In the heart of Olivedale, beneath the soft glow of the moon, Queen Mellirion slept in her royal chambers. The moonlight filtered through the delicate curtains, casting a silvery sheen over her porcelain skin. Her golden-brown hair, rich and cascading like threads of sunlight, shimmered as she lay still upon her bed, lost in a dream.
But something was wrong in the dream, something she couldn't quite place. She found herself walking through a familiar yet distorted version of the grand hall, where the air was thick with an unspoken tension. The echoes of her own footsteps felt out of place, distant.
In the distance, she saw him—Luthor the Just, her late husband, standing as if time had forgotten to take him. His figure was strong, his regal presence unyielding, but the warmth in his eyes had long since vanished. It was as if he had never left her, his ghostly image standing tall in the golden light that filtered through the dream's haze.
And then, there was Paliv.
She blinked, and the scene shifted, the dream pulling her further into the past. There, standing in the soft glow, was her daughter—small, innocent, golden hair fluttering in the breeze, her emerald eyes wide with curiosity. Paliv was little again, untainted by the weight of her responsibilities, the bitter edges of time and change erased.
Queen Mellirion's heart clenched as she reached out, fingers trembling in the dream's haze. But just as her hand neared the familiar warmth—her husband's gaze, her daughter's small frame—the vision wavered. It flickered like a candle caught in a gust, then crumbled into fragments, slipping through her fingers like dust on the wind. The warmth was gone. The light dimmed.
And then—"Keep moving forward," a voice whispered.
Soft at first."Keep moving forward."Insistent now."Keep moving forward."Again, and again, like a chant echoing in a cavern."Keep moving forward.""Keep moving forward."
Each repetition pulsed like a drumbeat inside her skull, growing louder, sharper—until the words pierced her mind like shards of glass.
Then came the pain—a searing, sudden migraine that exploded behind her eyes, a violent storm of agony that stole her breath. Queen Mellirion gasped, clutching at her temples, her fingers trembling against the pressure that threatened to split her skull.
And then, like a shard of glass piercing the silence, Paliv's voice tore through the haze.
"Mother! MOTHER!! REACH ME, MOTHER! MOTHER, SAVE ME!!!"
The frantic cry jolted through her, sharp and desperate, and it cut through the fog of the dream like a dagger. Her heart raced, and her vision swam. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. Only move. She had to reach her.
With a strangled breath, she pushed herself forward, but her body betrayed her. Her legs felt like brittle branches beneath her, trembling with each step, her hands shaking uncontrollably as if they were splintering at the joints. She crawled, her limbs no longer responding as they should. She wiggled on the ground, as helpless as a worm caught in the dirt, but her will—the only thing left to her—drove her forward.
The smog, thick and cloying, wrapped around her like a suffocating blanket, pressing down, twisting reality into something alien. But she fought through it. She squeezed and wriggled, every muscle screaming in protest, her heart beating so hard it felt like it might burst. She had to reach her.
And then, through the murky veil, she saw him.
A figure, darker than the rest of the dream's shadows, standing just beyond her reach. A boy—slightly older than Paliv, with silver hair that caught the faintest glimmer of light. His red eyes burned with an unreadable intensity.
"Shotaro??" The words escaped her lips before she even realized she had spoken them. Her adopted son, the child who changes lives, the one who forced her out of her stench filled life.
But Shotaro didn't respond. His silence was like an iron weight, suffocating any hope she had left. He walked toward Paliv, his steps deliberate, his expression unreadable, as if he were nothing more than a shadow of himself.
He reached out, his hand brushing against Paliv's, and in that moment, he began to change. His form shifted, the lines of his body warping and distorting. He seemed to grow taller, his skin turning dark and gnarled, like bark on an ancient tree. The transformation was slow, agonizing, as his figure twisted and bent, limbs hardening into rough, knotted branches. His face, now an expressionless mask, began to wither and decay before her very eyes.
No… No! Her heart screamed as she reached forward, her body convulsing with the effort.
But there was nothing she could do.
The boy—Shotaro—became a tree. His branches stretched high, his form now a twisted, living thing that crumbled at the edges, leaving only withered leaves and a hollow shell.
Paliv, still clinging to his hand, seemed oblivious to the transformation, her small figure dwarfed by the silent, gnarled tree that stood in front of her.
