Tales of Eldoria

 Queen Lyra

The late afternoon sun, a gentle painter of golds and soft oranges, dappled through the blooming cherry blossoms and settled upon Queen Lyra. She sat at the marble edge of the courtyard's central pool, the cool stone a familiar comfort against her silken gown. Her long, ginger hair, a fiery cascade even when tamed by the delicate golden threads of her crown, flowed over one shoulder, catching the light like spun copper. Her emerald pendant earrings gleamed subtly, mirroring the deep green of her dress, and the diamond necklace at her throat shimmered with every shallow breath.

One hand, almost instinctively, rested upon the gentle swell of her belly, a silent conversation between mother and child. Her gaze, though, was fixed not on the placid water or the meticulously tended rose gardens that flourished around her, but on the distant horizon, where the rolling hills of the Kingdom of Eldoria met the sky.

Eldoria. A realm of fertile valleys and ancient forests, protected by proud mountains. A realm she had inherited too young, too suddenly. Now, with new life stirring within her, the weight of that crown felt heavier, yet also imbued with a profound new purpose. She was no longer just the queen; she was the vessel for Eldoria's future, a living promise of continuity.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of roses and damp earth. Lyra sighed, a whisper of a sound, and her thoughts drifted to the challenges that had recently troubled her peaceful kingdom. Whispers of unrest from the eastern marches, strange blight affecting the autumn crops, and the unsettling silence from the neighboring Lord of Blackwood Keep. The world outside these serene gardens was not as calm as the pool's surface. And soon, a new heir would arrive, into a world that demanded strength, wisdom, and an unwavering heart. Lyra knew she possessed these, but the quiet solitude of the garden was often where she found the strength to face the dawning of each new day.

Lyra's tranquil moment, suspended between the present and the future, was abruptly, delightfully shattered by a familiar, boisterous laugh. "There you are, my Queen! Hiding away from your adoring public, are we?"

She turned, a smile already blossoming on her face before she even saw him. Prince Sparhawk, her Knight Protector, strode into the garden, a whirlwind of playful energy. He was a vision of controlled power and disarming charm, his movements fluid and strong. But it wasn't his formidable presence that drew her eye; it was the wriggling bundle he carried tucked under one arm, a small, squealing person whose bright giggles echoed through the quiet space.

"Papa, no! Stop!" came the muffled protest, punctuated by more laughter.

Sparhawk grinned, his eyes, the color of a summer sky, twinkling mischievously. He was tickling their firstborn, Princess Anya, who was already a spirited force of nature at three years old. Anya's tiny legs kicked wildly, her little hands pushing against her father's chest in a futile attempt to escape his playful torment.

"Never! The tickle monster has you now!" he declared, his voice a rich baritone that always made Lyra's heart flutter. Anya dissolved into a fresh fit of giggles, her squirming making Sparhawk adjust his grip, but never releasing her.

Lyra watched them, a warmth spreading through her that chased away any lingering anxieties about the kingdom. This was her family, her true strength. "Sparhawk, you'll have her in hysterics!" she chided playfully, though her own laughter bubbled up, light and musical.

He finally released a breathless Anya, who immediately scampered over to her mother, burying her face in Lyra's gown, still giggling. Sparhawk then walked over, his eyes softening as they met Lyra's. He knelt beside her, a hand gently covering hers where it rested on her belly.

"And how are my two queens faring this afternoon?" he murmured, his thumb stroking her hand. The playful glint in his eyes was still there, but now mingled with a deep, abiding tenderness. Lyra leaned into his touch, her smile wide and genuine. In this moment, with her husband beside her and her daughter at her feet, the weight of the crown felt lighter than air.

The early evening air had begun to cool, drawing a comfortable veil of twilight over the gardens, but the warmth of the sun lingered in the courtyard. Princess Anya, finally settled, now sat beside her mother, her small ear pressed tentatively against the soft silk covering Queen Lyra’s swollen abdomen.

“He kicked, Mama! He kicked my head!” Anya whispered, her eyes wide with wonder, a delighted frown crinkling her brow.

