The thunder of hooves rolled through the valleys. Tharok’s army stretched across the horizon, its banners rising above warriors fresh from victory.

The conqueror rode at the head of his column, his battered armour bearing the marks of countless battles. His warhorse, a black beast of immense size, moved with the steady gait of an animal as seasoned in combat as its rider. 

Years of war had carved deep lines into Tharok’s face, each campaign leaving something of itself behind. Yet it was his hands that betrayed him most. Resting upon the reins, his left hand trembled faintly.

Tharok stared at his hand for a moment. The trembling had begun weeks ago, faint enough at first to ignore. Now it returned more often, lingering longer each time. He had told no one.

Around him, the landscape began to shift. The rolling expanse of grasslands gave way to fertile farmland, where endless rows of wheat and barley swayed in the gentle breeze. 

Some farmers bowed as the army passed. Others stood rigidly beside their fields. Children waved eagerly from the edges of the fields until their parents called them back.

Tharok regarded them briefly before returning to the path ahead.

The road narrowed as they approached the foothills that marked the outskirts of Orrakhan, the capital. Groves of olive and citrus trees lined the path, their branches heavy with fruit. Tharok looked across the laden branches and wondered how long such abundance would survive another war.

He flexed his trembling hand subtly, hoping the motion would steady it, but the shaking persisted.

“My king,” a voice broke his reverie. General Maldrek rode alongside him, his grey beard stirring in the wind. “The men grow restless. Should we halt for the night?”

“No. We press on.”

Maldrek nodded and fell back into formation.

Ahead lay the distant silhouette of Orrakhan, its jagged towers piercing the sky like broken spears.

Within Orrakhan, court rivalries waited for him. Tharok loathed their whispered schemes and petty quarrels, which seemed an insult to the blood spilled beyond the city walls.

He reined in his horse and looked back at the long column of soldiers that stretched behind him. These were his men, his brothers in arms. They had followed him through fire and blood, through victories and losses. They too had seen the toll the years had taken on him.

He turned his gaze forward, toward the faint glow of Orrakhan in the distance. He would face what lay ahead as he always had. 

But even lions grow old.

Far beyond the walls he now approached, in the heart of that same sleeping city, Ronan lay beneath silk sheets with the Queen beside him. Moonlight slipped through the high arched windows, catching the edge of the bed and the clothes scattered across the stone floor. Somewhere below, Orrakhan was still alive with preparations for Tharok’s return, though neither of them seemed particularly concerned with the arrival of the King.

The Queen rested against Ronan’s chest, one leg tangled lazily between his. For a while she said nothing, tracing her finger across an old scar beneath his ribs.

“Was it easy?”

Ronan glanced down at her. A smile crossed his face. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

She stared at him before realising what he meant.

“Not that.” She laughed, striking him lightly on the chest. “I’m talking about the raids in the forest.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Then why did you—”

“It’s fun seeing you flustered.”

The Queen lifted herself onto one elbow, her hair falling loosely over her shoulder. “So now you take pleasure in seeing me flustered?”

“In a sense.”

She shifted across him until she was sitting above his waist, looking down at him. “Then tell me, Prince Ronan. Are you going to conquer me now?”

“I can try my best.”

His hands found her waist and pulled her towards him. She slowly lowered herself onto him and leaned in for a kiss. Just before their lips met, she pulled away. “Is it true?”

Ronan let his head fall back against the pillow. “What now?”

“That after a man kills, he needs... release.”

The amusement left his face.

“I wouldn’t know.”

The Queen studied him, uncertain whether he was still playing with her. “What do you mean?”

“They weren’t soldiers. Most were peasants. Hunters. There were women among them. Children too.” He paused. “I wasn’t going to slaughter families.”

“But those tribes killed our farmers.”

“Some of them did.”

“Some?”

Ronan sat up, forcing her to shift with him. For the first time since she had asked about the forest, there was no humour in his face.

“I spend my days with killers. I’ve fought beside them. I’ve fought against them.” His eyes settled on hers. “Those people weren’t killers.”

