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Queen Il Amia the Quiet drags the flat of the blade against the ends of her hair. Once, her braid was as black as the ink that stains her fingers. Now, it resembles the parchment crumpled under her feet. She twists the knife with her right hand, examining its edge. The ceremonial blade is a simple, ugly thing. Unlike the Ledish to the north, who make gaudy productions of any Severing, her people prefer simplicity.

Purpose should be reflected in appearance, and no beauty comes of war.

Il Amia turns the knife over in her hands again. In her fifty years on the throne, she has never cut a single strand. She's received locks of hair from angry nobles intent on declaring a blood feud. She's even received Severed braids from neighboring kingdoms. But as a child, she swore to her father that she'd never start an unnecessary feud. Years later, as her coronation was anointed by the ashes of her burning capital, she swore to the gods that she'd never start an unnecessary war.

Queen Il Amia has kept both promises by never attempting either. She's been duelist and defender as circumstance demanded, but she has never drawn first blood. Yet, this is not the first time she's stood before the altar, turning the knife over and over in her hands.

She remembers pacing the length of this windowless room when the Duke of Kavor invaded an allied kingdom. The reflections along the mirrored walls paced with her, matching step for step. Her heart was heavy but willing to do what loyalty demanded. But Il Amia was spared from the necessity by the duke himself, who sent her half an inch of hair as Severance.

She remembers kneeling by the altar, the knife's edge sharp against her palm, sobbing after her youngest son had been killed in a pointless, accidental skirmish with the Tvoeriens. She screamed at the gods then, cursing them in ways she wouldn't ever dare outside these silence-spelled walls.

(Queen Il Amia knew that declaring war for her son's death was expected. She also knew that it would be for the benefit of nothing but her shattered heart. In response to her silence, the people bestowed upon her the title of the Quiet Queen.

The disdain turned to muted praise when, five years later, the heir to the Tvoeri Kingdom married her firstborn, effectively turning the Tvoeri into a vassal state. A complete, bloodless victory, they whispered. Since then, her title has been both a tool of reverence and mockery.)

Il Amia has faced every temptation, every slight, every possible provocation during her five decades on the throne. She has burned her soul to keep her oath.

Is this what finally breaks her?

No. This war is necessary, she says to herself. Her oath still stands. And so she kneels.

Queen Il Amia the Quiet, Once-Beloved of the God of Peace, raises her knife and severs her hair at the altar to the Goddess of War. Her braid falls around her feet like shackles. The knife clatters to the floor beside it.

She breathes. Her head feels too light to be her own. The queen raises her head to meet the eyes of her reflection, and a stranger gazes back. She looks cruel like this. She looks *old.* Both are true: she is a crone who will send the young to perish in her stead. Is there a greater perversion of the natural order?

Her knees creak as she stands with her Severance bundled in her arms, but her weary bones carry no trace of hesitation. She leaves the altar and doesn't look back.

She is Queen Il Amia the Quiet, and she brings death.

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Submitted by daeomec on Mon, Apr 18, 2022 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

In peacetime, the ruler grows their hair long. In war, they cut it short. To declare war, a persons hair is sent to the enemy. The statement carries greater weight the longer the hair; to receive long hair says you have angered one slow to anger, that you have incurred a wrath not easily woken.