The Great Hall of Drakhalor was ablaze with firelight and festivity.

  Crystal lamps hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting golden reflections across the polished marble floors. Silken banners in the red and black of the royal house fluttered gently from the upper galleries. The scent of rosewater mingled with roasted meats and saffron rice, rising from platters borne by white-robed attendants. Musicians plucked at lutes and zithers in a corner alcove, weaving a steady stream of melody beneath the clamor of celebration.

  Queen Azelrah sat at the high table beside Queen Leirica and Queen Neysara, her posture composed and regal, a goblet of pomegranate wine cradled in her hands. She wore a gown of pale gold, embroidered with silver thread and tiny seed pearls. Her hair had been left partly loose—a cascade of ink-black waves that brushed her shoulders beneath the sheer ceremonial scarf draped over them.

  The banquet had been declared in honor of Prince Mirashan and his new wife, Princess Shantille of Zaryanthor—who now sat beside him at the center of the table, along with King Zaekharan and the ailing Queen Tazmerah, who had insisted on attending.

  The wedding had taken place six days earlier in Zaryanthor’s capital—a glittering ceremony attended by King Zaekharan, Queen Neysara, and Azelrah herself. Leirica had been too close to her term to travel, and Queen Tazmerah’s illness had kept her behind, though she had sent royal blessings and a jeweled box of gifts.

  Azelrah’s gaze drifted toward the new bride. Shantille was laughing softly at something Mirashan had said, her voice melodic, her face painted in the style of the Cenrauli courts. She looked radiant—her crimson dress hugged her perfect curves, accentuating her beauty. The picture of a royal bride.

  The comparison was inevitable.

  Azelrah remembered her own wedding morning with cold clarity—the suddenness, the borrowed robes of her elder sister Zahara, the hush in the air that had come not from reverence, but from unease. Beneath it all, the hard truth of duty and politics.

  The memory of their journey to Zaryanthor returned unbidden.

  They had traveled down the Sokima River in royal barges—Azelrah’s first extended voyage by boat. The journey had taken them four full days. Two Zaimas—long, flat-bottomed boats with high-curved prows and canopies of silk and thatch—carried the royals in luxury. The interiors were fitted with plush cushions, carved inlays, and curtains embroidered in gold thread. Alongside them rowed a dozen Siprans—smaller escort vessels filled with guards, officials, servants, provisions, and the horses needed once ashore.

  She had expected nausea, but the river had been kind to her.

  Not so for Queen Neysara.

  For the first two days, Neysara had barely left her chamber, cursing the motion and vomiting into fine silk basins. In contrast, Zaekharan had lounged beneath a crimson canopy, dressed in a loose white tunic, laughing with his officials and sipping chilled wine while his pennant snapped overhead.

  Each evening, they made camp on the riverbanks. Tents of red and cream were raised in perfect symmetry, musicians played under torchlight, and the king dined beneath the stars. Guards patrolled the perimeter while the boats lay quiet and tethered. That was when Zaekharan would enter the tent of whichever queen he favored that night. He had shown no particular preference—his nights were evenly divided. But Azelrah remembered what her Bajja had whispered: the sounds of pleasure were loudest when the king entered Azelrah’s tent.

  Now, back in Drakhalor, after the grand wedding in Zaryanthor, the celebration had shifted to the great hall of the royal palace.

  From her seat, Azelrah could see courtiers and nobles gathered from the far corners of the kingdom—some robed in the flowing silks of the desert provinces, others draped in furs and braids from the north.

  At the lower tables, wine flowed freely. Laughter rose in waves. Dancers spun between courses, their anklets chiming, their movements slow and sensual.

  Azelrah’s eyes shifted to Queen Tazmerah, seated beside the king, her frame slack and weary, the illness clinging to her like shadow.

  Leirica sat beside Azelrah, her hands resting protectively on her swollen belly.

  Azelrah leaned closer and murmured, “Soon?”

  Leirica gave her a tired smile. “I think so. This is the last month.”

  Azelrah smiled and gently patted her hand.