Queen Mellirion's voice cracked, her breath ragged and weak, as she whispered into the suffocating silence, "No... please...".
Suddenly, the world shifted again.
Queen Mellirion found herself standing alone in a black desert—a vast, lifeless expanse where not even the wind dared to blow. The sand beneath her bare feet was cold and fine like powdered obsidian, stretching endlessly in every direction. Above her, the sky was glass—cracked and unmoving, as though it might shatter at the faintest sound.
She didn't know how long she had been standing there. Time felt warped, as if the desert itself existed outside of it.
Then she saw him.
Luthor.
He approached in silence, his steps light upon the sand, eyes calm and distant. There was no smile, no trace of warmth—just the gentle press of his hand on her shoulder as he passed her by. She dared not turn to follow him.
She couldn't.
He had died—for Paliv. And she had no right to follow where the dead had gone.
Her breath hitched, eyes lowered.
And then—
A different presence. One even heavier. Larger.
She felt the air shift behind her, the ground itself seeming to bend ever so slightly beneath the weight. A towering figure stepped forward—a boy, and yet not a boy. His body was absurdly large, too well-built, too composed. It was as if someone had stretched adolescence into adulthood, yet left the ghost of youth lingering in his stance.
She turned her head slightly—just enough to catch a glimpse.
Shotaro Mugyiwara.
Older. Unmistakable.
His eyes were crimson. Not just red—but the kind of red that made freshly spilled blood seem faded and lifeless. They held an unnatural clarity, a light behind them that shouldn't have been there. Not at that age. Not in any mortal boy.
His hair was silver—no, platinum—short and spiked at the crown, though a few strands had defied gravity, falling down to frame the sides of his face in lazy arcs. That contrast against his sun-kissed tan made his features too vivid, too sharp. Ethereal. He looked like someone born of both heaven and war.
He didn't speak. Only reached out, placing a hand gently on her other shoulder.
And like Luthor—
He walked past her.
She couldn't see where he went. The desert had no direction, and yet both of them had vanished into it.
And then—
A voice.
Soft at first.
"Keep moving forward."
It echoed.
"Keep moving forward."
Again.
"Keep moving forward."
The chant built around her, like footsteps pounding against the inside of her skull.
"Keep moving forward."
"Keep moving forward."
She couldn't bear it.
The silence. The vastness. The distance.
She turned.
With all the strength she didn't have, she reached out and grabbed his hand.
The moment her fingers touched his skin—warm, real, present—the desert shattered.
A breath caught in her lungs as her eyes flew open.
She awoke in her chamber, drenched in sweat, the moonlight still tracing soft lines across her sheets. But her hand… it was still outstretched.
As if he had really been there.
But her hand still trembled.
She had grabbed him.
And now... she couldn't let go.
Her body was slick with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to the silk sheets that had once offered her rest. Every breath she took felt heavy, as though the remnants of the dream still coiled around her lungs like invisible vines. Her skin burned—not with fever, but with the aftertaste of something greater than memory. Something primal. Something sacred.
Without a word, Queen Mellirion rose from her bed, her movements fluid but deliberate. The thin gown she wore, damp and translucent from her unrest, clung to her curves like ivy. But it offered no comfort now. She slipped it off her shoulders and let it fall silently to the floor.
The moonlight traced every contour of Queen Mellirion's form with tender reverence, as though the night itself worshipped her. Her body, tall and lithe, was a flawless harmony of strength and elegance—sculpted not merely by lineage, but by a lifetime spent balancing rule and restraint.
Her shoulders were smooth and strong, sloping down to arms that bore the faintest definition beneath their softness—arms that had once carried blades as easily as lovers. Her breasts, high and full, shimmered beneath the pale light, the cool night air tightening the dusky rose of her nipples into peaks. They rose and fell with her breath, slow and even now, though the memory of that dream still whispered across her skin.
Her waist curved gently inward, a narrow place that bore the soft marks of time—faint and barely seen—but testament to her living history. From there, her hips flared outward in quiet defiance of the austerity she wore like armor in daylight. Here, beneath the stars, there was no crown. No court. Only a woman, bare and beautiful, unmade by silence.
