She didn’t want to marry any of the kings who came to the palace from far and wide to ask her father for her hand. They were all old, many of them fat and smelly, and the way they ogled her as they sized up their future prize made Jezzen’s stomach feel heavy and full of jagged stones.
And Father didn’t care that they were yucky; all he cared about was the future, his kingdom, the power and prestige he would win by marrying her off to the highest bidder. It was the price she paid, he said, for being born a daughter instead of a son.
So she summoned one of the ancients the way she’d seen Master Renthlor do a hundred times as she spied on him from the eyes of the painting overlooking his private study.
The Ancient promised she would never have to marry anyone unless she wanted to, and it swore to make her queen as long as she fed it the souls of all who displeased her.
So, she started with Father. He loved her so much more now that he was dead, which made her sad, but it was better that way. And she was safe from the wretched old men who would do terrifying things to her in the name of power and prestige.