Lyra laughed, a deep, resonant sound. “That’s your little brother or sister saying hello, my love. They can’t wait to meet their wonderful big sister.”

Sparhawk watched the exchange, leaning back on his hands, his smile easy and profound. “Careful, Anya,” he teased gently. “Your new sibling already sounds like a tiny warrior. If they’re anything like your mother, they’ll be challenging everyone before they can even walk.”

Anya giggled, sitting up and proudly announcing, “I’m a warrior too, Papa! I have a wooden sword!”

The moment stretched on, golden and perfect, a small bubble of family joy amidst the vast duties of the kingdom.

The Messenger

Later, the scene shifted to the Great Hall of Eldoria Castle. Dinner was a lively affair tonight. Great arches soared above, illuminated by hundreds of candles that cast a warm, honeyed glow over the long oak tables. A small orchestra played lilting, cheerful music from a gallery overhead.

Queen Lyra, radiant and beautiful, held court at the high table. She was surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, their voices rising in light chatter and shared laughter as they discussed a recent tournament. Lyra, with a hand resting lightly on the arm of her throne, enjoyed the camaraderie and the brief respite from weighty matters.

Prince Sparhawk, the consummate host and Knight Protector, was a moving center of gravity in the room. Ever attentive, he first ensured Lyra and Anya were comfortable, sharing a quick, tender look with his wife before moving off. He drifted skillfully among the various tables, trading jests with his captains, discussing crops with the minor landholders, and offering polite pleasantries to the more solemn lords. His presence was reassuring—a visible symbol of the Queen’s strength and accessibility.

He was currently engaged in a deep conversation with Lord Pender, an older, bearded nobleman detailing his concerns about the blighted crops, when a young page, his face scrubbed clean and his livery crisp, approached cautiously. The boy bowed low, waiting for a pause in the Prince’s speech.

“Your Grace,” the page finally whispered, his voice tight with importance, “a messenger has arrived at the gates. From Lord Rahl of D’Hara. They request an immediate audience.”

Sparhawk’s easy smile vanished, replaced by a swift, alert gravity. Lord Rahl of D’Hara. That name belonged to a realm of legend and shadow, known for its fierce independence and the iron will of its rulers. D’Hara was not a customary ally, nor an open enemy, but a powerful and unpredictable force that bordered the wild, unknown territories. A direct, urgent messenger was highly irregular.

He clapped Lord Pender lightly on the shoulder. "Forgive me, my Lord. Duty calls." Sparhawk’s eyes scanned the high table, resting for a moment on Lyra's laughing face, before turning to the page.

"Take the messenger to the small receiving room. Give him wine and bread, but no more information. I will be there in a moment."

Sparhawk felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. Whatever news a D’Haran messenger carried, it would surely be enough to steal the peace from their royal hall and perhaps from Eldoria itself.

Sparhawk moved swiftly from the nobles' table, the gravity of the news pushing aside the pleasant dining atmosphere. He approached the high table, his stride purposeful, and bent close to Lyra, waiting until the laughter of her ladies had subsided.

"My love," he murmured, his voice low enough to be private, "a messenger has arrived. From Lord Rahl of D’Hara."

Lyra’s smile faded, replaced by a flicker of surprise and a shade of concern in her eyes. "D’Hara? That is… unexpected. Did they state their business?"

"Only that it is urgent. I’ve sent them to the small receiving room." He paused, studying her face. He noted the slight clenching of her jaw—a sign of tension—and the way she shifted uncomfortably on the throne, her hand instinctively rubbing her belly.

"I will stay here," Lyra decided, her voice regaining its steady royal timbre. "A sudden move from the Queen could cause unnecessary alarm in the court. You are the Knight Protector; you will represent Eldoria and its interests fully."

Just then, a vigorous jolt beneath her ribs made her gasp softly and arch her back. "Oh, little one," she whispered, a mix of pain and maternal wonder in her expression.

Sparhawk immediately knelt closer, his hand coming up to gently caress her shoulder. "Are you alright, my Queen?"

