The afternoon sun bathed the royal garden in a golden hue, casting long shadows across the marble tiles and the carefully trimmed hedges. A few songbirds chirped lazily in the trees, as if even they had grown bored with the palace politics. Queen Roselin lay reclined beneath a silken canopy, her head resting on a cushion embroidered with lilies. Her skin was pale, her eyes heavy. The jasmine blossoms nearby couldn't mask the faint scent of bile in the air.
By her side stood Shiao, her loyal handmaiden, gently waving a fan to ease the queen's discomfort. Two palace guards stood nearby, their expressions blank but eyes sharp—ever watchful. It had been days now. Roselin's appetite had all but vanished, and mornings had become unbearable with constant waves of nausea. Shiao had begged her to summon the royal physician, but Roselin had refused each time.
"It's just fatigue," she had said. "Nothing worth bothering His Majesty about."
But Shiao knew better. There was something deeper—something pressing beneath her lady's calm exterior. The queen, once vibrant and commanding, now appeared delicate, almost ghostly in her stillness.
Roselin's lips parted with a sigh as she leaned back, allowing herself a moment of peace in the garden where no judging eyes followed her. The whispers in the palace had grown louder each day: Queen Roselin had fallen out of King Arthro's favor. What began as murmurs among the kitchen staff had turned into confident gossip among nobles. And the one who relished these rumors the most was none other than Concubine Shithal.
Shithal, with her ever-perfect smile and sharp tongue, had paraded her newfound confidence across the palace halls like a peacock flaunting its feathers. Roselin knew the game well. She had played it for months—climbing her way to the queen's seat, not through love, but through strategy, charm, and an unwavering thirst for power. Love was never part of the equation between her and King Arthro. She had never deluded herself otherwise. Still, it stung—this growing distance between them. And what stung even more was that the king no longer even bothered to hide his avoidance.
Ever since the incident—the night she had drugged him with a calming elixir in hopes of rekindling intimacy—King Arthro had treated the Queen's Palace like forbidden ground. He had not raised his voice nor punished her. Instead, he had distanced himself. In the king's world, silence was sharper than swords.
A sudden gust of wind swept through the garden, scattering petals into the air. It caught Roselin's hair, lifting the inky black strands and brushing them gently across her face.
At that very moment, fate stirred.
King Arthro had entered the garden, flanked by his attendants but clearly in no mood for company. His path was not meant to cross hers—but when the wind played with her hair, catching the sunlight just right and revealing the soft curve of her face, he paused.
Something unexplainable tugged at him.
Without thinking, he stepped forward—ignoring the hesitant movements of his attendants behind him. Roselin, half-lost in her thoughts, did not see him until he was already near.
Then, with uncharacteristic softness, he reached forward and gently tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.
Roselin's eyes widened in shock. The king's touch—after months of nothing but silence—made her heart stumble in her chest. She quickly sat upright, her posture straightening despite her dizziness.
"What brings you here, my king?" she asked, her voice formal, masking the rush of emotions behind her eyes. She bowed slightly, careful to maintain grace.
King Arthro, caught in a fleeting haze, seemed momentarily unsure. His hand withdrew slowly, the warmth of her skin lingering on his fingertips. Then his expression shifted, firm once more as though the moment had never happened.
"I came to notify you," he said, voice flat, "about the upcoming concubine selection ceremony. Your presence is mandatory as queen. The arrangements are to be overseen by you."
Roselin swallowed the disappointment that rose like bile. Of course. It wasn't her he had come to see. Just duty. Just obligation. A cruel reminder that power was fleeting when affection was absent.
"Rest assured, Your Majesty," she replied with a faint smile, "I will prepare everything to your liking."
She held her head high, but her heart sank. For a brief moment, she had dared to hope—perhaps the king missed her, even a little. But his face remained stoic, untouched by sentiment.
Then a sudden sound broke the tense air.
Thud.
Everyone turned to see Shiao dropping to her knees before the king, her voice trembling but firm. "Your Majesty… our royal consort has been unwell for days. I'm afraid she may not be able to attend the ceremony…"
Roselin's eyes widened in alarm. "Shiao!"
But Shiao did not look away. Her loyalty gave her courage.
King Arthro's expression shifted instantly, his brows furrowing. He turned to Roselin. "What happened?"
"It's nothing, Your Majesty," Roselin said quickly, hoping to dismiss the matter. "Just morning sickness and tiredness. I will be fine."
She tried to smile, but it faltered under his gaze.
King Arthro looked at her with a mixture of concern and calculation. But Roselin, who had once mastered reading his every look, now found no affection in those eyes. Only duty. Only suspicion. Her chest tightened.
"You should have told me sooner," he said, his voice low.
"There was no need to worry you over something so trivial," she replied.
He turned to the guards.
"Call the royal physician," he commanded.
"Yes, Your Majesty," one of them answered before hurrying off.
