Azelrah sat still as Bajja adjusted the fall of her scarf, fingers nimble and practiced. The air in the chamber was quiet—but it was the kind of silence that echoed too much, letting her thoughts swell louder than they should.

  It had been three days since that storm of a moment in the training yard. Three days since Zaekharan had taken her—cimed her—and she had willingly given herself, with a heat that still burned in her skin. And since then, nothing.

  No word. No visit.

  She had waited the first night, lying awake long after the st torch had been doused in the corridor. Then the second night too, though she told herself otherwise. The Queen’s Guard had mentioned, that the King had ridden north to inspect garrisons near the hills of Elramar. He had returned st evening.

  Still, he had not come to her.

  Why were you waiting? she chided herself as Bajja moved behind her, fastening the csp of a neckce. What were you hoping?

  Zaekharan already had three queens—each more beautiful, more voluptuous, more poised than she could ever hope to be. And there was Kaemyra, the delicate rose of the court, always blooming along the King’s path. They were all silk-draped, perfumed, trained in seduction.

  And you? A half-wild girl from Zhanoura, more calloused than coy. She gave a dry smile at her own reflection.

  He had seen her briefly that morning in the training yard. Asked, in a tone more courteous than close, how her sword practice was progressing. There had been no lingering gaze, no suggestive note in his voice.

  But there had been something—hadn’t there?

  The flicker in his eyes when he first saw her. The ghost of a smile that curled just a moment too long. When their fingers brushed as he handed her a heavier bde. When his hands settled on her waist to adjust her stance. All quick, proper, easily ignored—except by her. And perhaps by him too.

  Or was she imagining it?

  Then, as if retreating behind armor, he had turned formal.

  "Queen Tazmerah returned from her pilgrimage te st night. She will address the court about her visit to the Wisest Seer. Your presence is expected."

  He had turned away to speak to the soldiers, leaving her with a sword in hand—and a knot in her stomach.

  Bajja broke her reverie, smoothing a stubborn strand of hair back into pce.

  Azelrah let out a quiet breath. Bajja always made her look... presentable. Pretty, even.

  She rose, adjusting the belt at her waist. The Queen's attire still felt heavy despite two weeks of wearing it—a new skin, stitched in silvers and greys, bearing the weight of thrones and expectations.

  As she followed the Queen’s Guard through the stone corridors toward the royal court, her thoughts clung stubbornly to her mind.

  Had that moment in the yard meant anything to Zaekharan? Or had it only been a dispy of dominance—a reminder of possession, nothing more?

  ----------------------

  Azelrah sat in her designated pce within the queens’ gallery, back straight, hands folded in her p. The gallery—set slightly above the main floor of the court and veiled behind sheer silks—offered both seclusion and a clear view of the throne hall below. The marble walls gleamed in the te morning light, catching on gold filigree and crimson banners, the lion of Drakhalor swaying faintly in the breeze.

  Queen Tazmerah and the Queen Mother had already been seated when she arrived.

  Tazmerah had risen at Azelrah’s approach and embraced her warmly. “It is good to see you, Queen Azelrah,” the First Queen had said, her steady gaze filled with both affection and purpose.

  Azelrah had bowed next to the Queen Mother, offering a respectful greeting. The elderly matriarch, draped in heavy brocade with a beautifully embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders, returned it with the traditional blessings—measured and formal, her voice ced with unshakeable authority.

  A few moments ter, Queen Leirica arrived in a sweep of pale blue silk. Her wide skirt and blouse, embroidered with fine thread and speckled with tiny gss mirrors, shimmered with every step. A transparent scarf hitched onto her hair and wrapped around her shoulders and chest completed the riot of colors. Her presence, as always, was like a soft breeze on a heavy day.

  She greeted the women with practiced charm, then leaned toward Azelrah with a twinkle in her eye. “I heard someone had a rather... spirited swordfight. And some... er... deep stabbings,” she whispered, the mischief barely hidden in her voice.