Lyra’s tension eased under his touch. She met his gaze, her eyes warm. "I'm fine, my love. Just a very enthusiastic kick." She smiled, a teasing glint returning. "Don't give away the kingdom," she warned him.

He chuckled, standing back up and straightening his tunic. "Depends what they are offering," he replied with a wicked, cheeky grin.

She reached out and playfully swatted his arm with a folded linen napkin. He leaned in, and they shared a swift, tender kiss, a silent exchange of love and trust, before he turned and headed for the doors.

Sparhawk found the receiving room door guarded by two of his personal men. They snapped to attention as he approached and opened the door. He stepped inside, and his breath hitched for the briefest of moments. Expecting a grizzled D'Haran diplomat or perhaps a grim soldier, he was instead met by a vision of striking, almost startling, beauty.

The woman stood with an easy, confident grace. She was tall, with a full figure accentuated by an impeccably tailored leather traveling outfit. Her hair was a rich, vibrant red, pulled back into a single, thick braid that nearly reached her hips. Her features were sharp, but softened by a pair of captivating eyes and a mouth painted a vivid red. She smiled as she saw him enter, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes but was undeniably alluring. The sheer, potent femininity of her presence was staggering, and for a fleeting, highly unwelcome moment, the thought flashed through Sparhawk’s mind that she looked like bottled sex.

He quickly composed himself, his training overriding the surprise. "I am Prince Sparhawk, Knight Protector of Eldoria. You have urgent news from Lord Rahl?"

The woman took a step forward, her movements smooth and deliberate. Her voice, when she spoke, was a husky alto, rich and confident.

"A pleasure, Your Grace. I am Cara Rahl," she announced, the name hanging in the air with unexpected weight. She was clearly of the Rahl family, perhaps even the Lord's sister or a close relative. "And yes, the news is significant. I have been personally dispatched to begin negotiations for a formal alliance between D'Hara and Eldoria."

Sparhawk’s surprise was now palpable. D'Hara had been an enigma for generations, a fiercely isolationist realm ruled by a family as mysterious as it was powerful. No one he knew had ever been permitted to visit the People's Palace, their capital. Their sudden decision to seek a formal alliance was not merely unexpected—it was unprecedented.

He folded his arms, his posture shifting from polite host to cautious guardian. "An alliance," he repeated, his voice level. "That is indeed a proposal worthy of attention. Tell me, Lady Cara, why now, after all this time?"

The small receiving room was enveloped in a tense, expectant silence punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic pouring of wine.

Cara Rahl filled two crystal goblets with a dark, rich vintage. Every fluid motion the tilt of the bottle, the easy grip of the glass was executed with a deliberate, almost hypnotic grace. As she handed Sparhawk his drink, their fingers brushed briefly, and a hot, undeniable awareness flared in him. Again, the thought screamed in his mind: this woman oozes sex appeal, and despite his fierce devotion to Lyra, he felt a powerful, unwelcome surge of arousal. He quickly gripped his goblet and consciously channeled his thoughts to the quiet beauty of his wife and the pure, uncomplicated joy of his daughter, erecting a shield of duty around his resolve.

They toasted—a soft clink of crystal—and took a sip of the wine. Cara set her goblet down and leaned forward slightly, her posture inviting and confident.

"My apologies for the suddenness, Your Grace," she began, her sultry voice smooth as velvet. "The reason for the change is quite simple: change itself." She explained that just two months prior, Lord Rahl’s father, the previous Lord Rahl Alric, had passed away. "Peacefully, at the age of one hundred and two," she added quickly, noting Sparhawk’s momentary frown of confusion, ensuring him there was no foul play.

"His son, my brother, Richard Rahl, has since taken up the mantle of leadership," she continued. "Richard possesses a very different philosophy than his isolationist father. He has chosen to open to the world: to invite visitors, promote trade, and, most importantly, embrace our neighbors."

As she spoke the last words, she subtly shifted her body, the movement causing the low-cut neckline of her leather tunic to emphasize her cleavage. Sparhawk had to exert intense self-control to keep his gaze locked firmly on her face. Her beautiful red lips twitched upwards in a knowing, sultry smile. She knows exactly what she is doing, he thought, hardening his will.