  A cheer rose suddenly as Mirashan stood, raising his goblet.

  “To Drakhalor!” he declared. “And to the honored king who has given me both a bride and a destiny!”

  The hall echoed with voices calling out, “To Drakhalor!” and a thunder of applause.

  Princess Shantille rose gracefully, bowed slightly to the king, and offered a poised nod to the assembled hall.

  She was what Zahara might have been, Azelrah thought—composed, elegant, regal.

  Zaekharan did not rise. He merely inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his lips as he sipped from his cup.

  Shantille resumed her seat, but Mirashan remained standing.

  With the practiced flair of a man used to performance, he raised his goblet once more. “I am honored by the title bestowed upon me by my brother and king—Warden of the Western Reach,” he declared. “And I take that duty as sacred. In two days’ time, my princess and I shall depart for Kuretsen. I swear this—so long as I draw breath, no threat shall pass me from the west.”

  A roar of cheers followed—goblets raised, fists thudding on tables in support.

  Azelrah nearly smiled. So typical of Mirashan. Always the speech, always the flourish.

  Zaekharan should have anticipated it. No—he must have, she thought.

  She glanced at the king. Yes, that same quiet, knowing smile lingered at the corner of his mouth. Not surprise. Not pride. Calculation.

  But beneath the warmth of celebration, a quiet unease stirred in Azelrah. That feeling again—like a stone dislodged and beginning its descent. Gaining speed. Unstoppable.

  She couldn’t name it.

  But it was there.

  ------------

  Azelrah had been walking in the royal gardens when the summons came. A steward approached, bowing low, and delivered the king’s message: she was wanted in Queen Tazmerah’s chambers—at once.

  Her breath caught. Without a word, she turned and hurried across the stone walkways, heart pounding—not from exertion, but from worry.

  Tazmerah had seemed frail at the banquet, though there had been signs of improvement. Had her condition worsened again?

  By the time Azelrah reached the queen’s private wing, her slippers were damp with dew, and her thoughts were thick with unease. But when the guards opened the carved wooden doors to let her in, she found Queen Tazmerah sitting up in bed, propped against silk pillows. She looked tired, her face pale and drawn—but no worse than she had been at the banquet.

  King Zaekharan sat nearby in a carved chair, one leg crossed over the other, his face unreadable in the soft lamplight. He glanced at Azelrah as she entered, his gaze steady and thoughtful.

  Tazmerah smiled faintly the moment she saw her. “Ah, Azelrah. Come, dear.”

  Azelrah stepped forward, and Tazmerah clasped her outstretched hands with surprising warmth for someone so frail.

  “How are you, First Queen?” Azelrah asked gently, before turning to Zaekharan. “My king. You asked for my presence?”

  Zaekharan inclined his head. “Yes. I did.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on his knees, and exhaled slowly.

  “The Wisest One is ill,” he said. “Gravely so. A message arrived this morning. He’s requested to see us—urgently.”

  Azelrah blinked. “Us?”

  Zaekharan nodded. “Yes. He named you and me specifically.”

  Her brow furrowed, unease tightening in her chest. “But… why me?”

  Before the king could respond, Tazmerah’s voice cut gently across the chamber.

  “You know why, Azelrah,” she said, her tone soft but steady. “The prophecy is not something you can outrun.”

  Zaekharan’s gaze remained steady. “We leave at first light. It’s a two-day journey, mostly uphill through narrow passes. We’ll ride on specially trained mountain mules—they know the way well. If all goes as planned, we’ll reach the Wise One’s abode by sunset tomorrow.”

  Azelrah nodded slowly. The words of the prophecy seemed like a heavy weight on her shoulders.

  “I will be ready,” she said.

  Tazmerah turned her gaze to the king. “Doesn’t Mirashan also depart for Kuretsen in the morning?”

  Zaekharan nodded. “Yes. Our paths will be the same for a while—until they split at the fork.”

