The next few days passed quietly for Azelrah. Her time in the Drakhalori pace slipped into a strange rhythm, detached from the bustle outside. Each morning, she would step out onto the high balcony of her chambers and watch the soldiers train in the yard below. The csh of steel and the sharp cries of command rang out across the cool morning air. At the same hour every day, King Zaekharan would walk into the training yard—tall and fierce, sometimes alone, sometimes with Riyan.

  Their sparring had an intensity and grace that fascinated Azelrah. She would lean quietly against the carved stone balustrade, the breeze stirring her scarf, as she watched the king and his companion train. Occasionally, Zaekharan would gnce up in her direction. But his face remained unreadable, his gaze giving nothing away. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just a gnce before he turned back to the arena.

  She did not venture out much. With a full retinue of maids attending to her needs, there was little reason to. Still, she made two visits to the court—once at the invitation of Queen Tazmerah, who urged her to join the other queens to witness an important event, and once again on her own, driven by curiosity.

  The first time, the air in the court was thick with expectation. Word had spread that the rebel tribal chief Korthang had finally been captured and would be presented before the king. Azelrah sat in the upper gallery with the other queens, cloaked in silk and silence. From behind the carved screens, she had an unobstructed view of the grand hall below.

  Through the heavy doors, Mirashan entered, fnked by soldiers, leading a tall man in chains—the rebel, Korthang. He was broad-shouldered and wild-eyed, his hair tied back with a strip of hide, his expression defiant despite his bonds.

  Mirashan addressed the court. "As commanded by you, my king, here stands the rebel chief of the Anihma tribe—the criminal Korthang."

  Zaekharan rose from his throne. His voice was like a bde unsheathed. "Korthang, what made you forget yourself and turn against me? Speak."

  Korthang spat on the floor. "Zaekharan, who are you to question me? To rule over us? You were born the son of a tribal chief—no better than the rest of us. We raised your father to be our leader to fulfill the Wisest Seer's prophecy. And now you sit on that throne. Why? Because you are his son?"

  A murmur swept through the court like wind through dry leaves.

  Zaekharan’s voice turned to iron. "It has been nine years since my father passed. The mantle of the prophecy fell to me, as the Wisest Seer decreed."

  The court echoed with murmurs of assent.

  "You cim the Wisest Seer's words," Korthang snarled. "But I never heard them. Did anyone?"

  Zaekharan's eyes fshed. "You accuse me of lying?"

  Uproar burst through the court.

  "Traitor!"

  "Bsphemer!"

  "Kill him!"

  Mirashan stepped forward, his sword half drawn. "Allow me to strike down this traitor, my king."

  Zaekharan held up a hand. His eyes flicked to Riyan, who stood as if he had been waiting for a signal. Something unspoken passed between them.

  Riyan stepped forward. "This man, who stands before us, has been disowned by his own tribe. He is no longer chief of the Anihma."

  Korthang’s expression cracked. "Lies! I am the rightful chief! Who dares to cast me out?"

  A figure emerged from the shadows. He had simir features to Korthang, his face painted with the ochre of Anihma warriors. "I am Mojarthang, chosen by the elders to lead the Anihma. The council has cast this traitor out."

  "Mojarthang! Traitor! My own blood! My brother!" Korthang spat, his voice choked with disbelief.

  Mojarthang continued, "His wife has decred allegiance to Drakhalor. She has renounced her husband, this traitor. His daughter, who remained loyal to him, was put to death."

  Korthang dropped to his knees, the chains clinking like a dirge. The news of his wife’s betrayal and his daughter’s death seemed to break him. "My Jhumana…"

  Zaekharan turned to Mojarthang. "Then this is a matter for your tribe. We will hand the traitor over to you for justice."

  "The sentence has already been passed," Mojarthang said grimly. "He is to die a shameful death."

  Zaekharan nodded. "So be it. The Anihma tribe remains central to our greater destiny—the fulfillment of the Wisest Seer’s prophecy."

  Mojarthang bowed. "We are honored to stand with the king."

