The royal courtyard gleamed under the kiss of the moonlight, its silver light dancing across the polished marble tiles like mischievous sprites. Festive banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the gentle evening breeze, each embroidered with the royal crest of King Arthro — a roaring lion clutching a lightning bolt. Torches blazed high on ornate iron stands, casting a warm glow on the bustling courtyard below, where laughter and music were already spilling into the night.
Tables stretched in elegant rows across the space, weighed down with the spoils of the kitchen — roasted swans and pheasants, mountain goat stuffed with herbs, platters of jewel-like fruits, sweetmeats glistening with honey, and alcohol so fine it could probably bribe Death himself for a second chance at life. Barrels of mead, vintage wine, and glittering goblets of elven vodka adorned every corner. Servants in crisp livery glided through the crowd, refilling glasses and dodging half-drunken nobles with the practiced grace of war dancers.
Tonight was not a night for politics or war councils. No, tonight was a royal bouquet — a grand welcome banquet, thrown in honor of the king's most trusted war hero: General Quashin, the Right Hand of King Arthro, Slayer of the Southern Regime, and, as rumor had it, the only man in the court with calves thick enough to crush melons.
The nobles, dressed in their finest silks, took their assigned seats according to courtly hierarchy. Even Chancellor Shansha — the ever-bored, parchment-scented man with a face like a sulking walnut — was in attendance, sipping cautiously from his goblet as if someone might slip ambition into it.
And there, seated on his lion-carved obsidian throne, was King Arthro himself. Tall, broad, with a jaw that could open coconuts and a beard that deserved its own royal decree, Arthro radiated the confidence of a man who had seized a throne, defeated a dozen princes, and still had time to oil his chest every morning. His crown gleamed beneath the moonlight, studded with rubies as red as war and sapphires as deep as secrets.
As formalities concluded, the time for feasting began. King Arthro raised his goblet high, wine swirling like dark velvet. "To General Quashin," he declared, his voice rolling over the courtyard like thunder in the mountains. "For his victory in the Southern Regime, and for returning with his limbs intact — even the handsome ones."
Laughter followed. Quashin bowed deeply, accepting the cheers with the humility of a man who had probably decapitated a dozen barbarians before breakfast.
"Let it be known," the king continued, "that for your unmatched service, you are awarded with one thousand gold coins and another thousand in silver."
The crowd erupted in applause, some of it genuine, some of it just hoping for the leftovers.
Later, as bellies swelled and inhibitions waned under the charm of wine, General Quashin rose again, his polished armor gleaming like a silver moon. "My king," he said, bowing again, "thank you for the honor. But I too have brought a gift for your entertainment. A humble token from my campaign."
"Oh?" King Arthro leaned forward, brow raised. "What could it be, Quashin? A tame bear? A dancing goat? Another talking skull?"
"You shall see, my king," Quashin replied, a mysterious smile gracing his lips. With a snap of his fingers, the air shifted.
From the shadows emerged five—no, six—women, gliding forward like a breeze of honey and sandalwood. Each was veiled from nose to collarbone, their eyes like dark oceans glittering with starlight. They wore garments that, honestly, seemed to have lost a long battle with scissors. Their hips swayed to a beat yet to begin, and their presence caused even Chancellor Shansha to choke slightly on his wine.
"These," Quashin said, taking his seat with pride, "are prisoners from the barbarian lands. Trained to entertain and skilled in the arts of dance."
King Arthro's eyes gleamed with kingly satisfaction. "Well, then. Let the music begin."
A deep drum began to beat, slow and sensual, soon joined by the sweet pluck of sitars and the warble of flutes. The dancers moved like waves, hips fluid, chests rising and falling in harmony, their veils fluttering as their eyes locked with each noble they passed. It was unclear whether it was the wine or the sheer rhythm of the night, but more than one old lord swayed like a daffodil in the breeze.
One dancer stepped forward, bowed deeply, and whispered to the king, "May your night be as beautiful as your kingdom, my lord."
King Arthro, momentarily caught off-guard, managed a very regal chuckle. "It's shaping up nicely, thank you."
The dance continued. It was elegant, mesmerizing, perhaps a little too mesmerizing. The nobles were lost in the sway of fabric and form, the music rising and falling like the tide of some sensual sea. Goblets clinked, cheeks flushed, and somewhere in the distance a lute exploded from overenthusiastic strumming.
Midnight came and passed. The stars wheeled above, the moon dipped lower, and the banquet turned to a wine-soaked haze. Many nobles leaned back, bellies round, laughing over things that probably weren't funny. A few snored with their faces pressed into gravy boats.
Then, it happened.
From the back of the dance troupe, one dancer suddenly broke formation. Her veil fluttered as she surged forward — toward the throne.
"DIE, KING!"
Steel flashed. Screams erupted. Time froze.
But before the blade could reach King Arthro's chest, a figure leapt between them — soft, warm, curvy. The king's eyes widened as the weight of the figure knocked into him, toppling them both backward in a rather unroyal sprawl.
General Quashin was on his feet in an instant. With a single movement, he yanked the attacker back by her arm, the knife falling to the ground with a loud clink.
"Forgive me, my king," Quashin said breathlessly. "They were checked. Someone must have slipped in — a spy, perhaps."
