Azelrah’s night had been restless.

  She had in on her side, staring at the deep folds of the tent’s canopy, her fingers loosely curled around the silken sheets that still bore the faint scent of spice. The echoes of ughter and muffled music from somewhere deeper in the camp had faded with the wind. But the silence that followed did not comfort her—it made the emptiness around her feel louder.

  She waited. At first unconsciously, then stubbornly, refusing to let herself acknowledge it. Her eyes had fluttered open at the slightest sound, her breath catching when a shadow moved outside—only to sink again - when it passed by. But Zaekharan didn't come.

  Eventually, weariness triumphed, dragging her into a fitful sleep. And in her dreams, the torment deepened.

  She saw him—King Zaekharan—his powerful form looming over a naked woman, Kaemyra of her imagination, dark hair spyed out over red silk. Her moans filled the air, her breasts swayed, her arms cwed around his shoulders as he moved over her with primal hunger. The dream was so vivid she could smell their mingled sweat, feel the heat of their bodies. Suddenly, the woman’s face changed. She saw herself there—in the woman's pce, her lips parted in the same way, her limbs trembling under his weight. The dream shifted between horror and allure, shame and hunger. She woke in a tangle of sheets, heart pounding, forehead damp with sweat.

  And he still wasn’t there.

  She sat up slowly, her temples pounding with a dull, persistent ache. The bed beside her was untouched—perfectly smooth and cold. The ache in her head deepened, merging with the churning in her gut.

  By the time the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, Azelrah had washed and dressed, her maids wordlessly helping her fasten the deep green riding tunic she chose—modest yet practical. Her hair was tied up tightly. She declined the carriage without hesitation and ordered her steed to be saddled.

  Her loyal pale horse awaited her, its fnks glistening from an early morning rubdown, and she swung onto the saddle with ease. The stablehand looked uncertain, unused to royal brides choosing to ride, but said nothing. She gripped the reins with quiet resolve and turned toward the front of the caravan.

  The camp was coming alive with motion—the ctter of hooves, shouted orders, soldiers mounting up, wheels creaking into pce. She heard voices behind her and turned her head just enough to see Zaekharan and Riyan approaching.

  They halted abruptly when they saw her on horseback.

  Zaekharan stared at her coolly, regally. Riyan blinked, then recovered with a grin and a low, sweeping bow. “My queen, riding along with us again today?”

  Azelrah gave a curt nod, her voice calm but distant. “Yes. For a short while. I have a headache. The fresh air will do me good.”

  “Oh !" Riyan said, straightening up with a smirk. “Even the King and I have bad headaches. But it was from drinking too much. Forgive me, my queen—wine flowed a bit freely yesterday-so much that the king was too drunk to return to your tent”, he ughed." Strong Zhanouri wine"

  Azelrah’s mouth twitched into something that might have resembled a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  So he decided to get drunk after fucking that whore, Azelrah thought bitterly, her hands tightening on the reins.

  She didn’t say it. But the words burned behind her tongue.

  Zaekharan, silent at Riyan’s side, said nothing. His eyes flicked over her once—cool, unreadable.

  The moment passed. Riyan mounted his horse. Orders were barked to the guards. And soon, the caravan began to roll forward again—toward Drakhalor.

  Azelrah rode alongside them, her head held high, the wind catching the edge of her veil. The ache in her temples dulled beneath the rhythm of hooves and the crispness of morning air. She felt more like herself again.

  -----------

  The caravan moved steadily, its long line of riders, carriages, and supply wagons stretching across the narrowing road like a slow-moving serpent. They were steadily climbing, Azelrah had noticed, though the ascent was gradual. The sun climbed fast now, burning away the st wisps of mist that clung to the hills.

  Zaekharan and Riyan rode a little apart from the rest—close enough to issue commands, far enough for privacy. Azelrah kept her horse a respectful distance behind, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. From where she rode, she could catch snatches of their conversation, voices carried back by the wind.

  Riyan leaned slightly toward the king. “A message arrived this morning, while you were at breakfast. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Zaekharan didn’t look at him, but his jaw shifted, the muscle there tightening. “What message?”

  “It’s from Zaryanthor. From Mahrevan.”

  Zaekharan turned his head slightly, interest sharpening in his eyes. “Mahrevan? What does he say?”

  Riyan gave a wry smile. “He’s rejected our proposal.”

  Zaekharan’s horse snorted beneath him, catching the sudden tension radiating from its rider. “He spurned it?”

  Riyan nodded, his tone more cautious now. “Mahrevan refuses the alliance with Drakhalor. He calls it—” he gnced down at the scroll tucked into his saddlebag, “—‘a gilded leash, dressed in the nguage of treaties.’ His words, not mine.”

