Five days had passed since Azelrah’s visit to Queen Tazmerah’s quarters when a formal summons arrived from the First Queen.

  In the days between, the palace had buzzed with wild rumours—most of them whispered by Bajja and overheard from the servants’ quarters. The stories were conflicting and dramatic. Some claimed Zaekharan and his soldiers had stormed the Kuretsan fortress and slaughtered every last defender. Others spoke of the king being struck by a volley of poison-tipped arrows, yet emerging unscathed, while many Drakhalori warriors had fallen around him. There were even tales of the defeated King of Kuretsen crawling to Zaekharan on bruised knees, begging for his life. In some versions, Zaekharan had spared him; in others, he had beheaded him without a word.

  But in all the rumours, Azelrah noticed one thing: not a single tale mentioned defeat. No one dared whisper that Zaekharan had lost.

  When she reached the corridor leading to Tazmerah’s private chambers, she was met by Queen Neysara. The two exchanged formal pleasantries, then walked the remaining stretch together in silence. Neysara's expression was tense, mirroring Azelrah’s own worry, though pride still gleamed in her eyes like polished steel.

  Inside, the atmosphere was far from reassuring. Tazmerah received them with a clipped nod, the weight of urgency pressing down on the room. Queen Leirica was already seated on a cushion, her delicate shoulders trembling with quiet sobs.

  Azelrah’s heart tightened at the sight. Leirica’s hand rested protectively over her swelling belly—over the unborn child she carried.

  Tazmerah began without preamble. “This afternoon, we received a message by falcon. Two nights ago, Zaekharan stormed the gates of the Kuretsen capital—fortified and long thought impenetrable—and won. It was a brutal victory. Many of our bravest warriors fell to the Kuretsenian poison.”

  She paused. The silence stretched, taut with tension.

  Azelrah’s breath caught. She knew there was more.

  Tazmerah’s voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed the strain behind it. “When Zaekharan entered the throne room of Kuretsen to claim his victory, he was attacked. Not by a blade, but by something else. A force—unseen, yet powerful—struck him and his men. As if the strength of ten elephants had slammed into them. Ten warriors were thrown like leaves in a storm. Five died instantly. Zaekharan was gravely injured. He bled heavily. He has been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since.”

  Gasps echoed in the chamber. Neysara sank down onto a cushion, stunned. Leirica’s sobs grew louder. Azelrah felt the blood drain from her face, her fingers suddenly cold. Fear sank its claws deep into her chest.

  Tazmerah continued. “He is being carried back to us in a covered litter. They should arrive by evening or nightfall.”

  No one spoke. The silence was broken only by Leirica’s soft cries. Azelrah crossed the room and knelt beside her, gently taking her trembling hands in her own. Leirica leaned into her, burying her face in Azelrah’s shoulder.

  “He will overcome,” Azelrah whispered, more a prayer than a certainty.

  Tazmerah watched the scene unfold. Her gaze lingered on Azelrah, unreadable at first—but something within it shifted, as though a decision had been made.

  “The extent of Zaekharan’s injuries will remain a secret for now,” she said at last. “Until he recovers, he will be housed in Queen Azelrah’s chambers.”

  Neysara’s head snapped up. “What?” she exclaimed. “It hasn’t even been two months since she came here. She’s just a girl. How can she possibly take care of him? I will—”

  “You will do nothing,” Tazmerah interrupted sharply. Her voice, though calm, cut like a blade. “He will be attended by the finest physicians in the realm. Queen Azelrah is the queen mentioned in prophecy. It is only natural that people would believe he wanted to spend time with her.”

  “But—”

  “The king has enemies,” Tazmerah said firmly. “Many who would rejoice to hear he is weakened. We will not give them that chance. His condition will remain known only to us. He will be kept safe, under watch, until he recovers.”

  Her gaze moved back to Azelrah. “All queens will have access to him, of course,” she added, her tone firm.

  Azelrah nodded slowly. “Of course,” she said softly, her heart still thudding with fear—and something else. An ache she couldn’t name.

  -----

  Azelrah sat quietly on a low stool near the head of the bed as the late afternoon sun filtered through the carved lattice windows of her chamber. The golden rays danced across the silken curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow that did little to lift the heaviness in her heart.

  It had been nearly two days since King Zaekharan had arrived under the cover of night, borne in an unmarked litter—silent and shrouded. The air had been thick with urgency, the faces of the bearers grim and sweat-streaked as they carried their sovereign through hidden corridors into Azelrah’s chambers.

