Chapter 23: Arielle’s Plea To Qazaethel

Qazaethel stood in the heart of her garden, surrounded by the gentle chaos of her niblings’ play. The late afternoon sun cast golden light through the ancient trees, dappling the grass where small dragons tumbled and phoenixes chased each other through the air with their fledgling wings.

Their scales shimmered like scattered jewels—emeralds and sapphires, rubies and gold—while the phoenixes trailed soft embers that faded before they could reach the ground.

She watched them with half-lidded eyes, a glass of wine cradled in her hand. The crimson liquid swirled as she tilted her wrist, catching the light before she brought it to her lips.

Her other hand moved steadily across the canvas before her, brush strokes flowing with practiced ease as she captured the scene.

Two young dragons were locked in a playful tussle near the fountain, their tiny claws were batting at each other without any real force.

Their tails lashed, and one let out a small puff of smoke that made the other sneeze. Qazaethel’s brush paused as she watched them, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"Hey, don’t fight," she called out, her voice was carrying that distinctive blend of authority and warmth that only she possessed at this moment. "You’re going to hurt each other."

The two dragons immediately broke apart, their heads lowered with exaggerated whimpers. They were young enough that everything felt like a grand performance, and they were already learning that their aunt was not someone to truly defy.

But she was watching them again, so they returned to their play with careful restraint.

"Good children," she murmured, returning her attention to the canvas.

The painting was coming together beautifully. She had captured the way the light played across the phoenixes’ feathers, the way the dragons’ scales seemed to hold their own inner fire. Her brush moved with the confidence of centuries of practice, each stroke was deliberate and precise.

Until one line.

It was a simple curve—nothing more than the arc of a dragon’s wing as it stretched toward the sky. But something about that shape, that particular curve, sent a jolt through her entire being.

Eiravelle.

The name bloomed in her mind like a flower unfurling in the dark. Qazaethel’s hand froze, the brush hovering mid-stroke. The memory slammed into her with the force of a physical blow—the way the young omega’s back had arched beneath her touch, the moans and whimpers that had filled the private chambers, the feel of heated skin beneath her fingers as she had...

She set the brush down carefully, almost afraid of what she might do if she kept holding it.

The images wouldn’t stop. They had been plaguing her for weeks now, these relentless flashes of that night. Eiravelle beneath her, trembling with need, her eyes are half-lidded and glazed with desire.

The soft sounds that had escaped those perfect lips, each one was driving Qazaethel further into the abyss of her own hunger. The way the young omega had yielded so completely, so trustingly, as Qazaethel had taken everything from her—her purity, her innocence, her careful composure.

"How do I take you out of my head?" Qazaethel muttered, her voice was barely audible over the sounds of her niblings’ play. She set the unfinished painting aside, leaning back in her chair and pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

The sensations of that night clung to her like a second skin. She could still feel Eiravelle beneath her hands, taste the salt of her tears, hear the ragged edge of her breathing.

And beneath all of that, the terrible weight of what she had done—not just the act itself, but the trust that had preceded it.

Eiravelle had looked at her with such devotion. Such naive, trusting adoration.

And Qazaethel had devoured her.

"Auntie?"

The small voice broke through her spiral, and Qazaethel opened her eyes to find one of her nieces perched on the arm of her chair. The young phoenix tilted her head, her feathers are rippling through shades of crimson and gold as she studied Qazaethel’s face with a wisdom far beyond her years.

"Why do you look so stressed?" The little one asked, her voice carried the pure curiosity of youth. "Are you sad?"

Qazaethel forced a smile—one of those rare, genuine smiles she reserved almost exclusively for her niblings. "Nothing much," she said, reaching out to gently stroke the phoenix’s feathers. "Probably just work."

The little phoenix regarded her with that unblinking stare that all young phoenixes seemed to possess, as if they could see straight through to the truth of things.