The Queen moved away slightly, drawing the sheet across herself. “And your father? What will you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I burned their homes and drove them from the forest. They’ll not be returning.”

“How do you know?”

Ronan stared at her for a moment. The seriousness between them had lasted long enough.

“Do you really want to waste what little time we have talking about old tribes?”

He reached for her waist again.

“Or do you want me to make you feel like a woman?”

She tried to hide her smile, turning her face away from him.

“Such confidence.”

“Come here.”

He pulled her back towards him, and this time she allowed it. Ronan kissed her neck as his arms closed around her. The Queen’s eyes shut, her body relaxing against his for only a moment before her hands caught his wrists. With a sudden movement she pushed him back against the bed and pinned his hands beside his head.

Ronan started to laugh.

But she didn’t.

“If you want the Queen,” she said, looking down at him, “you’ll need to be a king.”

Ronan tried to pull one hand free, still smiling, but she tightened her grip.

“Promise me.”

His smile remained. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll be king one day.”

Ronan reached for her again but the Queen pushed him back harder.

“Ronan.”

Something in her voice stopped him.

The playfulness had disappeared. She stared down at him, and for the first time that night Ronan saw something beneath all her confidence.

“Promise me.”

Outside, voices drifted faintly from the streets below, followed by the distant hammering of men preparing the city for his father’s return.

He raised one hand and touched her cheek.

“I promise.”

She didn’t move.

“One day I’ll be king.”

Still she waited.

Ronan slid his hand behind her neck and drew her closer.

“And I’ll make you mine.”

For a moment the Queen simply looked at him.

Then whatever had troubled her seemed to pass. Her grip loosened, and the familiar smile returned as she lowered herself towards him.

Ronan pulled her close, and the silk sheets disappeared around them.

Outside their chamber, Orrakhan waited for its king.

 

---

 

By morning, the streets were already crowded. People gathered in the square, their whispers carrying the name of the man who had built their world from blood and iron.

As the gates opened, through them came Tharok.

The people cheered, their voices echoing across the square, but his eyes saw none of them. Tharok’s gaze was fixed forward. To those who knew him, his silence was more telling than words. 

The gates to the great hall swung open. The king’s chair—a hulking thing of blackened oak and bone—waited at the far end, as imposing as the man it was made for.

Tharok entered as the gathered lords and warriors fell silent.

He strode to the firepit at the heart of the hall.

When he reached his chair, he did not sit. Instead, he stood before the flames. He raised his hands, staring at the blood that clung to them.  A growl rumbled low in his throat. “Leave me,” he commanded.

The hall emptied with haste, until only the crackle of the fire remained.

Tharok lowered himself into the great chair. His eyes settled on the flames.

Something moved within them.

He leaned forward.

For a moment he saw the Mountains, their peaks dark beneath a grey sky. Something moved below them. A figure, barely visible between the flames.

Then it was gone.

Tharok remained still.

A whisper moved through the empty hall.

A name.

The Jaguar.

Tharok’s hands tightened around the armrests. The creak of the hall doors drew him from his thoughts. A figure entered, bold yet cautious. Ronan.

Tharok did not look up.

“Father.”

Tharok said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the fire.

Ronan stepped closer. “Another victory?”

“Aye.”

Ronan waited, but Tharok offered nothing more.

“I have news.”

Tharok continued staring into the flames.

“The tribe you sent me after is gone. I burned their settlement and drove them beyond the forest.”

Nothing.

“The raids are finished.”

Still his father said nothing.

Ronan stood there for a moment, waiting for something that wasn’t coming. Finally, he turned towards the doors.

“Where are your brothers?”

Ronan froze. He turned slowly, meeting his father’s gaze. “Korrin and Valtor…” He hesitated, then nodded. “I will find them.”

Tharok watched him for a moment longer before turning back to the fire. “See that you do.”

Ronan lingered before leaving, the doors groaning shut behind him.

The flames crackled, and the whisper returned, clearer now: He comes.