The discussion that followed was surprisingly straightforward. Cara, despite her distracting allure, proved to be an astute negotiator, laying out potential trade routes, mutual defense pacts against common border threats, and information sharing regarding the blighted crops. She made it overtly clear that D’Hara was offering terms that were generous and fair, something that impressed Sparhawk. He concluded that her motives, or at least D'Hara's immediate intentions, seemed genuinely honorable.

Finally, they settled on the core elements of a mutually beneficial agreement. Sparhawk rose, signaling the meeting's end. "These terms are favorable, Lady Cara, and I thank you for your honesty. However, the decision to forge an alliance of this magnitude rests solely with Her Majesty, Queen Lyra, and she will have the final say."

Cara nodded, rising gracefully from her chair. An aide, a very fit-looking young man with a neutral expression, stepped forward and presented her with a beautiful, ornate scroll case. She retrieved a heavy parchment, holding it out towards Sparhawk upon both her upright palms, the golden wax seal of the House of Rahl facing him.

"This is the formal offer," she said quietly. "It details everything we have discussed, and more. It also stipulates that if the Queen agrees, Lord Rahl and his wife would be willing to travel to Cimmura to sign the Alliance personally."

Sparhawk accepted the scroll, noting its impressive weight and the significance of the gesture. "I will bring this to the Queen now, Lady Cara, and you will have your answer for Lord Rahl presently." He offered her rooms in the castle. "Please rest. If you need anything, simply ask your aide."

Cara offered a small, deep bow. The movement was calculated, giving Sparhawk an undeniable view straight down her cleavage. She held his gaze for a second, a suggestive smile playing on her lips, before she straightened and turned, her hips swaying subtly as she sauntered out the room.

Sparhawk let out a long breath, shaking his head slightly. He looked down at the scroll in his hand—the future of Eldoria bound in the mysterious wax of D'Hara. Taking one last steadying breath, he turned and headed back toward the lights and music of the dining room and his beautiful, pregnant wife.

The Queen’s private chambers were a sanctuary of rich tapestries and soft candlelight. Queen Lyra sat before her ornate dressing table, gazing into the mirror. Her long, ginger hair was being meticulously brushed by one of her ladies-in-waiting, but the process was complicated by the small, precious weight leaning against her. Princess Anya lay nestled against Lyra’s enormously pregnant belly, her tiny ear pressed intently to the firm curve, seeking the muffled drum of her future sibling's heartbeat.

“Shh, Anya, my love,” Lyra whispered gently, tilting her head back slightly. “Mama needs her hair brushed, darling.” But Lyra made no real effort to move her. She loved this nightly ritual, the deep bond between her two children already forming.

Behind them, sprawled comfortably atop the luxurious furs of their large bed, Prince Sparhawk lay propped on his elbows. The heavy, gold-sealed scroll from Lord Rahl of D’Hara lay open before him. The atmosphere was one of quiet, domestic intimacy, laced with the gravitas of state affairs.

“The terms are undeniably good, Lyra,” Sparhawk murmured, his gaze tracing the neat script. “Trade, defense, shared knowledge on the blight… it's all in our favor. And I trust the immediate sincerity of the messenger—Cara was very fair in her dealings.”

Lyra sighed softly. “I am hopeful, Sparhawk, truly. D’Hara’s isolation has always been a point of vulnerability for us, a wild card. But a leopard does not change its spots so easily. Can we trust that this new philosophy of his, this Richard Rahl, will last? That they won't simply use the alliance as a means to learn our defenses?”

“That is the gamble,” Sparhawk admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But doing nothing is also a gamble. The world is changing, and we are about to have another child to protect. An alliance with a power like D’Hara offers us a depth of security Eldoria has never known.”

Their discussion paused as Lyra gently roused the now sleeping Anya.

“Time for a proper bed, little warrior,” Lyra murmured, kissing her daughter’s forehead.