  "That loyalty will be honored and rewarded," Riyan replied.

  Guards moved to take the sobbing Korthang away.

  From her pce above, Azelrah watched with a strange sense of awe. Zaekharan had turned a tribal rebellion into a matter of internal dishonor. The man who had once led warriors was now nothing more than a condemned outcast.

  Her eyes strayed to Mirashan. He stood still, his shoulders tight. His triumph—the capture of Korthang—had been reduced to a footnote in the king’s rger game. The gleam of victory had dimmed from his eyes.

  Zaekharan and Riyan had orchestrated this carefully, masterfully.

  On her next visit to court, Azelrah went alone. The other queens had shown no interest, but her curiosity had been piqued. The session was mundane by comparison. The only matter of interest to her had been the discussions with King Mahrevan. Her father, King Sarvahn, it seemed, had convinced Mahrevan to return to the negotiation table. There was cautious optimism in the hall.

  Azelrah sat silently through it all, absorbing each detail. She was beginning to understand how power worked, how kings ruled—not through brute force alone, but through quiet maneuvering, yered loyalties, and carefully constructed public theatre.

  She looked at King Zaekharan with new eyes—the son of a tribal chief who now ruled an empire and who had set out to fulfill a prophecy.

  -----------

  One morning, just as Azelrah reached for her scarf to begin her usual walk to the balcony, a knock interrupted her. She paused, brows knitting slightly.

  The door opened to reveal a tall woman in light armor, her bearing confident, her gaze steady. “My Queen,” she said, bowing slightly. “Captain Saneta, at your service.”

  Azelrah looked at her quizzically.

  Saneta lifted a neatly folded bundle wrapped in dark linen. “The king has instructed us to begin sword practice with you. These are your training garments, my queen. Please come down to the training yard when you are ready.”

  She turned on her heel and departed, leaving Azelrah standing in the hush of her chamber, her heart racing at the thought of lifting swords once again.

  The king had arranged this?

  When? Why?

  She dressed in silence, her fingers brushing over the fabric- a long blouse, a scarf and divided trousers of sturdy yet fine make, in the deep greys and muted blues of Drakhalor’s royal guard. A Zhanouran princess, now a Drakhalori queen, garbed in a warrior’s attire—Drakhalori attire.

  The morning air was crisp as she stepped onto the training grounds. The csh of steel greeted her ears once more, but today it no longer came from afar. She was walking into its rhythm.

  Zaekharan was already there, sparring with two guards in quick succession. His movements were a storm—sharp, fast, controlled. Azelrah hesitated at the edge, uncertain whether to approach or wait.

  Then, with a short gesture, Zaekharan halted his practice. He waved his sparring partner aside and turned to her.

  “I’m told,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry but calm, “that you practiced the sword in Zhanoura.”

  She inclined her head. “Yes, my lord.”

  He gestured toward a group of women standing nearby—strong, poised, dressed like Saneta. “These are our finest swordswomen from the Queen’s Guard. I’ve asked them to train with you.”

  Azelrah blinked, unsure how to respond. Suspicion?Gratitude? She settled for a polite nod. “Thank you.”

  Zaekharan studied her. “I’m curious. They say you’re good. Let’s see if the tales are true.”

  He stepped aside, folding his arms, his gaze steady and unreadable.

  Azelrah felt her cheeks warm. She hated the sudden knot of nerves in her stomach. She picked up one of the practice swords from the rack—slightly heavier than the Zhanouran ones—and took her pce at the center.

  At first, she moved cautiously. The sword was unfamiliar. The weight of Zaekharan’s gaze was heavier still. Her strokes were serviceable, but ckluster. She risked a gnce at him.

  He looked... disappointed.

  That stung more than she expected.

  A spark lit in her belly. She straightened her spine, gripped the hilt tighter, and exhaled slowly.

  Enough.

  Her next movements were sharper. Faster. Her body began to remember what it had once done instinctively. The rhythm returned. She blocked. Countered. Stepped. Twirled. Faced one opponent, then two more. She stopped thinking. The world fell away. There was only the sword.

