The specially decorated royal chambers The specially decorated royal chambers of Zhanoura glowed dimly under the flickering light of braziers, their flames casting restless shadows across the carved stone walls. The air was thick with the heady scent of incense, cloying and intoxicating, wrapping itself around every breath like silk. Within this secluded space, silence reigned-tense, expectant, and edged with an intimate kind of danger. Beyond the heavy doors, the muffled sounds of revelry rose from the great hall below, a celebration that felt like a distant echo compared to the charged stillness that hung between these ancient walls.

  Azelrah sat on the edge of the towering bed, her spine stiff, her face hidden beneath a veil of gold-threaded silk. Her heart was a knot-tight, bitter, burning.

  She could still hear the chaos from earlier that day- her elder sister, Zahara's sudden disappearance, her father's desperation.

  Azelrah's hands curled into fists. She ran... and I was the one left to carry the burden. To marry.... The barbarian.

  Zahara had always been the beautiful one. The graceful one. The alluring jewel of Zhanoura. Born for silks, diplomacy, and duty, her smile soothed courtiers, her voice melted tension. But love had made her reckless. On the very morning of the wedding, she had vanished-vanished with her secret lover, a lowly court bard whose only weapons were song and defiance.

  And Azelrah-bruised from swordplay, sun-browned, and clad in awkwardness-had been summoned in her place.

  The look in her parents' eyes haunted her still. Pleading. Shattered. Their legacy balanced on the edge of a blade. She had been their last resort.

  She had begged. No. Please... not me.

  But there had been no respite.

  Veiled and silent, she had stood before the priests, endured the rites, and bound herself in a union meant for another. The fierce King of Drakhalor had believed he was marrying Zahara.

  Now she sat here, cloaked in bridal silks that clung uncomfortably to her slight frame, her negligible bosom flattened beneath tight wrappings, her limbs weighed down by unfamiliar jewels. She had never worn so many ornaments in her life. She loathed them.

  She had no interest in marriage. No desire for this war-born king. Her dreams had been shaped by swords and sweat, not kisses and candlelight.

  What will he say? she wondered. Zahara's beauty was famed across the kingdoms-an offering fit for a king. A ransom to save Zhanoura.

  Would he cast her aside? Rage? Kill her?

  Azelrah shivered.

  The door creaked open behind her.

  Her breath caught.

  Footsteps-slow, deliberate, brimming with power-crossed the stone floor. The scent of leather, steel, and something darker filled the room.

  The King of Drakhalor, Zaekharan had arrived.

  And he believed he was about to claim Zahara.

  But it would not be Zahara who turned to face him.

  It would be Azelrah of Zhanoura.

  And the truth, like a blade between them, still lay sheathed in silence.

  The King of Drakhalor, Zaekharan stepped into the chamber, his presence darkening the room more than the flickering shadows ever could. The door thudded shut behind him, sealing them in.

  He did not speak at first.

  Azelrah could feel his eyes on her-studying the veiled figure seated on the bed. She didn't dare move. Her palms were clammy, hidden within the folds of her robe. Her heart thudded a war drum's rhythm in her chest.

  She had heard stories of him, of course. Zaekharan-King of Drakhalor. A man carved by fire and conquest. They said his voice alone had silenced rebellions. That he rode into battle bare-chested, marked in ash and blood. That he trusted no one, feared nothing.

  She felt him draw closer. A step. Then another. His footsteps echoed off the marble like iron against bone.

  And then-he stopped. Right before her.

  She held her breath.

  "You are... silent," he said at last. His voice was low, commanding, tinged with something darker-curiosity, perhaps. Suspicion?

  "Do Zhanouri brides not greet their husbands?"

  His words were smooth, but she sensed the tension beneath them. The weight of expectation. The coil of restrained dominance.

  Azelrah did not move.

  She wanted to run. Or fight. Or scream.

  But instead, she slowly lifted her head. Still veiled. Still silent.

  What now? Would he reach for the veil? Would he know instantly?

  Or should she speak-tell him the truth before he could touch her?

  Azelrah shifted where she sat, the weight of her silk robes oppressive, unfamiliar. The soft chime of bangles and ornaments accompanied her every movement-a delicate sound that grated against the warrior inside her. She had never worn such things, never been adorned like this. Every glittering trinket felt like a shackle.

  She remembered the custom. Tonight, the king-her husband-would lift her veil, remove the ceremonial nose ring she had worn for the first time in her life, and then... consummate the marriage.

  The thought made her stomach twist.

  The veil felt heavier than any armor ever had.

  She dreaded the moment his hands would reach for it. Dreaded the look in his eyes when he discovered the truth-not the face he had bargained for, not the sister whose beauty had halted a war-but Azelrah, bound in silks, hiding her rough, calloused hands and defiant spirit behind layers of gold.

  Her throat was dry. Her pulse thundered beneath her skin.

  But still, she did not speak.

  She waited.

