The morning sun cast a golden hue upon the sandstone walls of Zhanoura as the royal entourage assembled at the palace gates. King Zaekharan's caravan stood ready to depart, its banners fluttering gently in the breeze. Horses pawed the earth, armored guards lined the flanks, and carriages creaked under the weight of their occupants. At the heart of it all stood King Zaekharan and his newly wed queen-Azelrah.

  She had risen before the first light of dawn, stirred not by excitement but by the quiet churn of unease. The day marked the beginning of a journey-not just across kingdoms, but across the very arc of her fate.

  Never had she imagined herself as a queen... or a wife. Her heart had always yearned for the battlefield, not the boudoir.

  Her mother had died the night Azelrah was born. A revered sage had foretold the birth of a son-a savior to Zhanoura's throne. But instead, a daughter arrived... and with her, death. King Sarvahn, broken by grief and disillusionment, had turned away-mourning both the loss of his beloved queen and the shattering of prophecy.

  Azelrah had been raised by Bajja, her mother's faithful handmaid, who became more than a nursemaid-her shield, her guide, her heart. Queen Zerenya, Sarvahn's first wife and mother of Zahara, had never been cruel-merely distant. Azelrah had grown up in the quiet margins of her stepmother's world-neither cherished nor chastised.

  Perhaps it was the whisper of that broken prophecy, the echo of disappointment, that had driven Azelrah to grow differently. While others braided silk into their hair, her wild locks were tied back only for combat. While Zahara played music, danced gracefully, and recited poetry by moonlight, Azelrah sparred with the aging castle fight master-once his pupil, now his equal. She preferred bruises to bangles, spears to silks, and the whisper of steel to the jingle of ornaments.

  Zahara had mastered the art of being a queen. Azelrah had mastered the art of being a warrior.

  And now, fate-twisted and knotted by politics and sacrifice-had thrust her into the very role she had spent her life avoiding. A queen. A wife. And yet, something fierce still burned in her eyes as she stood beside Zaekharan's banner.

  The journey to Drakhalor was only beginning.

  King Sarvahn and Queen Zerenya stood in polite subservience before King Zaekharan at the palace gates. The morning breeze tugged at their robes as the banners of Drakhalor snapped in the wind. Azelrah stood behind Zaekharan, dressed in a finely tailored divided tunic suited for riding-more warrior than queen.

  Zaekharan stepped forward and embraced Sarvahn in a firm, commanding clasp.

  "Zhanoura has a crucial role to play in what lies ahead," he said, his voice low but unmistakably clear. "Remember- you are the gateway to Cenraulia. And soon, all its kingdoms shall rally under one banner-the banner of Drakhalor."

  "Yes, my king," Sarvahn replied, head bowed in obedient deference.

  Then Azelrah approached her father and stepmother. Sarvahn drew her into a warm embrace, his hand patting her shoulder with rare tenderness.

  "I am proud of you, Azza," he whispered, the old affection breaking through his usual restraint.

  Queen Zerenya stepped forward next. Her arms encircled Azelrah briefly, formally. There was no warmth in her touch-only the chill of duty.

  "Serve Zhanoura well," she intoned, her voice cool and composed.

  Then came Zaekharan's signal. A raised hand-silent, deliberate. A trumpet call rang out sharply, echoing through the courtyard. The march had begun.

  King Zaekharan's black stallion was brought forth-a magnificent beast with a glossy mane and fire in its eyes. It pawed the ground, eager for the road ahead.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Zaekharan turned to his captain. "Escort the queen to her wagon," he commanded curtly.

  Before the captain could move, Azelrah stiffened.

  "I prefer to ride, Your Highness," she said, her voice firm. She gestured toward a sleek white stallion held nearby, its reins taut in the groom's hands.

  Zaekharan glanced at the horse, then back at her-and chuckled with quiet amusement.

  "It's a long ride, Princess," he said. "You may ride for a while if you wish. But once the pace quickens, you'll return to your wagon. We ride hard."

  Without waiting for a reply, he strode along with her to her horse, ready to assist her into the saddle.

  But Azelrah swung herself onto the horse with fluid ease-no hesitation, no need for help.

  Zaekharan raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed, though he said nothing.

  Mounting his own towering steed with practiced grace, he gave a single nod.

  With the creak of wheels and the thunder of hooves, the great caravan began its journey-passing through the gates of Castle Zhanoura.

  ----------------------------

  The caravan made good pace across the well-maintained roads of Zhanoura. Stately trees lined the route, their leaves rustling in the early wind. Behind them, the towering buildings and lush gardens of the capital city slowly faded into the distance-but the road remained smooth, a testament to the kingdom's pride and precision. The wagons, drawn by strong, well-trained mares, kept up easily with the mounted riders. Azelrah rode alongside King Zaekharan, flanked by a retinue of fiercely loyal bodyguards in the black-and-silver of Drakhalor.

