Azelrah woke at dawn.

  For a moment, as sleep clung to her like a veil, she thought herself back in Zhanoura—in her chamber with its carved teak panels, silk hangings, and the familiar scent of sandalwood. But when her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the tall, arched windows of the Drakhalori castle, the stark stonework softened only by drapes of crimson and gold. This was her... new home.

  She lingered on the huge bed for a while.

  Memories of the previous day returned in slow, vivid fragments. The King and she had entered Drakhalor’s capital just as twilight fell, the stone spires casting long shadows across the city. The Queen Mother—Lady Sylmara—regal and composed, had welcomed Azelrah with the sacred rites of a new bride: fragrant oils, rosewater, and the chants of Wise Seers.

  After the ritual, the Queen Mother had introduced her to the King’s three queens.

  Azelrah was no innocent; she had grown up in a court where marriages were as strategic as they were ceremonial. She had never asked about Zaekharan’s queens—never thought to care.

  And yet, as each was named, a flicker—too quick to name, too unfamiliar to grasp—passed through her. Surprise, perhaps. Or something else she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

  Queen Tazmerah, the First Queen—tall, broad-shouldered, composed—offered a formal welcome with a few flowery words and a polite hug. Queen Neysara nodded at Azalreh, her dark eyes appraising. The youngest, Queen Leirica, smiled warmly, her rounded belly revealing her pregnancy.

  Later, Tazmerah had conducted her to her new chambers—a suite fit for a queen, furnished in the Drakhalori style: austere elegance with touches of opulence. But the King had not joined her that night. Nor had he sent word.

  Azelrah had in awake beneath the canopied ceiling, listening to the night winds whistle through the slitted windows. She was a wife now. A queen. And yet, she felt utterly alone in this new kingdom.

  As morning brightened, faint voices tugged at her attention. She stepped out onto the window balcony of her chambers. Below, on the training grounds, a dozen soldiers practiced swordpy—their movements swift and disciplined. She watched them with eager eyes, her fingers twitching, as if longing for the weight of a bde.

  The part of her buried beneath silks and ceremony stirred restlessly.

  Then she saw him—Zaekharan.

  He strode into the yard, cd in a light tunic, Riyan at his side. Riyan ughed at something he said, and the King smiled back. They took up wooden swords and began to spar. Riyan moved like a cat—graceful and quick—but Zaekharan countered with deceptive calm, each stroke measured with ruthless precision.

  Azelrah watched assessing the two men, her mind making a list of their weakpoints.

  For a fleeting moment, the King looked up toward the gallery.

  Their eyes met.

  Startled, Azelrah stepped back into the shadows, her pulse quickening without reason.

  Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door.

  “Princess?” came a familiar voice—it was Bajja.

  She bustled in, arms den with robes and ornaments. She began fussing over Azelrah with practiced care—adjusting her hair, inspecting her face, and ying out a regal gown in the fine tradition of Zhanouri courtly fashion: a A fitted bodice embroidered with silver thread that caught the morning light, sleeves fring at the wrists like flower petals, and yered skirts that shimmered in indigo and silver. Her hair was braided and coiled with delicate metal chains, adorned with tiny gemstones.

  “You will shine today,” Bajja said, smoothing a crease. “A queen among queens.”

  While she worked, Bajja spoke in low, conspiratorial tones.

  “The maids have begun whispering,” she said, “about how the King broke custom by not spending the night with you. I told them the two of you spent your first night together in Zhanoura. That silenced them.”

  She paused, brushing a curl from Azelrah’s brow.

  “But still… he should have, don’t you think?”

  Azelrah shrugged. “He has three other queens.”

  “Ah yes,” Bajja said, nodding. “But Queen Tazmerah is often ill, they say. The King seldom visits her. Queen Neysara—the mountain princess—is said to be his current favorite, but it’s Queen Leirica who carries his child.”

  Azelrah raised an eyebrow. “You’ve learned a lot in one night.”

  “Servants and maids talk, my Princess. I listen.”

  Then, leaning closer, Bajja whispered,

  “They say Queen Leirica was once the young consort of the aged King Kharoun of Tormera. When Zaekharan stormed his capital, the old king fell at his feet and begged for mercy. Offered a truce—and his young queen as bargain.” She paused for effect. “Zaekharan, they say, took his head instead. Right in front of her. Then cimed her.”

  Azelrah listened, fascinated.

  “And there’s more,” Bajja added, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Queen Sylmara—she is the King’s stepmother. The mother of Prince Mirashan.”

  So many yers, Azelrah thought.

  Bajja pced a slender tiara of twisted gold gently on her brow.

  “There. My beautiful queen,” she said, pride warming her voice.

  Azelrah looked at her reflection in the mirror—and for a moment , she did not see a pawn or a bride. She saw steel wrapped in velvet. She saw a Queen.

  Later, Azelrah sat in the royal gallery for dies, high above the court floor. The Queen Mother sat beside her, fnked by the three queens. Azelrah’s robes flowed around her like a tide of indigo and silver.

