr-race," she stutters, tears burning in her eyes.

I nearly hit her again, but then some deeply feminine part of myself stops my clenched fists. I'm aware of the other maids immobile and peering over bent heads at me. Cheyenne still clutches to her face like a popsicle. She blinks, and I see it. Oblivion. Naiveté. She truly is ignorant. I don't know how I know but I just do. Something in me shifts at that very moment, and my fierce eyes go soft on her. Her almond gaze is lowered as she speaks.

"Your Grace, if perhaps I did something to offend, I'm deeply sorry. But I know not the whereabouts of a Lance. There is however a Knight under your command; Sir Lancelot Grimwald." She blinks through brimming eyes and I try to juggle between guilt at her features and comprehension of her recent words.

Who the fuck is Sir Lancelot Grimwald?

My Lance might've looked every bit chivalrous but he definitely wasn't some Arthurian legend. I lean back to think. I watch in wonder as former superstar cheerleader pushes up to a straight poise. I can't believe I slapped her.

"I shall leave your hallowed presence, Your Gr—" she starts to say, turning to move out.

My hallowed what? I stop her instantly.

"Wait, Cheyenne."

I'm definitely missing huge pieces of this puzzle, and it seems only she can unravel. "I'm sorry for the…" I gesture with my hand to her face. She seems surprised that I apologized.

"Please, Your Grace." A smile teases her pretty face. "And while I have nothing against you calling me this…Cheyenne, my name is Yennara, your Lady-in-waiting." I blanch from head to toe. She leans in. "Do I still call the physician?"

Shaking my head, I slowly move back towards the bed. I sit on the comfy edge as Cheyenne subtly nods to the other maids. They disappear in a rush, the huge door clicking shut behind them. The bedroom is awash with golden haloes from the drawn curtains and I gesture to Che—Yennara.

"Sit, please," I pat the side of the bed.

She walks over but she doesn't. Rather, she kneels, right in front of me. I want to pull her off but I think against it, deciding to let things play out. I certainly wasn't a highschool senior anymore.

"Yennara?" I say, earning me a smile a from her. "Tell me everything."

Intelligently, she gets my meaning and leans back on her ankles, planting doe eyes on mine, she pours out a tale that forever changes my life.

"Your Grace, you are Queen of Mythronos and Regent over all lands of the Dead Empire, Enchantress of the Celestine Court and last surviving descendant of the Forsythe Dynasty. You came into power about two fortnights now, and for the lack of a proper male heir, you wear the crown. The Celestine Court did dispute your rise to Queendom but you alone in the vast reach of Mythronos possess access to the Spiritflame. In the short period of your reign, with your wits, you bested the barbarian warlock, Vileyns Crave. Mythronos is at peace now because of you, the Celestine Court holds you as its one true witch, and carriages of thankful denizens ride to the Castle everyday to offer gifts of gold in gratitude. You saved all of Mythronos, and if there's hope of defeating the storm of Lord Crave and his kind, I believe you are it, Your Grace. You are Queen Alessandria, Light of Mythronos."

Yennara's eyes are lit in something of pride—a lively coffee color—as for the first time in minutes, she stops to catch her breath, giving me time to fully ponder on all her words.

Wow! This is a lot.

The hardest thing I remember from my previous life is Math.

This…this is kingdoms and thrones, and wars, and magic? Fresh hell! Game of Thrones much. If I do understand correctly, I have an Empire; of hundreds, maybe thousands of people I rule. Not a slot in a game. Nope. I'm not that lucky. This is real. This is literally my life now. Earlier, I'd been skeptic, loving my new body over the idea of what it really entailed. Yes, I am now super-sexy, but I also have to spend every waking moment worrying about the safety and wellbeing of an empire. Mythronos, she called it. At least it rings nicely. Now I truly understand the plight of being Wonderwoman; you know, being attractive for ages but also having to leave the comfort of your bed in cold Manhattan to go save a bridge from collapsing halfway across the world in arctic Kiev.

Yennara had successfully given me a background of my sudden, frustrating life puzzle but her simple answer had borne a dozen more.

Where the hell is Mythronos?

It's medieval times for sure, but is it Asia, or Europe. Eurasia? Or some parallel universe entirely.

I noticed Yennara mentioned me being the last descendant of the Forsythe dynasty. That doesn't contrast much with the previous world. I'd been an only child—my dad had hopes for another though. My mum? Not so much. Yennara made no mention of them; they would be the former king and queen. Why not? Did something happen to them? I hope not. I'd been ruling for an average of a month, just about the same time I clocked eighteen. This gospel about the Celestine Court though…

Yes, I've always fantasized about having magical powers, but back then in highschool, it was only to make Cheyenne fart in the hallway or something. I certainly didn't wish for power to summon demons or raise storms, or the like. The Celestine Court sounds pretty coven-y. Anyone would agree. She said only I possess the Spiritflame. The literal sense of the word alone is rousing, and I'm being liberal. And now, there's an evil pirate or something,

Lord Crave?

Good God above—or gods now I suppose. All I'd been looking forward to was Graduation a mere few days away. But now…now, everything's changed. I'm aware that I've been staring into space for several moments now. The bedroom is quiet, Yennara kneeling silently before me. I peer down at her and she has this look, like she wants to hug me. I have to tell you; seeing a former bad bitch on her knees is making me feel some type of way. I had envisioned giving Cheyenne a piece of it sometime but even my proactive mind could never coerce a vision of her as a handmaiden, makeup-less, and on her knees in front of me. Suddenly, I remember Sunday School, 'How are the mighty fallen.' How true. For the most part, Cheyenne isn't Cheyenne anymore. Physically, she's still hot shit baddie, but her aura is calmer now.

