Smoke filled the air, thick with the scent of burning cedarwood and myrrh. The distant tremor of drums reverberated through the stone walls like a heartbeat of the dying city. She stood on the marble balcony of the Temple of Astrinox, overlooking the crumbling sprawls of her once-mighty kingdom. Her silhouette, carved against the backdrop of an angry red sun sinking into the horizon, was a picture of regal defiance. Queen Isolde of Atlantia was not the kind of woman to bow to destiny.
She was dressed in a ceremonial gown of pristine white linen, a fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer like moonlight when it caught the faintest glow of the dying day. Ornate golden threading coiled intricately across the bodice like strands of starlight, accentuating her slim figure. The gown’s structured off-the-shoulder neckline bore striking embroidery of Atlantian glyphs. Its ruffled sleeves, flowing like delicate tendrils, framed her arms in grace. A cascade of blue silk, painted with geometric Atlantean waves in mid-wash cobalt, wrapped around her waist as a sash, dropping languidly down her side in an elegant asymmetry reminiscent of a waterfall — a symbol of her realm’s mastery of water.
Her hair, unbound and wild, cascaded down her back in golden tresses. It shimmered with flecks of amber that caught the sunset light, giving her an ethereal glow. A wide-brimmed metallic diadem crowned her head, shaped like the crescent moon and encrusted with obsidian fragments. The shadow cast by it framed her sharp cheekbones, yet only hinted at the depths of her inscrutable sapphire gaze. On her feet, white leather sandals adorned with straps of pearl glimmered faintly, the soles whispering softly on the cold marble as she turned to face the chamber behind her.
“Majesty, the High Guard awaits your command,” a soldier said, kneeling inside the gilded doorway. His voice trembled, betraying the iron he usually wore in his tone. Behind him, a low rumble shook the very bones of Atlantia as another tremor tore through the city.
Queen Isolde’s lips parted in a wry smile. “Command? A queen without a kingdom has little left to command.” Her voice carried an edge, smooth yet sharp, like a blade forged long ago yet still unbroken.
She approached the center of the chamber, where an ancient artifact stood on a pedestal of obsidian. Its surface undulated like liquid, but it was solid to the touch. The Orb of Echoes, the conduit of Atlantia’s link to its gods and guardians, shimmered darkly with the city’s fading strength. The artifacts they had long relied upon to sustain their empire were now faltering, like sand slipping through clenched fingers.
“Is there no other way, my Queen?” the soldier asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darted toward the orb as if staring too long might awaken something forbidden.
Isolde’s fingers hovered over the orb’s surface, but she withdrew them. “There is always another way. But the gods have long turned deaf to our pleas. Now, we must turn to what they fear—us.” Her gaze flicked to him, resolutely unwavering. “Take what remains of our people to the caverns beneath the city. I will buy you time.”
“Majesty, you cannot fight them alone!” The soldier rose, despair cracking through his voice.
Isolde let out a soft chuckle, the sound hollow but tinged with courage. “Do you think me so foolish as to fight alone?” She gestured to her gown, and for the first time, the soldier saw its woven threads glow faintly, the gold and cobalt motifs pulsing with strange energy. She did not simply wear a garment of elegance—it was armor, imbued with the ancient magicks of Atlantia’s last protectors. Their wisdom had merged fashion and defense into a creation bound to the queen’s lifeforce. “I may not return. But when the tide swallows us, remember who faced it headfirst.”
The soldier bit his lip, bowing deeply before rushing out with a new sense of purpose.
The invaders came before the stars emerged, their warships blotting the sky in a cascade of black stone and cold fire. As they descended, they chanted in a tongue foreign and guttural, their arrival written in waves of destruction that fractured the marble highways and shattered the sacred aquifers of Atlantia.
On the terrace of the Temple of Astrinox, Isolde stood motionless, her gown-turned-armor glowing brighter as the sun’s last rays kissed her shoulders. The Orb of Echoes floated at her side now, alive, pulsing to the rhythm of her heartbeat. It whispered to her—not in words, but in memories. A thousand rulers before her had held this artifact, but none in the city’s history had dared unleash its final blessing. Only imbued with the lifeforce of its wielder could it summon the last guardian from the seas below.
A great screech tore through the night. Metal claws scraped against stone as the first wave of the invaders lined the temple stairs. Their faces were hidden behind obsidian masks, their weapons crackling with energy that rivaled the storming sea. Yet none of them moved as Queen Isolde lifted her hand and let the Orb spiral higher, its glow turning a blinding white. She whispered into the stillness, her voice carried by the magick woven into her gown: “Let the sea reclaim its maker.”
In an instant, the ground ruptured. From beneath the temple surged colossal tendrils of water, weaving together into a towering figure — the Leviathan of Atlantia. Its roar eclipsed the invaders’ metallic howls, sending shockwaves that shattered their ranks. Queen Isolde stood amid the chaos, her armor glowing brighter with every moment. She was resolute. Indomitable. A queen wielding the power of her people’s final hope.
Weeks later, when the scattered remnants of Atlantia’s citizens emerged from the caverns, they found a city swallowed by the ocean. Of Queen Isolde, nothing remained but her golden diadem lying in the shallows, encrusted with the salt of the sea. Stories would be told for generations of the last queen who wielded the Orb and the Leviathan to protect her people. To some, she was a symbol of sacrifice, to others a reminder that even the most glorious kingdoms must one day fall.
Yet, deep in the ocean’s depths, where the serpentine Leviathan curled around ancient ruins, the Orb still pulsed faintly with life. A quiet echo of the queen who refused to fade into legend.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: White Off-the-Shoulder Top, High-Waisted Indigo Denim Jeans, and White Heels: Effortlessly Chic Urban Style
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