Three Years Later...…
Elareth had changed.
The land once parched with dust now breathed with green. Fields stretched wide with wheat swaying like golden seas, fruit trees bowed heavy with ripened offerings, and streams that had long dried now sang their way through the valleys. Children played in the open courtyards, their laughter echoing where silence and fear once reigned. Villagers no longer whispered in shadows, but danced openly during festivals, their songs rising in gratitude to the heavens.
Inside the palace, peace reigned as surely as in the villages beyond its walls.
The lords, once proud and divided, now sat with ease in the council chambers, their voices lowered not by fear, but by respect for their ruler. They often remarked among themselves: "Never has Elareth had a king like queen Iridessa." And it was true.
Soon, her fame reached the neighboring kingdoms, and tales of her just rule spread across the lands.
She rule not with the rod, but with fairness. Wrongdoers received their due punishment, not the cruelty of old days. The slaves had been freed, the servants worked with dignity, and no longer did fear hang like a chain around the necks of the lowly.
And at the center of this reborn kingdom stood Iridessa—compassionate, strong, and unshaken.
That evening, the queen sat in her chambers, the warm glow of lanterns lighting the atmosphere. Laughter drifted from the nursery, where Miri played with the young prince, a boy with wide eyes and a spirit already bold, though not yet past his third year.
Miri, now chief of the palace staff, carried him in her arms as she entered.
"Look at him, my lady," she said with a chuckle, setting the child carefully upon Iridessa's lap. "Already he tries to command me as though he is king himself."
Iridessa laughed softly, her hand brushing her son's hair. "And one day, he shall be. But until then, let him rule your patience."
The boy giggled, clutching at his mother's necklace. Iridessa kissed his forehead before passing him back to Miri.
When the child was finally laid to rest, Miri lingered in the chamber. She sank into the seat opposite Iridessa, her face glowing with a quiet joy.
"My lady," she began gently, "do you realize? Your son will grow up in peace. In love. In fairness. Everything you once wished, everything you longed for—it is here, now. He will never know the chains of cruelty, nor the hunger of drought. He will grow where there is laughter, not fear."
Iridessa's gaze softened, her eyes damp as she reached across the table and clasped Miri's hands.
"And it is because of you, Miri. You never left my side. Through darkness, through scorn, through danger—you stayed. How many times could you have turned away, and yet you remained. I owe you more than I can ever repay."
Miri shook her head firmly, a tender smile upon her lips.
"No, my lady. We owe each other. You gave me strength when I faltered, courage when I doubted. Together, we endured. Together, we have seen this day."
For a moment, silence settled between them, warm and content. Then both women broke into laughter, the sound spilling into the night, unburdened and free.
It was truly a deserved win.
In the villages of Elareth, life itself had awakened.
Where once men and women had trudged through dust with hollow faces, now the air rang with songs of harvest. Stalls brimmed with fruits and grains, baskets of breads and melons lined the market streets, and laughter poured as freely as wine.
That week, the villagers had declared a festival—not by decree of the palace, but by their own hearts. They called it "The Festival of Renewal."
Children danced barefoot in the squares, their faces streaked with colors, chasing one another between the tables piled with roasted meats and steaming bread. Women wove garlands of wildflowers, stringing them around doorposts and hanging them across the streets. Men played flutes and drums until their arms ached, their music weaving through the air like a pulse of joy.
Men who had lived through famine and witnessed Magnus reign shook their heads in wonder.
"Never in my days did I think to see Elareth like this again," one said, leaning on his cane. "All thanks to the king we were given."
"And may she live long," another replied, lifting a cup of fresh wine. "May her reign never end."
At the heart of the crowd, villagers raised their voices together in chants of gratitude, not only to the heavens but to Iridessa herself.
They told their children stories—of the woman who had once risked her life to carry food in secret through the dark, of the queen who had written letters that saved them from starvation, of the king who now ruled not with iron, but with compassion.
In the fields, even the farmers paused their work, standing tall as they looked out over the golden harvest. Some knelt in the soil, offering thanks to the land that had finally responded to mercy, not greed.
That night, as torches lit the streets and music swelled, the villagers danced beneath the stars. For the first time in many years, their joy was not shadowed by fear.
And as laughter rang across the kingdom, the words spread from mouth to mouth, a truth everyone held in their hearts.
Elareth has been mended. At last, they have the king they deserve.
-
THE KINGDOM OF VELMORA
Velmora, once a kingdom already prosperous, had bloomed even more in the past three years. Its markets overflowed with goods, its fields stretched in abundance, and its armies—led by King Aldric—returned victorious from every campaign. With each victory, Velmora grew stronger, more respected, and above all, more peaceful than it had been in generations.
One day, a lord suggested to Aldric during council, "Would Your Majesty consider taking another wife? After all, you were once accustomed to three queens."
Aldric dismissed the thought without hesitation. "Aurora is more than enough for me," he said firmly, leaving no space for further words.
Within the palace, Aurora's place as the only queen shone brighter than ever. Respected by lords and ladies alike, she carried her new honor with grace. And now, heavy with child, she became the heart of Velmora.
Queen Ava personally cared for her, and the two women were often seen together, sitting beneath the flowering trees in the garden, their laughter mingling with the breeze.
Aurora fulfilled her royal duties diligently, taking upon herself the work that three queens once shared. She reformed the women's court, bringing flexibility and fairness to the handmaidens and royal women. Before announcing each rule, she would first bring it to Ava, who only smiled and said, "You are doing well."
Because of her, the status of her handmaidens rose, and soon, many sought to join her service, eager to serve a queen so beloved.
And Aldric? He doted on her endlessly. Gifts, tokens of affection, and gentle touches filled her days. Whenever he entered her chambers, his hand would instinctively find her rounded belly, his lips pressing against it tenderly, as though greeting the child even before birth. Aurora glowed, and his heart was never still at the sight of her.
The king himself had grown gentler too, showing his lords and subjects a softer strength. Where once his voice was iron, now it was velvet, firm yet fair.
One evening, beneath the soft golden light of the chamber, Aldric sat beside Aurora as she reclined, her hand resting on her belly. His palm covered hers, warm and steady.
"You have given me everything," Aldric said softly, his voice rough with feeling. "A kingdom at peace, a home filled with joy, and now… a child. Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you."
Aurora's lips curved into a small, glowing smile. "And I wonder," she whispered back, "what I did to deserve your love. I was given to you when I was nothing, and now, you gave me everything."
He leaned closer, his forehead against hers, his hand never leaving her womb. "You were never nothing, Aurora. You were always meant to be mine."
Her eyes brimmed with tears, "Then promise me one thing," she said gently.
"Anything," Aldric breathed.
"Promise me our child shall grow in peace and favour—not under the shadow of sorrow as I once did."
Aldric kissed her softly, lingering as though sealing the vow with his very breath. "I swear it," he whispered. "So long as I draw breath, you and our child shall know naught but love and safety."
Aurora closed her eyes, leaning into his embrace, her heart steady at last. His warmth wrapped around her like a vow unbroken, and for the first time in her life, the future felt certain.
The chamber was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of their breathing, two hearts bound as one. His hand rested over her womb, her fingers covering his, and between them lay a promise of new beginnings.
Aurora smiled faintly, whispering, "As long as you are here, I need nothing more."
"And I am here," Aldric murmured against her hair, holding her tighter. "Always."
The night deepened, the lamps burned low, and in the hush of the palace, love lingered—tender, steadfast, and eternal.