  Waiting within had been Queen Tazmerah, Queen Leirica, and Queen Nesraya, each summoned as soon as the news reached them that the King neared the inner palace. The physicians and a few trusted ministers stood by in silence as the queens watched the battered body of the King being laid on Azelrah’s bed.

  Tazmerah, the First Queen, stood closest to the head of the bed, her face an unreadable mask—but her fingers clenched tightly over her folded hands. Her eyes raked over every gash and bruise, lips pressed into a bloodless line. When the torchlight fell on the wound at his temple, she flinched visibly for the first time. A brief, tremulous breath escaped her, and then she whispered, “May God protect the King.”

  Leirica, by contrast, looked as though the floor had been pulled from beneath her. She shrank back as the litter was opened, her hand clutching her breast. When she saw the dried blood caked into his hair and the bruises on his chest, she let out a faint, involuntary gasp. Her delicate features crumpled, and she turned slightly, covering her mouth with her scarf.

  Neysara, ever the storm, stepped forward boldly, her jaw clenched, fury burning in her eyes.

  “What ambush was this?” she hissed, her voice rising above the whispers. Her fists trembled at her sides. “Who among the Kuretsen dogs did this to him?”

  It took a gentle hand from Tazmerah on her arm to calm her.

  Azelrah had not moved from where she stood at the foot of the bed, her fists clenched at her sides. The sight of him—so proud, fierce, and strong—now lying helpless, his face drawn and slack from blood loss, struck her with more force than she’d expected. She wanted to rush forward, to take his hand, to stroke his cheek—but something held her back. Fear, perhaps. Or awe.

  Several physicians had already ridden ahead and treated him during the journey, but now a fuller examination began. There were multiple wounds on his arms and chest—bloody, raw, but not fatal. The injury to his head, however, had caused a dangerous swelling.

  The physicians conferred, their voices low and urgent. After a tense discussion, one turned toward Tazmerah and spoke with deference.

  “Your Majesty, the swelling in his skull is grave. The blood must be drained if we are to save him. We need to make an incision—tonight.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Tazmerah did not hesitate. Her voice was calm, unshaken.

  “Do your best for the King.”

  And so they worked swiftly—slicing the scalp, draining the pooled blood, cleaning the wounds, and dressing the gashes on his chest and arms. The queens watched in tense silence.

  When it was done, the physicians stepped back, their robes stained, their faces pale with fatigue. Now came the waiting.

  The next morning, a murmur stirred the chamber.

  The King opened his eyes—briefly. A flicker of light returned to his gaze.

  A ripple of relief passed through the room. Tazmerah and Neysara had maintained vigil alongside Azelrah throughout the night. They had sent a protesting Leirica to rest, asking her to care for the King’s unborn blood.

  The queens exhaled audibly for the first time in hours. Nesraya’s features softened with relief and hope. Azelrah stepped forward, heart pounding, barely able to breathe.

  But the moment was fleeting. Zaekharan groaned, clutched his head as if struck by a hammer, muttered something incoherent—and slipped back into unconsciousness.

  The physicians quickly surrounded him. Their verdict was grim: the bleeding had resumed. Another incision would be necessary.

  Azelrah had watched, numb, as they reopened the wound and drained the blood a second time. She remained at his bedside, lips pressed tight, holding back tears.

  That evening, he stirred again. His eyelids fluttered, and for a breathless moment, he was conscious.

  Tazmerah, who had been present, moved forward immediately—calm and composed. Azelrah remained rooted to her stool, her hand unconsciously resting on the edge of the bed.

  He was in pain—his features drawn tight, his skin clammy—but he smiled faintly. His eyes found Tazmerah’s first.

  “We captured the damned fort,” he whispered.

  Then, as suddenly as he had awakened, he slipped into a fevered sleep. He murmured to himself in fragments, the words slurred and indecipherable.

  The physicians, though seemed slightly relieved.

  “He is fighting. The fever may break. This is progress.”

  They had prepared a bed for Azelrah in an adjacent chamber, urging her to rest.

  But she could not. That night too, she kept vigil, refusing to leave his side—only leaving near dawn when Neysara came and insisted that she rest now.

  Now, on the third afternoon, Zaekharan stirred once more.

  His hand moved slowly to his head. A low moan escaped his lips. Azelrah rushed to his side.

  He blinked at the light, groggy and disoriented—but his gaze found her.

  “How are you, Azelrah?” he asked, his voice a faint rasp.

  She knelt beside him, her throat tight.

  “I am well, my king,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “How do you feel?”

  “Bad headache,” he muttered. Then, to her surprise, he smiled faintly.

