Steel on steel, hooves on dirt, bears roaring like busted Harleys—the battlefield was pure sensory overload. Centaurs held the line, thick-skinned and stubborn, but Fien could feel the tide tipping. It was just math: more Denefremims, more bears, plus one neon death-stick a.k.a. the Scepter of the End. They were a W trending on Twitter—only a matter of time.
Shæz, ever the strategic mom-friend, kept thinking Winning's great, but maybe let's not feed half our dudes into the meat-grinder first, yeah? Of course, nobody was listening—adrenaline had the AUX cord now.
Enter Mesa, king-in-fluorescent-war-paint, still high on the fact he'd shanked the fake Night Rider ten minutes ago. Crown crooked, ego fully inflated, he spotted Fien across the chaos and muttered, "One queen-kill, coming right up."
Problem: Geleam. The Steza general parked his bear between Mesa and pay-dirt. Geleam wasn't some jacked war legend—more like a lifelong dojo rat who finally got tenure. But loyalty? Off the charts.
Mesa snorted. "I smoke a Night Rider and now I get you? Whatever."
He spurred forward, slamming his chest into Geleam's bear like a linebacker in a Renaissance fair. The bear toppled, 800 pounds of angry carpet flipping Galeam onto the mud. Mesa reared, sword flashing.
On the ground, Geleam rolled, grabbed his go-big-or-go-home two-hander, and popped up just in time. They charged—centaur speed vs. Denefremim muscle—passing each other in a blur so quick even the nearby archers paused to squint.
One heartbeat. Two. Mesa's horse body kept going. His torso did not.
Clean slice—four legs, gone. The centaur king hit the dirt like a felled oak, screaming curses that would blister normal ears. Every centaur on the field did that collective Oh, crap inhale. Their king was basically a screaming torso on mulch. Moral collapsed faster than a Jenga tower in an earthquake.
Weapons clanged to the ground. Arrows dropped. A couple of front-rank centaurs raised their hands like We didn't see nothin', boss.
Geleam wiped his blade on his cloak, walked up to Mesa, and—real calm—asked, "Last request?" Mesa spit blood, probably said something obscene in Centaurish. Geleam answered with a single swing. Head off, problem solved.
He hefted the grisly trophy overhead. "All hail Queen Fien! Queen of Dalab—Queen of freaking Mela!" His voice boomed across the field, and the roar that answered was a weird mash-up of victory chant and existential crisis. Denefremims cheered because duh. Centaurs? They cheered too—better to live under a scary hot queen than die for a torso.
Fien rode forward, expression stone-cold but eyes shining like she just leveled up. Shæz watched from her saddle, a knot in her gut. She'd signed on to send war to Gideon, not watch her friend turn into Conqueror Barbie. The crown-hungry look on Fien's face whispered, Next city, next throne, keep 'em coming.
Yeah…that was terrifying. But for now? The battlefield smelled of blood, sweat, and freshly minted regime change. Mela had a brand-new queen, and the war machine was already rumbling toward the next poor sucker on the map.
Now, Mela had a queen. And yeah, those spared Centaurs? They were kinda at her mercy. Peace was there, sure, but rest? Nah, not a chance. Fien wasn't the type to sit back in some throne room, throwing orders around like she was playing chess. That was old-school queen stuff—boring as hell. She was a warrior queen, the kind who dragged her soldiers into battle, sword in hand, dirt on her boots, heart pounding like a war drum. And right now? She had a thousand Centaurs and bear troops ready to march out at first light, ready to tear shit up if they had to.
The city was quiet—too quiet—but inside the queen's chamber, things were about to get real. There she was, lying naked on her bed like she owned every damn inch of that space. Clothes? Fien didn't want 'em. Never did, not when she was alone or with the few people she trusted. Shæz was used to it by now. The queen's bare skin, that stubborn streak of defiance in her eyes.
Shæz stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. She didn't look angry or scared, just tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders and wondering if you're about to drop it all. Fien raised an eyebrow, legs crossed, smirking like she knew some secret.
"The wise woman I know," Fien said, voice low and teasing. "What brings you here? Can't be just to see me naked again, right?"
Shæz gave a dry smile but didn't move. "Fien... I think I'm staying. For a while."
It hit Fien like a punch in the gut. Shæz wasn't a fan of war, not like Fien was. And if she was thinking about quitting—well, that was a problem. Because there was no way in hell Fien was going into this without Shæz. Shæz wasn't just her advisor or general—she was her only real friend left. The only person who understood what this whole damn kingdom was costing them.
Fien stayed quiet, not wanting to push. Shæz was too smart to be talked into something. Words didn't do the trick—not here, not now. But Fien? She knew a different language. One she'd learned growing up, one she rarely used, especially not with women.
She moved closer, slow and deliberate, her hand sliding to Shæz's hips with a softness that surprised even herself. Then her fingers traced upward, brushing over Shæz's ribs, over her breasts, gentle pressure, like she was holding fragile glass. Her hand slipped beneath the light fabric of Shæz's dress, fingers curling over skin, warm and alive.
Fien leaned in and kissed her—soft at first, like testing the waters. Shæz hesitated, stiff at first, but then she relaxed, returning the kiss, slow and sweet. Their hands roamed, exploring, touching, connecting in ways words never could.
Fien's breath hitched as she whispered against Shæz's lips, voice trembling but fierce.
"Shæz, I need you. I can't take this kingdom without you. Please."
For a long moment, the room was silent except for their breathing. Then Fien's arms wrapped around Shæz 's neck, pulling her close. "Please," she said quietly. "If you decide to leave, I won't stop you. But please–think hard before you go. "
That wasn't about pleasure, that was Fien trying to convince a friend. That was a way she could show how desperate she needed her right hand. And something broke open—something raw and real between them. Two warriors, two women, two souls tangled up in a fight for a kingdom—and maybe, just maybe, for each other.