Azelrah’s sweat clung to her face and dripped down her spine as she sparred with the Queen’s Guard. Her muscles burned, her breath came quick, but her eyes gleamed with fire. The sword in her hand felt alive, an extension of herself. This was freedom—sweat, steel, and the sharp clarity of motion.
Captain Saneta came at her fast, wooden practice blade slicing down. Azelrah blocked with a grunt, pivoted, and countered with a low jab that made Saneta shift back on her heels.
The clack of weapons filled the training yard, blending with the rasp of leather boots on sand and the distant beat of war drums from a neighboring battalion.
Azelrah’s gaze flicked sideways—just for a moment.
Zaekharan.
He trained in the adjacent ring with his usual cadre of sparring soldiers. The day was blistering, and he’d shed his shirt. Sunlight glistened on his bronzed, sweat-slicked skin as his muscles coiled and shifted with every swing of his blade. His form was precise, brutal, beautiful. A lion in motion.
Thwack!
A sharp sting bloomed in Azelrah’s arm as Captain Saneta’s blade struck her.
She hissed under her breath. Fool, she cursed herself.
But the pain cleared her distraction. She ducked the next strike and came back hard—driving forward with renewed focus, her blade a blur of controlled aggression. Saneta gave ground, a pleased glint in her eye.
Just then, a familiar voice rang out across the yard.
“Greetings, my king, my queen!”
She paused mid-strike, raising a hand to Saneta. Riyan strode across the practice ground, clad in riding leathers, a short gray cloak slung over one shoulder.
Azelrah offered a nod of acknowledgment and turned back to her sparring partner. “Another round, after this?”
Saneta smirked. “Try not to get distracted this time, Your Majesty.”
Azelrah chuckled and stepped aside. She had grown fond of Captain Saneta in recent weeks—the woman’s sharp blade was only rivaled by her sharper tongue.
Riyan had already reached Zaekharan, and the two men clasped forearms with genuine warmth.
“You don’t seem to find time to practice anymore,” Zaekharan said, slightly breathless from exertion.
“You keep me busy, my king,” Riyan replied with a grin.
Zaekharan motioned for a towel and wiped his face. “So what brings you here?”
“I bring news that couldn’t wait,” Riyan said. “A messenger is on the road from Zaryanthor—he should reach you by dawn.”
Zaekharan raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“King Mahrevan has agreed to your proposal,” Riyan said plainly. “He consents to the marriage of his daughter to Prince Mirashan.”
Zaekharan nodded slowly, satisfied. “Good. I thought he would.”
“There’s a condition,” Riyan added. “Mahrevan asks that Mirashan be given a post of influence. Something worthy of a royal son-in-law.”
Zaekharan’s expression darkened slightly. “He is already a prince of Drakhalor—my brother. Is that not high enough?”
“Title without power is a shadow,” Riyan said. “Mahrevan wants more than ceremony. He wants something with real weight."
Zaekharan snorted, rubbing his jaw. “Let me think on it.”
He tossed the towel aside and picked up his practice sword again. “Come. Spar with me.”
“I beg your forgiveness, sire,” Riyan said with a small bow. “I’ve a meeting I must rush to.”
Zaekharan laughed. “Is it a beautiful woman?”
Riyan laughed back. “I wish, sire. Just an old man who feeds me secrets.”
Zaekharan grunted, disappointed. “Fine. Off you go, spymaster.”
Riyan offered a respectful nod and walked off across the yard.
Azelrah watched him go, then turned her eyes back to Zaekharan. He was back in his stance, blade raised—but his mind was elsewhere. His eyes were narrowed in thought, jaw tight.
Azelrah didn’t need to ask. She knew that look.
The king was weighing something.
She turned back to Saneta. “Come. Let’s start again.”
------------------
Azelrah lay sprawled across Zaekharan’s chest, her bare skin slick with sweat, her breath warm against his collarbone. The last tremors of pleasure still lingered in her limbs, her thighs sticky where they clung to his.
For a long moment, she was content to simply listen to the slow thud of his heart beneath her ear. Her fingers moved lazily across his chest, tracing the curve of a scar, then the swell of a muscle.