  Zaekharan’s lips curled into a snarl. “I’ll cut off his hands and feet and pnt his broken body at the gates of his own pace.” His voice was low, but it crackled with fury. “Let the other kings of Cenraulia see what becomes of fools who defy the Lion of Drakhalor.”

  Riyan blinked at the outburst. “He’s always been difficult,” he said after a pause, perhaps testing the air. “But to be fair, he’s not a man who bends easily. Not to anyone. Still, the threat he poses—”

  “—Must be crushed,” Zaekharan snapped, his voice like iron. “This defiance cannot be allowed to fester. If he forges alliances with the smaller kingdoms of the central continent, he could foil our pns.”

  Riyan gave a solemn nod. “He’s already begun talks with Haraval and Tenour. The envoys from both courts were seen at Zaryanthor st week.”

  “He seeks to gather the lesser kings around him. Nip it in the bud. Break the stem before the flower takes seed,” Zaekharan growled.

  “I agree,” Riyan said after a moment. “If Mahrevan begins building coalitions across Cenraulia, he becomes a threat.”

  Zaekharan nodded once, coldly. “Then he will not be allowed the time.”

  Behind them, Azelrah listened, her eyes narrowing.

  Mahrevan the Bold. Yes, she remembered him.

  King Mahrevan of Zaryanthor—ruler of the rgest and wealthiest kingdom in Cenraulia. A man of immense pride and unshakable conviction. He had once visited Zhanoura during her father’s reign. She remembered seeing him then—tall and broad-shouldered, silver-streaked hair falling in waves over a scarred brow. Even then, his gaze had been like a hawk’s—watchful, always calcuting. Her father had treated him with a mix of wariness and respect.

  But what Azelrah remembered more vividly was his son.

  Prince Mirashan.

  A flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips before she caught herself.

  He had been lean and wiry, with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper wit.

  Mirashan had asked to see the training yard.

  Naturally, she had been there—where else would she be? Sword in hand, sleeves rolled up, defying every rule of decorum her tutors had tried to instill.

  They became sparring partners for the week his family remained. Both curious, quick-footed, fiercely intelligent. They spoke as they circled one another, bdes cshing in rhythm—debating the weight of steel, the best grips for uphill combat, and the legendary sieges of old.

  On the final day of their visit, Mirashan had gifted her a dagger from his homend—light, perfectly banced, deadly.

  She hadn’t thought of him in years.

  Now, hearing that his father was the one defying Zaekharan, Azelrah felt a ripple of unease. Zaryanthor was no scrabbling hill kingdom. If King Mahrevan chose to rally the others, it could shift the bance of power across the region—especially if he moved quickly.

  And Zaekharan knows it, she thought grimly.

  She stared ahead at the back of his broad shoulders, watching how his crimson cape snapped in the wind.

  Zhanoura, she thought bitterly, had been bound into a subservient alliance. And now he wants to bind others the same way… with blood, if needed.

  But King Mahrevan would not kneel easily.

  And Prince Mirashan… what kind of man had he grown into?

  -----

  The sun had reached its zenith by the time the caravan reached the border of Drakhalor. The winds carried with them a subtle shift in scent—cooler, denser, tinged with the crisp fragrance of pine and mossy earth. The air was shaded by the breath of forests and mountains, a quiet hush settling over the caravan as they entered the wooded hills of Drakhalor. As the first banners of Drakhalor crested the hill, a thunderous cheer went up among the soldiers. Spears thudded against shields. Banners snapped. War drums rolled a thunderous rhythm across the valley as they crossed into their homend.

  A welcoming party awaited them.

  Arrayed in neat formation was a contingent of Drakhalori cavalry, their bck-plumed helmets glinting in the sun, their crimson cloaks billowing behind them like fmes. At their head sat a broad-chested man cd in ceremonial armor overid with gold-threaded silk. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair oiled and pulled back into a warrior’s knot.

  Kaervas.

  Zaekharan’s stepbrother.

  As the king and his retinue approached, Kaervas dismounted with exaggerated grace and approached with a wide smile. “All hail the Lion of Drakhalor,” he procimed loudly, spreading his arms. “Conqueror without bloodshed! The silent thunder that shook Zhanoura!”

  He bowed deeply before Zaekharan, then turned and gave a courtly nod to Azelrah. But his expression faltered—just for a second.

  The girl before him was not the legendary Zahara. No sun-gold hair, no famed emerald eyes. No, not Zahara at all. There was confusion in Kaervas’s eyes as he recovered, eyes darting subtly toward the king.