  And then—appuse.

  She stopped, breathless, strands of hair falling across her face.

  Riyan stood beside Zaekharan now, cpping, a wide grin on his face. “By the gods, my queen, remind me never to stand across from you in battle.”

  Zaekharan said nothing, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—approval.

  It made something flutter in her chest.

  She tried to ignore it.

  Riyan,” Zaekharan called, stepping forward.“ Come, let us begin.”

  Riyan groaned. “Already? I haven’t even caught my breath from watching. You want to beat me while I am not ready?"

  Zaekharan ughed. “Beat me! I think Queen Azelrah may beat you!.”

  Azelrah faltered mid-stroke and looked at him, startled. Her bde dipped, but Zaekharan had already turned away, squaring off against Riyan.

  Was it a compliment? Or a jest?

  But he had smiled.

  Her chest tightened, a strange pride welling up inside her.

  Why did his approval matter?

  She didn’t know. And she didn’t want to think about it.

  Instead, she turned back to her sparring partner and resumed. Her movements were sharper now. Cleaner. The sword was no longer just in her hand—it was an extension of her will.

  The training yard pulsed with the cng of steel and the fierce dance of warriors.

  And for the first time in days, Azelrah felt more than watched.

  She felt seen.

  ----------

  Azelrah’s mornings now began with the swish of bdes and the thud of footwork. The spear, the sword—each was a welcome companion. Training left her body aching, but her heart strangely light. Most mornings, Zaekharan would watch her from a distance, taking time off from his own practice—arms folded, eyes narrowed, saying nothing. Yet Azelrah could feel his gaze lingering on her. Watching. Weighing. And sometimes, approving.

  Strangely, that lifted her heart. She didn’t fully understand the emotion, nor did she wish to dwell on it.

  One morning, she arrived early to find the training yard without her usual sparring partners. Only one of the Queen’s Guard stood waiting—Kireya, a young swordswoman with a cautious stance.

  “The others?” Azelrah asked, frowning.

  Kireya bowed. “They've accompanied Queen Neysara and Queen Tazmerah, my queen. Queen Nesraya has left for her father’s mountain kingdom. Queen Tazmerah is visiting the Wisest Seer’s Abode. Most of the elite guards travel with them.”

  Azelrah nodded and picked up her sword, beginning her practice with Kireya. But the younger woman was no match for her.

  Her strikes were clean, precise. Kireya struggled to keep up, and Azelrah bested her again and again. She fell into the rhythm of the fight—her body warm, her focus sharp.

  She did not notice Zaekharan until his voice rang out across the courtyard.

  “You’re too good for her, Queen,” he called. “Come—let me give you some practice.”

  She turned, startled. He stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, a faint smirk on his lips.

  “You, my king?” she asked, disbelieving.

  He strode forward. “Unless you’re afraid.”

  That goaded her. She stepped into position.

  Their swords met.

  At first, her strikes were cautious, measured. But Zaekharan circled her like a hawk, taunting.

  “I thought you were better. My eyes deceived me, it seems.”

  Heat fred in her cheeks. Anger sparked in her chest. She lunged, fury driving her bde.

  Zaekharan parried her easily.

  “When wielding a sword, the mind must be clear of emotion, my queen.”

  She gritted her teeth, chastened. He was right. She closed her eyes, steadied her breath, and resumed. This time her movements flowed, smooth and certain. Steel kissed steel. She pushed forward, driving him back a few paces.

  Zaekharan’s eyes gleamed.

  The duel stretched on, fierce and fast. Her scarf, tied tight around her chest and shoulders, loosened with a wild pivot and slipped from her shoulders. Zaekharan halted at once.

  “Clear the yard,” he ordered the male soldiers without looking away from her.

  Once they were alone, he returned to her with a crooked smile. “Shall we continue?”

  She nodded.

  They resumed. Sweat traced rivulets down her face. Her hair clung to her skin. But she did not stop. Her chest rose and fell with effort, her limbs trembled slightly from strain, yet her eyes were fierce.