Zaekharan stroked the back of her neck, rough thumb against her damp skin, until she tilted her head to look at him.
“So,” she murmured, “what have you decided about Prince Mirashan?”
“I’ve a few ideas,” he replied, his voice low. “I’ll put them to the High Council tomorrow.”
“What does Queen Tazmerah say?”
Zaekharan gave a soft laugh. “That queen of mine guards me like a wildcat. She has strong opinions on everything.”
“She speaks wisely,” Azelrah said. “You should give her counsel weight.”
Zaekharan’s smile faded, and a furrow appeared between his brows. “She’s too ill to attend the council tomorrow. The bleeding hasn’t stopped in days. She’s grown weak.”
“I visited her chambers yesterday,” Azelrah said quietly. “Her body may be failing, but her spirit isn’t. She’ll recover.”
Zaekharan didn’t answer right away. His brow creased with thought. Azelrah leaned in and kissed it, then his cheek, and finally his mouth—soft, unhurried, and full of warmth.
Beneath her thigh, she felt the faint stir of his manhood against her skin.
A sly smile curved her lips.
She began trailing her fingers across his chest, light as silk, spiraling toward his nipples. When she flicked one gently with her nail, she felt him stiffen further beneath her.
She glanced up at him with mischief in her eyes. “Again?” she whispered.
He arched a brow, amused. “You want a second joust already?”
She shifted, letting her thigh press more firmly against him. “Your sword doesn’t seem to be asleep.”
"My sword may need a bit of oiling, if you expect it to rise again so soon.”he said, lips brushing hers
Azelrah chuckled, and slowly slid her hand beneath the sheets. She wrapped her fingers around his manhood—warm, thick, still soft but responding quickly to her touch. She began to stroke, slowly, watching his face.
As he stiffened in her palm, Azelrah dipped her head and let her lips trail down his chest, her mouth brushing the hard line of muscle, then pausing at his nipple. She circled it with her tongue, smiling when his breath caught in his throat.
He shifted, reaching for her hips, ready to pull her beneath him.
“Shh,” she murmured against his skin. “Let me tend to your weapon properly.”
Zaekharan groaned low in his throat as her mouth slid lower, her hair spilling across his stomach like a silken veil.
Outside the chamber, the torchlight flickered.
And before long, soft gasps and the sighs of feminine pleasure echoed faintly from behind the closed doors of the queen’s wing.
------------------
A knock came at Azelrah’s chamber door. Bajja rose from her seat beside the young queen, who was still finishing her breakfast, and went to answer it. A maid stepped inside—young, wide-eyed, and familiar. Azelrah recognized her at once as one of Queen Tazmerah’s personal attendants.
“Queen Azelrah,” the girl said with a respectful bow, “First Queen Tazmerah requests your presence in her chambers.”
Azelrah pushed her plate aside and rose to her feet. “Tell her I’ll come shortly,” she said, then paused. “Is she any better today?”
The maid hesitated. “Still very weak, Your Majesty… but the bleeding has lessened.”
Azelrah nodded with quiet concern, and the maid bowed again before taking her leave.
As the door clicked shut, Azelrah began to dress, her thoughts already turning toward Tazmerah’s condition.
Behind her, Bajja’s voice rose from the table, where she was gathering the remains of breakfast. “At least finish your meal, child.”
“You’ve already fed me to bursting,” Azelrah groaned, placing a hand on her belly with theatrical flair. “There’s no room left. Not even for a fig.”
Bajja raised an eyebrow. “You’ll need strength for what might be growing in there soon.”
Azelrah snorted. “We’ll worry about that when it actually happens.”
But Bajja wasn’t finished. “You fill yourself with his seed like you’re planting spring crops. It’s bound to take root. But if you want those roots to grow strong, stop waving swords in the yard—and don’t even think about horse riding.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Azelrah laughed, her eyes bright with amusement. “Stop it, Bajja. You’ll have me locked in a tower next.”
She slipped on her outer robe and swept out the door.
---------------------
Queen Tazmerah looked even frailer than she had two days earlier. Her cheeks had hollowed further, her skin clinging to the fine bones of her face, almost translucent in the morning light.
