The chamber throbbed with heat as Zara and Benji’s bodies clung tightly to each other on her chaise lounge. Curtains swayed in the faint wind that carried the perfume of night jasmine, but the air inside was thick. They clung to each other as if the walls themselves might collapse if they pulled apart.

She rose and sank onto him, her back taut, the silk-upholstered lounge shuddering with every thrust as his mouth found her throat. The air between them was molten, every gasp louder than the crickets outside the balcony. She clutched at his shoulders, and he whispered her name—not like a subject to his princess, but like a man who had no king. His lips were urgent, reverent, hungry—hers. Her response was a deep, soft sound at the back of her throat as she kissed his face, his ears, his jaw. Not gently, like she normally did. Nothing was gentle about today. His hands moved to her back, cupping her as he drove deeper. She felt him shiver with every thrust, his face buried against her neck. She tasted salt and iron as her teeth grazed his shoulder, as their bodies tangled, desperate, until she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

The final shudder carried them over like two stars colliding, and she clutched him as if they could hide inside each other. They lay there, breathless, fulfilled, trembling. Then the doors exploded inward.

Boots struck the floor in a thunderous rhythm. Steel clanged. The queen’s guards surged into the chamber, torches blazing. They dragged Benji off the bed, half-naked and defiant, striking him until his lip bled. Zara lunged at them, screaming, but they gripped her arms and forced her back onto the tangled sheets. Benji’s body vanished into the dark corridor, the men’s torches flickering smaller and smaller until she was left clawing at empty air.

Instantly, she stood up, throwing on her silk robe in one fluid motion, and stormed barefoot down the lantern-lit corridors, hair wild, eyes blazing. Guards shrank back from her glare; servants pressed themselves to the walls. The palace had seen her tantrums before, but this was no tantrum. She burst into the queen’s chamber without waiting for permission.

Her mother, Queen Natasi, sat poised on a gilded chair, a ledger open before her, quill gliding as if she were merely balancing accounts and not tearing lives apart. She did not startle at her daughter’s intrusion; she only lifted her gaze slowly, like a lioness disturbed at her meal.

“Release him!” Zara’s voice cracked like a whip. “He has done nothing. He is mine.”

The queen’s lips curved, but it was not a smile. “Yours?” Her voice was velvet over steel. “You speak as if you own cattle. A princess of this house does not run with stable dogs and call it love.”

“You will release him!” Zara demanded, chin high, fists clenched.

“You mistake yourself for a woman with choices,” the queen replied. “In twenty-four hours, you will stand beside the prince of the Southern Kingdom as his bride. Their retinue is already on their way.”

The princess’ chest heaved. “I will not—”

“You will,” the queen cut in, rising, her presence filling the chamber like a storm tide. “Now go. I will hear no more of this farce.”

Zara’s breath came fast, like she might choke on it. But the queen only lifted one elegant hand, summoning attendants from the shadows. “Take her to the Hall of Adornment. Let her be dressed as befits a jewel of this empire. Twenty-four hours, child. That is all you have left of your foolish rebellion. The crown demands obedience, not tantrums.”

The princess stood frozen, fury radiating from her bones, but the guards at the doorway left her no path of defiance. She turned on her heel, robe whipping, but not before she spat out:

“This crown will break you before it breaks me.”

The queen smirked and waved her off.

**********

The palace shifted around Zara like a tightening snare. Everyone bowed as she passed, and no one dared to make a sound.

It hadn’t always been like this. Once, under her father, King Darius, these halls had rung with music and the hum of open doors. Courtiers and commoners alike had walked freely through the great courtyard, knowing the king would stop to greet even the smallest child. The great kingdom of Yamase had been modest then, its markets smaller, its army leaner—but every merchant praised its fair trade, every farmer blessed the king for keeping taxes light, and every traveler spoke of a land where a man’s word still carried honor.

Her father had ruled with patience. He built no gilded towers, but granaries that never emptied. He raised no monuments in his name, but schools where children of farmers and nobles studied side by side. He was widely praised for his even hand. His reign was marked by harmony and love, and the people were content and flourishing.

Now, the palace was cold. Where once she had felt her father’s steady presence like a hearth-fire, Zara felt only the iron weight of her mother’s ambition pressing down.

