THE LAST QUEEN

✦PREFACE✦

◈DISCLAIMER◈

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental and unintentional.

◈TRIGGER WARNINGS◈

This book contains content that some readers may find distressing. It also includes explicit scenes.

Strong language

Murder and assassination

Explicit sexual content (both heterosexual and homosexual)

This is a dark romance and fantasy, which means love is chaotic, pain is part of the journey, and healing comes at a price.

◈POINT OF VIEWS◈

This story is written in third person point of view.

◈UPDATE SCHEDULE◈

I post one new chapter every day. However, there may occasionally be skipped days as I am currently balancing this story with the demands of my service as a youth corper.

Please know that I am doing my very best to keep the updates consistent while fulfilling my duty to the government and managing everything else in between.

Your patience and support mean the world to me. Every comment, like, and read keeps me motivated to keep going even on the tough days.

◈AUTHOR'S NOTE◈

Thank you so much for choosing to read my story. Truly, it means the world to me. There are so many incredible books out there, and the fact that you chose to spend time with mine is something I do not take for granted.

If you enjoy the story, I would love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback not only helps me grow as a writer but also keeps me company during those long, solitary hours when it is just me sitting after a long day, with my characters emotionally ruining each other.

Thank you again for being here. I cannot wait to share more of this journey with you.

With all my gratitude,

Prince Nova

✦PROLOGUE✦

I wandered through the museum of Vanilor, my footsteps echoing across the polished marble floors. My eyes were drawn to a statue that seemed almost alive in its stillness. It was a towering figure carved with fierce precision. Torin. I had heard whispers of him across the realms. Seeing him here, immortalized in stone, stirred something deep inside me.

I turned to the guide walking beside me, curiosity lifting my voice into a question I had not expected to ask.

"Who was he?"

The man's eyes flicked to the statue, reverence and caution crossing his face. Then he spoke, his voice low and deliberate as if the story itself demanded respect.

"Torin," he said, "the battle-hardened ruler, feared across nine realms, was never meant to sit on a throne. He claimed Vanilor through blood and silence, building his dominion from the ruins of fallen kingdoms."

My chest tightened as I listened.

"Amid the smoldering remains of his greatest conquest," the guide continued, "Torin captured the last heir of the shattered Kingdom of Aethel. The boy was of remarkable beauty and unbroken pride even in chains. Torin should have ended him, but he did not. Something about that first glance held him, though he would never admit it."

I swallowed hard. The story was not just of war but of desire, danger, and obsession. I studied the statue closely, searching for secrets hidden in the stone.

"What happened next?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes fixed on the figure before me.

The guide leaned closer, as if the walls themselves might betray him. "What began as a trophy grew into something far more perilous. Torin found himself ensnared by feelings he dared not voice. Even those closest to him could not resist the pull of forbidden desire."

I could not look away. His voice painted vivid pictures in my mind.

"Powers bent to one man's will, and secrets threatened to destroy everything he had built."

I asked the question that had been burning at the edges of my thoughts.

"How did it all begin?"

The guide's gaze softened. He spoke as if recounting an ancient legend.

"Centuries ago, when peace still whispered through the wind and the world was young, Torin ruled the realm of Vanilor, one among the nine. He was as ruthless as he was ambitious, driven by an insatiable hunger for power. As a youth, he discovered a book that haunted his dreams as he grew. In his final dream, a cloaked figure with flowing gray hair appeared and said, 'To prevent this nightmare from unfolding, the nine bearers must be brought across the night realms and the boy must be stopped.'

"Driven by those words, Torin gathered the bearers, securing some through allegiance and forcing the rest into submission by war. Aethel, next in line, chose the path of resistance and accepted the inevitability of conflict."

He turned to me, his gaze locking with mine. As he spoke, his words no longer echoed in my ears but came alive, as though the past itself had reached out to claim me.

"Charge!" Torin roared, thrusting his sword toward the distant ranks of Aethel. His brow lifted, a cruel smile stretched across his face, and his gaze burned with unshakable malice.

His horse lunged forward, and his legion followed in a storm of hooves and steel. The soldiers of Aethel stormed to meet them, their voices rising in furious cries.

Torin let out a booming shout as his blade swept through the air. The nearest foe had no chance to defend before the steel carved into his chest.

Crimson sprayed in a grisly arc, spattering the earth with terror.

A general riding at his side handed him an arrow. Torin caught it effortlessly, spinning it once before sliding it into the bowstring. With a predator's focus, he narrowed his eyes on Eldric, ruler of Aethel, who was locked in savage combat among his men.