The soft swell of her belly, smooth and toned, caught the moonlight in rippling highlights as she moved, a slow step forward into the wind. Her thighs, strong and shapely, parted slightly as she leaned forward against the balcony, the subtle motion a dance between instinct and abandon. The curve of her backside was elegant, full and sculpted, the moonlight trailing down its arc like liquid silver, following the dip of her spine and the subtle hollows above her hips.
Even her calves, taut from years in the saddle and halls, bore a sensual strength—her feet pale against the marble, toes curling slightly as the cold seeped into her bones, grounding her.
She stood there, illuminated and unashamed, a goddess cast in flesh—divine not for her divinity, but because she dared to feel. To ache. To hunger.
And from the silence, the night listened. The stars leaned close.
The dream had touched her deeper than memory allowed. It had awakened something—an echo in her womb, a whisper along her skin, a call that still trembled in her chest.
She closed her eyes, and for one long, aching moment, she let herself feel all of it. The want. The loss. The sacred promise still etched between her thighs like a mark no one could see—but she could still feel.
The wind kissed her there too.
And she did not shiver this time.
She remained still, held in the embrace of moonlight, as if the heavens themselves were reluctant to disturb her reverie.
But inside her—just beneath the regal stillness—a tide was rising. It began as a subtle tremble, a delicate ache nestled deep between her thighs. Not born of lust alone, but of remembrance. Of love once lived and lost. Of hands that once knew her not as queen, but as woman. As Mellirion.
King Luthor the just.
Her breath caught, throat tightening around the name even as it remained unspoken. In her mind's eye, he stood behind her once more—broad-shouldered, and golden hair, eyes like Jade stormlight, voice roughened by decrees and gentled only by her name. He had always touched her like she was something sacred, even in the hunger of their nights.
A shiver ran through her—not from cold now, but from memory kindling into fire.
She let her fingers trail over her body as though they were his, ghosting down from collarbone to the soft swell of her breast. Her touch was feather-light at first, like the first stroke of a quill on fresh parchment. Her nipples responded immediately, tightening once more under her own caress. She let her thumb circle them slowly, teasing the sensation until her breath grew heavier, heart louder in her chest.
Her other hand wandered downward, fingers gliding over the smooth plane of her stomach, pausing just above the place where longing pulsed like a second heartbeat.
There, she hesitated—for reverence, not doubt.
Luthor had loved her here with reverence, with fire, with the unyielding tenderness only he had ever dared to show her. And now, she conjured him not as memory, but as presence—felt in every inch of her as her fingers slipped lower, into warmth and wetness, into a sanctuary made sacred by the love they once shared.
A soft gasp broke from her lips—barely more than breath—yet it carried weight, a release of years held too tightly within a body meant for both rule and ruin.
She moved with aching slowness, every motion deliberate, every stroke a prayer written in silence. Her fingers found rhythm like a harpist stroking strings tuned only for her. She pressed her hips forward into her own touch, the cold marble beneath her now a distant echo. Her world had narrowed to sensation—to the press of palm against flesh, the memory of his mouth tracing along her inner thigh, the sound of his voice murmuring endearments no one else had ever heard.
"Mine," he had whispered once, with a groan and a kiss placed just there.
She moaned now, soft and broken, caught between grief and need.
Faster, deeper—her fingers moved in time with the phantom rhythm of their old shared nights. She braced herself against the balcony's edge, arching her back, hips rocking forward into nothing but her own want. And yet, she was not alone. Luthor was there—in the way she bit her lip to stifle sound, in the ghost-hand gripping her hip, in the phantom weight of his body pressing against hers.
The pleasure built like storm clouds on the horizon—gathering, rolling, promising release not just from desire, but from silence. Her thighs trembled. Her breath quickened. Her skin burned again, not from fever, but from memory turned to flame.
And when the peak came, it tore through her like a wave against stone.
Her cry echoed into the night, raw and wordless, cracked by sorrow and crowned with rapture. She clung to the balcony rail as though it might anchor her, heart pounding, eyes blurred with tears she did not let fall.
The silence returned—but it was a different silence now. Full. Saturated. Holy.
She sank slowly to her knees on the cold marble, legs trembling, her hand still resting gently against the hollow where his memory had bloomed inside her. Chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, she lifted her face toward the stars.
