Aria The Queen

Aria dropped to her knees beside her mother.

Blood pooled beneath her, dark and glistening, covering the bright marble of the ballroom floor. She pressed down on the soft wound, her hands shaking. Her mother’s blood seeped through her fingers, warm, thick. Too much of it. It was bad—bad enough to make her chest tighten with a fear she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Her powers flickered to life, light curling from her fingertips as she pushed energy into the wound, forcing it to stop bleeding. The magic wasn’t perfect. She had never been strong in healing fatal wounds, but she had to do something. Anything.

“Mom—stay with me.” Her voice cracked. “You’re going to be okay, just—just stay still. Hold on. I´ll fix this. I can—”

Her mother let out a breath, half-laugh, half-pained exhale. “Aria. I´m not dying...” Her voice was weak, but still her, still carrying that wry tone. But her eyes softened, watching Aria.

 Aria’s breath came in short gasps. “You—you don’t know that.”

Her mother had always been an unshakable force, a pillar of strength. Seeing her now—collapsed, weakened, vulnerable—felt like a giant hole in her chest.

“You shouldn’t waste your energy on me. I´ve survived... worse.”

The words didn’t reassure her.

Aria gritted her teeth, forcing more of her power into the wound, even as exhaustion gnawed at her limbs. The glowing veins along her hands pulsed, working to knit the wound closed, at least enough to keep her mother stable.

First Neon, and then her mother. 

“I can do this.” She had to. 

“You’re wasting strength.” Her mother lifted a trembling hand, brushing Aria’s cheek, smearing a streak of red along her skin. “Save it for something that matters.”

You matter. Aria wanted to say it, wanted to scream it, but her throat was too tight, and she was terrified that if she said the words aloud, it would make the possibility of losing her real.

Footsteps pounded against stone. Healers rushed in, voices blending together as they assessed the wound. One of them touched Aria’s shoulder. “We’ll take it from here.”

Aria hesitated, unwilling to let go. She had spent so much of her life resenting her mother, arguing with her, feeling trapped under the weight of her expectations. And yet, in this moment, nothing mattered except the fact that she was alive.

Her mother exhaled, shifting slightly, and winced. “Aria.”

Aria tore her gaze from the wound to meet her mother’s eyes—deep, steady, filled with something she had never seen before.

“I need you to listen to me.”

Aria shook her head, jaw clenched. “We should get you somewhere safe. You need to rest.”

“I will rest,” her mother said. “But not as your queen.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

Aria went still. “What?”

“You’ve always been reckless,” her mother murmured. “Always leaping without looking."

The healers continued working, murmuring amongst themselves as they slowly stabilized the bleeding. But her mother only looked at her.

“This… was long overdue. I always worried about you, you know. You lived in an idealistic world, convinced things could be better. Always made reckless, stupid decisions.”

Aria swallowed, guilt curling in her chest. “And you were always there to tell me I was wrong.”

Her mother’s lips twitched. “Yes.” A pause. “But this time, you weren’t.”

Aria stiffened.

“You saw something I couldn’t,” her mother continued. “You and that boy acted when I hesitated. And that’s why you were right.” She exhaled, looking past Aria, as if seeing something far beyond them both.

“I promised your father I’d pass the crown to you when you were capable. I think—” she let out a breathless laugh, pained but knowing, “—you’ve forced my hand.”

Aria’s hands went cold. “No. No, you’re still—you can still lead, you just need time to recover, I—”

“I cannot lead in my current state,” her mother interrupted. Her voice wasn’t angry. It was simply stating a fact. “Militia needs someone strong. Someone who understands what’s coming. Someone who could see beyond the endless hate when even I could not...” 

 Her gaze sharpened. “You.”

Aria opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Aria didn’t realize she was shaking her head until her mother’s grip steadied her.

Her mother reached for her hand, squeezing it weakly. “It’s time, Aria.” A pause. “I´m naming you queen.”

The words barely registered. They felt distant, unreal.

She stared, unable to breathe.

“What?”

The room seemed to blur. The weight of everything pressed down on her, suffocating, unbearable.

“You heard me.” Her mother’s expression was firm. “It has to be you.”

Queen.

She was the one people would look to. She was the one who had to lead.

It was too much.

“No,” she whispered. “You—Militia needs you.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers. “You can do this.”

The conviction in her voice sent a shiver down Aria’s spine.

Aria could barely breathe. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.

Her stomach twisted. “I don’t know how to lead.”

She thought of Neon. His eyes, burning with intensity, his voice, always steady, always there. Always ready to take on anything, stand still in the face of battle.

Gone.

She thought of Sakura. That cold, knowing look. The way she had stood there, completely unfazed, as if everything had gone exactly as she planned. 

She had spent her whole life fighting against the system. Against the rules and titles and shackles that bound people into roles they never wanted.

And now, just like that... she was being given one of her own.

Aria’s nails bit harder into her skin. She lifted her head.

The healers had stabilized her mother. The wound was closed, but she was still too weak to move on her own. The weight of her words still hung in the air, pressing against Aria’s chest.

But she felt it now. The anger. The fury curling in her lungs, in her blood, sharper than the blade that had cut her mother down.

She wiped at her face, smearing away the tears she hadn’t realized had fallen. Then she turned.

Everyone in the room was watching her.

The soldiers. The medics. The survivors of the battle.

All waiting.

Aria took a breath. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing blood across her cheek.

“I’m going to make them pay,” she whispered to herself. Her voice was steady. “For my mother. For Neon.” 

The room was completely silent, watching Aria in the middle.

Then, one by one, the soldiers bent the knee. 

And Aria stood there, not as a lost girl, not as someone clinging to the past.

But as the Queen of Militia.