Silence hung in the air for a moment. The attendants behind the king dared not speak. Shiao remained kneeling, her head bowed. The queen sat stiffly, battling the dizziness threatening to pull her back into weakness. And the king—he simply stood there, watching her.
"I will ensure the ceremony goes smoothly," Roselin said again, quietly, as if trying to convince herself as much as him.
King Arthro gave a brief nod, then turned away, walking back the way he came. Not once did he look back.
Roselin exhaled slowly, her hands curling into fists. The wind had died down, and with it, whatever fragile hope she had entertained.
Shiao crawled closer and whispered, "You should rest, my lady."
Roselin didn't reply. Her eyes remained fixed on the path the king had taken, the echo of his presence fading like a dream already slipping away.
Next Day:
The soft rustle of robes echoed in the quiet chamber as Royal Physician Hexasin entered the Queen's private quarters. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the morning tea cooling on a silver tray. Sunlight streamed in from the high windows, casting golden light upon the regal figure resting on the canopied bed.
Queen Roselin, draped in a gown of ivory silk, lay back against a nest of embroidered cushions. Her complexion was pale, but the grace in her eyes remained untarnished. Though fatigue dulled her usual radiance, there was still something undeniably noble in her posture. She turned her head as the physician approached.
Hexasin, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes like polished amber, lowered himself into a deep bow. "Long live the Queen," he said with reverence, his voice calm but laced with concern.
"Take a seat, Royal Physician," Queen Roselin said softly, her voice carrying the warmth of a spring breeze. It was the voice that once soothed—gentle, composed, endlessly kind.
The physician settled into a nearby chair, placing his leather bag on a low stool beside him. As he adjusted his robes, his thoughts flickered—Why does the King avoid her so coldly? A queen like her… so gracious, so beloved.
Breaking his thoughts, he cleared his throat. "May I examine your pulse, Your Majesty?"
Queen Roselin extended her hand without hesitation, the weight of royal rings glinting in the light. Her skin felt cool beneath his fingers as he delicately pressed against her wrist, timing the beat against his breath. A few moments passed, then he leaned forward to study her eyes—calm, but tired—and placed the back of his hand against her brow. She did not flinch, only watched him with patient curiosity.
"How long have you been feeling unwell?" Hexasin inquired, his gaze gentle but analytical.
"Over a month now," she admitted. "It began with nausea… then fatigue, aches in my lower back, and a strange aversion to spices I once loved."
Hexasin nodded, his fingers moving deftly as he retrieved a small, polished lens from his bag to inspect her eyes again. After a final touch to her abdomen, a subtle pressure and a knowing pause, a slow smile began to tug at the corners of his lips.
He leaned back with a small, proud sigh. "Congratulations, Your Majesty. Queen Roselin, you are three months with child—a royal heir."
The Queen's eyes widened in astonishment, a spark of wonder lighting up her pale face. "Really, Hexasin?" she asked, her voice catching with disbelief and joy.
"Indeed," the physician replied with a gentle nod. "The signs are clear. A healthy pulse, warm womb, morning sickness at the right phase—it all points to a new life growing within you."
Roselin brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes shimmering like stars in the night sky. "A child… the future of the crown," she whispered, half to herself.
Hexasin's expression softened. "You are bearing the next generation, Your Majesty. A royal heir… perhaps this is the hope the kingdom needs."
She smiled, but it was faint, thoughtful. A shadow passed over her features—Will the King rejoice, or will he grow colder still? She shook the thought away. There would be time to face that.
"As for your morning discomfort," Hexasin continued, drawing parchment and quill, "I will prescribe a blend of herbs to ease the nausea. And some ginseng root—it strengthens the child's growth and keeps the mother's vitality steady."
Roselin nodded. "You always think of everything, Hexasin. You've served me with more care than I can ever repay."
"You repay me each day with your kindness, my Queen," the physician said sincerely. "Though I must confess, there is something I must suggest… unusual though it may seem."
Roselin tilted her head, intrigued. "Speak freely."
He hesitated, then said, "Don't inform the King of the news just yet."
She blinked. "Why not?"
"I will tell him myself," Hexasin replied carefully. "Not out of secrecy… but caution. You must not be troubled or stressed. Your strength is precious now, and the King's recent behavior—well, it's best he hears it from someone who can guide his reaction."
Roselin sighed, her gaze turning toward the tall window. Beyond the glass, the gardens bloomed in full spring glory—roses, lilies, and violets reaching for the light. "The crown weighs heavily on us all," she murmured. "But you're right. He has grown… distant."
"Let me carry this burden a little while longer," Hexasin said with quiet determination. "I will ensure the King understands the gravity of this moment—and what it means for the realm."
She turned to him, gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you, Hexasin. Truly."
He bowed his head. "It is my honor, Your Majesty. Now rest. The palace will know in due time. But for now, the kingdom holds a secret joy… one that sleeps beneath your heart."