Eldric's sword pierced the ribs of a Vanilor warrior, splitting bone with a sickening crack. His head snapped up, and his eyes locked with Torin's. At that instant, Torin released the arrow, lips curling into a merciless grin.

The shaft struck true, but Eldric lifted his shield at the last moment. The arrow hammered into the metal, the force jolting his arm. Torin's eyes darkened, his concentration hardening like iron.

He hurled the bow back to his commander and let out a dreadful roar. Driving his horse into the fray, he hacked down any man who dared stand between him and Eldric.

Eldric's fury ignited as he spurred his own steed. Both kings surged forward. Their collision shook the ground, and their swords clashed with a violence that split the air.

Clang! Crashhh!

The battlefield narrowed until only their duel remained, steel ringing with relentless fury.

Not far off, a soldier gasped as his strike ripped through an enemy's belly. A head toppled to the dirt and rolled to a halt.

"The king has fallen!" he cried, his voice cracked with grief. The words spread like fire. Panic swept through the lines as men turned their horses to flee. Defeat was etched into their faces as they scattered, while their enemies pursued, each pounding hoofbeat echoing like a hymn of terror.

✦IN AETHEL✦

Far from the gates of the kingdom, Queen Charlotte, Eldric's beloved wife, saw the enemy approaching, dust rising beyond the hills as she stood upon the castle battlements.

She raced through the halls, breathless with urgency. Bursting into her sons' chamber, she found little Quinn playing with his toy soldier.

"Draven, Draven!" she called out for her first son as she swept ten-year-old Quinn into her arms, clutching him close.

"We have to go, my love," she whispered.

She led him into a hidden tunnel, known only to her, Eldric, and their children. The walls were damp and cold.

Quinn looked into the tunnel, trembling.

"Mother, I am scared."

"I know, sweetheart," she said, kneeling before him. "But you must be brave. You are strong, just like your father. I need you to run as fast as you can. Do not look back."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she kissed his forehead. "Go, my love."

Quinn stood for a moment, tears in his eyes, stepping back slowly, his gaze never leaving her.

"Go!" she commanded, her voice shaky, trying to remain strong for him.

Quinn ran into the dark tunnel, the shadows swallowing his figure. Charlotte watched until he vanished, her shoulders trembling as she sobbed silently.

Torin and his warriors stormed through the gates of Aethel, their steeds charging with eyes glowing crimson, while the townsfolk scattered in terror, shrieking and fleeing for their lives.

His gaze swept across the kingdom until it settled on Ermac, his general and commander, who wore the smug confidence of a man certain that triumph already belonged to them. Behind him, one hundred and eighty elite soldiers stood in formation, flanked by fifty skilled archers.

Torin drew his blade with deliberate slowness, the metallic scrape cutting through the tense air like the toll of a warning bell.

"Lay this land to waste. Let every soul drown in their own blood," he thundered, his voice rolling deep and menacing, like a storm breaking across the horizon.

For a moment, silence gripped the streets of Aethel. Then came a thunderous cry from his army as they surged deeper into Aethel, butchering every man, violating the women before ending their lives, and cutting down the children without mercy. Flames devoured homes as entire families perished within, their screams lost to the inferno.

Torin dismounted with cold grace, standing tall and unshaken. His eyes swept from the gates of the royal castle to its highest spire, a sneer of disgust shadowing his face.

"Bring me the king's family," he commanded, pausing long enough for the tension to throb in the air like a drumbeat. "No one else leaves this place alive."

"Yes, my lord," Ermac answered, bowing low. He signaled with a tilt of his head, and the warriors at his back obeyed, surging into the castle as he followed close behind.

A piercing cry tore through the air, followed by the crash of shattered glass. "Please... please... no!" someone screamed, the sound splintering before it was abruptly cut short. Silence returned, and Torin's lips curled into a sly, satisfied smile.

He slid his sword back into its sheath, snapping his fingers twice. A soldier approached, carrying a rough leather satchel crafted from the hide of a slain beast.

"Mother!" Draven cried out in a horrific tone. His cry shattered the silence, jolting Charlotte to her feet. She followed the sound to the throne room.

She rushed inside, gathering the hem of her garment. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw her son pinned in the grip of Torin's soldiers.

"Draven," she whispered in terror, already sobbing, her eyes locked on him while her chest rose and fell in frantic breaths. Her gaze swept across the hall until it caught on a lifeless man sprawled on the ground, a sword lying beside his body. She rushed forward, bent down, and seized the weapon.