Then she chirped softly and settled onto Qazaethel’s lap, her small body radiated a pleasant warmth.

"Auntie," she said, snuggling closer, "if ever I achieve my shapeshifting power, will I be beautiful like you?"

The question caught Qazaethel off guard. She looked down at the young phoenix—this tiny creature who still hadn’t grown into her full form, who had no concept yet of the responsibilities and burdens that came with maturity.

There was nothing but innocent hope in her eyes, and that innocence felt like the most precious thing in the world.

Qazaethel’s smile softened. She cradled the young phoenix carefully, her fingers are finding the tender spots behind her crest where she loved to be scratched. "Of course," she said, her voice carried an absolute certainty. "No one in our family was born ugly."

It was the truth, but it was also a kindness. These young ones needed to hear that their futures held beauty, even when the path to get there was fraught with competition and danger.

She had to protect that spark of hope in them, even if she could no longer find it within herself.

The other niblings took this as their cue. A small sapphire dragon scrambled up the side of her chair and settled on her shoulder, her tail curled around Qazaethel’s neck like a living necklace.

Two more phoenixes fluttered down to claim spots on her other side, and a little emerald dragon made herself comfortable on her head, her tiny claws are barely tangling in her carefully arranged hair.

Qazaethel found herself surrounded by warmth and softness, the pure affection of her niblings washing over her like a balm. She let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbled from somewhere deep in her chest.

"Cute little things," she murmured, more to herself than to them.

The same phoenix that had asked the first question shifted in her lap, peering up at Qazaethel with renewed curiosity. "Auntie, why can’t we see our older cousins?"

Qazaethel’s expression shifted slightly, the warmth dimmed just a fraction. She had been expecting this question eventually—it always came, sooner or later.

The young ones could sense that there were parts of the family kept from them, and their natural curiosity demanded answers.

"You all are not mature yet," she explained carefully. "Meeting your cousins who have already achieved their image form—it’s not allowed until you’ve reached the proper age."

The phoenix’s brow furrowed, and around her, the other niblings seemed to lean in with matching expressions of confusion. Their small faces were so earnest, so desperate to understand the rules that governed their world.

"Eh?" The phoenix exclaimed, her feathers are fluffing in indignation. "But why not? We want to meet them!"

Qazaethel allowed herself another small smile at their collective outrage. "Because they are mature," she said patiently. "And they have strength that is different from yours. The people you can associate with are your parents, or your aunts and uncles like me. The royal rules are designed to separate the matured heirs from those who haven’t achieved their matured form yet."

She paused, considering how much more to explain. These were delicate matters, and she had to walk the line between honesty and protection.

"Everything we have here is competition," she continued. "But it’s not inherently bad. This is also a way of protecting you little ones, since you love to play. Once you achieve your image form, there is no more playing like little kids."

The niblings exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Then they all turned back to Qazaethel with the same expression of understanding, as if she had just revealed a great cosmic truth.

"Ah!" they chorused, their voices overlapped in a chorus of revelation.

Qazaethel couldn’t help but laugh—a real, genuine sound that surprised even her. These little ones brought out a side of her that she rarely showed to anyone else.

With them, she didn’t have to be the sovereign, the ruler, or the calculating queen. She could simply be their aunt.

They chattered among themselves for a while, asking questions and discussing their futures with the enthusiasm of youth. One of the dragons wondered aloud whether he would grow up to be as powerful as General Liv, while a phoenix declared her intention to be even more beautiful than Qazaethel herself.

The sun continued its slow descent, the garden growed softer and more golden as the day wore on.

Qazaethel allowed herself to enjoy the peace of the moment, letting her niblings’ warmth and energy wash away the lingering shadows of her memories.

But peace, she knew, was never meant to last.

The first sign of interruption came in the form of footsteps—measured and carrying the unmistakable cadence of someone who had been trained to announce their presence. Qazaethel’s eyes lifted from her niblings to find her butler approaching, his hand pressed to his chest as he bowed.

