Captain Pasgar Selmor surveyed the approaching coastline from the deck of his ship. The garrison post of Chapana squatted like a scar on the shore—low, sun-bleached barracks of stone and timber, ringed by a crude palisade of sharpened stakes. Banners bearing the imperial eagle of Andrasia fluttered limply in the humid air. Beyond the walls, the jungle loomed—green, wet, and seething.
Captain Pasgar Selmor had left his town of Villete more than three months ago. He still remembered the heat clinging to the docks—the stink of tar, sweat, and fear—and the sound of bells tolling from the Temple of Mount Santo as the ships pushed off into the Dalrick River.
He had been chasing glory. Some of his men were chasing land. Some, gold. Others were simply running—from debts, disgrace, or the weight of a life gone stale.
His fleet had been a makeshift flotilla: a handful of swift Varnaks and one lumbering Gorvalon, heavy with gunpowder, muskets, pikes, barrels of salted meat, and men—boys too young to shave and others too old to dream. The sea beyond the port of Zircan had opened before them like a cracked mirror beneath the heavens.
Pasgar had known, even then, that he would likely never see Villete again—not the whitewashed walls of its outer quarter, nor the silver-leafed olive groves, nor the pale face of the wife he’d left behind with promises he never truly believed he’d keep.
The journey across the Atracana Ocean had been a trial of endurance, faith, and slow-burning madness. They had stopped at the Mongor Islands after ten days to restock water and food.
As they left the Mongor Islands, storms nearly broke them. Lightning split the night like a god’s whip. The sails tore like parchment. A mast cracked in two on the Virenza, and still they pressed on.
Weeks bled into months. The rations rotted in the holds. Water turned foul with brine and mold. Sickness swept through the decks. They buried their dead at sea—wrapped in canvas, marked with whispered prayers, and slid into the waves with stones tied to their feet.
Sudic winds carried them far south before slingshotting them east—into the unknown.
They made landfall nearly eight weeks after leaving the Mongor Islands, at Andriola—that cursed jewel island on the edge of the new world, where sugarcane and bones rose from the same blood-soaked soil. There, they resupplied, rested, drank, and lay with painted whores who whispered in strange accents and laughed too easily.
Andriola, in just twenty years since its discovery by Sir Ander Alemras, had grown into a bustling colonial outpost of twenty thousand Andrasians—traders, explorers, mercenaries, and soldiers.
Andriola was to serve as the base for the ambitious General Cuperanz's eastern conquests.
From Andriola, Pasgar had sailed eastward again for a week—to Chapana, the military outpost on the coast of the new world, which the Emperor had named New Andrasia. Beyond it, there were no charts. No harbors. Just an unbroken green wilderness of choking vines, insect swarms, and marshes—until suddenly, the land was broken by snow-clad mountains.
And beyond those mountains lay the great unknown.
It was rumored that General Cuperanz had already sent scouts—explorers, spies, and native guides—cutting through the fever-ridden jungle and across the mountain pass to reach what lay beyond: a vast continent, said to be filled with kingdoms rich in gold, emeralds, and timber, as per the tales told by the primitive tribes on this side of the range.
Kingdoms likely ruled by chieftains and tribal lords.
A land waiting to be claimed in the name of Emperor Zaccarus.
In his heart, Pasgar felt a grim pride. He was one of the first—one of the Victarios, as the Emperor had named them.
Heralds of a new age.
Conquerors.
Civilizers.
-----
Captain Pasgar Selmor stepped off the gangplank and into a world that smelled of smoke, salt, and rot. His boots sank into the churned mud of the docks, and flies buzzed around the sweating soldiers unloading crates of muskets and powder.
A junior officer in a stained white uniform greeted him with a salute and a raspy voice.
“Captain Selmor? Welcome to Chapana. Your quarters are this way.”
Pasgar followed him uphill, past sun-scorched parade grounds and rows of rough barracks. His room was a narrow one—wooden walls, thatched roof, a cot, and a pitcher of cloudy water.
Captain Selmor had barely rinsed the salt from his skin when the knock came.
The door creaked open as a junior officer stepped in with a salute.
“The General will see you now, sir.”
Pasgar sighed. “Of course he will.”
Three months at sea, a stop in Andriola, and now this—called for before he could even shave.
Moments later, still damp and hastily buttoned into his uniform, he stepped out into the heat.
General Cuperanz's working quarters were in a wooden building with canvas shades drawn low against the stifling air. Sentries outside snapped to attention as he entered.
The general stood at a wide table in the center of the room, hunched over a parchment map. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face carved with hard lines and sun-darkened creases. A trimmed iron-grey beard framed his stern mouth. His uniform was sweat-stained at the collar, his boots caked with red clay.
“Captain Selmor,” he said, looking up. “You made good time from Andriola. Sit.”
Pasgar saluted crisply, then lowered himself into a rough wooden chair.
“The winds were favorable, sir,” he replied.
Cuperanz rolled up the scroll he’d been studying and pushed aside a scattering of other maps—most incomplete, water-stained, and hastily marked with smudged charcoal trails.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“You took your time getting to Andriola, though. And you lost men.”
