***The Queen
The most deadly and long-anticipated fight of Asèriva had at last been concluded. The arena still breathed—hot, iron-thick, and reeking of torn flesh—its sands churned into a darkened mire where blood clung stubbornly, as though unwilling to be forgotten. And still, those fools of gladiators lived. Barely. Crawling remnants of men, spared by hesitation where there should have been finality.
A bitter disappointment.
Had they possessed even a fragment of resolve, they would have finished the slaughter properly. There was a mercy in clean endings. What I had witnessed was not strength, but cowardice masquerading as restraint.
Once—long before the crown had weighed my spine into rigidity—I might have risen for such a spectacle. Not in delight, but in appraisal. War revealed truth. Pain stripped men bare. Yet even as the final blows rang hollow through the stone, disgust had already settled deep within me, cold and absolute. That abhorrent arena—revered alike by gutter-born filth and perfumed nobles of little wit—stood as a monument to the rot of Asèriva itself. They called it tradition. I knew it for what it was: indulgence dressed as honor.
Astros had been torn from the sands with calculated cruelty, his body dragged like spoil, his blood spilled for the pleasure of mouths that cheered even as they fed upon his suffering. The crowd howled, unashamed, intoxicated by the promise of death. I watched without blinking.
And yet… the beast had been struck.
Not slain. Not conquered. But wounded.
The knowledge lodged itself in my mind like a thorn.
I allowed myself a quiet scoff, thin and sharp.
It seemed he cherished beasts and bloodsport more faithfully than he had ever cherished me. More than duty. More than restraint. More than sense. What a monumental waste of seed that man had been—capable only of destruction, never creation, leaving ruin in his wake and calling it legacy.
I drew in a breath, slow and measured, as one might steady oneself before a necessary execution. My chest ached not with sorrow, but with something far darker—an exhaustion born of prolonged contempt. Years of silence. Years of swallowing venom and letting it settle.
At last, the roar of the arena dimmed. The cries faltered. The blood began to dry and blacken beneath the sun, sealing itself into the earth like a curse.
And so it ended.
But there was no peace in endings. Only succession.
The hour had come for the naming of the children.
An act of life, they would call it.
*The Child Naming Ceremony***
Asèriva did nothing modestly—least of all celebration.
From dawn, the Apadana had been groaning beneath the weight of visitors. The stones themselves seemed to strain as nobles, envoys, warlords, priest-kings, and merchant princes flooded its halls, each determined to outshine the last. Their arrivals were announced by horns, by drums, by servants shouting titles so long they blurred into nonsense.
(An Apadana is a grand ceremonial hall. It is designed for royal audiences, official ceremonies, and receptions, featuring vast open spaces supported by tall, intricately carved columns.)
They came armored in wealth detailing entire histories upon their bodies.
Men wore layered robes stitched with ancestral victories, collars stiff with gold plates engraved with lineage. Women shimmered beneath veils of silk so sheer they revealed the glint of gemstones sewn directly into their skin. Bangles chimed with every step. Perfumes clashed—amber, lotus, myrrh, musk—until the air itself felt thick, almost chewable.
They did not walk so much as parade.
Behind them came the gifts.
Not offerings—tributes.
Gold poured into the Apadana like a second treasury: bars stacked in ceremonial pyramids, coins poured into shallow basins so guests could be seen "accidentally" brushing their fingers through wealth. Rolls of silk dyed in impossible shades—sunset crimson, moonlit blue, priestly white—were unfurled for all to admire before being rewrapped and catalogued.
Ivory combs.
Obsidian mirrors.
Perfumed oils sealed in crystal flasks.
Weapons never meant for battle, only display.
Cattle with horns capped in gold leaf were led through the outer court. Entire herds of sheep were pledged aloud, scribes scratching furiously as promises were made that would never be forgotten.
All of it for four infants who could not yet lift their own heads.
Laughter filled the Apadana—bright, theatrical, rehearsed. The sound bounced off the stone walls and climbed upward, swallowed by the towering columns that rose like petrified giants. Each column was wrapped in carved reliefs—lions, serpents, falcons—every symbol of Zerqet dominance layered one atop another until the eye grew tired of conquest.
Above, the roof garden bloomed obscenely.