Sparhawk immediately rose. Despite the multitude of nannies and nurses on staff, it was his sacred duty to put Anya to bed every single night. Lyra watched him lift the small, limp body into his arms. The sight of his immense strength handled with such overwhelming tenderness was one of the many reasons she loved him so fiercely. He gave Lyra a reassuring nod and carried Anya off to the nursery.

When he returned a quarter of an hour later, he slipped into bed, gathering Lyra close. They lay snuggled together, the weight of the crown lifted for the night. Sparhawk’s strong hand settled naturally upon Lyra’s large bump.

“So,” he murmured into her hair, “what is the Queen’s final word?”

Lyra shifted, finding a comfortable position against his chest. “We accept the risk, my love. A closed fist cannot fight the future. We will sign the Alliance with Lord Rahl.”

Sparhawk kissed her temple, a sense of relief settling over him. “Good. Then let us rest, my Queen.” Soon after, they drifted into sleep.

That night, Sparhawk’s dreams were disturbed. The familiar, loving image of his wife and the quiet landscape of Eldoria were violently replaced by scenes of searing passion. He was locked in an embrace, the heat of the encounter consuming him, the vibrant long red hair of his partner flowing over him. It was Cara Rahl—seductive, dominating, and utterly erotic. He was wrestling with her, with himself, losing the battle completely in the dream’s reality.

He woke with a sharp, guilty gasp in the predawn hours, his heart hammering against his ribs, the phantom scent of Cara's perfume lingering in the air. He lay perfectly still, listening to the soft, rhythmic breathing of Lyra beside him, his hand still resting protectively on her burgeoning belly. He had never been unfaithful to his wife, not even in thought, until this woman had walked into his life. He pushed the images from his mind, chastising himself for the weakness of his subconscious. A dream is just a dream, he told himself fiercely, turning to face his wife, drawing comfort from her presence until the morning light chased the shadows away.

The family sat at the breakfast table Lyra was reading some papers that the Chancellor had delivered, Princess Anya was eating toast while trading funny faces with her father who was drinking a cup of honeyed tea, Lyra shifted placing a hand on her belly 

Diplomacy

The sun streamed through the arched windows of the royal dining room, casting long, cheerful shadows across the morning breakfast table. Queen Lyra sat with a stack of papers from the Chancellor spread before her, attempting to focus on the kingdom’s affairs, though the documents proved less engaging than the two beloved people across from her. Princess Anya, perched on a cushion, was focused intently on a slice of buttered toast, occasionally pausing to engage in a silent, exaggerated exchange of funny faces with her father.

Prince Sparhawk sipped his honeyed tea, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips as Anya’s eyes crossed dramatically in a bid to make him laugh. The domestic ease was a precious thing, and it often took precedence over the morning’s duties. Lyra’s reading was abruptly interrupted by a sharp, internal movement. She drew a breath, placing a hand protectively over her swollen belly and shifting in her seat. The papers, momentarily forgotten, drifted to the table. She met Sparhawk’s eye, the shared warmth replaced by the focused look of a monarch making a decision.

“We will see Lady Cara this morning,” Lyra stated clearly. The slight tension in her voice indicated the gravity of the meeting. “You may tell her we have our answer for Lord Rahl.”

Sparhawk nodded, his easy demeanor instantly shifting to that of the Knight Protector. He flagged down a young page who was hovering discreetly near the entrance.

“Fetch a message to Lady Cara Rahl,” he instructed the boy, keeping his voice low. “Inform her that Queen Lyra will receive her in the small audience chamber this morning, before noon, to discuss the proposal from D’Hara.”

As the page bowed and scurried off, Lyra turned her attention back to her daughter, her maternal gaze softening.

“And you will be present too, my bundle of trouble,” she said with a fond smile, tracing the line of Anya's jaw. “A first state meeting for our little Princess. So, we shall have to see to it that we are both dressed appropriately for the occasion.”

Anya swallowed the last bite of her toast and tried to adopt a serious, formal expression—a look of regal solemnity that only managed to make her mother chuckle. Lyra reached out, cupping her daughter's cheek in a gesture of deep affection. The weight of the kingdom was momentarily forgotten in the joy of her family.