"I still remember," she whispered.
And somewhere, in the quiet of the cosmos, the countless moons bore witness.
Her body bowed against the stone, breathless and undone, as the waves of release crashed through her in deep, rolling pulses. Each breath left her trembling, fingers still nestled between slick thighs, the heat of her pleasure still echoing across her skin like an aftershock.
She pressed her forehead against the marble rail, its chill biting into her flesh and anchoring her as her climax spilled through her—slow, shuddering, and soul-deep. Her legs trembled, no longer strong enough to hold her. The wetness between her thighs slicked down the inside of her legs, glinting faintly in the silver moonlight like dew on alabaster.
And still, she wept.
Not in despair, but in ache. In memory. In a hollowed-out kind of joy. Silent tears slipped from her eyes, trailing down flushed cheeks, glimmering before falling—vanishing into the shadows at her knees. She didn't wipe them away. She let them fall like tribute.
"I miss you," she whispered, the words a fragile thread carried off by the wind.
The stars above remained silent, distant and unblinking, yet she felt seen. Known. The moonlight wrapped around her bare figure like a benediction, gliding across the gentle curves of her hips, the part of her that had ached so long in silence. She remained there, curled and raw, her body spent but warm, as though her husband's touch lingered in the air around her.
It wasn't shame she felt—it never had been. Only longing. And in that moment, as her tears fell to the stone beneath her, and her heartbeat slowly returned to its mortal rhythm, Mellirion allowed herself to feel what queens were never meant to admit:
That she still felt like a woman.
And she was still his.
The next morning, golden sunlight bled through the tall, arched windows of the royal bedchamber, tracing soft patterns across Queen Mellirion's bare back. She stirred with a faint exhale, lashes fluttering open like the slow bloom of a rare flower. Her eyes, a cool verdant green, flicked to the balcony where the moon had kissed her only hours before.
She sat up in silence, her long golden-brown hair spilling messily down her shoulders and chest, still tousled from restless dreams. Her body bore the faint sheen of the night's heat, but her expression was composed—regal, as always.
A quiet murmur escaped her lips as she stared into nothing.
"Mugyiwara... please take care of Paliv."
She touched the side of her neck, where his hand had rested in the dream. The memory still lingered like static on her skin.
Rising from bed, she stepped with grace toward the dressing room, her gown slipping away with practiced ease. She discarded it, letting the fabric puddle like moonlight at her feet. Then, completely nude, she approached the wide royal bath, carved from ivory stone and filled with warm, floral-scented water that glowed faintly with elvish enchantment. She stepped in without pause, the water embracing her like a long-lost lover.
As she leaned back, arms spread along the edges, she closed her eyes and let herself speak aloud—low, calm, and full of memory.
"My name is Mellirion."
Her voice echoed against the bath's stone walls like a song from an old play.
"I am from Greystone Valley Divide."
Her hands glided over her collarbones and shoulders, steam rising gently around her.
"I am ages old. I was a student. A scholar. I once sailed across the firmament to the Seven Sages Constellation for my studies."
A soft chuckle escaped her—dry, nostalgic.
"When King Luthor the Just founded the Aetherian Church Academy in Olive Dale, I came to teach. I wore long robes back then, far too plain for my taste now... And then I met him."**
She smiled, tilting her head back, wet strands of hair clinging to her neck and chest.
"Paper flew. We flew."
The water shimmered as she gently lifted one leg out of the bath, droplets trailing down her skin like falling stars. Every inch of her moved with timeless grace—grace sharpened by heartbreak and memory, by years of war, peace, and courtly duty.
Somewhere in the distance, the bells of the citadel chimed the morning hour. Court awaited her.
But for one more moment, she remained in the bath—half-submerged, hair fanned out, her back arched ever so slightly—lost in memory, beautiful even in solitude.
And the dream of Shotaro lingered.
She exhaled slowly, fingers drifting lazily through the water, stirring heat and memory alike.
"Gods," she muttered with a breathy laugh, "he used to fuck me like the world was ending."
No ceremony. No poetry. Not in this moment.
"Luthor the Just," she sneered with affection, the title half a joke in her mouth now. "Just in court, maybe. But in our chambers? He was a beast. A bloody animal."
She tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, staring at the rising swirls of vapor as though they might replay the memories for her.
"He used to bend me over the war table before council. Maps sliding off the edge while he grunted behind me, still half in his armor. Said he liked the feel of my tits bouncing against the cold oak. Said it reminded him that even queens had needs."She chuckled darkly, running a wet hand down her chest."I'd still have parchment creases on my ass by sundown."
Her voice rose, carried now by the echoing stone, by steam and memory both.
"And the way he'd eat me." She groaned, not sensually—annoyed at the ache it brought back to her bones. "That man had no shame. Would get on his knees like a starving knight before a feast. Gods, he'd hold my thighs apart until I screamed. Made me forget languages. I was a scholar, damn it. I forgot entire dialects while he had his tongue in me."
Her laugh now was real—raw and bitter-sweet.
"And when I rode him... oh, that throne"
A wry smirk curled at the edge of her lips—nothing queenly about it. This wasn't the regal smile worn at court. This was older, deeper. Raw.
"Luthor could make me beg with a look. Bastard always knew it."
Her eyes remained closed, head tilted against the smooth ivory rim of the bath, her voice growing bolder, more amused the further she sank into the private confessional of her own memory.
"First time he fucked me," she said, almost to the steam hanging in the air, "we barely made it to the damn tower steps. I had ink on my hands and a scroll in my bodice. He ripped it open like he was laying siege to a keep. Didn't even close the damn door. Took me right there on the stone floor like a field prize."
She laughed now, truly laughed—low and throaty, her breasts rising and falling with the sound.
"I had bruises shaped like his hands for a week. Gods, he liked it rough when he'd been in council all day. 'I'm sick of words, Mel,' he'd growl, and then there'd be teeth at my throat, his hand in my hair, my knees damn near buckling every time he pressed me against the nearest wall."
Her fingers, idly gliding through the water, curled slightly at the memory.
"He used to bend me over the war maps. Just shove everything off the table—candles, ink pots, whole fucking battle plans—and take me from behind like I was the prize he'd won for surviving the day. Once, I came so hard I knocked a kingdom marker off the board and we started a border dispute with Westhall."
She snorted at the absurdity of it, then sighed, the sound melting into steam.
"But he wasn't always a brute. Oh no. When he wanted to worship, he'd go slow. Gods, so slow. He'd tie my hands above my head with his belt, then kiss me everywhere but where I needed. Spent hours learning how to pull me apart just right. Tongue like a damned spell. He could make me see stars without even laying a finger between my legs. One night he kept me on edge for so long I screamed when he finally let me finish."
Her thighs shifted under the water, just slightly, her body remembering even what her mind tried to let go.
"We fucked in the throne room," she added casually, running her hand along her damp collarbone. "Twice. The second time during a bloody treaty signing. He told the delegates we needed a 'moment of prayer.' Took me behind the tapestry with a dagger still strapped to his thigh. That bastard got off on the risk."
Her voice dipped lower.
"He liked when I bit him. Hard. Drew blood once. He just grinned and said, 'Good. Now we match.'"
A silence followed, thick with the echo of long-gone moans and the slap of skin-on-skin in secret corridors. Her hand rose from the bath, water dripping from her fingertips like candle wax.
Then, softer now:
"I've had others since."A pause. A breath."But none like him. No one ever ruined me like Luthor did. And gods help me, I loved every bruised, breathless, filthy moment of it."
She opened her eyes.
The queen was still there, of course—composed, regal—but behind her eyes burned the unquiet fire of a woman who had known pleasure so fierce, it lingered long after the man was ash and memory.
She rose from the water, the droplets sliding down her body like tiny echoes of his touch.
The court bells tolled again.
And Queen Mellirion, drying herself with a silken cloth, whispered one last thing to the empty room:
"He fucked like a king… because he never forgot I was a queen."
The throne room of the Green Tower loomed ahead, its gilded doors yawning like the mouth of some ancient beast, hungry for blood, lies, and ceremony. Mellirion walked barefoot along the emerald-tiled corridor, the train of her dark green gown whispering behind her like a snake in tall grass. Servants dipped their heads, guards stiffened at her passing, but it was the courtiers—those powdered jackals in lace and velvet—that she watched the closest.