Since King Darius’s death—and the queen’s ascension—the land glittered like gold hammered too thin. Stone towers rose like clenched fists along the borders, and gold spilled into the palace. Markets overflowed with foreign visitors, soldiers paraded in shining ranks, and tribute poured in from distant provinces. But there was no laughter. Heavy taxes broke the backs of farmers; dissent was silenced before it could echo. Tourists marveled at the palace gardens even as beggars starved at its gates.

Her mother saw none of the evils or sufferings of the people. She only saw power, and she took it wherever she found it. Now her eyes were set on the biggest one yet; a marriage between the great Kingdom of Yamase and the Southern Kingdom would bind both kingdoms into an empire no rival could withstand, with her at the helm of affairs. She would become untouchable. Zara knew that nothing would get in the way of her mother’s plan. It was as good as done. She needed to think fast if she didn’t want to be sold like grain.

The Hall of Adornment smelled of rosewater and steel. Gold mirrors loomed on every wall, catching Zara’s reflection a hundred times over. Servants circled her like bees, carrying silks, oils, trays of jewels. Girls with soft hands brushed oils into her hair, dusted her skin with crushed pearls, slipped golden bangles onto her wrists. She sat at the center of it all, spine rigid, but her eyes were elsewhere.

Benji.

His laugh carried across the stables. His hands, rough with training swords yet gentle when they brushed her cheek. The way the commoners adored him, not for his face, though it was striking, but for his defiance, his daring. He was fire wrapped in mortal skin, and he was hers.

She brushed her thumb against her lips as if to retrace the places he’d kissed barely an hour ago, and her chest ached as the images pressed closer. Somewhere in the dungeons, he was shackled, beaten, maybe worse. She needed to know. She needed to see him again.

And she would, whatever means it took. She knew that by now, her mother had given strict orders to keep her away from the dungeons. But she was no naive girl swaddled in silks. For years she had watched her mother’s court with careful eyes, noting who drank too much, who whispered in corridors, which guards walked which routes, and at what hour. She had mapped every passage, memorized every weakness.

Above all, she knew her mother’s secret. The one weapon she’d safely guarded to use whenever the opportunity arose. The one secret that could crumble her mother’s entire empire. She had a feeling she would be using it soon. But not yet.

Not yet.

First, she had to find him. First, she had to save him. She swallowed hard, keeping her face composed as the attendants worked.

**********

The dungeon stank of piss, rust, and blood. Zara pressed herself to the stone archway, the torchlight inside flickering just enough to expose the scene she was never meant to see.

Benji hung by his wrists from iron chains, his bare chest heaving. His skin was welted, striped red from lashings. Two guards worked him like butchers on a carcass. One held a pair of iron tongs, slick with something dark; another crouched by his feet, prying at his toes.

She heard a crack, then his scream ripped through the stone. Something small and bloody clattered to the floor.

Zara’s stomach lurched. She covered her mouth but couldn’t stop the sob that broke from her throat. They were pulling his toenails out, one by one.

Another guard dipped a rod into the brazier until it glowed red. The smell of scorched iron filled the chamber. He pressed it to Benji’s side. His body arched, tendons straining, as a hiss of burning flesh cut the air.

She stumbled back into the shadows, bile rising. She couldn’t bear another second. She turned and fled the way she came and made for the great court.

Inside, the queen sat at the high dais like a goddess carved from obsidian. Marble pillars gleamed, banners of Yamase hung proud, but Zara couldn’t help but feel that it was colder than the dungeon.

“Stop it!” she cried, her voice cracking across the chamber. “You will kill him!”

The queen arched a brow, her voice calm. “So you saw, then.”

“I command you!” Zara’s fists shook. “Release him now, or—”

“Or what?” the queen murmured, resting her chin on her hand. “You’ll pout at me until the roof caves in?” She paused, then turning to the guards, she said, “Bring him.”

Zara’s eyes followed her mother. Did she…was she about to release him? Did her words get through?

They dragged him in.

Benji’s body was wreckage. His feet left smears of blood across the marble where his toenails had been torn. His lip was split, one eye swollen shut, skin crosshatched with raw stripes. His chest rose in shallow, broken gasps. He could barely stand as his weight sagged between two armored men who hauled him like dead weight.

Zara’s breath hitched. She ran forward, but spears lowered across her chest. “Mother, please, he will die!”

The queen stood. Her robes flowed like molten gold, her crown gleaming in the firelight. She raised her hand, and for an instant Zara thought she would release him.

“Again,” the queen said.

One guard drove a knee into Benji’s gut; another lashed his back. Blood sprayed. He staggered, collapsing to his knees.