  Waited for the moment the veil would rise... and with it, all pretense would fall.

  The king reached for the veil and lifted it in one fluid, deliberate motion.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  His expression shifted-first a flicker of surprise, then something sharper: suspicious, cold, and alert. And then... it hardened. Like stone forged under fire.

  In a blink, the air changed. Before Azelrah could even draw breath, steel kissed her throat.

  A blade-small, sharp, and merciless-pressed against her skin.

  His voice, when it came, was a low growl of fury.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Who, in the name of God, are you?

  No one had ever told Azelrah her voice was sweet.

  But what came out of her mouth then wasn't even her usual rough tone-it was barely a sound at all. A croak, thin and broken.

  "I... I am Azelrah," she said, forcing the words past her fear. "Younger daughter of King Sarvahn of Zhanoura."

  The king's eyes flared. His blade pressed a breath deeper into her skin-but didn't pierce.

  "Deceit," he spat, his voice rising like a stormwind, sharp and unyielding. "You dare stand before me in her place?"

  Azelrah didn't know what to say.

  She was brave-had always been brave-but even the bravest were said to tremble before Zaekharan of Drakhalor.

  And now, with a blade at her throat and his fury burning inches from her face, her courage wavered.

  "My sister..." she began, her voice catching in her throat. "She ran away... this morning. My parents-they were desperate. Helpless."

  She swallowed hard, trembling beneath the cold kiss of steel.

  "They forced me... to take her place."

  --------------------------------------------

  In a shadowed antechamber just beyond the royal bridal suite in the royal castle of Zhanoura, moonlight spilled through narrow arched windows, dust hanging in the air like whispered regret. Torches lay lit in iron sconces and the tension was thick-bitter, choking.

  Zaekharan stood by the long window, arms folded behind his back, his shoulders rigid with fury barely restrained. His sword, unsheathed, leaned against the table beside him. He had not touched it-yet.

  Azelrah sat silent by the far wall, still adorned in the wedding silks that did not belong to her. Her hands trembled in her lap, but her gaze remained fixed and unblinking. She knew this storm was not yet done.

  The heavy doors groaned open. Boots echoed.

  King Sarvahn was ushered in by Drakhalori guards. His face was pale with sweat, skin drawn taut, and his robes hung loose as if he had lost weight overnight. Fever clung to him, but he was fully conscious-his eyes wide with dread. He knew. He knew exactly why he had been summoned.

  He did not wait to be questioned. As soon as he saw Zaekharan's expression-cold, regal, brimming with wrath-he dropped to his knees with a gasp.

  "My lord," he croaked. "I beg your forgiveness. I beg the mercy of Drakhalor. I-I have committed a crime of desperation."

  Zaekharan's voice was ice.

  "Spare me your fevered conscience. You stood before the Gods and offered your daughter's hand. You gave me your word. And instead, you sent me a false bride."

  Sarvahn's hands clutched the hem of his robes. "Zahara ran away... at dawn. She left us nothing but a note. We had no time to find her. The marriage was our only shield. Azelrah-my younger-she agreed, to protect her people."

  Zaekharan's voice rose like a growl. "So you placed your kingdom's fate on a girl dressed in lies and hoped I would never know? You think me blind, Sarvahn?"

  Sarvahn's voice broke. "I feared your wrath more than I feared the gods. But I feared losing Zhanoura even more. I know I have wronged you, and I am ready to face the price."

  Zaekharan stared at him, unmoved.

  "Then you shall. You, your queen, and your court are hereby placed under royal custody. None shall leave this castle until I command it. From this moment on, Zhanoura is not your kingdom. It is mine."

  Sarvahn bowed his fevered head to the ground, defeated.

  The king turned to his guard. "Take him back to his chambers. Post a watch. If anyone speaks a word of this to the outside world, they lose their tongues."

  As Sarvahn was lifted by the guards and led away, Zaekharan's gaze shifted back to Azelrah.

  "You," he said darkly. "Stay."

  Azelrah had watched her father's humiliation in silence-first in fear, then in smoldering anger. Her father had bowed, had surrendered pride and honor, to keep their land independent-albeit under Drakhalor's dominion.

  Zahara had been the price. The beautiful young bride promised to a hardened, middle-aged conqueror. Sarvahn had meant to honor that bargain.

  And yet now, stripped of dignity, his promise fulfilled in spirit if not in name, he was thrown into chains.

  The fire in Azelrah's chest erupted in her voice as she rose, throwing back her veil.

  "King Zaekharan," she said, her eyes flashing, "you have what you wanted-the kingdom bows to you. My parents are imprisoned. The only remaining legal heir of Zhanoura stands before you as your wife. And yet you insult us for the fault of my sister, who thought nothing of her family's honor?"

  Zaekharan was momentarily stunned. Rarely did anyone dare speak to him this way. His eyes narrowed as he examined the unremarkable, boyish-looking girl before him-from head to toe, silent and assessing.