  Queen Tazmerah had guided her to her seat with stately grace. Queen Leirica had offered her a warm smile. Queen Neysara’s greeting was curt, her gaze lingering a moment too long before she turned away.

  Then, the heralds announced her name.

  Azelrah rose and stepped forward. The court fell into silence.

  “Presenting,” the chamberin intoned, “Her Majesty Queen Azelrah of Zhanoura, Second Daughter of King Sarvahn, She Who Binds the East and Cenraulia in Peace, Bride of the Lion of Drakhalor…”

  Azelrah stood with spine straight and head high.

  When she returned to her seat, she felt a sense of pride. She had pyed her part . For Zhanoura.

  Tazmerah reached over and patted her on her shoulder.

  Below, the court resumed.

  The First Minister rose and bowed to the throne.

  “Sire,” he said, “a letter has arrived from King Mahrevan.”

  A hush fell.

  “He declines further talks on the alliance. Says—” the minister’s voice darkened, “—he will not wear a golden leash.”

  Murmurs rose into shouts. Some generals cursed Mahrevan’s name; one pounded his fist on the hilt of his sword.

  “Fifteen days,” one general bellowed, “and I’ll bring his head to you, my King!”

  Zaekharan said nothing at first. Azelrah remembered him and Riyan speaking of this during the journey.

  How had Riyan known?

  The First Minister urged calm. “We must not forget our greater goal: one banner for the East and Cenraulia. Drakhalor’s banner. Against the threat to come. The prophecy of the Wisest Seer must be fulfilled.”

  Azelrah narrowed her eyes. One banner? What threat? And what prophecy?

  The generals argued again. The court reverberated with angry voices.

  Then Zaekharan’s voice rumbled, low and steady, silencing all others.

  “Mahrevan either comes around… or he is crushed before he rallies others.”

  Riyan stepped forward.

  “Sire, if I may—perhaps King Sarvahn could be persuaded to mediate. If Mahrevan listens, peace holds. If not… then Drakhalor marches—with Zhanoura beside it.”

  Zaekharan nodded. “Send word to Sarvahn. He brings Mahrevan to the table—or brings his troops to our side.”

  Riyan nodded his head, a brief flicker of approval on his face.

  The minister moved on to other matters, but Azelrah barely listened.

  Zhanoura had avoided one war—only to be pulled toward another.

  And much now rested on her father.

  A gentle tap on her shoulder drew her back.

  “Queen Azelrah,” said Tazmerah, rising, “we are leaving. You may stay, if you wish.”

  Azelrah shook her head. “No. I’ll come.”

  Tazmerah smiled. “You are invited to my chambers this evening. A little celebration in your honour. Just us queens—some wine, a few delicacies, dance and music.”

  She ughed lightly.

  “Sisters,” she said, and the others followed her out.

  Azelrah lingered just a moment longer, casting one st look at the court below.

  It seemed like a chessboard—and she, a piece upon it. But which one?"

  ---------------------

  The sun had dipped westward by the time Bajja returned from the market courtyard, arms den with silk-wrapped parcels and scented satchels. The old nursemaid still moved with the practiced bustle of one who had once served high dies, though age had softened her edges. She looked Azelrah over with a sharp eye and clicked her tongue.

  “You’ll be dining with queens, child. Not wrestling in the training yard. Let me get you ready.”

  Azelrah stood stiffly before the mirror, dressed in a deep blue robe with accents of ivory and gold, her hair braided in coils close to her head. Though Azelrah had taken extra care with her appearance, Bajja—who had raised her like a mother—was still not satisfied.

  “I think I look fine,” she replied.

  Bajja sniffed. “Queens do not merely look fine. They make impressions.”

  She set about re-braiding her hair, pinning it with tiny silver darts, and applying pastes and creams until her face glowed with a subtle radiance.

  Finally, when she was satisfied, Bajja clucked a happy noise. “Now, the gifts…”

  From the parcels, Bajja produced a set of cquered boxes, each one wrapped in soft muslin. “Perfumed sandalwood from Zhanoura. Rare oils. A vial of moon-lily perfume specially prepared. Enough to delight even proud queens. These will serve.”

  Azelrah picked one up, testing the weight. “You’ve done well, Bajja.”

  “I always do.”

  With the gifts bundled into a velvet satchel, Azelrah made her way toward the western wing of the royal dies’ quarters. It was quieter here, more secluded, with balconies that looked over green terraces and koi pools below. When she arrived at the chambers of Queen Tazmerah, a pair of guards stepped aside without a word.

  Inside, the scent of incense mingled with the faint notes of soft music. The antechamber was a warm hive of activity. Cushions embroidered in gold thread lined the floor in elegant arrangements. Slender musicians sat in one corner, their strings plucking out a dreamy melody while a young dancer moved in slow, fluid arcs, her arms trailing like ribboned silk. Maids moved like clockwork, setting down chilled drinks and trays of jewel-like sweets.

  Tazmerah rose from her seat on a low dais. She wore a long robe of deep wine red, its neckline and cuffs richly embroidered with silver and emerald-green vines. A sheer shawl edged in pearls was draped over her head, the fabric shimmering with every flicker of mplight. Her look was stately, majestic—fierce even in repose.