“The Sudic winds turned on us for a spell,” Pasgar answered. “We were blown off course near the Mongor Isles. Had to bury men at sea.”
The general nodded without sympathy.
“We begin in four days,” he said. “First companies depart at dawn. Sixty men per unit, staggered across the trail. 20 units. We move light—powder, rations, machetes, steel. No wagons. Horses won’t make it through the marshes.”
Pasgar nodded grimly. “And the guides?”
“We’ve hired natives from the Lassan tribes. They’ll take us through the jungle—up to the mountains. They refuse to cross the pass.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “Say it’s sacred. Forbidden. But they speak of what lies beyond—gold, silver, cities.”
He unrolled a hand-drawn map, crude and fraying at the corners.
“This here,” he said, tracing a jagged line with his finger, “is the route. Marshes for the first ten leagues—thick with insects, leeches, and rot. Then deep jungle—vines thick enough to throttle oxen. After that, we climb.”
His finger reached a jagged sketch of ridges. “There’s a mountain pass. Narrow. Steep. The scouts call it the Throat of the World. And beyond that…”
He paused, resting his hand over a blank expanse.
“…We don’t know. But we’ve seen smoke—distant plumes, rising in columns. Signals, perhaps. One of my forward scouts claimed he spotted a city from the ridge through his looking glass. Domed rooftops. Golden spires .”
Pasgar raised a skeptical brow. “You believe him?”
Cuperanz shrugged. “He’s dead now. Bitten by a striped serpent the Lassan call Vusakka. Died foaming at the mouth. But yes—I believe what he saw. Too detailed for delirium.”
He stepped back from the table and folded his arms.
“You’ll command the third unit. You march behind the second wave. If we lose contact with the lead scouts, you push forward. No delays. No backtracking. I want boots on the other side of that pass before the season turns.”
Pasgar’s jaw tightened. “And once we reach these lands—what then?”
Cuperanz’s eyes gleamed, catching the candlelight like polished steel.
“Then, Captain… we plant the flag.”
He gestured toward the door.
“Rest now. You may not get the chance for a long time.”
---------
Azelrah observed the faces around the banquet table, her eyes flicking from one figure to the next beneath lowered lashes. The long table gleamed with polished silver, crystal goblets, and trays of roasted meat and spiced fruits. The room flickered with firelight, laughter, and the muted clink of goblets being refilled.
She sat near the far end, at the lower tier of queens beside Queen Leirica and Queen Neysara. Queen Tazmerah, as always, held the place of honor to Zaekharan’s left. Azelrah’s seat, though ornate, was a quieter one—appropriate for the youngest and most recent wife.
To the king’s right sat King Mahrevan, stately and smiling, with King Sarvahn beside him, and then Prince Mirashan. The high ministers and generals flanked the other side: First Minister Cheyak, Riyan, and a handful of lesser nobles. Beside Azelrah sat Prince Cirian, whose lips were tight in a perpetual frown.
The formal treaty had been signed that morning—accompanied by pompous declarations and ritual bows. Sarvahn had delivered a carefully neutral address, and Mahrevan had spoken of “the winds of unity.” Politically, it was a triumph.
Tonight’s banquet was meant to be a celebration before Mahrevan and his son returned to Zaryanthor the next day.
The scent of roasted meats and rose-oil hung heavy in the air as the room quieted for the entrance of Kaemyra, the famed danseuse of Drakhalor. She stepped into the firelight with the slow grace of a serpent, her silken costume a sheer web of crimson and gold that left little to the imagination—bare shoulders, a low drape at the hips, a jewel resting above her navel.
All along the table, eyes turned. Men leaned forward. Zaekharan, too, was watching—his gaze fixed, his goblet forgotten in his hand.
Azelrah looked away, a hint of something tightening in her face.
Cirian spoke suddenly, breaking the silence between them. “I never thought I’d see you like this.”
She turned to him. “Like what?”
“Like a jealous wife,” he said, grinning as he gestured subtly between her and Zaekharan, and the king’s obvious attention on Kaemyra.
Azelrah’s back stiffened. “Nonsense,” she replied too quickly, then added with a smirk, “I thought you’d forgotten our childhood duels—me besting you.”
“I don’t recall losing,” Cirian said lightly, though a note of melancholy crept into his voice. “Those were good days.”
His tone shifted. “But you’ve changed, Azelrah. You’ve become a proper Drakhalori queen now. Prophesied and all.”
Then, more pointedly: “Tell me, do you actually believe in this prophecy? This supposed threat from the west?”
Azelrah met his gaze. “I didn’t,” she said. “But I do now.”
Cirian gave a short, bitter laugh. “Because you’re his lovestruck queen? Or because it flatters you to be part of a destiny?”
A flicker of heat touched Azelrah’s face, but she held her voice steady. “Because I believe it to be true.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice edged with anger. “Oh, you believe, do you? And what has Zaekharan done to counter this oh-so-ominous threat from the west? Why hasn’t he sent his soldiers to scour the marshes, to climb those snow-clad mountains, and conquer whatever lies beyond them? Or is it all just a convenient myth—a stick to scare us and a leash to pull us into his cause—his empire—while stripping away our independence?”