  Zaekharan raised a hand. “Enough. You’ll colpse at this rate.”

  Azelrah panted. “Are you afraid of losing to me, my king?”

  His eyes lingered briefly on the curve of her form, then returned to her face. He ughed and raised his bde again.

  “Losing? Let’s see.”

  He surged forward with new energy—relentless, overwhelming. She struggled to keep up. And then, in a sudden move, he swept her sword away, twisted behind her, locking her left arm behind her back, his bde resting lightly at her throat.

  “Do you yield, Queen?” he whispered, his breath brushing her ear.

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The closeness stunned her. Their bodies pressed together—slick with sweat, breathless, tense. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

  He was close—too close.

  She should have pulled away.

  But she didn’t.

  Zaekharan’s free hand moved to her cheek, tilting her face up to his. His eyes searched hers—intense, unreadable. Then he kissed her.

  The world tilted.

  His lips were warm, rough, demanding. She gasped against him, her resistance faltering. It was a storm—unexpected and consuming. Her breath caught. Her hands gripped his arms, not to push him away—but to hold on.

  The kiss deepened.

  Her mind screamed confusion, but her body betrayed her—leaning into him, trembling.

  Zaekharan broke the kiss only to press another to her neck, then scooped her into his arms. She didn’t protest.

  He carried her into the tent beyond the yard. Her heartbeat pounded like a war drum. Her body, traitorous and warm, leaned into him.

  Inside, the scent of oil and steel gave way to the hush of fabric and the cool of shaded air. A rge washtub waited in the corner.

  He set her down gently and began to unce the damp ties of her blouse. Her breath trembled. She looked up at him, eyes wide, confused by her own longing.

  Zaekharan paused, searching her face.

  She didn’t speak. But she didn’t stop him either.

  A flickering bronze ntern cast their shadows against the canvas walls—two warriors stilled at the edge of something unspoken.

  Zaekharan’s fingers grazed the edge of her blouse, now hanging loose. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man so fierce. Azelrah’s breath hitched as he untied it completely, revealing her bare chest, her smallish breasts, her swollen nipples.. He tilted her chin toward him again. “You are mine".

  The words struck like a bolt—bold, unyielding. Her instinct screamed to resist. But her breath, her pulse, the ache blooming inside—none of it obeyed.

  She didn’t stop him when his lips brushed her colrbone, or when his hand traced the slope of her back, the outline of her breasts. He leaned in again, and she gasped as his lips pressed to the hollow of her throat slowly moving down to her breasts, to her nipples. Spasms of pleasure struck her with unimagined intensity as his lips pyed with her nipples alternately sucking and biting them.

  She had thought the wedding night was the worst of it—that submission was a duty and nothing more. But this—this was different. He wasn’t ciming her. He was inviting her.

  And she was coming willingly.

  He lifted her into the washtub, half-filled with sun-warmed water. It pped at her calves, then her waist. She shivered—not from cold.

  His hands found the ties of her divided skirt, undoing them one by one, slowly. She let him.

  As the st yer of clothing fell away, her body arched into his touch, unsure, unsteady—but open. She didn’t understand this longing. But she no longer wished to run from it.

  Zaekharan removed his own tunic and his pants and pulled her close in the water. Their skin met, hot and slick. She clung to him, her head against his shoulder, her fingers clutching at his back as if she might fall apart if she let go.

  She could feel his thick, hard cock pressing against her inner thighs. Her legs widened as if on their own, the tip of his cock brushing against her bia, her slick wet entrance parting to welcome it. As his huge length filled her, her mind reeled, overwhelmed by ecstasy as Zaekharan began to thrust. Moans escaped her lips; her grip on Zaekharan's body tightened, her nails digging hard into the skin of his back.

  Finally, as Zaekharan released within her with a shudder, Azelrah screamed wildly in ecstasy, reaching her climax at the same moment as him.

  -------------

  That is the end of Chapter 7. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Thankyou

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  Copyright Notice & Discimer

  > ? Mars Red, 2025. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, pces, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resembnce 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.