Azelrah opened her eyes to find Zaekharan’s bare, muscular body beside her—the same body still healing from battle. His chest remained wrapped in bandages, and pain struck him whenever he moved too suddenly.

  But that hadn’t stopped him from getting close to her—into her. Not last night. Not that night when she had been preparing to leave his chambers after giving him his medicinal herbs.

  As she had risen to go, he had caught her hand in his familiar, unyielding grip and murmured, “Stay the night.”

  Azelrah had blinked, startled by the meaning behind his words.

  “Sire, you should rest,” she had said with a small smile. “We will have plenty of time when you recover.”

  She had meant it, though her own body had longed for his closeness, the magic of his touch.

  But something wild—almost desperate—had flickered in his eyes. And she had sat beside him on the bed, ready to let that desire swallow her whole.

  He had lifted her hand and kissed the back of her palm with such tenderness that her skin tingled. She had leaned toward him, kissing him softly at first, until his lips claimed hers with a fierce hunger—sucking her lips, drawing in her tongue as she teased inside his mouth.

  His fingers had tangled in her hair, tugging with a possessive urgency as his mouth had trailed to her ears, her cheeks, her neck. Her own body had answered him with an eagerness that surprised even herself.

  She had shed her clothes quickly, not wanting anything to stand between his mouth and her skin. His lips had moved to her breasts—and she had moaned as he devoured them, sucking and biting her nipples until her breath came in gasps.

  Her hand had slid down to his pants, seeking his manhood, and she had smiled to feel his hardness even through the cloth.

  “Remove them,” she had commanded.

  Zaekharan had obeyed, grinning.

  His erection had stood full and rigid, and heat had pooled within her as her body responded. She stroked him lightly, watching the change in his expression, then bent to take his thick hard manhood into her mouth.

  If he had been a lion before, he now became a tamed creature—soft, quiet, pleading for more with every breath. The control of it thrilled her.

  When she paused, he guided her back with a firm hand on her head, urging her deeper until she nearly choked on his length. Only when he could bear it no longer did he stop her, pulling her onto the bed and shifting her until her lower folds were within reach of his mouth.

  His lips lingered there, kissing and teasing her vaginal lips and she had gasped aloud, her body arching. His tongue worked inside her, relentless, until she shattered with a cry—her orgasm coursing through her as he teased her swollen bud.

  Then he had pulled her into his lap, guiding his hard pulsing manhood into her slick, aching warmth.

  Azelrah had welcomed him eagerly, moving with confidence and a hunger she had not known before. He had thrust upward to meet her, pain forgotten, his hands gripping her firmly at the waist.

  When he had finally spilled into her with a gasp, she had come again—louder, harder—her second climax tearing through her in a scream of pure ecstasy.

  Later, as they had lain together with their bare bodies entwined, she had seen him press a hand to his chest, the pain returning sharply. But the smile had never left his lips.

  Now, in the present moment, she saw him stir. He turned toward her and whispered, “Pleasant morning, my love,” his breath warm against her ear.

  Moments later, he sat up as Azelrah helped him into his shirt.

  “You plan to keep tempting me by staying naked?” he asked with a laugh.

  She punched his shoulder lightly; he made an exaggerated wince, which only made her laugh more.

  “So you truly mean to visit that foreign prisoner today?” she asked.

  “Yes. As soon as Riyan comes. The poor man gasps for breath after every fit of coughing.”

  Azelrah nodded, sympathy softening her features.

  “Yes… even Queen Tazmerah has been down with a terrible cough and fever since yesterday. I think these cold winds from the mountains are affecting everyone.”

  Zaekharan nodded absently, his eyes lingering on her as she slipped into her shift.

  “There was no rush, my queen,” he teased, smiling.

  She punched him again—this time harder—and this time when he actually winced, she smiled in satisfaction.

  -----------------

  The walk down the narrow stone stairway to the dungeons was long and punishing.

  Zaekharan gripped the railing as the cold steps sent sharp bolts of pain through his bandaged chest. Each movement reminded him how far he was from being fully healed.

  Riyan had sent his apologies, his fever still raging. The rasping cough, the breathlessness, the heat that refused to leave his body — it had weakened him to the point where even walking was difficult. Zaekharan did not like the sound of that, although the physicians blamed it on the changing northern winds.

  So he descended instead with General Leghazi, whose torch threw flickering gold light over the sweating stones.

  The dungeon door groaned open.

  The foreigner sat inside, his back pressed to the wall. He raised his chin at Zaekharan’s approach — a disciplined reflex, not arrogance.

  He was unlike any man Zaekharan had ever seen.