Azelrah’s lips parted with a retort, but she was cut off by the sound of applause.
Kaemyra was bowing low, her curves glistening in the firelight, her dance complete. The men cheered and clapped, some standing to show their appreciation.
Azelrah turned back, hiding her anger beneath a carefully arranged smile.
Then, Prince Mirashan rose. A hush fell over the table. Riyan shifted, his eyes narrowing, but Zaekharan gave a subtle motion of dismissal.
“I, as the First Prince and brother to King Zaekharan,” Mirashan said, his voice ringing clear, “raise a toast to our honored guest, King Mahrevan. May this bond of friendship grow stronger with each passing season.”
The hall echoed with raised goblets and murmured assent. Even Cirian, after a pause, lifted his cup—though his expression remained tight with reluctance.
He made no further conversation with Azelrah that evening.
--------
Azelrah’s gasps echoed through the dim chamber, mingling with the soft creak of the bed as she rode Zaekharan with slow, unrelenting purpose. Her fingers gripped his chest, nails grazing skin as pleasure built to a fever pitch. Beneath her, the king groaned, his breath growing ragged as he matched her rhythm, his hands firm on her hips.
When he spilled into her at last, the sound he made was low and guttural—a raw mirror of the cry Azelrah let out as her own climax crested.
Later, she lay draped across his body, her bare breasts pressed to the hard planes of his chest, her breath still coming in slow waves of exhaustion and lingering delight. His hand idly traced the slope of her back.
It was a long while before he spoke.
“You were arguing with Prince Cirian at the banquet tonight.”
Azelrah made a small sound of acknowledgment, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
“He baited me,” she said quietly. “With talk of the prophecy. Accused us of using it to manipulate Zaryanthor and the other kingdoms into an alliance.”
Zaekharan hummed.
She continued, “He asked why you haven’t sent soldiers west—into the marshes, over the mountains, and beyond—to conquer whatever lies there.”
She watched his face closely.
Zaekharan exhaled through his nose, his voice low and firm. “Because only fools charge into legend with blindfolds on.”
Then he elaborated, his tone more measured. “We’ve already established checkposts up to the base of the mountains. They send signals—light and smoke—and relay messages back to Drakhalor. But those mountains are sacred to the tribes living in the western waste. They don’t cross them—not from either side. Those who do face harsh punishment from their elders. Something about an ancient curse and a sacred oath.”
He paused, his tone resolute. “I’d be a fool to send an army in there now. My enemies would march on me here while my forces are stranded in that wilderness. No. We wait, we watch, and we prepare.”
Azelrah nodded and rubbed his chest. “Cirian’s changed. I knew him when he was a boy. We used to spar—he and I—whenever Mahrevan visited Zhanoura. We were friends, of a sort.”
She turned her face up toward Zaekharan.
“I know,” he said simply.
Azelrah’s brows rose in surprise.
Zaekharan chuckled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “It is a king’s duty to know everything, my lovely queen.”
She gave a soft snort and sat up, reaching for a shallow bowl on the nearby table. She took a sip of the green liquid inside and sighed.
Zaekharan raised a brow. “What’s that? Are you unwell?”
Azelrah laughed lightly. “No. It’s a tonic to strengthen the womb—for conceiving, you see, to fulfill the prophecy. Queen Tazmerah sends it regularly.”
“Ah,” he said, a note of wry amusement in his voice. “So you’re convinced the prophecy means we’re to have a child?”
“Yes. The heir to continue the fight. What else could it mean?” she asked, lifting her shoulders in a shrug.
He gave her a thoughtful look. “I’m not sure.” He gestured at the bowl. “Has it worked?”
“Not yet,” she said, then smiled faintly. “…but perhaps soon.”
“I think it’s already working,” he said, grinning and reaching to touch her breast. “They’re definitely bigger than the first time I saw them.”
“You—!” she gasped and gave him a playful shove to the chest.
He groaned dramatically. “Oof. I’m wounded!”
She narrowed her eyes. “Go to Kaemyra, then. She has enormous ones.”
Zaekharan laughed. “She has other talents too.”
This time, her punch landed harder.
He caught her wrist, still laughing. “That really hurt.”
She rolled her eyes, then laid her head back on his chest. Her voice turned serious.
“You should have accepted King Mahrevan’s proposal for his daughter—Princess Shantille. It would have made you even stronger. Politically.”
Zaekharan looked at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “Yes. So they say. And she’s supposed to be very beautiful too. And well-endowed, I hear—ow!”
She’d punched him again.
He laughed, but the mirth faded as he looked down at her. “I did what I felt was right, Azelrah. Destiny doesn’t always come wearing crowns and alliances. Everyone says it was a mistake. But no. I don’t think so.”
His voice was quiet, firm.
Azelrah looked up at him, her eyes soft. She kissed him, just once, lightly, and then rested her head against him again.
Something stirred in her chest—a quiet churn of emotion, impossible to name. A sense that something had shifted. That something was coming. She didn’t know what.
But she felt it.
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That is the end of Chapter 12. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Drop a like if you find it interesting. Thankyou
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