King Arthro, still dazed from the sudden softness that landed on him, blinked at the girl now unconscious in his arms. Her veil had slipped slightly, revealing flushed cheeks and lips like cherry wine.
"Are you alright, my king?" a guard asked, dashing forward.
"Yes," the king said. "A minor scratch. And… uh… she fainted."
He looked down at the girl, still nestled against him, her breathing soft, her curves undeniable. He cleared his throat. By the gods, what am I thinking?
He pushed the thought aside, looked down again. That skin… like silk wrapped in moonlight. That waist…
He snapped upright. No, no! I am a king!
"Get the royal physician!" he barked. "I want the best treatment. I don't want to hear any sad news about her. Do you hear me?"
The guards nodded and gently took the unconscious dancer to the palace infirmary. The festival slowly dissolved into anxious murmurs and drunken yawns. People began to leave, fanning themselves and wondering what dessert they missed.
General Quashin disappeared into the night with a bow, promising a full investigation. The remaining dancers were escorted out, looking confused and terrified. And King Arthro… sat back, staring at the wine in his hand.
His fingers still tingled.
He looked at his palm.
Smooth… warm…
"No. Absolutely not," he muttered to himself. "I am not thinking about… no."
And yet, the thought clung like honey.
Thus ended the grand royal welcome — with laughter, dancing, betrayal, and a curvy mystery lingering in the king's arms.
---
Escorted by his full royal guard, the king entered his private chamber with solemn grace. The echo of polished boots faded as the guards bowed and retreated outside, sealing the grand doors behind them. Within the scented walls, flickering lamps danced with golden light, casting shadows of power and longing.
His personal eunuch, Rustom, bowed low. "My King, Concubine Shithal came earlier, seeking your presence. We informed her of your attendance at the bouquet ceremony. She took her leave shortly after."
"I see," murmured the king, his voice low, thoughtful. "Prepare my bath."
With another nod, Rustom withdrew to carry out the order. Soon, a marble tub was drawn, filled with warm, aromatic water infused with rose petals and herbs meant to soothe the body and mind. Steam curled through the air, rising like whispers of forgotten dreams.
Disrobing in silence, the king stepped into the bath, the heat embracing his skin. He exhaled deeply, reclining into the warmth as tension uncoiled from his shoulders. His eyes drifted to the open window, where the moon hung bright and full, silver light spilling into the room like a secret lover's touch. The breeze was cool—perhaps too cool—but it made him feel alive.
He closed his eyes.
And then—she appeared in his thoughts.
The dancer from the bouquet hall.
Her cherry-red lips had drawn his attention first—soft, plump, and parted in silent invitation. When she smiled, it wasn't just grace—it was art. Her body had moved like water, smooth and sensual, clad in silks that clung and revealed. His eyes had lingered where they shouldn't have: the gentle swell of her breasts, the curve of her navel, the way her hips moved like they commanded a secret rhythm of the universe.
He had wanted her.
Gods, how he had wanted her.
Her skin had reminded him of fresh cream, untouched by sun, unmarred by time. A figure carved by the divine, designed not merely to be looked at—but worshipped. He'd imagined how her breath would hitch under his touch, how her voice might tremble with desire as his fingers explored every inch of that perfect canvas.
His desire had burned within him, a silent fire behind regal eyes. He had barely controlled it then, seated among nobles, sipped wine to keep his hands still, to stop himself from rising and claiming her in front of all.
Now, with wine in his veins and warm water loosening his limbs, the king allowed his imagination to roam freely.
What if she were here now, in this chamber? What if she stepped out from behind the silk curtain, eyes lowered, lips trembling, ready to serve her king?
He imagined touching her—her face first, gently, reverently. Then her shoulders, her waist, the curve of her back. Her thighs. Every inch of her, a discovery. A masterpiece. His hands, calloused from battle, would trace her softness. His mouth would taste the sweetness of those lips he had denied himself.
A soft groan escaped him.
It might have been the wine, it might have been the heat, or perhaps the dangerous combination of desire and power, but the king felt himself relax in a way he hadn't in weeks. His mind no longer burdened with state affairs or palace politics.
Only her.
His eyes remained closed, his breath steady. The moon continued to shine, the water cradled him gently, and in his mind's eye, the dancer's body moved for him alone—graceful, bare, and entirely his.
And for a few fleeting moments, the king was not ruler of a kingdom, but a man lost in longing.
---
In the West Palace, Shithal lay awake, sleep eluding her. The silken sheets offered no comfort, her thoughts heavier than the humid night air. Earlier that day, she had gone to see King Arthro, heart clutched with anxious hope. But he was absent—his personal eunuch informed her he had gone to attend an official bouquet, a ceremony she hadn't even been told about.
Everything seemed fine on the surface, yet Shithal knew the illusion couldn't last forever. Her position, though currently favored, was fragile—nothing would truly secure it except bearing the king's child. That truth weighed on her, tightening around her chest like an invisible noose. The court was a battlefield, and she had to compete with Queen Roselin, even if the king had barely visited her chambers in recent times.
Still, Roselin held the crown—and with it, power.
Shithal's eyes stared into the darkness, her fingers curling around the edge of her blanket. She wasn't just fighting for affection. She was fighting for survival, legacy, and control. And if bearing a royal heir was the only way to claim her place, then she would do whatever it took—no matter how ruthless the path ahead became.
...