  Azelrah’s eyes widened, her cheeks coloring. She couldn’t help the embarrassed smile that tugged at her lips as Leirica winked and settled into her seat. The brief exchange eased some of the tension coiled in her chest.

  Now, they waited for the King’s signal.

  The court grew still as the First Minister stepped forward, his voice clear and solemn.

  “The First Queen Tazmerah has returned from her pilgrimage to the Wisest Seer’s Abode,” he announced. “She brings a message for the King and the court. A message of great importance.”

  All eyes turned to the queens’ gallery.

  The minister’s gaze lifted. “First Queen Tazmerah.”

  With elegant composure, Tazmerah rose and stepped through the sheer curtains onto the raised dais just above the court floor. Her presence commanded attention—every fold of her garment, every note in her voice imbued with quiet authority.

  “My King, ministers, generals, and countrymen,” she began, her tone high and regal, “I bring blessings from the Wisest One to you all.”

  A rustle of reverent murmurs followed—bowed heads, whispered invocations.

  “And I bring good news.”

  She paused, letting her words settle.

  “I told the Wisest One of the King’s alliance with Zhanoura... of his marriage to Queen Azelrah.”

  Azelrah stiffened slightly, her breath catching.

  “The Wisest One—who speaks rarely, but hears all—did speak. And I quote his words: ‘Queen Azelrah. Through her, the line of battle will endure.’”

  A wave of murmurs swept through the hall.

  “Blessed…”

  “A prophecy…”

  “The Seer has spoken…”

  Tazmerah’s voice rose, clear above the whispers. “This means, dear countrymen, that we are on the right path.”

  Her tone became fervent, her expression lit with conviction.

  “The prophecy shall be fulfilled. Drakhalor will rise. Drakhalor will unite the East—and the whole of Cenraulia. Drakhalor will defeat the threat from the West. Drakhalor will win!”

  Her final words rang like a battle cry, igniting the court.

  Cheers erupted—fists raised, voices thundering with triumph.

  From her seat behind the veil, Azelrah remained still, heart pounding. She had heard the word 'prophecy' before —murmured in corridors, slipped into boastful speeches—but until now, it had always felt like an excuse. A convenient justification for conquest. But here, in the court’s thunderous reception to Tazmerah’s words, she sensed something more: belief. Real belief. And now… she was part of the prophecy.

  She saw heads turning toward the queens’ gallery—toward her. People were looking at her with new eyes: reverent, curious, expectant.

  Her name had been spoken by the Wisest One.

  Whoever he was.

  But what threat from the West? Azelrah frowned. That wild, marshy region? Snow-covered and treacherous? The West was vast, but rgely ungoverned—dismissed by the Cenraulian kingdoms as backward and strategically insignificant. She had never heard of it being anything more than wilderness. What threat could possibly emerge from there?

  It was a prophecy that felt difficult to believe.

  Then King Zaekharan raised a hand, and the court gradually fell silent.

  “The Wisest One blesses Queen Azelrah,” he said firmly. “And”—he paused for effect—“he blesses Drakhalor.”

  A second wave of cheers surged, louder than before.

  The King continued, “And I bring further good news. King Mahrevan is ready to accept Drakhalor’s protection and join our alliance.”

  The court exploded with accmation.

  “Victory to Drakhalor!”

  “Hail King Zaekharan!”

  “Good omens!”

  And amid the noise, Azelrah heard one or two calls:

  “Long live Queen Tazmerah!”

  “Long live Queen Azelrah!”

  The King waited until the voices quieted once more.

  “General Riyan is negotiating the final terms even as we speak, in Zhanoura.”

  Ah. So that was why Riyan had been absent from the training yard.

  Zaekharan’s gaze lifted toward the queens’ gallery—toward her.

  “King Sarvahn of Zhanoura has pyed a vital role in bringing Mahrevan to reason. Drakhalor honors his contribution.”

  Another wave of nods and murmurs of approval swept through the court.