  ----------

  Azelrah rode a few paces behind King Zaekharan, her brown mare stepping lightly over the dirt path. Ahead, the king’s black stallion moved with disciplined grace, its mane catching the breeze. Beside him rode Prince Mirashan on a muscular bay, deep in conversation. At Azelrah’s side, Princess Shantille kept pace on a dappled grey, seated tall and poised in her saddle.

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  To Azelrah’s quiet surprise, the new bride was an excellent rider—her posture fluid, her grip on the reins steady and confident. It was the first time Azelrah had seen her outside layers of brocade and jeweled ceremony.

  “I thought this might be a good opportunity to speak with you,” Shantille said gently, turning slightly in her saddle.

  “Of course, Princess Shantille,” Azelrah replied with a warm nod. “How do you find Drakhalor?”

  “Bleak. And cold,” Shantille replied without hesitation. “Zaryanthor is sunnier.”

  Azelrah smiled. “They say it’s the rains approaching.”

  “Hmmm,” Shantille murmured, her eyes forward. “I’ve heard Kuretsen is even bleaker this time of year.”

  “Perhaps,” Azelrah said. “It lies closer to the western marshes and the great mountains. But it’s said to be beautiful too—forests, rivers, hills and valleys. I think you’ll come to like it. In time.”

  Shantille gave her a look—half thoughtful, half appraising. “Like you did here? The barbari—I mean, the Drakhalorians—speak of you with… reverence.”

  Azelrah’s smile didn’t fade. “Their customs are different,” she said. “Less polished, perhaps, than those in Cenraulia. But they are loyal. Fierce. And once you earn their trust, you become their own.”

  The path wound through cypress groves, the hooves of the horses muffled by the fallen needles underfoot. For a while, they rode in companionable quiet.

  Then, in a low voice, Shantille asked, “Is the prophecy real? The threat?”

  Azelrah turned toward her, noting the flicker of tension in the princess' face.

  “It is,” she said. “Though we don’t know when or how it will come. That’s why we must stay vigilant.”

  Shantille’s gaze shifted to her husband, who now rode close to the king.

  “He takes it seriously,” she said. “… I hope I’m not riding into danger.”

  “You’re not,” Azelrah said gently. “You’ll be in Kuretsen’s capital, with an entire army around you. You’ll stay in the governor’s palace—secure and protected.”

  Shantille offered her a faint smile, though her shoulders remained slightly stiff.

  Up ahead, the column began to slow.

  They had reached the fork in the road—where one path veered northwest toward Kuretsen, and the other climbed steeply northeast into the highlands. A weathered milestone stood sentinel at the divide, its carved script faded to near-illegibility. Beside it loomed a moss-slicked statue of some forgotten warlord—his face eroded by centuries of wind and rain, his blade snapped at the hilt.

  The riders drew to a halt.

  Beneath the canopy of cypress and stone-pine, Zaekharan and Mirashan dismounted.

  Mirashan bowed his head. “Brother, thank you—for the honor, and the chance to prove myself.”

  Zaekharan stepped forward and clasped his brother’s forearm firmly. “May you rise like the soaring eagle,” he said quietly. “Govern Kuretsen with wisdom. Rule justly. Its people are Drakhalor’s now. They are yours to protect.”

  They embraced briefly. A soldier’s farewell.

  Then Mirashan turned to his captains and gave the signal.

  With disciplined precision, his newly assigned legion—standard-bearers at the front, cloaks stirring in the wind—began their march northwest. Crimson and black banners flared as they passed the king, saluting him in turn. Dust rose softly in their wake.

  Zaekharan watched until the last of them vanished around the bend.

  Then he swung back into the saddle. Azelrah mounted and followed, her mare falling into step beside his stallion. With a subtle gesture from the king, their smaller escort veered eastward, following a winding mountain trail that snaked upward into mist-laced forests.

  They rode in silence for a time, the air cool and scented with cedar, wild mint, and old rain. Above them, birds shrilled intermittently in the canopy, while the crunch of hooves on gravel kept a steady rhythm.

  After a while, Azelrah turned toward him. “You’re quiet, my king.”

  Zaekharan didn’t look at her at first. “Thinking,” he said. “A letter arrived from Kuretsen. From Riyan. Just before we left.”