“Stop it!” Zara screamed, clawing at the guards who barred her. Her voice cracked, shredded by desperation. “Please—please, I’ll do anything! I’ll marry him, the Southern Kingdom prince, I’ll marry him. Just—just don’t kill him!”

The queen descended the dais and crouched to Zara’s height. “Now you understand,” she whispered. “Power bends love until it breaks.”

Zara collapsed, sobbing, her fists pounding uselessly against the marble.

Benji sagged against his chains, trailing blood down his ribs. His eyes met Zara’s across the dark, pain clouding them, but behind the haze there was a look—the one that begged her not to let go, not to break.

She broke anyway.

**********

Zara did not remember how she reached her chamber. Only that her legs trembled beneath her, and the sound of iron striking flesh still echoed in her skull. She slammed the door shut and pressed her back to it, chest heaving.

For a long while she stared into the room’s shadows. Her father’s portrait hung above the hearth. Its colors were dulled by dust, but she could still see the smile in his painted eyes. It seemed like a cruel taunt. Like he was daring her. Daring her to speak, daring her to do the one thing that would stop her mother.

The memory bled through.

She was smaller then, hardly tall enough to see over the council table. She had crept into that same chamber on the night the torches burned low. She remembered the smell of wine spilled on stone, the sudden hush of voices when she pushed the door open. Her father slumped forward, and her mother’s hand lingered on the dagger still buried in his chest.

She had frozen and backed away immediately before she could find her.

She had never spoken of it, not even to herself in the sleepless years that followed. Everyone believed King Darius had died of a stomach flu.

Her fists curled. The throne her mother claimed was stolen with blood. The crown she wore sat on murder, and she would be damned if hers and Benji’s lives would be one more feat her mother could boast of.

The next day, while the night wrapped the palace in silence, Zara covered her hair with a hood, put on running clothes, and made for the dungeons. The quiet was broken only by the measured tramp of guards along the walls.

A single guard, a man who owed her more than loyalty, waited at the iron door. His torchlight flickered across a face half-carved with fear, half-hardened by devotion.

“My lady,” he whispered, pressing the key into her hand. “I have risked everything. If they discover this—”

“They won’t,” she cut him off, though her throat tightened. “And if they do, I will not let them touch you.”

The lock groaned, iron teeth grinding as the door swung open. The stink of blood, mildew, and unwashed bodies struck her like a wall. She forced herself forward, every step echoing. The corridor stretched before her, lined with shadows. When she got to Benji’s cell, she clutched the bars, calling him. No answer. Her breath grew frantic. She lifted the torch, heart hammering.

The cell was empty.

Chains clinked against stone where they had been abandoned. Blood stained the straw in dark clots, but of the man himself, nothing remained.

Her stomach lurched as if the ground had given way. She stumbled back, clutching at the wall. “No… no, this cannot be.”

Did he die? Had the guards dragged him to another chamber for fresh torment? Did someone else free him?

The shadows pressed closer. The silence turned suffocating. She spun, shaking the torch in her hand, as if the answer might be hiding in the dark. But the dungeon mocked her with its emptiness.

“Benji,” her cry cracked, but only the echo answered her.

**********

Far away, in the Southern Kingdom, the torchlight of another hall flared.

A throne of obsidian rose in the center, carved with the crest of a foreign crown. Upon it sat King Jorja, lean and sharp-eyed, his fingers drumming against the armrest as if counting down to a victory already promised.

Before him, on both knees, was the man. Benji.

His head bowed in pledge. His face, when he lifted it, was not broken. It was calm. Collected. Alive in a way that mocked the memory of his torture.

“My king,” he said, voice steady, “the task is complete, and I have returned with all the information you need to take down the great Kingdom of Yamase.”

King Jorja smiled and walked toward Benji. He patted his back and took his hand, leading him down the hallway where the leaders of his army waited.

Back in Yamase, the proud city slept, unaware that a weapon was working its way toward them.

**********

That same night, inside the silent corridors, Zara spoke quietly to Auwal, one of her father’s most trusted men.

“Go beyond the borders and find him. Follow no trail but the one he leaves. Return with all you see. Do not trust anyone.”

The servant bowed, fingers brushing hers in a gesture of unspoken devotion, and vanished into the night.

He returned at noon the next day, kneeling before Zara, head bowed, saying nothing.

Zara’s pulse leapt. “Tell me.”