  The First Minister stepped forward. “Let us all commend the efforts of the King of Zhanoura and General Riyan.” He turned toward the throne. “And on behalf of the court, I congratute King Zaekharan on yet another bloodless conquest. May the prophecy be fulfilled. Drakhalor will win!”

  The final cry echoed across the throne hall like a vow.

  Azelrah looked around and saw warriors buoyed by the feverish zeal of the Wisest Seer’s prophecy—ready to live and die for Drakhalor. And she felt the same prophecy settle over her—not just as words, but as a chain linking her to Drakhalor’s fate... And to its future battles.

  ----------------------

  Bajja fussed over Azelrah, carefully unfastening the ceremonial jewelry and loosening the heavy court garments. The silk whispered and clinked, the jewelry chiming softly with every movement, still ced with the lingering scent of incense from the throne hall.

  “You should sit, child,” Bajja scolded gently, nudging her toward the cushions. “You seem exhausted.”

  Azelrah sank down with a sigh, her mind still whirling.

  Bajja’s fingers paused as she worked. “What happened today?” she asked, a note of curiosity cutting through her usual maternal scolding. “The servants are whispering your name with reverence. Something about a prophecy? Calling you the... prophesied queen?”

  Azelrah exhaled slowly, resting her head against the backrest. “A lot happened, Bajja. Too much.”

  Just then, a knock echoed at the door.

  “Come in,” Azelrah called, her voice sharper than she intended.

  A young maid stepped in and bowed deeply. “Queen Azelrah,” she said, eyes respectfully downcast, “Her Highness Queen Tazmerah asks your leave to visit.”

  Azelrah straightened. “Of course. Tell her I would be honoured by her presence.”

  As the maid departed, Azelrah frowned. The girl’s manner—it was more than formal. It was reverent.

  Moments ter, Queen Tazmerah entered, her steps unhurried, gaze sweeping the room with calm assessment. She gave Bajja a brief look, then turned to Azelrah and said, "May I have some of your time, Queen Azelrah?"

  “Yes, of course.” She turned to Bajja. “Bajja, bring some tea for the First Queen, will you?”

  Bajja gave a tight bow and exited without protest.

  Once the door closed, Tazmerah’s eyes lingered on it a moment. “Bajja,” she repeated thoughtfully. “That means ‘mother’ in the tribal dialect of southern Zhanoura, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Azelrah replied, her voice softening. “She’s raised me since birth. My mother died giving birth to me.”

  Tazmerah's gaze softened, though her expression remained composed. “Yes. I’ve heard. That is... sorrowful.” She paused, then gestured toward the open balcony. “So this is your window to your favorite pastime?”

  Azelrah followed her gaze. The training yard below gleamed in the afternoon light, swords cshing faintly in the distance.

  " I trained in Zhanoura from when I was a child,” she said quietly. “While other girls painted and danced, I found my joy in the sword and spear.” She gave a small, almost apologetic shrug.

  "I see," Tazmerah said with a soft smile. "Zaekharan tells me you're quite accomplished." She tilted her head slightly. "Perhaps that's what the Wisest Seer meant—a brave young queen, meant to stand beside her king when the storm comes."

  Azelrah said nothing. Her hands fidgeted in her p. Her face was unreadable, but something must have shown in her eyes, for Queen Tazmerah caught it.

  “You don’t believe in the prophecy, do you?” she asked, her tone even, not accusatory. “It’s understandable. You are an outsider.”

  Azelrah flushed. “It’s not that I don’t believe... I just—” She stumbled. “The threat from the West… it’s hard to imagine. That region is thinly poputed—wild men mostly, marshes in summer, snow-choked in winter. It’s always been... wilderness.”

  “Ah.” Tazmerah’s lips curved slightly, but not in amusement. “You think the threat is a lie, then? A tale to rally the soldiers? A justification for conquest?”

  “No! No, not that,” Azelrah said quickly. “Just... difficult to imagine, that’s all.”

  Tazmerah nodded. “It was difficult for us, too, the first time. When the Seer came to the Tribal Council—twenty years ago.”