Yennara, a fitting name.

I'd have to get used to it though—and her.

I'm a bit caught off guard when she takes my hand.

"Your Grace," she starts, staring into my eyes.

How close were we? Are we? I wonder.

"You retired to bed pretty early last night, you were riled this morning…" She blinks when my gaze hardens. "…and you seem out of sorts now. Is it the wine from your dinner? I can have the Royal Taster come in to inspect the cellars?"

"No, Yen," I stop short at my sudden use of a nickname for her. Surprisingly, it feels natural. She doesn't think anything to it so I go on. "It isn't the wine."

It's you banging my head over the stage steps at Prom and damn near killing me.

It hits me then. Maybe she did.

Fuck! Add my own death to the increasing pile of mysteries I awakened to.

Yennara goes on to rub softly over my wrist, making me feel some way. Keeping her brown eyes on mine, she massages into my palm and across my fingers, her thumb working perfectly in tandem with her forefinger. Damn! She is good. Despite her being my worst person on earth, I don't pull away. I guess we're frenemies now—or at least, she's mine. As I look down on her, her eyes waver like she contemplates something on the tip of her tongue. I squint. She gets the memo.

"Well, if it isn't the wine Your Grace, is it…your monthly bleed?"

My hands stiffen in hers. "What! My period?"

She doesn't seem to get it but she nods anyway.

Cheyenne did not just ask me that. But then I remember she is Yennara—with not an ounce of bitch in her.

"No," I reply. "I mean I don't think so," I add quietly. Before transmigration, I'm always on time, always. Now, I don't know.

She gives me a small smile, nods in understanding and quietly begins rubbing again over my wrists, tenderly. I start to feel slight tingles. Knowing I blush beet-red, I quickly tram my brain for something to prick the silence before she notices…how much I'm enjoying her little massage. Being queen is nice. Luckily, I think of Lance. I speak over the flush creeping up my neck. "So, erm, this Knight…Sir Lance, does he like live close by or anything?"

Yennara gives me her cute 'half the time I don't understand what you're saying' look. But she keeps massaging. "Sir Lancelot is a Captain in your Royal Guard. I've no idea where he resides but he heads the manning of the Castle walls, so he sleeps in the Soldier's Fort from time to time."

Lance is unmarried then. Good. Excellent. A tidbit to brighten my day. From my History classes, I do recall men and women marrying pretty early in the dark ages, warriors especially.

"Right," I reply. "He has a good head on him that one."

Yennara pauses in her massage to catch my eyes. Humor weaves in the air, and a breath later, we break into laughter. She giggles like a…schoolgirl—something Cheyenne would have never done. Her freckles spread and I end up just watching her laugh. God, am I attracted to her?

She catches my sublime gaze on her. Her smile fades. I hurriedly pull my hand from her. Hers drops down to her skirt. I clear my throat.

"I would need a map." I speak in a brisk official tone. "All books in the library about metempsychosis, discreetly of course. But first things first, a bath."

Yennara doesn't complain about my sudden withdrawal. She does lower her eyes and in a quiet voice says, "Yes, Your Grace."

She rises from kneeling before me and I follow her movement in the red-gold maiden gown as she turns round a bend in the massive bedroom. She vanishes for a few moments, leaving me to ricocheting thoughts. I lift my eyes when she walks back out and spot what must be this world's version of a bathrobe, girly pink—no surprise there—and looks made from feathers. I don't tell her I would prefer jade green.

Yennara bows a few feet from me, the lush robe neatly folded and hanging over her arm. "I've drawn your bath, Your Grace."

A minute later, I stand over a wide alabaster tub. It's actually a small pool holed into the fine marble floors, brimming with milky heated water and a lovely dusting of rose petals. Incensed lavender fills the air. Say what you want about the Dark Ages but they sure did know how to treat a queen. I'm a bit body conscious when I let the straps of my silvery camisole fall down my arms. And it's only when I gingerly dip into the bath that I let my eyes 'casually' stroll to the large oval mirror directly in front of the bath. I immediately meet Yennara's eyes.

Her gaze is hot. She doesn't blink.

I suppose she's seen me nude more than a few times. But the way in which she stares…like my body is made of sunlight.

Am I that hot?

Her brown eyes rove the bleached blondness of my waist-length hair, trailing my collarbone down to my arms, pausing for the slightest of moments at the pink tips of my breasts, and then following the splay of my hips to the curve of thick thighs until I all but vanish into the bath.

In the mirror, I watch her watch me.

Then in silent steps, she walks to the very edge of the tub and kneels an inch away.

Curled in her small hands is a soft cloth, seemingly made from cotton. She dips it in the warm water, letting it soak before bringing it over my neck. She squeezes. Lily-scented water drips down my flushed skin, pooling over visible cleavage. Yennara squeezes until the cloth is dry, and then with my mouth dry, she begins to follow the trickles of water down my body with her hand. She first rubs down my chest, bravely dipping between perky mounds of flesh. She pushes further south still, her hand and the sponge disappearing under the water surface. I feel the heat of her hand slide across my ribs, over my navel, moving ever so slowly. I find my legs pushing open to accommodate. Without hesitating, she dips in. And we both freeze.

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

I am one hundred and fifty percent sure, Yennara never palmed her Queen before.