Azelrah's heart tightened at the sight.
But Tazmerah smiled when she saw her approach. “Help me sit up,” she said, her voice thin but steady.
Her maid moved to adjust the pillows behind her, and Azelrah stepped in to gently support her upright until the queen was resting more comfortably.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Queen Azelrah,” Tazmerah said. “You remind me so much of myself… when I was your age.”
Azelrah returned her smile warmly. “I hope you recover your strength soon. King Zaekharan needs you.”
“I do not know how long I can stand beside him,” Tazmerah said softly. Her gaze drifted for a moment—then refocused. “I won’t be able to attend today’s High Council meeting. My body won’t allow it. So I’ve asked Zaekharan to let you sit in my place—as my nominee.”
Azelrah blinked, stunned. “Me? But… I can’t. That’s not possible.”
“Why not?” Tazmerah asked calmly. “I hold a seat. And I’m authorizing you to take it on my behalf.”
“But I’m young,” Azelrah said quietly. “Inexperienced. The Council won’t—”
“You are Queen of Drakhalor,” Tazmerah cut in. “And—part of prophecy. Do not doubt yourself.”
Azelrah hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.
“Go,” Tazmerah said firmly, her voice gaining strength. “Watch and listen. Speak when you must.”
Azelrah drew in a slow breath and nodded, though the unease hadn’t fully left her. Doubts still lingered—about how the others on the High Council would react.
“I’ll go this time,” she said softly. “But next time, you must attend. You must get better.”
Tazmerah’s smile was faint, but not without hope. “Let’s hope so, my dear Azelrah.”
----------------------
Azelrah walked through unfamiliar stone corridors, each step echoing beneath vaulted ceilings. These were older parts of the citadel, steeped in the scent of damp mortar and long-held power. She followed the path Queen Tazmerah had described, her pace slow, her steps a little unsure.
Two of King Zaekharan’s personal guards flanked a broad wooden door ahead. At her approach, they straightened and stepped aside without a word.
Inside, the air was cooler. She found Zaekharan standing near an arched window, arms crossed, gaze distant. A round table dominated the center of the chamber. Seated around it were First Minister Cheyak, Captain-General Leghazi, Minister of Coin Rasthar, Riyan, and Prince Mirashan.
At the sound of her footsteps, all heads turned.
There was a moment of startled silence. Surprise flickered across most faces—curiosity on some, faint disapproval on others.
Zaekharan spoke before anyone else could. “Queen Azelrah is here as Queen Tazmerah’s nominee. The First Queen is too unwell to attend today’s meeting.”
Some council members looked ready to speak—whether in objection or welcome, Azelrah couldn’t tell—because Zaekharan’s next words came hard and final.
“I have permitted Queen Azelrah to attend in her stead.”
That ended it.
Murmurs of polite assent followed.
“We welcome the prophesied queen,” Mirashan said with oily deference, and the others echoed him in turn.
Azelrah took the empty seat beside Cheyak and folded her hands, watching silently as the council resumed.
Cheyak rose and unfurled a parchment. “A letter from King Mahrevan of Zaryanthor, formally accepting His Majesty’s proposal for the marriage alliance.”
The announcement was met with scattered nods and quiet approval. But when Cheyak read out Mahrevan’s condition—that Prince Mirashan be granted a suitable post of authority—silence fell like a curtain.
Zaekharan looked around the table. “Suggestions?”
Rasthar, the Minister of Coin, spoke first. “I humbly propose that Prince Mirashan be declared Crown Prince, sire. It is a fitting gesture—and should satisfy King Mahrevan.”
Cheyak’s expression darkened. He responded sharply, “And if Queen Leirica bears the King a son? Do we replace the Crown Prince again?”
Rasthar raised his hands in placation. “Of course, when that child comes of age, he could be appointed then. But until such a time, naming an heir would offer stability.”
Cheyak looked ready to respond, but Mirashan stood first—his tone grand and noble.
“Rasthar, how can you speak such blasphemy? Our king—my brother—has many long and glorious years ahead. There is no need for such formal declarations.”