The spy’s hands trembled as he unrolled a parchment map, stained at the edges with travel dust. “I found him across the border, in the Southern Kingdom. I spoke with some friends there. He was seen with their king’s council, attending meetings of strategy and intelligence. Rumor is that he spoke of your kingdom, of the hunts, the trade routes, and even weaknesses in the palace defenses.” He paused, as if the worst was yet to be spoken.

Zara’s stomach sank further, but her face betrayed nothing. “What else?”

“The Southern Kingdom plans to strike Yamase at dawn tomorrow. The troops are on the way as we speak, disguising their coming as coming for the marriage ceremony between you and the Southern Prince.”

Betrayal? She couldn’t believe it, but she had no time to dwell on that. She had to save her people. She needed to think fast. She would deal with Benji later.

She paced the court for an hour. Then turned to Auwal. “Summon the commanders discreetly. They are to meet in my chambers. The queen must not be made aware of this.”

Auwal bowed and left at once.

When they arrived, Zara was already dressed in her battle attire. She wasted no time. She informed them icily that the Southern Kingdom was about to launch an attack, disguised as a marriage ceremony. Then she began laying out a plan: gates would appear empty; roads would seem unguarded. But every path led to zones she designated to be fortified, areas she’d seen Benji take walks in—areas she now realized he had been surveilling, trying to map out the best places the Southern Kingdom could attack from.

Traps were to be hidden in plain sight: pits, ambush points, arrow stations, and elite soldiers concealed. Every turn the enemy thought safe would be a snare. Their certainty would be their undoing. She did not need to trick him like he did her; she only needed to control the battlefield. The Southern army would act as if they knew everything, only to find themselves stepping into the web she had spun, led by their own overconfidence.

The men, understanding the peril and brilliance of the scheme, expanded the plan, delegated tasks, and went into action at once. Dawn was just a few hours away.

**********

By the first streaks of dawn, the Southern army appeared on the horizon, their banners bright, their confidence unchecked. Zara, atop the walls with her commanders and the queen—who had been made aware of the entire scheme the night before—watched them approach. Her plan unfolded exactly as she had intended.

As the troops advanced into the “unguarded” gates, hidden squads emerged from shadowed positions. Arrows rained from concealed towers; pits opened beneath the enemy’s horses, throwing riders to the ground.

Chaos erupted. Yamase’s elite soldiers struck with precision, cutting off retreat paths, guiding them into kill zones Zara had prepared.

Even as the battlefield erupted in violence, Zara remained poised on the wall, heart hammering, mind razor-sharp. By midday, the remnants of the attacking force were trapped, routed, or captured. Yamase’s banners waved over the kingdom, untarnished. Zara descended from the walls, surveying the battlefield.

For a brief moment, she allowed herself a breath. The kingdom was safe. She had protected the city, her people, and her father’s legacy.

But there was a hollow ache in her chest. Benji’s hand had guided the enemy to her doorstep. The victories she now commanded were steeped in heartbreak. She wanted to lock herself up and cry, but she knew there was no time for that. In fact, there was something she needed to handle immediately.

As if summoned, her mother spoke from behind her.

“So your grand plan worked. You’ve saved the kingdom… from my brilliant foresight, of course. I always knew Benji was trash. Or perhaps,” she added, eyes narrowing, “you think yourself cleverer than everyone around you, including me?”

Zara didn’t flinch. Her heart ached, but her gaze was steady. “Clever enough,” she said, voice calm but low. “And strong enough to do what needed to be done.”

The queen’s lips curved into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “And what is that? To defy your mother? To protect a man who eventually betrayed you? Benji is a fool, and so are you, for ever believing in him.”

“And how did your wisdom turn out for you? Eh, were you not about to sell me off to the nation that was planning to kill you? The nation I just conquered?” Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword, though she made no move toward it. “Benji betrayed me,” she admitted. “But it was you who taught me true deception, mother.”

Queen Natasi’s eyes flickered, ever so slightly. “I did what I had to. You think the crown is light to bear? Power is forged, child, not given. You would have destroyed everything for love.”

Zara took a slow step forward, voice gaining strength. “Power is responsibility. And a crown stolen by blood is a crown that must answer for its crimes.”

The queen’s brow arched. “Crimes? What crimes, Zara?”

“I know the truth,” Zara said, voice trembling only slightly with the weight of years. “I saw it. You killed my father. You poisoned and stabbed the man who ruled this kingdom with fairness and justice.”