And as he gathered his things and stepped quietly from the chamber, Queen Roselin rested a hand over her womb, her smile small but full of meaning. A heartbeat within her…
Night fell thick over the palace, the scent of myrrh and roasted spices clinging to the air. Oil lamps flickered along the polished corridor walls, casting long shadows like whispers of sin. Outside the King's chamber, Royal Physician Hexasin stood, draped in his deep green robes, face lined with worry and urgency.
The guards eyed him, exchanged a glance, then wordlessly opened the heavy oak doors.
Within the chamber, gold and scarlet bathed every surface. The private dining table was littered with half-eaten delicacies — crimson grapes, glazed lamb, spiced nuts, and exotic wine from the Isles. But the feast was secondary.
Seated beside King Arthro, her legs crossed on the table bench, was Shithal — the western fire. The king's favored concubine, born in the wild valleys of the west, known for their untamed women and sharper tongues. Shithal was no flower; she was a devouring vine.
Her long dark hair curled over bare shoulders, her robe half-loosened. She fed the king with her fingers — not fruit, but herself. Her thigh pressed against his. Her eyes met Hexasin's without a shred of modesty.
Hexasin bowed deeply. "Your Majesty. Lady Shithal. May the gods grant you both health and… enduring appetites."
Arthro chuckled lazily and licked honey from Shithal's fingers. "Why are you here, Hexasin?"
The physician stepped forward, voice heavy with restraint. "Your Majesty, I come with urgent news regarding Queen Roselin's condition—"
But before he could finish, Shithal leaned in and ran her tongue along Arthro's ear, murmuring, "Your Majesty… you promised tonight wouldn't be wasted on dead weight. You said your time was mine."
She climbed slightly into his lap, letting her robe fall further. "I even made this meal for you, myself. With my own hands…" She gave Hexasin a smirk. "Now this old goat wants to ruin dessert."
King Arthro didn't even look up. "You know I don't give a damn about Roselin, Hexasin. Whatever ailment she's faking can wait."
"But Your Majesty—this news—"
"I said tomorrow."
Before Hexasin could utter another word, Shithal whispered into the king's ear again, this time with a breathy moan that left little to imagination. "Mmm… I can't wait anymore, my king… You've been starving me all week… and you know how greedy I get."
Her hand slid below the table. King Arthro exhaled sharply.
The king lifted one finger. That was enough.
Hexasin clenched his jaw, bowed stiffly, and backed out of the room. The doors shut with a hollow boom behind him.
Shithal laughed. "He stinks of herbs and cockrot. You should have let me poison him months ago."
Arthro grinned, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her onto the feasting table. Plates clattered and wine spilled. "You've grown mouthier."
"And wetter," she shot back, licking the corner of her lip. "Isn't that what keeps me in this palace?"
"Maybe," he growled. "Maybe it's the way you ride my cock like a demon from the west."
She laughed again, untamed and wicked. "You'd die between my thighs and still thank me."
Arthro's hunger twisted into something feral. He gripped her hips and spun her onto her back, food scattering to the floor. He tore at her robe, baring skin that glowed like bronze fire in the lamplight. Her breasts bounced free — full, proud, unapologetic. She arched her back like a beast in heat.
"Right here?" she asked, breathless. "On the table? What if someone walks in?"
"Let them," he growled, mouth descending toward her chest. "Let them see who truly rules this kingdom."
His tongue traced circles around her nipple before sucking hard, eliciting a loud gasp from her throat. One hand slid between her thighs, already finding her soaked through. She laughed between moans.
"Looks like the king's not the only one starving."
He bit the soft swell of her breast, drawing a yelp. "You think I don't know you slipped something into my food?"
She froze — just for a second. Then her grin returned. "Just a little root from my homeland. To help the blood flow… and the beast grow."
He grabbed her jaw. "You western whores play dangerous games."
"And yet," she whispered, spreading her legs further, "you keep coming back for more."
He kissed her hard, devouring her mouth, crushing grapes beneath her hips. His fingers moved faster, drawing noises from her throat not even the gods could ignore.
"Tell me," he muttered against her skin. "Do they train you like this in the west?"
"No," she panted, pulling him closer. "They breed us like this."
He slammed her down on the table. Cutlery rattled. Paintings tilted. The room echoed with the wet, lewd sounds of their coupling. Shithal dug her nails into his back, biting his shoulder, her voice unrestrained.
"Yes—fuck me like a queen—that bitch Roselin wouldn't last a second under you."
He roared, pounding into her harder.
In that moment, Shithal knew she owned him. Not just his body — but his throne. His choices. His nights. Her poison wasn't in his wine, it was in his veins, his cock, his mind. And the king? He drank it willingly.
Later, when his breath slowed and his sweat cooled against her skin, she laid beneath him victorious.
He stroked her thigh lazily, eyes half-closed. "You're a damn curse."
She smiled, eyes like wildfire. "I'm a fucking blessing."
And far down the hall, Queen Roselin lay alone in her chamber — her vomiting rising, her fate sealed — while the western flame licked the very edges of the crown.
...