Their eyes slid toward her like blades seeking purchase.
"They think I'm wearing his crown," she thought bitterly, mouth pressed into a neutral smile. "And maybe I am. Still warm from the fire of him. But fuck them all—I held it when it was heavy. When it bled."
A pair of ministers bowed low, but not before their eyes flicked to her breasts, barely restrained in the bodice of her dress, and then lower. One of them—Lord Kevril, oily little bastard—lingered too long, as he always did, gaze flicking like a tongue over her hips.
"He'd fuck me if I let him," she mused coldly, stepping past him, "then slip a dagger in my ribs before the sweat cooled. He's not even subtle. Probably jerks off into a scroll about lineages every night."
More looks. Some furtive. Some bold. Some with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with politics.
"They all think I'm alone. That Luthor's death left me soft. Vulnerable. A cunt in a queen's chair.
Mellirion's eyes roamed the sea of lords, ministers, and sycophants beneath her throne. Her spine remained straight as an iron rod, but inside, the monologue churned—sharp, intimate, and full of bile.
"They want me... or they want to be me. Or they want to break me. And most of them haven't even decided which yet."
Lord Veynar stood near the marble pillar, face like old leather, hands always fidgeting with his chain of office—eyes drifting over her hips like a dog sniffing meat.
"Veynar imagines me moaning under him, panting like a beast in heat while he wheezes into my neck. I can see it every time his pupils swell. He probably comes in his sheets thinking of me gagging on his fingers while he calls it 'duty to the realm.' Gods, what a pathetic, flaccid snake."
Her gaze slid, unblinking, to Lady Cresenne—one of the few women in the court with any real spine. But even she… even she had that look sometimes.
"Cresenne would fuck me to feel powerful. She's curious, dangerous, and starving for control. She'd kneel, not out of love, but to taste something sacred and defile it. She'd bite. She'd enjoy the scream."
She didn't flinch. She'd known all this for years. The court didn't see a queen. They saw an open mouth, an open wound, an open throne. Every smile was a mask stretched over open hunger.
And then her thoughts turned darker still—colder.
And then her gaze hardened. She walked taller.
"But let them stare. Let them wonder if I belong."
"They forget—I was chosen. Not because I begged for it. But because Luthor believed in me. Because this crown was placed on my head by hands I loved, not stolen by my own."
She passed the tall doors of the throne room, her figure silhouetted by the green sunstone skylight above. The guards bowed, opening the doors without word or fanfare.
And as she stepped inside, every eye turned to her.
Some with judgment.
Some with hunger.
Some with doubt.
But she looked past them all, her chin lifted, her mind quieting with one final thought:
"Paliv may inherit the throne, and Mugyiwara may save her from its weight… but until that day comes, I will hold it. Not for myself. But for them."
"Mellirion."
The voice was dry as bark and unmistakable.
Granny P. emerged slowly from behind one of the towering jade pillars of the throne room, her gait creaky, her bones seemingly made of rusted wood rather than flesh. Her frame was draped in layers of faded robes that once might have been majestic, but now hung like forgotten curtains on a drafty window. The same hunched posture. The same hunched scowl. Her pointed ears drooped slightly with age, and the morning sun glared unkindly off the polished bald spot at the crown of her otherwise wispy white head.
Still, her eyes—clouded and sunken—remained sharp as needles.
"It's a Bard bird," she rasped, lifting a crooked finger. "From the Greystone Valley Divide."
Mellirion turned slowly, regal and unreadable. Her eyes followed the small creature now perched on a windowsill—its feathers a gradient of sky blues and rich violets, eyes glinting with intelligence unnatural for a bird. The Bard bird ruffled its wings, giving a single melodic cry that seemed to echo with meaning.
Granny P. took a breath like dragging wind through gravel. "It's your sister."
Mellirion's eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a line as the Bard bird tilted its head toward her, waiting.
My sister…
The thought stirred something cold and long-dormant within her chest.
The Bard bird sang again—this time softer, sadder. The melody wound around the throne room like a thread of memory, wrapping gently around Mellirion's spine.
She stepped forward, her gaze never leaving the bird.
"…Veliranya?," she murmured. Not a question—just a quiet acceptance.
And the Bard bird, as if in answer, bowed.