  Azelrah glanced over. “What does he say?”

  “About the cult,” Zaekharan replied, voice even. “The so-called Sage and his disciples fled into the marshes. But Riyan managed to capture one—one who didn’t run.”

  Azelrah’s brow furrowed, but she waited.

  “This disciple swears the Sage wielded real power,” the king continued. “He believes the man was a Mystic"

  Azelrah frowned. “Is he telling the truth?”

  Zaekharan’s jaw tightened. “He is telling what he thinks is the truth. Riyan had the man’s love— the girl he stayed behind for—tortured in front of him until he confessed everything.”

  Azelrah inhaled sharply. Her hands tightened slightly on the reins as an unbidden image rose in her mind: the flicker of firelight, screams muffled behind stone walls. She didn’t ask if the girl was still alive. Or the man.

  Instead, she asked quietly, “So... do you think is the Sage a Mystic, as he claims?”

  Zaekharan scoffed. “Mystics are dust and bones—buried many centuries years ago. No. Most of these cultists, I am sure, are charlatans—shamans, dark worshippers. Capable of tricks, maybe some minor magic. Dangerous in their own way. But a true Mystic? Nonsense”

  “And yet he does possess a mysterious weapon…?” she prompted.

  “Yes. The disciple did give Riyan a few clues—where the Sage might be hiding. He’s sending a detachment to hunt him down. Quietly.”

  Azelrah nodded, but her expression was troubled. “And when Mirashan arrives in Kuretsen and takes charge?”

  Zaekharan answered smoothly, “They’re Riyan’s men. If they capture the Sage, the prisoner goes straight to the capital—not to Kuretsen. Riyan will leave the province shortly after Mirashan arrives.”

  Azelrah studied him. “And once Riyan’s gone?”

  Zaekharan gave her a small smile. “Our men are already in place. Every whisper, every movement in Kuretsen—will reach us.”

  She let out a slow breath. “Politics,” she murmured. “You’re very good at it.”

  He chuckled. “One learns.”

  Then, glancing at her sidelong, he added, “And so will you.”

  ----------

  Corporal Adabelor squinted into the pale murk that rolled down from the mountains like a slow, silent tide. It had been the same for twenty-three days now since he’d been stationed here—each dawn swallowing the marshland in fog. Some mornings it was light and clinging, others so thick it devoured even the trees barely twenty paces from the watchtower. Today was one of the thick ones.

  He could no longer see the scraggly line of sal trees at the edge of the clearing—perhaps thirty paces out—and the mountain ridges were gone, consumed in a blanket of white.

  Didn’t matter. Nothing ever came from the west. Nothing except wild boar, bison, or the occasional hulking bear. Even the tribals kept away from this stretch of land so close to the great mountains. The army’s most remote outpost, this tower stood on a patch of dry land swallowed by marshes and shadowed by the slopes of the mountains the locals called the Spine of the World. They wouldn’t come near it.

  And the army didn’t need them. Everything was brought in—rations, water, fuel. A full month's supply, carried in every time the shift changed.

  But this place wasn’t meant for action. Only for watching. That’s why it was called a punishment posting among soldiers. You stood guard over nothing. With only your partner trooper for company.

  Adabelor had done this post four times in four years. Nothing had ever happened. Likely, nothing ever would.

  Still, the rules were strict. They were to light the yellow smoke twice daily—at noon and just before sunset—using the dryleaf herb, to signal all clear to the next watchtower thirty zahms east, a five hour horse ride from here. And if they ever suspected danger from the west? Then the other herb. The one that smoked green. The one that had never been used.

  Adabelor had never even lit it for practice. But they always sent fresh bundles. Every time.

  His stomach rumbled. Rasaker would be here soon with breakfast. The kid was earnest and punctual. Probably finished cooking by now.

  Adabelor shifted his weight on the creaking platform. He’d been on watch all night. Once Rasaker arrived, he’d eat, then hand over the watch and sleep till dusk.

  As if on cue, boots clomped up the wooden stairs.