Vines crept along carved beams, heavy with flowers bred solely for scent, petals constantly falling and being swept away by servants before they touched the floor. Firelight flickered everywhere—braziers, torches, floating oil lamps—casting gold and shadow in equal measure, making the Apadana feel alive, breathing, watching.
And at its center—
The staircase.
A broad, merciless ascent of white marble veined with gold, leading to the twin thrones that sat elevated above the living sea of Asèriva.
Where I sat.
Beside him.
I watched them all from above, chin lifted, expression serene, spine straight. Every movement of mine had been practiced into perfection long before today. A queen did not fidget. A queen did not blink too often. A queen did not reveal exhaustion or hatred or the way her skin still remembered pain.
Inside me, everything screamed.
But as Queen, I had to portray perfection.
"My Queen," a voice sang, far too pleased with itself. "I bring you gifts worthy of the four moons."
The man bowed low, his robe heavy with embroidery depicting his family's rise through three dynasties. Servants stepped forward and opened his offerings one by one.
Silk—so fine it clung to the air like mist.
Gold jewelry worked into crescent shapes, each stone chosen to echo the cycle of the moon.
And a lacquered box, small, sealed, deliberately mysterious.
Did I wonder what lay inside?
Briefly.
Did I care?
No.
I smiled anyway, warm and measured.
"I am most delighted," I said. "Asèriva is generous, as always. These shall be treasured."
The man practically floated away.
When the noise swallowed him, I exhaled slowly.
Alone again.
With him.
Kharun leaned back slightly, watching the crowd with satisfaction that made my teeth ache.
"You have been far too quiet today," he said, almost kindly. "Are you anticipating the arrival of our children?"
The word "our" sat between us like a lie that expected obedience.
I turned toward him, face composed, eyes bright.
"I am," I said. "After all, Asèriva finally has heirs."
Not my children.
Not us.
Heirs.
I lifted my goblet and drank, wine burning like a punishment.
'I bled for hours' I thought. 'And they will never say my name.' It was quite absurd really.
"What is it?" he continued, voice turning playful. "Did my gift disappoint you? I had hoped it would leave you speechless."
I looked eyes with him for a moment and then—
I leaned closer, close enough to smell the spices on his breath.
"Oh, it did," I murmured. "Truly."
Then, softer—
"I had not prepared a gift for you, however. It is not expected of me."
He laughed. "There is no need—"
"But," I interrupted, smile razor-thin, "If I were you….I would accept the story of how you earned your throne."
"Wouldn't that just be exciting." I said with a smile.
His eyes darkened.
"All those relatives you silenced," I continued calmly. "Burned. Buried. Forgotten."
His voice dropped. "You will be quiet."
I laughed—too loudly.
"My king," I said sweetly, "do you truly wish to humiliate me before the whole of Asèriva? Your only queen? What a peculiar way to govern."
"You forget yourself."
"And you forget how you got the throne you sit on today."
Silence thickened between us.
He stared at me with that calm that preceded violence.
I did not look away.
Then—
The doors opened.
Mist rolled in, cool and deliberate, crawling along the marble floor like something summoned. Women entered first, veiled head to toe, their movements synchronized, faces erased. They formed twin lines along the staircase and bowed so deeply their foreheads touched stone.
Then the men followed—draped in ceremonial gold so heavy it forced reverence through posture alone.
Four knelt.
"We greet you, our king and queen."
Their arms were wrapped in gold-coated cloth, ritual bindings meant to shield sacred touch.
"My king. My queen."
"Grant us permission to veil your hands."
Kharun nodded.
I followed.
They raised their hands, trembling—not with weakness, but weight.
The doors opened again.
Tahkar entered like a man walking into a friend's feast rather than a holy rite. His robe was elegant but worn with ease, his smile unforced.
Behind him came four men.
And in their arms—
The four moons.
Whispers rippled.
Tahkar bowed, then turned to the crowd.
"Four children at once," he said lightly. "Even the gods like to show off occasionally."
A ripple of laughter followed.
"Rare," he continued. "A miracle. And owed entirely to their mother."
He glanced at me, eyes sharp with understanding.
I nodded.
"And now," he added, "let us introduce them before they decide they dislike us."
More laughter erupted in the Apadana.