  Soon, a well-built young man on a lean chestnut horse broke through the ranks to join them. He rode with the easy grace of a soldier, his posture casual, his eyes sharp. As he drew near, he and Zaekharan clasped hands in a firm, warm grip.

  "Where were you, you rascal?" Zaekharan grinned, his voice ringing with mirth. "I thought you'd betrayed Drakhalor and decided to stay behind in Zhanoura."

  The young man laughed. Then, turning to Azelrah, he bowed slightly and said, "My queen."

  He turned back to the king, grinning. "The Zhanouri women are... alluring. I was having serious thoughts in that direction."

  "I'm sure you'd betray me for any woman, you goatfucker," Zaekharan retorted, laughing.

  "I'd reply in kind, my king-if not for the queen's presence," the man said, with a bow toward Azelrah, who watched the exchange with mild amusement.

  He looked back at her and added, "I am Riyan. A humble soldier in the mighty army of Drakhalor. The king's loyal servant."

  "He's my brother from another mother," Zaekharan boomed, clapping him heartily on the back.

  Then his voice lowered, eyes sharpening. "What news, my friend?"

  Riyan sobered instantly. "Everything seems as expected," he said vaguely, though his eyes flicked toward Azelrah-just briefly, but she caught it.

  Zaekharan noticed too. He smirked. "Go on. The queen is Drakhalori now."

  Riyan hesitated, then nodded. "The Zhanouri high command seems to have embraced the alliance. The promise of gold, new lands, and glory under your banner has captured their imagination. They believe that, as your first allies in Cenraulia, they'll claim the place of highest honour when the conquests begin."

  Zaekharan's eyes gleamed. "Good. Very good."

  "Halt!" came the sharp command of the captain leading the caravan.

  They had reached the outer gates of the capital city-a chokepoint heavily manned by Zhanouri soldiers. The flow of wagons had slowed considerably, forced into single file along the narrow road that cut through the city's great stone wall. This was the only entrance or exit, a bottleneck by design.

  From his saddle, King Zaekharan scanned the scene. Long lines of people stretched beyond the gates-men, women, even children-waiting for their turn to enter.

  He turned to Riyan, his brows furrowed. "Who are these hordes?"

  Riyan grimaced. "The poor. Day workers. They're allowed into the city at dawn and must leave by dusk. The guards don't permit them to stay overnight." He spat the words in disgust.

  "I think the checkpoint held them back until we had passed-didn't want their kind in the royal caravan's path."

  Zaekharan let out a dry, mocking laugh. "They don't even trust their own people. Charming."

  Azelrah interjected, her tone measured. "It's for safety. There's less robbery, less crime this way."

  He turned to her, amused. "So you protect your people... from your own people?" He laughed again ,though the sound seemed distinctly bitter. "You keep one half of your kingdom in misery so the other can live in grandeur."

  Azelrah had no reply. The words stung with truth she hadn't allowed herself to consider.

  Once the final wagon had passed through the checkpoint, the caravan picked up speed again. The walls of the capital faded behind them, swallowed by dust and distance.

  Zaekharan turned to Azalreh, eyes glinting with dry amusement. "You rode well, my queen," he said. "But it's noon-and the sun is unkind to delicate things and...rough edges" He let the words hang, then added with a sardonic smile, "And, I wouldn't want my people whispering that I brought home a dust-covered boy instead of a radiant bride."

  "Go now," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument.

  Fuming, Azelrah dismounted with stiff, deliberate movements. Her jaw was set, her eyes hard. She said nothing-but the silence around her burned hotter than words ever could.

  Zaekharan watched her go with amusement eyes.

  Azelrah stormed into her wagon, the flap whipping closed behind her.

  Inside, her loyal Bajja looked up anxiously. She was one of the few personal attendants Azelrah had insisted on bringing to Drakhalor.

  "Oh, my child," Bajja rushed to her, fretting, "I was worried what the dust and sun might do to your skin!"

  Azelrah groaned - not that again- flung herself onto the bed, and shrieked into a pillow, "Bajjaaa!"

  She kicked off her riding boots, scowling at nothing in particular.

  Bajja blinked, stepping back in confusion. "What did I say?" she murmured, genuinely puzzled.

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

  That's the end of Chapter 3. 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.

  For those waiting for some steamy scenes... coming soon..

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

  Copyright Notice & Disclaimer

  > ? Mars Red, 2025. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form

  or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.