  Skin so pale it seemed drained of color. Hair the shade of burnished gold — like sunlight trapped in strands. No one in all of Cenraulia, Drakhalor, or the mountain tribes bore such features. Occasionally, sickly-white children were born, but they seldom survived into adulthood.

  Yet this man was clearly no frail creature. His body bore the marks of torture — whip lines, bruises, scabbed wounds — but there was discipline in the way he straightened his back as Zaekharan approached.

  A trained soldier, Zaekharan thought. And a proud one.

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  A moment later, the Drakhalori linguistic scholar hurried in, breathless and clutching his satchel. No doubt he had been summoned the instant news spread that the king was visiting the foreigner.

  Zaekharan didn’t turn.

  “Have you learned anything of his language?” he asked.

  “A little, my king,” the scholar replied, bowing quickly. “He has… not been very cooperative.”

  A flicker of amusement lit the foreigner’s eyes.

  Zaekharan caught it.

  “Ah. So you understood what I asked him?”

  The man grunted, “Yes,” in rough Drakhalori.

  Zaekharan lifted a brow. “Interesting.”

  He stepped closer, observing the tightness in the man’s posture, the way his jaw braced as if expecting another blow.

  “What is your name?”

  “Sergeant Umilio Capvilla. Royal Andrasian Army,” he answered crisply.

  “And where is Andrasia?” Zaekharan asked.

  Umilio hesitated — not out of ignorance but caution. His eyes flickered sideways, calculating how much to reveal.

  Then he answered carefully, “Three thousand five hundred sea miles west… across the great ocean.”

  Zaekharan tilted his head. He did not understand the units of distance the man spoke of, but he understood that it was a vast journey.

  “A very long way to visit strangers. You came by ship?”

  A single nod.

  “And why?” The king’s voice sharpened.

  This time Umilio’s hesitation was palpable. He remained silent for a long moment; his fingers curled slightly against the stone floor. Whatever answer he held, he did not want to give it. He was weighing truth against survival.

  “We came on the… command of our king,” he began slowly. “To… explore these lands. To… look for—”

  Zaekharan cut him off, voice soft but piercing.

  “To plant your king’s flag upon them. To carve a new kingdom for your king from our lands.”

  Umilio flinched. The cell fell still.

  “So,” Zaekharan said quietly, “that is your mandate.”

  The foreigner swallowed, fear palpable.

  “That is… for my commanders to speak of,” he said finally.

  Zaekharan’s eyes glinted.

  “Who is your commander?”

  “General Cuperanz. He leads our expedition to these lands. Captain Pasgar Selmor commands the forces that crossed the mountains.”

  Zaekharan exchanged a glance with General Leghazi.

  “I see,” he said to Umilio smoothly. “Then let us speak of the expectations you mentioned. You said our kingdom is not what you anticipated. Why?”

  Umilio hesitated. Then he spoke with unexpected honesty.

  “When we reached this continent, we expected…” He searched for the word. “…savages. Like those we found on the islands nearby. Even the tribes beyond your mountains — primitive, backward, easily dominated.”

  He drew a slow breath. “But here, on this side… we find people rich in culture. With armies. Cities. Pride. Bravery. I saw it with my own eyes — near the fortress in the marshes. And again, at the great wall.”

  Zaekharan nodded slowly.

  “You learned our language quickly.”

  Umilio gestured weakly toward the scholar. “I am like him. My duty is to study new lands — their customs, language… people.”

  Zaekharan turned to General Leghazi.

  “Bathe this man. Clean him. He smells unbearable. Then bring him up to me. We have much to learn about this distant world… Andrasia.”

  Leghazi bowed. “I will have him cleaned and brought to you in chains, sire.”

  “Not in chains,” Zaekharan said firmly.

  Both the general and the scholar stiffened.

  “He will walk freely in our kingdom.”

  Zaekharan shifted his gaze to Umilio, voice calm but edged with steel.

  “Until your king sends an official ambassador, you will act as one. You may study us — our people, our culture. In return you will tell us about yours. Guards will accompany you, but that is.. for your own protection.”

  Umilio stared at him, startled.

  General Leghazi shifted uneasily but bowed again.

  “As you command, my king.”

  Zaekharan held the foreigner’s gaze a moment longer before finally turning away.

  --------------

  The chamber felt dimmer than usual, as though the light itself could not lift the gloom descending there. Braziers smoldered with a faint herbal scent the physicians had lit to ease Queen Tazmerah's breathing, but nothing eased the terrible sound of it—harsh, shallow gasps, like a bellows too worn to draw air.