The queen’s hand went to her chest, as if wounded by the accusation. Her voice dropped, dangerously quiet. “And you intend… what? To punish me?”

Zara’s gaze did not waver. “Yes. Step down as queen. Relinquish the throne. Submit to trial. Answer for your crimes. I will see to it that you live, but only as a prisoner.”

Natasi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You dare?” she hissed. “You are my daughter. You owe me—”

“You are owed nothing,” Zara interrupted. “Not after the years of tyranny, the death of my father, the torment of these people, and the betrayal of my heart.”

The queen straightened, fury brimming. “I will not be imprisoned. I will not be judged by you. I am Queen! I command—”

The commander, stepping forward at a subtle signal from Zara, moved like a shadow behind the queen, hands gripping her arms. The queen spun, striking, but more guards intervened, securing her without a fight.

“This is for the people,” Zara said, voice ringing across the marble courtyard. “For the throne you stole. For my father’s blood. For every life you have ruined.”

The queen struggled briefly but was subdued. Her eyes burned with a mixture of rage and disbelief as she was led away, shackled, her crown removed and placed upon a crimson cushion.

Zara turned to the members of the court. “She will be tried. She will pay for her crimes. The throne of Yamase now belongs to me. Let it be known: the kingdom is ours to protect, and justice will be done, even if it comes from the hand of a daughter.”

**********

It was seven days since the defeat of the Southern Kingdom, and four since Zara ascended the throne as sovereign of both Yamase and the Southern Kingdom. The people of Yamase were still celebrating, not just victory over their enemy, but also the end of Queen Natasi’s rule.

Queen Zara sat in the royal chair, dressed in full costume, flanked on both sides by members of her court—old and newly appointed ministers, commanders, and legislators—all of whom had sworn their allegiance, rather happily.

Far off at her feet, a ragged-looking and chained Benji was on his knees. Rumors of his flight had reached her on the day of the attack. She’d let him run but planted a tail on him. Then she’d had him brought to her today, eager to end that chapter of her life so she could figure out what to do with the ache in her heart and be able to focus on matters of state.

Now the sight of him so broken hit her like a hammer. She ordered the guards to take off the chains.

“Speak!” she said to him. “I thought we were happy. Why did you do this?”

For the first time, he lifted his gaze to hers.

“I—I never betrayed you, at least not for ambition,” he stammered, “or for greed. It was never about power.” His chest heaved. “I was trying to protect you. Your mother… she would have killed you. I—I thought this was the only way to keep you alive.”

“I don’t understand. By having my people killed? By deceiving me for two years? You nearly destroyed everything!” she shouted, now drawing her blade. “You led the enemy to my doorstep!”

He stood up and stepped forward, tentative, hands raised, chest trembling. She raised a hand to stop the guards from reaching him.

“I know. I know what I’ve done. How can I make amends?”

“With your life. You pay for treason by death.”

He nodded, as if resigned. “Better I die by your hand than live to see your crown stained by mine.”

The words hung between them, taut as a drawn bow. Her blade shook. Tears stung her eyes, and she bit down on her lip to suppress the anger that was bubbling to the surface. She’d loved this man; she would’ve given anything for him, yet he’d betrayed her in the name of protection.

In one fluid motion, she stood in front of him and pressed the tip of her blade against his chest. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you, right here, right now,” she said between gritted teeth.

The room was silent except for the sound of her own breathing. Benji did not flinch, but his eyes betrayed the sadness and fear he felt. He pressed himself closer, guiding the steel. “Do it,” he whispered. “There’s nothing else to live for without you, anyway. I tried when I ran; it was worthless.”

The world seemed to pause then, as they both stared into each other’s eyes. One filled with regret and warmth, the other filled with anger and pain. And then, in one sharp final motion, Benji plunged the blade into his flesh. He gasped once, shuddered violently, and collapsed at her feet.

 

In the days that would follow, the cruelest irony would settle over her like a crown of thorns: the very act that secured her throne, that saved her kingdom, had also shattered her heart beyond repair. She had avenged her father’s death, saved her people from both her mother and a brutal defeat, and gained a crown—but at the cost of the one soul who had once made her world whole.

In those nights, she carried the blade that had killed Benji in her pockets as she walked through the walls of her reclaimed peace. Victory had a taste more bitter than any defeat she had ever known. Some losses could never be mended, no matter how absolute the triumph.