In the opulent royal chambers of Castle Dranira, Queen Dranir paced the room with measured, thunderous steps. Her imposing figure, standing well casting long, ominous shadows that danced across the ornate tapestries in the flickering light of a dozen beeswax candles.

  The queen's midnight attire, a midnight blue adorned with descriptive embroidery depicting constellations rustled with each purposeful stride. Her broad shoulders and powerful arms, barely concealed by the gown's flowing sleeves, spoke of a lifetime of martial training.

  At a massive mahogany desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, King Jeram sat hunched over a scatter of parchments, his diminutive frame dwarfed by the ornate piece of furniture. His quill scratched nervously across the documents, leaving ink blots where his hand trembled. Periodically, he dabbed at his brow with a monogrammed silk handkerchief, the fabric already damp with perspiration. The king's elegant but understated attire—a doublet of forest green velvet—seemed to hang loosely on his slight frame.

  "J-Jeram," Queen Dranir's voice boomed, resonating off the vaulted ceiling and causing the crystal chandelier to tremble. The king flinched visibly, his quill leaving a jagged line across the parchment. "What are your thoughts on allowing Sutaro to attend the Festival?"

  King Jeram looked up, his hazel eyes wide behind wire-rimmed spectacles that had slipped down his aquiline nose.

  He swallowed hard, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "W-well, my dear," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "I think it m-might be good for her to—"

  "To what?" Queen Dranir interrupted, her contralto voice cutting through the air. She strode towards him with the grace of a predator, her footfalls muffled by the plush Kashaari carpet. As she approached, she perfused the room, her presence more palpable than a gathering storm. "To further embarrass the crown with her childish behavior?"

  "N-no, of course not," Jeram stammered, shrinking in his high-backed chair. "I just thought... Perhaps if she saw more of our people, she might understand her responsibilities better."

  Queen Dranir's amber eyes narrowed dangerously. She circled the desk, her movements fluid and powerful. The train of her cloak swept behind her like a royal banner. Jeram's gaze followed her nervously, noting how even the voluminous fabric couldn't fully conceal her muscular frame, honed by years of combat and leadership.

  As Queen Dranir loomed over her husband, the contrast between them became even more stark. Her shadow engulfed him completely.

  "And if she makes a spectacle of herself? What then?" Dranir asked, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the castle. Her massive hands, calloused from years of wielding both sword and scepter, clenched into fists at her sides.

  King Jeram swallowed hard, the sound audible in the tense silence. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he scrambled for a response. "We could... limit her time at the festival?" he suggested, his voice quavering. "Keep her under close supervision?"

  Queen Dranir considered this, her eyes narrowing in thought. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft crackle of candle flames and King Jeram's shallow breathing. Finally, she nodded slowly, the motion causing the golden circlet nestled in her hair to catch the light. "Perhaps you're not entirely wrong, my little king."

  With a grace that belied her size, Queen Dranir knelt down, bringing herself to eye level with her husband. The floorboards creaked ominously under her weight. Even kneeling, she towered over King Jeram, her broad shoulders blocking out the candlelight and casting him in shadow. "But remember," she added, her breath hot against his face, "one misstep from her, and it's on your head."

  She leaned in, kissing him firmly. King Jeram's eyes widened in surprise before fluttering closed, melting into his wife's mouth. His small hands came up to rest on her muscular arms, fingers barely spanning their width. He was simultaneously terrified and awed by her power, intimidating and intoxicating.

  As she pulled away wiping a strand of their shared saliva off her chin, Queen Dranir's expression softened slightly, the hard lines around her eyes and mouth easing. "Now," she said, her voice losing some of its edge, "tell me about the Phoenix theme. I trust the preparations are going well?"

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Y-yes, my queen," King Jeram replied, visibly relieved at the change of subject. He straightened in his chair, adjusting his spectacles with trembling fingers. "The artisans have outdone themselves this year. The main square will be transformed into a sea of red and orange, with a massive mechanical phoenix as the centerpiece."

  "Excellent," Queen Dranir nodded approvingly, a rare smile tugging at the corners of her full lips. "And the security measures?"

  "Elise has everything under control," Jeram assured her, gaining confidence as he spoke about the practical matters of governance. "The guard has been briefed and positioned strategically throughout the festival grounds."