  Azelrah stood with her hands clasped before her, fingers cold, while the physicians murmured to one another in hushed, futile tones. Queen Leirica wept quietly, her slight shoulders trembling. Queen Neysara stood rigid, jaw set, eyes red but fierce — the way a warrior might grieve, refusing to give grief the dignity of tears. Zaekharan sat at Tazmerah’s side, one large hand wrapped around his queen's wrist — his friend, companion, and consort — as though sheer force of will might tether her spirit to her failing body.

  “Try everything,” he said quietly to the physicians, but the command carried the weight of a battlefield order. “Every remedy you have. Every herb. Every chant. She is not to go before we have fought for her.”

  The eldest physician bowed, his eyes unable to meet the king’s. “We are trying, Majesty. But her body… it is slipping away from us.”

  Azelrah’s breath stilled. She had never seen Zaekharan look powerless.

  His grip tightened on Tazmerah’s wrist, though it trembled almost imperceptibly.

  The chamber held its breath with her.

  Then—there was a knock.

  So soft it could have been mistaken for the creak of the wind, yet distinct enough to make Azelrah start. A guard stepped forward, hesitation etched into every movement. He whispered something to the sentinel at the door, and after a long pause, returned with a bowed posture.

  “Majesty… First Minister Cheyak requests entry,” the guard murmured, voice low and careful. “He says it is urgent.”

  Zaekharan’s jaw tightened. He did not move, his gaze locked on Tazmerah. Yet a spark flickered in his eyes—the resolute king beneath the grieving husband. “Let him enter,” he said quietly.

  The door opened gently. Cheyak stepped inside, each footfall seeming almost sacrilegious in the sacred hush of the chamber. His head bowed, eyes flitting to Tazmerah before quickly turning away. “Forgive me, Sire,” he said, voice almost swallowed by the room. “I would not disturb you at such a time… but the matter cannot wait.”

  Zaekharan rose and moved toward him. “Speak,” he said, authority returning to his voice with measured force.

  Cheyak swallowed, shoulders stiff, voice tight with urgency. “We received confirmation about the Mystics’ camp, and as you commanded, Captain Tijaan surrounded it and moved in.”

  Azelrah felt her heart jolt as though struck.

  The Mystics.

  The Sage.

  Pagol.

  She listened intently for further news.

  Cheyak continued, “Sire, the raid was successful. We have captured their leader — the Sage — and many of his disciples. A few were killed trying to fight us or escape.”

  Killed?!

  Azelrah’s stomach knotted. Her heart sank at the thought of the fate of Pagol and the others.

  Was Pagol captured… or killed?

  Zaekharan’s voice was stone. “Tell Tijaan to bring their leader alive to me. He has the secret of that powerful weapon they used on me — it will serve Drakhalor well in the battles to come. Understand?”

  Cheyak bowed deeply. “It shall be done, sire.” He turned to leave, glancing once at Queen Tazmerah.

  Azelrah wanted to speak — to tell Zaekharan that the Mystics were no enemy, that the Sage was only an old man protecting his disciples and their outlawed order, that they had healed her back to health, that the so-called weapon was none other than Pagol… a gentle, pleasant boy who had been her constant companion during her recovery.

  But so much else stood in her way. The Mystics were forbidden, their magic considered blasphemy. And Pagol himself — the son of the fallen King of Kuretsen, his heir, and wielder of strange magic that had once nearly killed Zaekharan.

  The words stuck like thorns in her throat.

  All she could do was pray silently for the safety of Pagol and the others, her hands clenched tightly together.

  Please, Pagol… be safe.

  A sound broke her chain of thought — a long, strained exhale. The kind that came from a chest emptied of its last strength.

  Azelrah’s eyes snapped to Tazmerah.

  The elder queen’s lips parted one final time, her breath rasping out in a threadbare gasp. Her eyes fluttered open — unfocused, searching the ceiling as though glimpsing something beyond it — and then slowly stilled.

  Her chest did not rise again.

  A moment of stunned quiet fell, deep as a cavern.

  Leirica’s sob tore through it first.

  Neysara dropped to her knees beside the bed, bowing her head, not pretending strength now.

  Zaekharan did not move for a long time. Then, very slowly, he lowered Tazmerah’s wrist onto the sheets and reached to close her eyes. His face remained carved in iron — but iron too can crack.

  Azelrah felt her own tears spill, quiet and hot.

  The chamber filled with mourning —

  with the low wails of the queens,

  with the whisper of priests stepping forward,

  with the shattered silence of a kingdom losing its wise First Queen.

  And Azelrah stood, grieving for her — and praying for Pagol, who might yet be hunted in the night.

  -----------

  That's the end of Chapter 24. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.

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  > ? Mars Red, 2025. All rights reserved.

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