Azelrah stirred, her breath shallow as she blinked awake. Shadows of twisted dreams clung to her, slipping away before she could grasp their meaning. Her sleep had been broken—haunted by nightmares she couldn’t remember, only feel.

  She shifted under the silken covers, heat blooming along her side. That’s when she saw him.

  A massive figure lay beside her, half-covered by the blankets. Broad shoulders, bare chest, powerful arms relaxed in sleep. It took only a moment for her mind to remember the man.

  King Zaekharan.

  Her breath caught, and then the memories surged back—fragments coalescing like shards of glass reassembling into something sharp and whole. The night before. The command. The antechamber. The pain.

  But… this was not where it had happened.

  Their union—if it could be called that—had taken place in the dim, cold antechamber of the royal suite, not this grand, silken bed. She remembered the sharp edge of the marble against her knees… the weight of his body… the bruising intensity. And afterward? Darkness. Nothing.

  How had she come here?

  Her brow furrowed as she realized she was no longer bare. She was clothed—in a soft, almost translucent nightgown she didn’t remember wearing. Who had dressed her?

  She clutched the thin fabric and adjusted it around her shoulders, trying to preserve some semblance of modesty. But before she could retreat into her thoughts further, she sensed movement beside her.

  Zaekharan stirred.

  His eyes opened slowly, fixing on her with an unreadable intensity—as if he were assessing her, measuring her like a general would a battlefield. Then, his lips curved into a slow, assured smile.

  A king’s smile.

  “You fainted last night after I’d planted my seed inside you,” Zaekharan said matter-of-factly, his voice low and without apology. “I’m told that happens sometimes with women on their first night.”

  He sat up, resting an arm casually on his knee. “You were bleeding,” he added. “I carried you to the bed and summoned the royal healer. She said it was expected—for a first time.”

  Azelrah stared at him, disbelief tightening her jaw. Is he insane? she thought. Does he speak of such things like discussing a horse’s injury?

  He threw off the blanket without hesitation and stepped out of the bed, completely naked. Azelrah’s eyes instinctively followed him as he walked across the chamber to where his clothes lay strewn. His broad, muscular frame was carved with old scars—each one a silent testament to countless battles fought and won.

  She quickly looked away, clutching the soft nightgown closer to her body, the fabric barely enough to shield her from the cold—or his gaze.

  As he began dressing, he spoke in that same measured, almost detached tone. “The healer gave you a herbal tea,” he said, glancing at her. “To ease the pain. Said you were in some discomfort. ” He nodded toward her groin, his gaze unapologetically frank. "Said would help you sleep without trouble"

  Azelrah’s cheeks flamed. She shifted on the bed, trying to shrink into herself, her small frame tense under the nightgown.

  He continued, pulling on his trousers and tightening the leather belt around his waist. “You tossed around quite a bit in your sleep. I had to calm you like one tames a skittish pony—firm grip, gentle pats.” He chuckled at his own analogy, clearly amused.

  Now fully dressed, he stood tall and composed—every inch the warlord-king.

  “As your wedding gift,” he said grandly, “I’ve chosen to pardon your father for his deception. I will honour the terms of our agreement… even if you are not the bride he promised.”

  He glanced at her, his tone dripping with imperial grace. “He will continue to rule Zhanoura, but under my suzerainty, of course.”

  His eyes roamed over her face, assessing, then he turned to leave. “Get ready, Princess. Today, you’ll be presented before the joint court of Zhanoura and Drakhalor—as my queen.”

  He paused at the doorway, looking back with a smirk of royal pride. “And after that, we shall ride through your capital in royal procession. Let your people see how I honour Zhanoura by taking their princess as my queen.”

  His voice lowered slightly, firm and final. “Then tomorrow, my new queen… we return to Drakhalor.”

  Azelrah stared at the departing king, her expression taut with disbelief. The audacity of the man. The arrogance.

  Skittish pony? The words rang in her ears like an insult carved in stone. Her jaw tightened as the memory of the night before pulsed through her—the pain, the humiliation, the helplessness. And that barbarian had the gall to compare her to a restless pony?

  Fury surged through her, momentarily eclipsing the dull throb in her groin. She rose from the bed, the thin nightgown clinging awkwardly to her form, and stormed to the door.

  “Servants!” she called, her voice sharp and commanding, though her throat burned.

  A young woman appeared almost instantly, eyes lowered but not quite enough. Azelrah caught a flicker of something on her face—something unreadable.

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  Was it pity? Or worse… amusement?

  She’s mocking me, Azelrah thought bitterly. They all are. The warrior princess, now wrapped in sheer silk, defiled and dismissed. A spectacle behind closed doors.

  The servant’s gaze dipped to the nightgown clinging to Azelrah’s frame. Azelrah bristled.

  “Send Bajja. Now,” she snapped, her tone cold as steel.

  “Yes, er… princess,” the woman murmured and turned quickly.

  Was that a stifled chuckle as she left?

  Azelrah’s stomach churned.

  A soft knock echoed through the chamber.

  "Enter," Azelrah commanded, her voice tighter than she intended.

  The old woman stepped in with swift, quiet steps, her face etched with the kind of worry that only years of care could carve. She had been by Azelrah’s side since she was a child—nurse, guardian, shadow. In her own tongue, Bajja meant mother.

  The moment she stepped in, Azelrah rushed forward and threw her arms around her.

  “Bajja,” she choked out, the dam finally breaking.

