Seeing the blush spread across Ashtoria’s cheeks from his words, Riven couldn’t help but smile. That signature blank expression of hers—the cold, unreadable mask of the so-called Mad Queen—had completely vanished. In its place blood a soft, helpless red that spread from her cheeks all the way to her ears.
She looked so different... so unlike the fearso figure known throughout the land.
And it reminded Riven of sothing.
’It’s funny,’ he thought. ’Our first eting wasn’t even that long ago. Who would’ve thought... we’d end up like this?’
He still rembered the mont she first approached him after waking from her injuries. Back then, he’d unconsciously showered her with praise too, only for her to choke him out in response.
He ran his fingers once more through her crimson hair, silky and warm between his calloused fingertips, then teased gently, "You really can’t handle complints, can you, Ashtoria?"
The queen didn’t answer. She just stared at him in silence, eyes wide, face glowing with embarrassnt. But from the way her breath caught, from the slight tension in her shoulders, Riven could tell... her heart was in disarray. Her usual composed mask was gone—replaced by vivid emotion.
To ease the tension, Riven lightly touched his chest, right where he’d been hit earlier—but paused.
There was no pain.
"Huh? Did you... already heal ?" he asked, voice low with disbelief.
Ashtoria gave a single nod. Like a child caught doing sothing kind in secret. There was no pride in her eyes—just a quiet, delicate calm.
Riven stared at her again, enchanted.
But then—her voice broke the silence.
"...What did you an... when you said I was tornting you...?" she asked, barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped. "Do you... not like ? Am I... bothering you?"
Those words pierced deeper than any blade. Riven’s heart clenched—not from pain, but from the overwhelming warmth threatening to spill from within. He hadn’t fully processed the bitter truth about his weak talent, the cruelty of the world, or his own powerlessness...
But this woman.
With her flushed cheeks, trembling voice, and innocent questions—she sohow made all of it feel so far away. Like a bad dream he no longer had to wake from.
Riven couldn’t hold back anymore.
He rose slowly, then flipped them both in one swift motion, until Ashtoria was beneath him.
The queen froze under his weight. Her breath hitched. Her wide crimson eyes shimred with panic—not from fear, but pure, unfiltered embarrassnt.
Riven leaned down, staring straight into her eyes, and whispered:
"How could soone as beautiful and adorable as you... ever bother ? Do you think I’m stupid?"
The words struck Ashtoria like a thunderclap.
She turned her face away in a rush, covering her cheeks with one hand—though it did little to hide her blazing blush. Her body trembled slightly.
Her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her ears.
Riven’s smile deepened. He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
’I want to say... I love you,’ he whispered, but stopped himself. He held back. Because for so reason, deep down, he felt he wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
Instead, he pulled back, looking softly into her eyes.
"...Can I call you sothing special?" he asked.
Ashtoria blinked slowly. "A... special na?"
Riven nodded. "A nickna. One only I get to use. Sothing I’ll say... only when it’s just the two of us."
She stared at him, confused, processing the idea. Then asked softly, "...What would it be?"
Riven brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and said gently, from the deepest part of his heart:
"How about... Asha?"
"Ashtoria is a beautiful na. But I want to call you sothing no one else ever will. Asha... it’s soft. Sweet. Like you."
Ashtoria froze.
Then all at once, her whole body went weak.
Her cheeks turned crimson. Her eyes glistened. Sothing warm exploded inside her—like honey flooding her chest, like springti breaking through the snow. Euphoric. Endless.
He gave a na...
A na only for him...
Asha...
In her mind, she was screaming. Laughing. Dancing.
But outwardly, she only bit her lip—trying to contain the storm of emotions blooming too fast to hold.
Tonight...
She had actually planned to follow Brigitta’s advice—to undress Riven, to kiss his body, to claim him as hers. She wanted to touch him, fully. Intimately.
But not tonight.
Tonight was already perfect.
Too perfect.
And she wanted to rember it like this—his voice whispering her na, their bodies wrapped in warmth, and a silence between them that was sweeter than any kiss.
"Asha..." Riven whispered again, like a sacred incantation.
And the queen’s heart lted once more.
.
.
.
Above the capital city of Belgrave, dark clouds gathered like a curse refusing to lift.
The once-glorious city, bustling with nobility and magic, now pulsed with unease. Soldiers moved in formation down the wide avenues, bell towers rang out every few hours, and the clamor of iron boots echoed across every stone path.
The worst had co.
Fort Valgarde had fallen.
Arkham—the kingdom of stone and heat to the southwest—had not only breached Belmore’s great defense... they were advancing.
Territories were crumbling.
And Belgrave—the heart of the kingdom—was now in danger.
Inside the grand palace at the center of the capital, in a tall room overlooking the western horizon, stood a woman in silence.
She looked to be in her fifties, her black hair pinned in a regal bun, her deep-purple gown pooling at her feet. Her face, though elegant, bore the sharp lines of one hardened by court and war alike.
Perched on her wrist was a white raven—its feathers unnaturally pristine, its eyes glowing faintly.
It was no ordinary bird.
This raven was a product of arcane breeding, created by the Mage Tower to serve as long-distance ssengers with unmatched speed and obedience. These birds listened only to their masters.
The woman watched the city in silence—saw the formations below, the growing panic in the streets.
Her ti was running out.
Leaning closer to the raven, she whispered in its ear:
"Dorthlam."
The bird blinked once, spread its wings and with a powerful push, flew out into the storm-gray sky, disappearing like a white arrow into the mist.
The woman exhaled slowly.
Her gaze lingered on the horizon, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
From the end of the long marble corridor, firm footsteps echoed toward her.
A tall man entered, clad in black military attire, his chest decorated with dals from battles past. The gray streaks in his dark hair betrayed his age, but his eyes were sharp, and his posture unwavering.
He stopped a few steps away and called out, voice calm and resonant.
"Anna Hartwell."
The woman turned.
Her voice was cool, composed.
"Commander Havel."
Their eyes t in silence.
No greetings. No pleasantries.
They both knew, this was not the ti for ceremony.
Their kingdom was burning.
And while nobles bickered and sched for power, only a few still fought for the survival of Belmore.
Let know if you’d like to continue the political drama, reveal more about Anna or Havel’s plan, or return to Riven and Ashtoria’s relationship in the next scene.
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