"Greetings, your majesty," he said, his voice was carrying the proper deference.

Qazaethel’s expression shifted instantly. The warmth that had softened her features melted away, replaced by the cool composure she wore like armor. Her niblings, sensing the change in their aunt, grew quiet and still around her.

"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice was flat. She didn’t mean it as an accusation, but the words came out sharp nonetheless.

The butler straightened but kept his eyes respectfully lowered. "Your majesty, prime minister Arielle is here to see you."

Qazaethel felt her jaw tighten. Of course. Of course Arielle would choose now to interrupt, when she was finally finding some small measure of peace. The timing was almost intentional.

"I suppose everyone knows that when I’m resting, no one is to bother me without my permission," she said coldly. The temperature around her seemed to drop, and her niblings shivered slightly against her warmth.

"Yes," the butler acknowledged, his voice was careful, "but she seems to be in a hurry, your majesty. She said it’s about lady Eiravelle. Lord Arielle may need your blessing."

Qazaethel felt the words like a physical blow.

Eiravelle.

The name sent a jolt through her entire body, and she was suddenly and acutely aware of every sensation—the weight of her niblings against her, the warm breeze on her skin, and the rapid thudding of her heart in her chest.

She set the young phoenix gently aside, rising from her chair with a motion that was a little too quick, a little too urgent.

"What happened?" Her voice had changed, losing its coldness and gaining an edge of something that might have been worry. Or fear.

The butler opened his mouth to respond, but he never got the chance.

Arielle burst into the garden like a storm.

She came through the archway at a near-run, her robes billowed behind her, and her face was set in an expression of barely controlled urgency. General Liv appeared in her wake, trying to intercept her, but Arielle was already past her and striding toward Qazaethel.

"Stop your tracks!" Liv’s sword cleared its sheath in a single fluid motion, the point coming to rest at Arielle’s throat. "This is the sovereign’s private garden—you do not enter unannounced!"

Arielle didn’t even pause. Her eyes blazed with a fire that made Liv’s blade seem insignificant. "Get out of my way," she said, her voice was low and dangerous, "or I will remove you from where you stand."

The words hung in the air, charged with a challenge that neither woman was willing to back down from. Liv’s hand remained steady on her sword, her expression was hard as iron. Arielle’s gaze didn’t waver.

"This is disrespectful!" Liv shouted, her voice carried the full weight of her authority.

But Qazaethel had been watching the exchange from her chair, her niblings are now huddled behind her in confusion. She had risen fully, standing straight and tall, her composure settled back into place like a familiar garment.

"Liv," she said, her voice cutbthrough the tension like a blade, "let her come here."

It was an order, not a request. Liv hesitated for the briefest moment—her loyalty to Qazaethel warred with her instinct to protect her sovereign—but she obeyed.

The sword was returned to its sheath with a sharp click, and Liv stepped back, her eyes were never leaving Arielle’s form.

Arielle didn’t wait for a second invitation. She strode forward, crossing the distance between herself and Qazaethel with the determination of someone who had nothing left to lose. Her face was pale but set, her hands clenched at her sides.

"Prime minister," Qazaethel began, her voice was carrying a faint edge of warning, "I must ask what gives you so much audacity to behave in this manner—"

She was cut off before she could finish.

Arielle fell to her knees before her.

The sight was so unexpected, so completely outside the realm of what Qazaethel had anticipated, that she actually stopped speaking.

Around them, Liv’s eyes went wide with shock, and the butler’s careful composure cracked into open astonishment. Even the niblings, watching from behind their aunt, seemed to understand that something monumental was happening.

"Your majesty," Arielle said, her voice carried the weight of everything she had held back, "allow me to go to Varnara."

No sweet talk. No metaphors. No political maneuvering or careful phrasing. Just the plain, stark request delivered from her knees, with an audience of witnesses who would never forget what they had seen.