  And then, to her utter confusion, Zaekharan burst out laughing.

  Azelrah froze. The defiance that had flared in her moments ago wilted under a wave of dread. She had spoken without thought, driven by anger and pride-but now, faced with the unpredictable reaction of this fearsome king, she braced for fury, for punishment. But laughter? That, she had not expected. His laughter subsided into silence. Then he chuckled and said, "You've got fire, girl. No one has dared speak to me like that in years... at least, no one still drawing breath." His eyes gleamed as he leaned in slightly. "Tell me-are you not afraid of death?" Sweat trickled down her back beneath the suffocating weight of silk and gold, but outwardly, she remained composed-still as a carved idol. "I've already sacrificed much today for my parents... and for my kingdom," she said, her voice steady. Then, lifting her chin in quiet defiance, she added, "If my life will serve them too, I can give that away just as easily."

  Zaekharan regarded her with an amused glint in his eyes. Without a word, he reached for the sword resting in its scabbard and drew it in one smooth, elegant motion.

  Azelrah's breath caught. She closed her eyes.

  So this was it.

  She remembered her father's words-"A true warrior welcomes death with a smile and a lifted chin." She tried to smile. The smile wouldn't come. But no tears stung her eyes. No pleas rose to her lips. She stood tall, silent, waiting for the strike.

  Zaekharan watched her with something that was not quite mockery and not quite admiration. Did she really think he would take her head off then and there? He let out a quiet chuckle.

  Then, without warning, he made a shallow cut across his own forefinger. Crimson welled instantly. Stepping forward, he pressed the bloodied fingertip onto her forehead, marking her skin.

  "Girl," he said, his voice low and certain, "your fire has impressed me. By the rites of Drakhalor, this seal now binds our union. You are what you claim to be-my wife."

  Azelrah stood still, her breath shallow, heart pounding in her chest like a battle drum. She had braced for death. She had made peace with it. But instead, she'd been claimed-not slain. And now, the weight of what that meant crashed down on her like cold rain.

  Wife.

  Not a title she had ever sought. Not a role she had prepared for. And certainly not to this man, this war-hardened king, who now seemed amused by the havoc he had spun around her life with a few solemn words and a streak of blood.

  Before her thoughts could settle, his voice cut through the charged silence.

  "Now," Zaekharan said, his tone maddeningly casual, "remove your silks. The ritual isn't complete until the marriage is... truly sealed."

  His words were simple. Inevitable. But to Azelrah, they struck like a blade.

  Azelrah stood frozen, stunned by the king's command. She had known this moment would come-but knowing did little to prepare her for it.

  Zaekharan's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp. "Do not test my patience, princess... or shall I slice those silks from your body with my sword?"

  She didn't move. Her heart pounded, but she remained still.

  I may have let you live, my queen," he continued darkly, "but I'm under no such obligation when it comes to your parents."

  A visible shiver passed through her. Her jaw clenched. Slowly, wordlessly, she began to unfasten the elaborate gown and ceremonial silks. One layer, then another.

  In moments, she stood bare before him, her head held high despite the heat that rushed to her cheeks.

  Zaekharan's eyes moved over her body once. Then he laughed-a low, amused sound that echoed in the chamber.

  "I would've taken you for a boy," he said with a dry laugh, "if not for that soft little slit between your legs."

  Even in her moment of humiliation and subjugation, the king's snide remark stirred something fierce in her. Her anger flared, and she couldn't help but snap back, "Then think of me as a boy."

  Zaekharan laughed again, a low, amused sound. "I like your fire, princess," he said, eyes gleaming. "But I cannot think of you as a boy... not when I must make you my wife in full, and seal the rites of our union.

  He stripped off his clothes, revealing a powerful, sculpted body-each muscle shifting like coiled strength beneath his skin. For a moment, he stood before her, utterly bare, his presence looming. As he stepped closer, Azelrah felt how small she truly was beside him, dwarfed by the sheer scale of his frame. His lips found her skin in a storm of hungry kisses, trailing over her with growing urgency. But she remained still, unyielding-and the silence of her body only seemed to fuel the fire in his, making his touch turn rougher, more demanding.

  Azelrah had never been kissed by a man before. The sensations flooding her were more of pain and humiliation than anything resembling love-except for a fleeting moment when Zaekharan's mouth lingered on her breasts. Something unfamiliar stirred within her, a flicker of strange, confusing pleasure-but it vanished almost as quickly as it came.

  She let him do as he wished, thinking of it as a duty she had no choice but to fulfill. When finally Zaekharan entered her , the pain overwhelmed her, sharp and unexpected, and tears silently streamed down her cheeks.

  When it was over, she heard Zaekharan murmur, "Thus I give you-my blood and my seed."

  -----------------------------------------

  That's the end of Chapter 1. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Likes & comments are the only way new writers like me can gauge the response of readers on online reading platforms.Thankyou

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