  Rasaker appeared—tall, lanky, cheerful. He carried a dented metal plate piled with scrambled eggs and thick, unleavened flatbread. The smell made Adabelor’s mouth water.

  “Morning, sir,” Rasaker said, offering a neat salute before handing over the plate. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”

  Adabelor gave him a tired, dry smile. “Not even a ghost.”

  It was a joke. A dig, really. Two days ago, Rasaker had claimed he'd seen a ghost go into the fog—a pale man-like apparition, he’d said. The light had been failing after sunset, so he hadn’t been sure. Adabelor had laughed. Fog and first-timer nerves, that’s all. A trick of the dimming light, most probably.

  But they’d kept extra watch anyway. There’d been nothing. Not even the crackle of underbrush.

  Rasaker grinned sheepishly. “I did see something. Maybe it was a trick of the light… or an animal.”

  Adabelor clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, lad. First time here’s always the worst. Let go of that stiff spine and eat. These look good.” He tore off a piece of flatbread and scooped up eggs. “I'll return the favor tonight. My stew’s not famous for nothing.”

  They sat and began to eat. The warmth of the eggs filled his mouth, a brief, rare comfort. He watched Rasaker take a piece of flatbread and some egg from where he stood and chew, grinning.

  And then—

  Thwack.

  An arrow burst from Rasaker’s throat. A sharp exhale, a gurgle, blood spurting from the wound—and then he toppled silently over the railing. The plate clattered beside him.

  Adabelor froze. His hand trembled around the bread.

  Then another arrow hissed past his head, striking the wooden post behind him.

  He dropped flat and crawled to the viewing notch in the wall, peering out.

  Shapes.

  Pale shapes emerging from the fog.

  Not ghosts.

  Men.

  Men with skin like it had no color—in strange, tight clothes with unfamiliar weapons. They moved with deadly precision, some crouched low, others taking positions, weapons held ready. He counted ten. More followed.

  They were fanning out.

  His gut clenched. This was no tribal warband.

  Adabelor lunged for his bow, notched an arrow, and rose just high enough to loose it.

  Thwip.A pale figure fell, gasping, clutching his chest.

  Just a man. He bled and fell like any other.

  But then—

  Bang!

  A flash. A roar. One of the pale warriors had raised a short, stocky weapon—metal gleamed at its tip, but it had no string, no blade The wooden railing exploded beside Adabelor in a rain of splinters. Adabelor dropped. His ears rang. He stared at the shattered post in disbelief.

  “By the Gods,” he whispered. “The prophecy! This is the threat from the west... it’s come.”

  He scrambled to the fire-pit. His hands moved on instinct, reaching for the kindling and the green herb pouch.

  He grabbed the fire-flint, struck it.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Sparks flew but died quickly.

  The wood was damp. The air was wet. He cursed, frantic. Outside, he could hear more of them—moving fast, voices barking sharp commands in a language he didn’t know.

  The stairs creaked. They were coming up.

  One more strike—flicker, flame.

  He threw the green herbs in. Smoke curled, hesitant at first, then thickened, rising.

  A green plume. It was done.

  One of the ghost-men burst onto the platform. He saw the smoke, shouted down to his comrades.

  Adabelor lunged, knife drawn, and buried it in the man’s stomach. The man groaned and stumbled backward, bleeding.

  But his hand came up, gripping that strange weapon.

  Bang.

  A force like a sledgehammer smashed into Adabelor’s chest. He slammed against the wall. The world spun. A harsh stinging stench filled his nostrils—like burnt stone and lightning.He looked down.

  Blood.

  Too much of it.

  The fire was doused—two men had come up with buckets, pouring water onto it. The smoke hissed out, silenced.

  Adabelor choked, blood bubbling from his lips. But he saw his attacker collapse too—his knife had found a deep place.

  Just men, after all.

  Rasaker, you were right. You did see something that evening.

  Not ghosts.

  Just pale-skinned devils.Men, like us.Who bleed, like us.

  His vision blurred, and his eyelids fluttered to a final stillness.

  -----------

  That is the end of Chapter 14. 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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