  Her voice grew quiet, her eyes distant, drawn back into memory.

  “Zaekharan and I were barely grown—still learning to hunt and ride, still wild. That council meeting was closed to all but the cn chiefs. But Zaekharan... well, even then, he had more courage than caution. He gathered a few of us and we crept into the chieftains’ tent, peering through the folds. We were right behind his father, Brakhav, who sat at the center as council chief.”

  She paused.

  “And then... the Wisest Seer spoke, for the first time in many years. His voice—clear and cold, like a bell in winter. He said, ‘From the veiled West shall rise a shadow, mighty enough to bind the East and Cenraulia in chains. To withstand it, the tribes of Drakhalor must stand as one. Then must they bind the East and Cenraulia beneath a single banner. Only then shall the shadow be unmade.’

  He pointed at Brakhav and said, ‘You must lead this war.’”

  A shiver seemed to pass through her, as if the memory still clung to her bones.

  “Those who were present elected Brakhav as their war leader that very night. Messengers were sent to the rest. Some joined willingly. Others... came after bloodshed.

  She looked at Azelrah, her voice dropping to a quieter register.

  “When Brakhav died nine years ago, Zaekharan and I made the pilgrimage to the Seer’s abode. We told him of the chief’s passing and asked for guidance.”

  Her gaze drifted, unfocused, as if caught in the pull of memory.

  “The Seer said nothing. He simply raised a hand… and pointed to Zaekharan.”

  She let out a breath and sank into the nearest chair, as though the memory itself had drawn the strength from her limbs.

  She had opened her memories like a scroll and offered Azelrah a glimpse.

  Azelrah swallowed and spoke quietly. “Forgive me, First Queen... but the West? What threat could possibly rise from there?”

  “We do not know,” Tazmerah replied, her tone steady. “But we prepare all the same. We believe.”

  Azelrah opened her mouth. The words "I believe too" hovered on her lips.

  But they would not come. She didn’t believe. Not yet.

  Tazmerah smiled gently, as though she understood. “In time,” she said. “You will believe. The Wisest Seer named you. You are part of this prophecy now—whether you wish it or not.”

  Azelrah hesitated. Then, with a tremor in her voice, she asked, “But what do his words mean? ‘Through her, the line of battle will endure’... How?”

  Tazmerah’s brow furrowed. “That, only the Seer knows. He rarely expins. Perhaps it means you will bear Zaekharan a son—one who will continue the fight against the threat. Or perhaps... it means something else entirely.”

  She gave a small shrug. “Prophecies aren’t maps. They’re signs. Cryptic signs.”

  Azelrah sat very still.

  She felt a chill pass over her skin. A weight, heavy as mountains, seemed to settle on her shoulders.

  It was the weight of destiny.

  It was the weight of prophecy.

  -----------------

  Azelrah sat on the edge of the bed, her night robes wrapped loosely around her as the warm scent of rose oil lingered in the chamber air. She had readied herself for sleep—her hair braided loosely over one shoulder, the silken sheets turned down—but sleep remained far from her reach. Her thoughts churned restlessly.

  Queen Tazmerah’s words—the Wisest Seer's prophecy—echoed in her mind like the low notes of a distant drumbeat, vibrating through her bones. What did it mean? Why her? What danger could come from the West? And what role was she meant to py in a world that seemed to engulf her more and more with each passing day?

  She rose, padding barefoot across the room to where the torchlight flickered gently against the stone walls. Her fingers reached for the iron handle to snuff out the fme—when a soft knock arrested her movement.

  She turned, her heart pausing.

  The door creaked open, and a maid slipped in, eyes lowered respectfully.

  "Forgive the te hour, my Queen," she said softly. "But… the King requests your permission to visit."

  Azelrah’s breath caught. The fme of the torch danced in the silence that followed. Her gaze did not waver from the maid’s face, but her chest rose slightly—once, sharply—before she answered.

  "Tell him… he may enter."

  -----------

  That is the end of Chapter 8. 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.