  “Welcome, Queen Azelrah,” she said, holding out both hands. Her voice was husky with warmth. “Come, sit beside me.”

  Azelrah bowed her head and offered the gifts. “A small token from Zhanoura… I hope they please Your Grace and my sisters.”

  Tazmerah accepted them with a gracious smile. “They please me already.”

  She gestured to the floor cushions across from her, where two other women reclined, as graceful and still as panthers.

  “Queen Neysara. Queen Leirica.”

  Leirica, soft-faced and almost girlish, wore yered skirts and a blouse of pale green and rose gold, the fabrics delicately mirror-worked, with a translucent silk shawl resting lightly on her head. A hint of her cleavage showed below the golden neckces adorning her neck. Her long braid was decorated with pearls and enamel pins. She smiled brightly. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Thank you for the gifts.”

  Neysara was a striking contrast. She wore a tailored tunic of icy blue, high-colred and cinched at the waist with a jewel-studded sash. The sleeves fred elegantly over her wrists, while her fitted trousers tapered neatly into soft leather boots. A short, fur-lined cape—barely more than a shrug—draped off one shoulder. Her hair was intricately pited close to the scalp, and kohl rimmed her eyes, exaggerating the sharp edges of her already arresting beauty.

  She inclined her head with a flicker of a smirk. “Indeed.”

  Azelrah eased into the cushions, her spine straight, every movement deliberate.

  “You remind me of myself when I was your age,” Tazmerah said after a sip of cool sherbet.

  Azelrah managed a faint smile. “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “I’ve heard,” Neysara interjected, sipping her wine zily, “that Azelrah is a boy’s name in Drakhalor.”

  Azelrah stiffened.

  Tazmerah’s voice cut in smoothly. “It is as much a girl’s name as a boy’s, depending on the province. And if Queen Azelrah were a boy, she’d be a handsome one indeed.”

  The ughter and smiles that followed broke the tension, even drawing a smile from Azelrah, though her fingers remained tight on her goblet.

  “You drink too much,” Neysara chided suddenly, gncing at Leirica’s half-empty cup.

  “It’s only my second.” Leirica pouted pyfully.

  “You must take care,” Tazmerah said gently. “You carry the king’s blood.”

  Neysara sat up straighter. “The king’s seed is spilled often—but it only takes root in the fortunate.”

  Tazmerah’s smile faltered for a breath. “I was fortunate. Twice. My firstborn lived eleven moons. The second died before his first cry. Took my womb with him.”

  Silence lingered, touched with the soft clinking of instruments.

  “I’m sorry,” Azelrah said quietly.

  Tazmerah waved the sadness away, eyes resting on her. “I see myself in you. Brave. Unafraid of dust or saddle. I rode horses as wild as any prince’s. And I hunted with Zaekharan riding toe to toe.”

  Azelrah blinked. How did she know so much about me?

  “I ride too,” Neysara offered.

  “Only ponies,” Leirica giggled.

  Tazmerah ughed.

  “And you can’t ride even a donkey,” Neysara quipped at Leirica.

  “I shouldn’t, even if I could,” Leirica replied, pcing a proud hand on her belly.

  Tazmerah’s gaze softened. “Yes. You carry something precious.”

  Azelrah caught it then—a flicker of something on Neysara’s visage. Envy.

  “The king visits me often,” Neysara said, her voice tight. “The seed will take root in me soon too.”

  Tazmerah shrugged lightly. “We hope so." She sighed. "His visits to my chamber now are rare.” She leaned closer, grinning wickedly. “I miss his big, thick cock.”

  They ughed.

  Leirica nearly snorted. “It fits snugly in me.”

  Laughter rippled through the room, rich and unrestrained.

  Tazmerah said, “Your fields were kept dry and barren by that pitiful old husband of yours. They welcomed the rains brought by Zaekharan.”

  Everyone ughed again, though a flicker of pain crossed Leirica’s face—so quick it might have been missed. Was she remembering the moment when King Zaekharan chopped off the old king's head? She quickly drained the rest of her wine.

  Neysara turned, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “And you, Azelrah? How was your first night? I heard you fainted at the sight of his manhood.”

  Azelrah raised an eyebrow. These queens had spies in Zhanoura too? “It was my first time. The king fulfilled the royal tradition of Drakhalor. He gave me his blood—and his seed.”

  That drew a pause.

  Tazmerah looked at her with something like respect. “Let’s hope the seed takes root in all of us. The royal line must thrive.”

  “He wastes it on Kaemyra,” Neysara muttered.

  “He is king,” Tazmerah said stiffly. “He may use his cock where he wishes.”

  Leirica looked at her belly and said, “But only we can give him his legal heir, his legacy.”

  Tazmerah cpped her hands. “Come, let's have food. All this talk of the king’s cock has made me hungry.”

  This time, even Azelrah could not resist. She ughed with them—free, full-throated, almost forgetting herself.

  -------------------

  That's the end of Chapter 6. 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.

  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.