He turned to the table, hand to his chest. “Let this council note—I, Mirashan, son of Brakhalav, oppose this suggestion. Long live the King.”
The table echoed with voices: “Long live the King!”
Rasthar bowed his head. “Forgive me, sire. My words were only in response to King Mahrevan’s request. I pray your reign lasts a thousand years.”
Zaekharan’s tone was even. “It is all right, Rasthar. The council is a place for open discussion.”
Rasthar inclined his head. “If the King prefers, I could resign from my post and allow Prince Mirashan to take it. I’m sure others here would be willing to do the same.”
Captain-General Leghazi stood. “If His Majesty commands it, I will step down. The prince could lead the army. I would serve under him.”
Azelrah glanced at Mirashan. His expression was calm, but his eyes gleamed with ambition.
She saw the game now—Rasthar was maneuvering the council to offer Mirashan a position of real power.
Then Riyan stood.
“There’s no need for anyone to step down,” he said calmly. “We have an urgent and vital vacancy—the governorship of Kuretsen.”
Murmurs rose around the table.
“Kuretsen is our threshold to the west,” Riyan continued. “It must become a bastion—our first line of defense. We need a strong leader there, someone capable of overseeing its growth and securing it against what lies beyond. Our Warden Of The Western Reach"
The title has a nice sound to it, Azelrah thought. The murmurs turned to murmurs of approval.
Azelrah looked again at Mirashan. His eyes no longer gleamed.
Riyan had played his hand—and perhaps the move had been planned all along.
Cheyak stood. “An excellent suggestion. I second it. We need a seasoned warrior to anchor Kuretsen. The title Warden Of The Western Reach carries both weight and responsibility.”
Heads nodded in agreement—save for Mirashan, who sat very still.
Zaekharan nodded once. “It’s decided. Prince Mirashan will take charge of Kuretsen and the development of our new garrison.”
He turned to his brother. “You have a vital task ahead, Mirashan. Kuretsen is our gate—our shield against the West.”
Mirashan rose solemnly, masking his disappointment well. “I will serve with honor, my king. For Drakhalor.”
The others echoed: “For Drakhalor.”
Zaekharan looked to Cheyak. “Inform King Mahrevan of our decision. Ask him to propose a wedding date—perhaps in a fortnight.”
With that, the matter was closed.
They moved on.
Zaekharan brought up a complaint heard in court: dry canals, thirsty villages.
“It’s the heat,” Rasthar said. “The rains are delayed. A few showers in the mountains will solve it.”
Zaekharan’s gaze sharpened. “And if they don’t come? Should I send the thirsty villagers to your mansion?”
Rasthar flinched. “Desilting and deepening the canals should help, sire. I’ll see it done.”
“Good,” Zaekharan said. “See that you do.”
He turned to Cheyak. “And the cult in Kuretsen? Have you found their leader?”
Cheyak shook his head. “Still out of reach. We’ve captured several followers. They believe he’s fled into the western marshes.”
“And the weapon I was attacked with?”
Riyan spoke. “Its origins remain unclear, sire. The cult followers claim it was magical—wielded by their leader, the Sage.”
“Magic?” Mirashan scoffed.
Zaekharan’s expression was skeptical.
“I only report what we’ve gathered,” Riyan said. "They say the Sage had strange powers. That he is a descendant of the Mystics.
“Outrageous. Peasant superstition. The evil Mystics were wiped out by the great King Lufarich two thousand years ago. Each and every one of them,” Mirashan retorted.
Zaekharan’s tone turned sharp. “Whether a rumour or superstition—I want answers. If this Sage possesses a weapon of power, I want it found. Before our enemies get it.”
"Understood, sire", Cheyak said."You'll have answers soon, my king", Riyan added.
The meeting drew to a close after a brief discussion on a few remaining matters.
The council rose to depart.
Zaekharan gestured for Riyan to stay, and Azelrah lingered as well.
“What’s this about magic, sorcery and Mystics?” Zaekharan asked, once they were alone. “You didn’t brief me before.”
“I received the report just this morning,” Riyan said. “The followers speak of their leader as if he’s more than a man. They claim he is a Mystic. Some claim even minor magic lies with a few disciples.”