  Zaekharan noticed.

  “This is the queen,” Zaekharan said sharply, his voice cutting like a drawn bde. “Azelrah. Second daughter of King Sarvahn.”

  Kaerthas blinked and quickly dropped into another bow. “Of course, Your Majesty. My queen, forgive my dey in words. I am Kaervas, the younger brother of the queen and his most loyal subject .”

  Azelrah dipped her head slightly. She had been prepared to be ignored. She hadn’t expected this—Zaekharan naming her queen aloud, publicly, without sneer or scorn.

  But the moment passed swiftly.

  Zaekharan’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, Kaervas? You were not summoned.”

  Kaerthas’s smile dimmed a fraction. “I came to pay my respects. To greet you as a brother should, and bear witness to your triumph.”

  "You know I am pleased by brave deeds on the battlefield not flowery words, brother.

  You should be in the capital doing your duty,” Zaekharan snapped. “Or do you think Drakhalor runs itself while you py escort at the border?”

  The soldiers nearby shifted uncomfortably. Kaervas inclined his head again, trying to keep the tension from his voice. “No one goes against the will of King Zaekharan in all Drakhalor .”

  Zaekharan’s eyes fred. “What of the errant chief from that eastern tribe? The one who stopped acknowledging me it seems.”

  Kaervas gave a slight shrug. “The matter is under control, brother. The tribal chief was merely… aggrieved. He had offered his daughter’s hand to Your Majesty, and when the proposal was declined—”

  Zaekharan snarled. “The king of Drakhalor marries only what befits his station. In three days, Kaervas, I want to see the chief before me—alive or dead.”

  The harsh words rang in the air like a dropped sword.

  Kaervas bowed low, hands csped before him. “As you command, Majesty. The matter will be resolved.”

  Zaekharan rode past him. The rest of the party followed, spurred into motion by his fury.

  Azelrah remained silent, her face unreadable, but inside her thoughts twisted.

  She stole a gnce at Kaervas’s face as he stood watching the caravan pass. That oily smile remained—but his eyes… no, they did not smile at all.

  ---------

  The midday sun was still high when the caravan halted at a hilltop pavilion—an ornate resting post nestled under towering cedar trees. Kaervas had arranged a vish celebratory lunch in a clearing nestled under towering cedar trees in honour of the king’s victorious return. Servants bustled to and fro with ptters of roasted meats, seasoned grains, and wines sweetened with spiced honey.

  Music floated through the air—soft at first, then swelling as drums joined the flutes. From behind a curtain of gauze, a woman stepped forward, hips swaying with practiced grace.

  Kaemyra, she heard whispers and loud cheers of her name.

  Seeing the woman whom she had imagined in her dream yesterday , now, unveiled beneath the afternoon light, Azelrah could only stare.

  Kaemyra was striking. Her silk blouse exaggerated her cleavage rather than covering it, the exposed belly shown above the colourful skirt she wore below. Heavy bck hair cascaded down her back which showed bare through the huge circur slit on the back of her blouse. Kohl-lined eyes smoldered with knowing allure. Anklets and bangles adorned her feet and hands. Her hips rolled in slow circles, her arms moving in graceful motions through the air with nguid precision. Her movements were sensual and clearly intended to tiltilte and excite.

  The men watched, rapt. Even the soldiers seemed held in a spell.

  Azelrah’s gaze flicked to Zaekharan. His eyes were fixed on the dancer, a rare hint of amusement—almost pleasure—softening the hard lines of his face.

  A strange heat curled low in Azelrah’s stomach. It was not desire. Not exactly. But something near it. Envy, perhaps. Sharp and unfamiliar.

  Kaemyra twirled, arching backward in a dramatic flourish. Appuse rang out. Laughter. Cups clinked. The performance ended, but the echo of it lingered in Azelrah's chest like a taunt.

  The moment passed. The caravan rolled forward once more.

  By dusk, the towering gates of the Drakhalori capital rose before them—bck stone fnked by statues of lions and dragons, their mouths open in eternal roar. Torchlight flickered from the walls. Trumpets bred.

  The king's caravan entered the gates to a tumultuous welcome. Crowds lined the road, shouting praises and tossing garnds. They seem genuinely happy and proud for their king, Azelrah noticed surprised. Drummers beat out a furious rhythm as flower petals rained from balconies above.

  Azelrah watched everything through the windows of her royal wagon , her heart thudding heavily as they entered the city . Her new Home.

  -------------

  That's the end of Chapter 5. 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 ptforms.

  Thankyou.

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