"Release my son!" she demanded, her voice quivering yet edged with fury, the first sparks of rage igniting beneath her strained composure. She broke into a run toward them.

A blade hissed through the air and buried itself deep into Charlotte's shoulder, just above her heart. It had been thrown with predatory accuracy, released mid-spin by Torin when he strode into the throne room, his very presence tightening the air with menace.

"Mother!" Draven cried, struggling against the crushing hold of Torin's guards, who pressed him down with their full weight.

Charlotte screamed when her knees buckled, the sword clattering from her grasp. With one hand braced against the floor, she clutched the dagger embedded in her flesh, groaning in agony while she wrenched it free.

A dry, mirthless chuckle slipped from Torin's lips, as if her pain were nothing more than a performance staged for his amusement. His eyes shifted toward Draven, who met his stare with burning defiance. Yet beneath that blaze, Torin saw more than fury. Beauty burned within Draven's defiance, fierce enough to hold him captive. For a moment he lingered, caught between cruel amusement and forbidden desire.

The moment slipped away. His expression hardened, ice swallowing the fleeting spark, and he turned back to Charlotte. She staggered upright, blood streaming between her fingers as her trembling hands pressed against the wound where she had torn the knife free.

"Ermac... check for any others." Torin's command rumbled like a growl, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Ermac bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord." He turned and disappeared into the palace chambers.

Draven's gaze locked on his mother. Charlotte's eyes were heavy with sorrow, her face streaked by tears. His own vision clouded as he whispered, "I am so sorry, Mother. I... I could not protect you."

"Foolish mind," Torin muttered under his breath, shattering the moment.

Draven's head snapped toward him, fury blazing in his eyes.

"You may not be able to save one life now," Torin said, his tone laced with disdain, "but one day you will safeguard an entire nation."

"I swear," Draven's voice thundered, rage burning hot in every word, "the moment I get the chance, I'll kill you." He struggled against the soldiers pressing him down, their hands forcing him to his knees as he strained toward Torin.

Torin raised an eyebrow, faintly amused.

"I doubt you even realize who I am," Draven spat, but Torin silenced him with a mocking glance.

"Forgive me, Draven. Bearer of the elements... fire, water." His tone dripped with scorn. "Do not act so astonished."

He strode forward, boots striking the marble floor, until he was halfway to Charlotte.

"Don't you dare touch my mother!" Draven roared, his voice cracking like a whip. The command silenced the hall, leaving Torin to savor the weight of it.

He met Charlotte's gaze, locking her in. "I have a gift for you," he whispered, mockery twisting his tone. "One you will be dying to see."

"Queen," he added with a cruel curl of his lips, the title spat like an insult.

"He is the reason I came here. I have sent countless messages, and my patience has been stretched beyond its limit."

The silence that followed pressed down with suffocating weight.

Finally, Torin spoke again. "In less than six months, on his twentieth birthday, your son will become the power he was destined to be. A force nearly divine."

Draven's voice cut through the air, filled with venom. "By then you will have no empire left to command."

Torin's smirk widened. With a dramatic flourish, he hurled a sack at Charlotte's feet. It spilled open, and a severed head tumbled across the polished stone until it came to rest before her.

It was Ethan.

Charlotte's legs gave way, and she collapsed with a scream that tore from the depths of her chest. She fell to her knees and crawled forward, her trembling fingers reaching for her husband's lifeless face. Her cries filled the throne room like the lament of a grieving spirit.

"Father," Draven groaned. His voice was raw and broken. Tears spilled as if his heart had been split open.

Memories of Ethan flooded her: the warmth of his hand, his smile before leaving for battle, and his promise to return.

Torin tilted his head with a cruel smirk. "At least I tried. I brought him home to you." His mocking tone was cold and without remorse.

"Take him away," Torin ordered.

The guards dragged Draven away, his body twisting in their grip as he cried out for his mother, his voice breaking between ragged breaths.

Torin turned to Charlotte. "I promise you, he will grow fond of his new home."

Charlotte's sorrow flared into fury. With a cry, she rose to her feet and seized the sword beside her. Her scream cut through the silence as she charged, defiance blazing in her eyes.

Torin moved with merciless precision. His boot struck the weapon, sending it upward. In the same breath, his hand seized Charlotte by the throat, yanking her close. The blade spun, and Torin caught it mid-air. With cold resolve, he drove the steel into her stomach.

Charlotte's eyes widened in horror as blood spread across her gown. Her lips parted, but only a sharp breath escaped as Torin twisted the blade deeper.

He leaned close, whispering against her ear, "The queen is always right. Goodnight."