Zaekharan scoffed. “We’ll see. Go to Kuretsen. Oversee the investigation yourself. Find the truth—and find that weapon. Before Mirashan arrives in Kuretsen”
Riyan nodded. “It will be done, my king.”
Zaekharan turned to Azelrah. “How did you find your first council meeting? You didn’t speak at all today."
“I watched,” she said softly. “I listened.”
“And what do you think of our new Warden Of The Western Reach?”
A faint smile curved her lips. “He’s been placed far from the capital. A border post. Queen Tazmerah would approve.”
Zaekharan laughed softly.
But Azelrah’s thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
Something felt unsettled. She couldn’t name it—but she knew.
Something had shifted in the room today. A thread quietly tugged, a stone set rolling.
And the feeling stayed with her.
--------------
The jungle had begun to rot around them.
For eight grueling days, Captain Pasgar Selmor’s company—the third of twenty units—had slogged its way through the fetid marshlands that sprawled beyond the coastal outpost of Chapana. There were no wagons, no horses. They had traveled light, carrying only powder, weapons, and rations.
The land here felt alive—not like a forest, but with a wet, clinging hostility that seemed to resent their presence. Every step was treacherous. The ground squelched and shifted beneath their boots, and the deeper they moved inland, the more it felt as if the marshes themselves were trying to drag them under.
Strange insects droned in thick clouds, biting viciously. One soldier had stepped into what looked like shallow water—and never surfaced. Two others had fallen ill; one burned with fever beneath a damp blanket, and two had already died.
The men under Pasgar's command moved in silence now. The stink of mud and sickness clung to their uniforms. Morale thinned like old cloth left too long in the sun—fraying, fragile, and close to tearing.
Each unit in the expedition had been assigned two native guides—silent men with painted faces and wary eyes. They walked slightly ahead, rarely speaking unless addressed. One of Pasgar’s scouts, a wiry soldier named Bastian who spoke a scrap of the local dialect, had offered what little insight he could.
“They call us ghosts, sir,” Bastian had muttered one night. “Or maybe gods. I’m not sure. They don’t understand the muskets. Fire-spears, they call them. They’re terrified.”
Pasgar had merely grunted, oiling the mechanism of his musket by firelight.
He preferred fear to curiosity. Out here, awe was a kind of armor.
On the sixth day, while navigating a deeper patch of swamp, a crocodile had taken one of the native guides in a single snap of its jaws.
The other guide had bolted, shouting something unintelligible before vanishing into the undergrowth. Bastian had translated the gist later: “Bad omens.”
From that point on, they’d been alone—following rough, hand-drawn maps, tracking by sun and instinct, hacking their own path forward. Pasgar suspected they’d drifted off the trail the other companies had taken. But he hoped to rejoin them before the base of the mountain pass, where all twenty units were to gather before beginning the treacherous ascent.
On the morning of the ninth day, the marsh began to change.
Without warning, the swampy ground began to rise and harden. The buzzing of insects thinned. Reeds gave way to thick-trunked trees, and the air—though still heavy—no longer reeked of decay.
A shout went up.
“Captain! I’m climbing for a look!”
A young soldier—Ferrin—was already halfway up a towering tree before Pasgar could answer. The others looked up, shielding their eyes as he scaled the canopy.
Moments later, his voice rang down from above.
“I see them, sir! The mountains! Snow-topped!”
A ripple of murmured relief moved through the ranks. Spines straightened. Shoulders eased. A breath passed through the company.
Ferrin scrambled down, a gash on his arm and sweat streaming down his neck.
Pasgar met him with a curt nod. “How far?”
The boy wiped his brow. “Two days. Three at most, sir.”
Pasgar looked ahead into the forest, where shafts of light pierced the canopy like spears. Somewhere beyond those trees rose the jagged wall that barred them from the inland kingdoms—the ones rumoured to be rich in gold and treasures.
He said nothing. Only raised his hand.
And without a drumbeat, the third unit of General Cuperanz’s great venture marched on—toward what the natives called the Spine of the World.
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That is the end of Chapter 13. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Thankyou
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> ? Mars Red, 2025. All rights reserved.
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