  “I see you wanted me again,” he said.

  Azelrah smiled through tear-filled eyes.

  His expression changed.

  “Summon the First Minister… and the First Queen,” he said.

  A physician stepped forward, caution in his voice.

  “Sire, you’ve been unconscious for more than four days. Please—you must not overexert yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” he murmured, shifting as if to sit up—but even that effort sent pain shooting through him. He gasped and fell back against the pillows.

  Azelrah placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Please. Rest. You’ve only just returned to us. I will summon them. But you must lie still.”

  Zaekharan met her gaze, reading the concern in her eyes. At last, he nodded.

  The physicians moved in again to examine him. Azelrah stepped back, breathing out slowly, her body still tense.

  She called to the trusted soldiers guarding her chamber.

  “Send summons to the First Queen and the First Minister. The King wants to see them.”

  The soldier's eyes lit up with relief. The King had awoken. He straightened, thumped his chest with pride, and declared,

  "Yes, My Queen. At once, my Queen!"

  ------

  The First Queen and the First Minister arrived swiftly, their expressions taut with urgency. Tazmerah made no pretense of formality as she stepped to Zaekharan's side, gently taking his hand in hers. Her grip was firm, but her eyes shimmered with tears that she fought to suppress.

  "You had me worried this time, Zakha," she whispered, her voice husky with emotion.

  Zaekharan offered a faint smile, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the exhaustion etched across his face. "Have I ever disappointed you, my queen?" he asked.

  "Never," Tazmerah replied, but her composure broke. The tears she had so fiercely held back slipped free and traced silent paths down her cheeks.

  The First Minister, Cheyak, bowed deeply before speaking. "Congratulations on your victory, Sire."

  Zaekharan's face tightened. "It was a hard-fought one, Cheyak," he said quietly. "We lost too many brave men."

  Then his voice grew colder, the pain in his body momentarily eclipsed by fury. "The bastards had information. Someone betrayed us."

  Cheyak's expression darkened. He nodded slowly. "Apparently, my lord. We will find the traitors and peel the truth from their flesh."

  "Find them first," Tazmerah said sharply, her eyes flashing. "Whoever they are, they have blood on their hands."

  Before more could be said, the chamber doors opened again. Queen Neysara and Queen Leirica entered, their robes whispering against the stone floor. Azelrah had sent word of the king's awakening, and they had come without delay.

  Zaekharan turned his head slowly to greet them. Despite the pain lining his face, a warm smile tugged at his lips.

  "How is my heir, Queen Leirica?" he asked.

  Leirica, already in tears, stepped forward and lowered herself beside the bed. "As brave and daring as you, my king," she replied through her sobs. Her voice trembled, but there was a quiet pride in it.

  Neysara leaned in, her presence as bold and unyielding as ever. She touched his cheek, her eyes blazing with the same fire she had shown when he was first carried in, broken and bloodied. "How did the Kuretsen cowards ambush you, my king?"

  Zaekharan's gaze turned inward, clouded by the weight of fractured memories. "It is hazy," he said slowly. "One moment, I and my guards were walking into the throne hall. The next, the ground tore apart beneath us."

  He paused, his brow furrowing. "Something struck us—a force like I’ve never known. But I saw no stones, no falling rock. Or perhaps my memory fails me. All I remember is being thrown, like twigs in a storm."

  The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them.

  The chief physician stepped forward, concern etched deep into his face. "Sire, your health is still fragile. The wound on your head remains fresh. Please, I beg you—rest now."

  Zaekharan waved a hand weakly, brushing off the concern.

  "Cheyak," he said, his voice strained but resolute, "there was something different about the Kuretsenians this time. They fought with a fervor I’ve not seen before. Almost... possessed. I want this investigated."

  Cheyak bowed low. "It will be done, my lord."

  Tazmerah stepped in once more, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. Her voice gentled. "Rest now, my love. We will carry out your will. But you must heal."

  Zaekharan exhaled slowly, his strength fading once more. "Can someone give me something for this headache?" he murmured.

  At once, the physicians moved to prepare a tincture of herbs and crushed roots, a potent brew for pain. Azelrah helped steady him as he drank. Within moments, his body relaxed, the tension melting from his face.

  He drifted into sleep again—but this time, it was not a sleep of delirium. His breathing was steady, and his brow was calm.

  For the first time since his arrival, the chamber knew a sliver of peace.

  -----

  The next morning brought some colour back to King Zaekharan’s face. Though still visibly weakened, there was a faint vitality in his eyes when he awoke. The physicians were cautiously optimistic, pleased with the slow but steady signs of recovery. However, they reminded Azelrah and the others that the road to full strength was still long.