  Queen Dranir stood, resuming her pacing. Her movements were fluid and controlled. "Good. This festival must be perfect. The people need to see our strength and prosperity, especially in these uncertain times."

  As she moved, her cloak shifted, allowing King Jeram a glimpse of her powerful physique. The fabric clung to the defined muscles of her back and shoulders. He quickly averted his eyes, a flush creeping up his neck as he focused instead on the festival plans spread across his desk.

  "Of course, my queen," he agreed, shuffling the papers nervously. "Is there anything else you need from me?"

  Queen Dranir turned, fixing him with an intense gaze and looming over him. "Just remember, Jeram," she said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "We must present a united front. For the good of the kingdom... and for Sutaro's future."

  As darkness fell over Castle Dranira, the royal couple prepared to retire.

  "Jeram, I think a visit to our sauna is in order," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The day's tensions need releasing."

  King Jeram looked up from his desk, where he'd been poring over trade agreements. "Of course, my dear," he replied, setting aside his quill. "I'll have the attendants prepare it at once."

  With a wave of her hand, Dranir dismissed the idea. "No need. I prefer our privacy tonight." Her eyes gleamed with intensity, making Jeram swallow hard.

  Their gift from the Steambath Isles, was a marvel of engineering. Crafted from rare cloudwood and inlaid with heat-resistant gems, it stood in a secluded corner. As they approached, Dranir ducked to enter, while Jeram could have walked in standing fully upright.

  Inside, the air thickened with fragrant steam while the queen began to disrobe. King Jeram's hands trembled slightly as he removed his own garments, hyper-aware of his wife's presence.

  As they settled onto the smooth wooden benches, Dranir's sculpted muscle began to uncurve. Every plane spoke immense strength and years of martial training. Markings from countless battles etched a story of triumph across her bronze skin.

  In contrast her husband appeared almost childlike. His frame was slight and willowy, with delicate bones seeming ill-suited to bearing the weight of a crown. Yet there was a nimbleness to his movements, a quick grace that hinted at a different kind of strength.

  "Tell me, my little king," Queen Dranir began, her voice a low rumble. "What troubles weigh on your mind tonight?"

  Jeram hesitated, considering his words carefully. "I worry about Sutaro," he admitted finally. "And... about the whispers from the Eastern faction."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Whispers? What whispers?"

  "There are... murmurings of discontent," Jeram explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "Some say our rule is too harsh, that we demand too much from the outlying regions."

  A low growl emanated from the queen's throat. "Harsh? We give them protection, order, prosperity. What more could they want?"

  "Perhaps... a gentler hand?" Jeram suggested, immediately regretting his words as Queen Dranir's massive form tensed beside him.

  "Gentleness is a luxury we cannot afford," she snapped, her fist coming down on the bench between them with a resounding crack. Jeram flinched, shrinking away instinctively. "Our enemies circle like vulgins, waiting for any sign of weakness. Would you have us bow and scrape, begging for the loyalty that is rightfully ours?"

  "N-no, of course not," Jeram stammered, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I only meant—"

  "I know what you meant," Queen Dranir interrupted, her voice softening slightly. She reached out, engulfing Jeram's slender shoulder with one large hand.

  "Your heart is kind, my love. It's why I chose you. But kindness alone cannot rule a kingdom."

  Jeram nodded, leaning into her touch despite himself. "You're right, of course. As always."

  A small smile played at the corners of her lips. "Not always," she admitted. "But often enough." Her hand moved from his shoulder to cup his chin, turning his face towards her. "Together, we balance each other. Your wisdom tempers my strength. Never forget that."

  As the steam swirled around them, the tension in the air shifted, taking on a different quality. Queen Dranir's eyes roamed over her husband's slight form, a possessive gleam in their depths.

  "Now," she purred, her voice dropping husky, "I think it's time we addressed those... other tensions."

  As the night deepened, the royal couple found solace in each other's arms, their cares momentarily forgotten in their steam-ridden solaces.

  INTERMISSION FOR LORE

  The Steambath Isles are a faction in Nimbus that specialize in tools made for relaxation, like many soaps and stone-structured baths like Dranir and Jeram's. Theirs was commissioned and made specially for them at the request of Dranir.

  Vulgins are large bird-like creatures, they feast on dead carcasses, but only ones with their souls still seeping out as they die, The meat is more fresh that way.

  INTERMISSION OVER