  “There, there now, my little lion,” Bajja murmured, gently cradling her. “You are still my warrior prince, aren’t you?”

  Azelrah couldn’t speak. The tears flowed freely—tears she didn’t allow herself ever. But here, in Bajja’s arms, the weight became too much.

  She poured it all out—what had happened, how it had happened, the ache in her body, the storm in her spirit. Bajja listened, her gnarled hands gently dabbing at Azelrah’s face, her murmurs soft and steady.

  When it was all said, and the tears were spent, Azelrah felt hollow—wrung dry.

  Bajja held her face in her hands. She looked at her face, at her nose ring, the king did not know the customs of Zhanoura, did he? He didn't remove the ring before the union, did he? Barbarian, she muttered

  She removed the ring with soft hands, touched her cheeks affectionately.

  “You have a busy day ahead of you, my child,” she said softly.

  “You acted bravely—dutifully. I am proud of you… as must be the king and queen.”

  Then, with a flicker of quiet fury: “Gods forsake Zahara for bringing this upon you.”

  ................................................

  Azelrah’s ceremonial presentation as Queen to King Zaekharan before the assembled courtiers, ministers, and generals of Drakhalor and Zhanoura had gone smoothly.

  Bajja had dressed her in resplendent royal silks—deep crimson and gold, embroidered with moons, stars and roses. She had done her best to tame Azelrah’s wild hair, twisting it into an elegant braid adorned with gemstones that shimmered like firelight. Delicate jewelry encircled her wrists and neck—bangles that clinked with every movement, gold and pearl ornaments that weighed heavy on her skin and heavier still on her pride. The soft, constant tinkling irked Azelrah’s ears.

  When Bajja was finally done, Azelrah had glanced at her reflection—and for a moment, she didn’t see the stubborn, warrior girl she knew. She saw a queen instead of a warrior, quiet dignity in place of grit, and a kind of radiance she hadn't known could be hers.

  Without exception in court, the courtiers and ministers had sung paeans to King Zaekharan’s bravery, wisdom, and boundless generosity.

  The royal procession through the capital too had passed without incident. People had gathered to cheer the newly wedded King and Queen—though whether they had come of their own will or had been lured or ordered into place was another matter entirely.

  ….....................................................

  As night descended, the halls of Castle Zhanoura glowed with the warmth of hundreds of oil lamps and flickering torches. Silken banners in crimson and gold fluttered softly from the high rafters, while garlands of jasmine and marigold hung from the archways, releasing their fragrance into the air. The courtyard fountains shimmered with floating candles, and servants had strewn petals across the marble floors, softening even the echoes of footsteps.

  A grand feast was laid out in honour of King Zaekharan and his newly wed queen. The royal cooks of Zhanoura had prepared an extravagant spread—succulent meats marinated in fragrant spices, platters of roasted game, fish baked in banana leaves, and exotic vegetables simmered in rich gravies. Mounds of jeweled rice , different kinds of bread and sweet confections glistened under the lamplight, and goblets brimmed with dark wine. The air buzzed with laughter, music, and the clinking of cups.

  Wine flowed freely, too freely. Many guests staggered from indulgence, their tongues loosened, their decorum forgotten. There was much back-slapping and loud camaraderie—though Azelrah, seated quietly by her new husband, took it all in with sharp eyes.

  Most of the laughter, she noticed, came from the Drakhalori guests—throaty, booming, unchecked. The Zhanouris, on the other hand, wore polite smiles and spoke in cautious tones. Their deference was unmistakable. No one wished to offend the mighty King of Drakhalor or his formidable entourage. The tone, Azelrah realised, was not of celebration—it was of surrender, veiled behind fine wine and forced cheer.

  There was hardly any conversation between Azelrah and King Zaekharan during the feast. He spoke mostly in low tones with King Sarvahn, who sat to his right and listened with careful attention.

  Azelrah caught only fragments of their discussion—talks of future plans, the stationing of Drakhalori regiments, logistical details about supply lines and garrisons.

  As the evening wore on and wine continued to flow, Queen Zarehya—King Sarvahn’s graceful consort—rose from her seat with a subtle nod and gestured for the ladies of the court to retire. The women rose, one after the other, like falling petals from a blooming flower, and Azelrah followed them without protest. She was weary to her bones.

  In her bedchamber, Bajja helped her out of the stiff ceremonial layers and into an elaborate but modest nightgown woven in soft silk, opaque and comforting. Her limbs ached, and the dull throb at her groin reminded her of everything she had endured in the past day.

  She lay back against the cushions, eyes half-lidded, staring at the ceiling lost in thought—the new journey that awaited her tomorrow, the long ride to Drakhalor beside a man she barely knew, now her husband and king.

  She never knew when sleep took her. The herbs she had taken earlier—for the pain and the exhaustion of the day—lulled her into unconsciousness faster than she expected.

  When Zaekharan entered the bedchamber in the late hours of the night, the scent of wine clung faintly to him—he was not drunk, but pleasantly inebriated. His steps, though firm, were unhurried. His eyes fell upon Azelrah, asleep under the soft glow of the chamber’s lamp. Her face, unguarded in slumber, held a calm he had not seen yet.

  He stood for a moment, watching her breathe—curious, unreadable thoughts flickering across his gaze. Then, without a word, he changed out of his robes and quietly slipped into the vast bed beside her, careful not to wake her. Soon, only the hush of the night filled the chamber.

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  That's the end of Chapter 2. 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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  > ? Mars Red, 2025. All rights reserved.

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