  Because of the severity of his injuries, the healers had prescribed only liquids for now. Around noon, Azelrah sat at his bedside, feeding him spoonfuls of hot, aromatic chicken broth.

  Zaekharan had chuckled softly when she brought the bowl over. “I can still use my arms, my queen,” he said.

  But Azelrah, gentle yet firm, had insisted, and he relented with an amused shake of his head. He still complained of a persistent headache, and now and then, if he turned his head too quickly, a wave of dizziness would seize him, forcing him to clutch the sheets until it passed.

  The peace of the chamber was abruptly broken by raised voices at the door.

  Azelrah stiffened, placing the bowl aside. She stood and walked to the door, opening it slightly. “Who is it?” she asked, her tone clipped and commanding. “Who dares disturb the king?”

  A soldier replied from the other side. “Pardon me, my queen. It is Prince Mirashan. He insists on seeing the king.”

  “The king is resting. Ask him to return later,” she said coldly.

  Another burst of muffled argument followed, prompting Azelrah to open the door further and step into the corridor. Mirashan stood there, clearly agitated, his face taut with emotion.

  “Forgive me, my queen,” he said. “I heard troubling rumours. I only wish to confirm the king is safe.”

  “He is recovering from the trials of war,” she replied curtly. “He needs rest, not agitation.”

  “I heard… he was gravely injured,” Mirashan persisted.

  “There were wounds. Minor, but expected in battle, Prince,” she said, her voice firm. “Let that ease your mind.”

  But Mirashan stepped forward, as if to push past her.

  “I only wish to see my brother with my own eyes.”

  Azelrah moved to block the doorway, her eyes flashing.

  Before the tension could escalate further, Zaekharan’s voice rang out from within—hoarse, but unmistakably authoritative.

  “Let Prince Mirashan come, Queen Azelrah.”

  Startled, she turned and stepped back into the chamber, leaving the door slightly ajar. Mirashan followed quickly, his eyes scanning the room until they found Zaekharan.

  Zaekharan had propped himself up on pillows, though the effort clearly cost him. His posture was regal, and his presence remained commanding despite the bandages wrapped around his head.

  “Well, my brother,” Zaekharan said, managing a faint smirk. “What urgent matter drove you to break the peace of my chamber—and my queen’s care?”

  Mirashan faltered, and Azelrah saw a flicker of something cross his face—disappointment? Regret?

  “Forgive me,” he began. “Rumours reached me… terrible ones. That you were grievously injured and recovering in Queen Azelrah’s chambers. I—”

  “On my deathbed, is that what they whispered?” Zaekharan asked dryly.

  “No, no, my king. Only that you were badly injured. I worried for your health—may you live forever.”

  Zaekharan let out a low chuckle. “No one lives forever, brother. But while we live, we must live boldly.”

  Just then, Queen Tazmerah swept into the room, breathless, her cheeks flushed. It was clear she had hurried. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, landing on Mirashan with icy displeasure.

  “Prince Mirashan,” she said, her voice cold, “the First Minister informed you earlier today when you met him - of the king’s request - to be left undisturbed for a few days under Queen Azelrah’s care. Yet here you are.”

  Mirashan stammered, “No, no... I was only moved by concern for my brother--”

  “Enough,” Zaekharan interjected wearily. “Let it go, Queen Tazmerah. He came out of worry. Are you reassured now, brother?”

  Mirashan nodded, still looking uncertain.

  “The First Minister briefed you, I presume? About the war… and the betrayal?”

  “Yes, my king,” Mirashan said. “He did.”

  “Good. Then we shall discuss it further, a week from now, at the High Council. For now, allow me some peace—with my queens.”

  Mirashan bowed deeply, offered another string of formal apologies, and departed.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Zaekharan sank back against the pillows, the colour draining from his face. Azelrah was at his side in an instant, gently adjusting the cushions to ease his posture.

  Tazmerah stepped forward. “You shouldn’t have strained yourself like that, my king.”

  Zaekharan managed a faint smile. “Was it your idea, Tazmerah, to keep my condition secret?”

  She nodded. “It was necessary. Your condition was critical… we didn’t want complications.”

  He chuckled softly, wincing at the motion. “So, word was sent that I was… spending time with my newest queen?”

  She inclined her head. “It helped contain the rumours. And it kept most people away.”

  Zaekharan looked at Azelrah, smiling softly, then turned back to Tazmerah.

  “And the Queen Mother?”

  “She was away visiting her sister,” Tazmerah sa