The halls of Bhenalia had never shone brighter.
Gold bled into every archway, every towering column, every carved angel of the vaulted ceilings. The chandeliers dripped with crystals like frozen rain, casting halos of light upon a thousand red roses that carpeted the marble floor. Incense curled in the air, sweet and intoxicating—amber and frankincense that clung to the breath, as though even the air itself knew tonight was sacred.
It was the twentieth birthday of King Kelan, ruler of Bhenalia. Or so the world believed.
The guests had gathered in awe, robed in silks and jewels, each carrying the fragrance of their kingdoms, each voice a hum in the vastness of the great hall. They were kings and princes, dignitaries and mistresses, the brightest powers of Vallia seated in a single room, whispering, scheming, smiling with veiled intent.
The carved double doors at the far end of the hall creaked open.
A hush fell.
Not from the king's entrance. But from the sight of men—forty of them—walking in two by two.
Bare-chested, their ebony skin gleamed under golden oil, every step measured, their bodies moving as though guided by one heartbeat. Drums outside struck in rhythm, and the men's sandals echoed against the marble in perfect unison.
Then came four more, cloaked in scarlet, their hands scattering crimson roses across the polished floor. The petals fell like drops of blood, weaving a path through the hall.
The dignitaries leaned forward, eyes darting.
Where was the king?
And then—
She entered.
A woman.
Not just a woman—a vision carved from myth.
Her robes were silk and gold, woven so fine they caught the light like water. Purple embroidered with threads of gold wrapped her form, clinging to her waist, flowing down in rivers around her ankles. Her black hair, long as a river, was crowned with ornaments of beaten gold that shimmered as she moved. And when she walked—shoulders back, chin high—the room seemed to shift around her, bending to her gravity.
Her beauty was dangerous. Unforgiving. Unignorable.
And when she ascended the dais and sat upon the throne of Bhenalia, her crown upon her head and the Ring of Authority glowing on her hand, the world shifted.
Every rose petal trembled.
Every voice faltered.
The hall had expected their king. But what they found was their queen.
Her golden eyes gleamed as she sat. Her body settled against the throne like it had been built only for her. Her beauty was not delicate; it was commanding, almost unbearable, and the dignitaries felt it like a weight pressing into their souls.
And the kings of Vallia… watched.
Prince Khalfani of Estania leaned forward first. The son of a dying monarch, he had been sent in his father's stead. His face alone silenced conversations—skin deep as obsidian, jawline sculpted sharp, lips full with perpetual temptation. His hair, a dark mane of silk, framed eyes unlike any in Vallia: violet, glimmering like amethyst caught in sunlight. And when he finally spoke, his voice carried like music, as though the room itself wanted to sing with him. At his side, his mistress lounged lazily—a mermaid in human form, her movements too fluid to be mortal, her eyes glittering like ocean foam.
King Ruman of Kronia was not beautiful. He was terrible in his magnificence. Towering above all others, muscles like coiled steel, his laughter booming like thunder even in whispers. His eyes burned red as rubies, and tales said he was born of giant blood, the strength of ten men coursing through his veins. Two wives sat beside him, jeweled and veiled, both fierce, both wary.
King Liman of Ludemia looked more like a sage than a warrior. His skin glowed pale bronze, his robes simple white threaded with silver, as if he carried the heavens themselves. His green eyes burned bright, alive with endless intelligence, like forests hiding secrets. He sat alone, serene, unshaken, though his gaze lingered longer than most upon the queen.
And then… King Kybal of Elloia.
No one ever saw his face. His cloak fell black as night, shadow swallowing all beneath it. His hands, pale as bone, rested upon the table, but his head remained bowed, features hidden. The witch beside him—his consort—smiled too much, her laughter always a whisper, her fingers brushing against the smoke of her goblet as though weaving unseen spells.
All of them stared.
None dared speak.
Until Kelana rose.
Her voice, when it came, was velvet over steel.
"I am Kelana of Bhenalia. Daughter of the late King and Queen. For eight years you have called me king. For eight years I wore the mask you expected. Tonight, that mask ends. I am not your king. I am your queen."
The hall erupted.
Whispers became waves of sound, gasps, accusations, laughter, disbelief.
"A trick!"
"Impossible!"
"Blasphemy!"
"Witchcraft!"
But Kelana only raised her hand.
And silence… fell.
Not because they willed it. But because she had taken their voices.
Their mouths moved. But no sound came.
Their eyes widened in terror as she stepped down from the throne, her robes whispering against the rose-strewn floor. She did not speak, but her voice filled their skulls, intimate as a whisper at their ear.
"Enough. You will listen."
The kings stiffened, their mistresses clutched their goblets, but none could move. The Ring pulsed, golden fire licking her skin, the hall glowing with its radiance.
"You doubt my claim. Yet here I stand, and the Ring obeys me still. It has chosen me. It answers only to me. You may resist me, but you cannot deny me. I am Bhenalia's true ruler. And from this day, Vallia's rightful queen."
The force in her words cracked something deep within them. Fear. Awe. Submission.
Then, with a thought, she released them.
Mouths opened again, gasps breaking like thunderclaps. Some dignitaries wept, others bowed their heads, some trembled. None dared speak against her—not when they had felt their very will seized and silenced.
Kelana strode to the center of the hall. A golden cup was placed in her hand, filled with deep red wine, dark as blood beneath the lights. She lifted it high, her golden eyes aflame.
Her lips did not move.
Yet her voice thundered through every soul.
"Drink… to your future queen."
The hall froze.
Every king, every dignitary, every mistress. Eyes wide, hands tightening around goblets. But none refused.
One by one, they raised their cups and drank. Some with awe. Some with terror. Some with both.
Kelana drank last, tilting the cup until every drop was gone. She lowered it slowly, placed it upon the table, and without another word, turned. Her entourage followed, robes sweeping across the roses as she strode out, the doors closing thunderously behind her.
Only then did the prime councilor rise. His voice trembled as he spread his arms.
"Continue… the feast."
But no one moved.
The kings stared into the emptiness of the hall, their thoughts roaring louder than the silence.
Prince Khalfani leaned back, violet eyes smoldering. His lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile.
"She is… extraordinary."
King Liman's sage-green gaze glimmered in quiet agreement. His hand tightened around his cup.
"Perhaps more than we are prepared for."
But King Ruman only laughed, deep and booming, though unease flickered in his eyes.
"She plays at power. But power must be tested."
And from the shadowed end of the hall, the witch of Elloia chuckled softly, resting her head upon King Kybal's shrouded shoulder.
"Oh… she is fire," she purred. "But fire always burns."
The feast resumed with trembling hands and half-hearted smiles.
But none of them forgot the sight of her golden eyes, or the taste of the wine that bound them to her name.