Charlotte staggered, clutching the wound. Blood seeped across her hands as her legs gave way, and she crumpled to the floor.

"Mother!" Draven's scream split the hall. He fought against the guards' grip, thrashing wildly.

Charlotte's hand lifted, trembling as it reached for him. Tears blurred her vision, her gaze wavering until it fixed on Ethan's severed head.

Her lips quivered. "My love..." The words cracked apart as her final breath slipped from her lips.

The light drained from her eyes. Draven's cry shattered the air, raw with anguish. He kicked and twisted against the guards dragging him away, desperation lending him strength, but their hold only tightened. His head wrenched back toward Charlotte's lifeless form, as though keeping her in sight might hold her soul a moment longer.

At that instant, Ermac returned to the chamber. He knelt before Torin. "My lord... I searched, but there is no one else."

Torin's expression hardened. "Search again. There is another child."

Ermac bowed, summoning more guards before vanishing once more into the shadows.

******

Dragged into the open, Draven's eyes darted from side to side as raging flames devoured the city. Shrieks echoed through the air, filling Aethel with a terror that clawed at the soul. Walls buckled and roofs collapsed as the buildings gave way.

The frail sheets of metal that formed the slum dwellings could not withstand the searing heat.

Though the sun still burned above, a shroud of black smoke swallowed the kingdom, veiling every street in shadow. Among the wreckage, bodies lay scattered, from infants to the aged. Tears streamed down Draven's face, his gaze sharpening with fury as he lifted his head, his brow tightening in grim resolve.

✦IN VANILOR✦

Torin strode into the palace as the towering gates swung wide to receive him. Behind him, Ermac advanced, bowing in silence as he collected his master's sword. The warlord's gaze instantly found Ashley, his queen.

Her eyes fixed on him, pulling him forward as though by an invisible bond.

"My dearest," he whispered, drawing her close and pressing a kiss to her lips, heavy with desire and longing.

"My king," Ashley answered softly, lowering herself with elegance, her gown flowing like water across the marble floor.

Torin's stare lingered on her, filled with unguarded admiration. "I missed you, my queen," he admitted, the exhaustion in his voice impossible to disguise.

She spoke no reply this time, only bowed again in reverence.

He gathered her into his arms, their lips meeting once more before his attention shifted toward their son. Victor had entered quietly with Malen, his loyal companion, walking beside him. His expression was calm, but his restraint was plain.

Only the gods knew what trouble he had stirred this time, Victor thought, casting Ermac a cautious glance.

Ermac offered a slow, deliberate wink, mischief and hidden intent glittering in his eyes. Victor instantly returned his focus to Torin.

Torin and Ashley parted, and the king's attention drifted from his queen to his son.

"Welcome, Father," Victor said, inclining his head with measured courtesy.

Torin's brow shadowed. "You kept your father waiting?"

Victor stepped forward without hesitation and clasped his shoulders firmly.

"Behold... your father returns triumphant," Torin said evenly, resting both hands on his son's shoulders, his gaze drilling into Victor's.

A stillness lingered in the chamber, weighted with anticipation.

"You made us proud... as always," Victor replied at last, though his words rang hollow. Torin heard the falsehood immediately.

"You sound distant at my return," Torin pressed, his smile fading, his tone edged with accusation.

"What would you have me do?" Victor's voice was low and unyielding, radiating a killing intent so palpable it seemed to choke the air. "Shall I sing your praises when you stain the earth with innocent blood for reasons only you hold? They did not deserve the fate you cast upon them."

Torin's laughter thundered through the chamber, sharp and merciless. With regal grace, he mounted the steps to his throne and sank into it, the weight of his presence commanding the hall. "How I savor it when my own son dares to lecture his father, his king."

His stare locked on Victor, its intensity pressing silence into every corner of the chamber. The stillness stretched, thick and suffocating.

Torin's gaze shifted past his son to Ermac. With a sharp snap of fingers, Ermac signaled. At once, the gates groaned open again.

The hush deepened as every eye turned toward the figure entering.

Draven entered, carrying an aura that seemed to ignite the very air. His beauty was ruinous, impossible to look away from. His bare chest bore the marks of captivity, skin marred with bruises and dust yet still brimming with strength.

Even bound in chains, he stood unbroken, defiance etched into every line of his frame. His only garment was a pair of trousers, low at the waist, clinging to his form and hinting at the sculpted curve of his body. Shackles weighed down his ankles, the chains dragging with a harsh scrape across the marble floor as he advanced.

Victor's breath caught. In Draven's steps walked both death and seduction, and he found himself unable to avert his gaze.