Author's Note
Please be aware that some of the content in this book is adult material  and may be sensitive to some readers. Enjoy, comment, vote!

Elkmire was desolate these days-- just how Dimia liked it. With her father good and dead, and her mother run off, it left only she and Galwain to roam its halls. The castle guard feared her; each time she'd pass a soldier, they'd nearly soil themselves trying not to breathe too loudly in her direction.

Prince Galwain was not the lively little boy he'd grown up as, and he often spent entire days in his chambers. Dimia liked the quiet, but her sisterly affection caused her a great deal of grief to see her brother wasting away. She had sent for a tutor and a fool-- one to teach him sums and courtesies by day, and the other to entertain him in the evening with jokes and dancing and puppet shows. But after the first day, both of them returned to her with the grave news that they had been turned away by the young lord.

She knew the loss of their father haunted the prince, and then the abandonment of their mother crushed him further. But, he'd be a man in a few short years, and if he ever wished to choose a bride, he would have to grow up and learn to do what Dimia had done for her whole life: bear it.

Her hair was being brushed by two handmaidens, ones she picked after her father died. Most of her father's household maids and stewards had been dismissed. The only trace she wanted left of the wretched king was her brother, and even he proved to be trying her patience with his wallowing.

"Enough," she ordered them, slapping the hand of the one who twirled tendrils by her ears.

"Your grace," the other began, quickly setting the brush aside and gently placing the ends of crimson hair at the Queen's back. "Do you not want us to braid it in some fashion? Lady Jill is an excellent hair stylist. She knows all the latest--"

"No," Dimia cut off. "See to it my brother is receiving our guests well enough. I don't ant him hiding in the corner, stuffing himself with cakes, tonight."

The two women curtsied and left promptly without another word. She would've liked to have Pandry right now before she went and acted her role at the ball. But, sadly, she had decided to have him hanged in order to secure his silence about what happened at her father's death bed. She'd already forgotten what she accused his crime to be, but she hadn't forgotten his sweet, mournful cries as the hangman smacked the latch and Pandry's neck let out a sickening crack.

The Queen's coronation had tired Dimia-- hours upon hours of standing in the citadel on the church steps, being blessed by their High Priest and taking her vows was less than an ideal morning. She had not thought it would take so long, and she missed her chance to seduce the young men in training to take the cloth because of the crowds.

Dimia pulled her crimson locks over her shoulders so they hung down over her breasts. Her gown, a damask gray, with dagged sleeves and a neckline that cut across both her shoulders and under her collarbone, clung to her like flour upon a baker's damp hands. It wasn't the usual ball gown that so many of the nobles would don tonight, or expect of their new monarch. Her dresses were a mirror of her soul-- dark and glorious and simple all at once.

Atop her vanity sat her crown in a cushion-lined box, black garnets placed in the center of the silver-forged stars that lined the thin metal ring. She pulled the crown from the box and set it on her head. On her forehead rested an upturned crescent moon, with amethyst crusting the shape of it. She looked as if she belonged, scattered, in the night sky, floating amongst comets and the gods.

She left her chambers and descended the stairs of her keep. A guard had been posted at every other door in the castle, in order to keep her safe from anyone who could be using this night to assassinate her. It was unlikely, since everyone loved her father and was happy during his rule, but the evil rumors about her mother worried her uncle and Sir Carac. Wyliamme, her betrothed, had found it pertinent to begin a hunt for her mother at once, and had sent her many letters about his disdain in not allowing himself to be by her side on her coronation. He'd end every letter with the same sad sop about wishing he could perch by her unmatched beauty on that night, and that he had taken up another lead on her mother.

Dimia rounded the hall to the ballroom with her hands clasped in front of her. By the main stairwell stood a tall and debonair man with thinning gray hair and a clean shaven face. He was slender and long of limb, and wore dark colors to match hers.

When he saw her, he bowed immediately and whispered to the court announcer. He wasn't subtle in checking his pocket watch, but the gesture only amused Dimia where it would've annoyed another noble. The queen waltzed up to the man and held out a pale hand, every finger covered in little silver rings that matched her crown. The old man took it and pressed his cold lips to the largest ring above her middle knuckle.

"Queen Dimia," he greeted, bowing his head in respect. He held out his arm to her and she took it without hesitation.

"Grandfather," she greeted cooly. "So glad you could attend. I do believe the last time we saw each other was at my poor uncle's funeral."

The old man cleared his throat. "Merrin was a godly man, but too stubborn and stupid in his ways. He used to be the obedient one, believe it or not."

Dimia recollected on the day of her Uncle Merrin's funeral. She was but fifteen when he met the chopping block outside of the castle. Since she was young, her Uncle Merrin had been a clergyman. He performed at their services every Six Day evening and always had a sermon prepared. Dimia stopped listening to them the year her father took her to bed, knowing that Ilia and Ushuros couldn't possibly be real if they allowed such a monstrosity of a man to be Oren's monarch.

One Six Day, though, Merrin had become erratic, and began accusing many of the noble houses of being corrupt and flooded with sin. It was the first sermon Dimia had listened to in years. His lunacy landed him in a sanitarium, and when he broke out, his head landed in the executioner's basket. Her mother, Queen Alse, had been particularly distraught over his death, despite his unhealthy mind and twisted soul.

"Are my other aunts and uncles in attendance?"

"They are, and with their children. All except for Gared. We haven't seen him since the execution either," he replied, patting her hand. He nodded to the announcer and they began their descent together.

Every eye in court was on them, the brilliance of her beauty completely entrapping their attentions. Her name rang out over them like a wave, and soft smiles sprouted amongst the collective "Ah" of the crowd. They cheered for her here, but would they cheer for her in the streets or in the gutters of Ofund and Gruuthar, where the poor wandered hungry and sick? She would have to make sure the deserving subjects were rightfully placed after all the folly and feasts.

She walked down an evenly split spattering of guests, waving to each of them with delicacy, and held her hand out to be kissed by few. Dimia did not smile or show warmness except for the gentle touch of her hand in some adoring noble's. Her eyes scanned over them. Ugh, the mongrels are all the same. They're like begging dogs.

Her grandfather, Lord Redmane, escorted her to the throne, and humbly took his place beside her on the lowe landing of the dais. Prince Galwain was standing in front of his small throne to her left, fidgeting with the tassels on his tunic. Dimia turned to face her court and raised a hand to cease their cheering and clapping.

"I would like to thank the High Court and noble families for your enthusiasm in this trying time," she said, her voice booming in the hall. "A new monarch is not always something to be celebrated. Especially, after the death of an old one, who was loved so much by his people. But you all flatter me with your support and loyalty to the crown and Goldrock rule. For that, I thank you all and welcome you to eat, drink, and dance tonight."

Her grandfather handed her two chalices, one of which she gave straight to Galwain. She held the silver up to the court and waited to see the gesture returned. "Long live the Goldrock legacy," she recited, taking a long sip of her wine.

"Long live the Goldrock legacy!"

Dimia peeked from the corner of her eye to see that her brother had not taken his drink. She leaned over to him and hesitated before placing a hand on his shoulder. "You can drink it, you know."

He looked up at her from under his golden curls. "Mother said I'm too young for wine. Only at worship am I allowed a sip," he said, the chalice shaking in his pudgy fingers.

"I'm the queen now, Galwain. And I say you can drink as much as you'd like tonight," she said, trying to appease him. He hung his head and stared down at the deep red liquid quivering in his cup. Dimia took the drink with her free hand and poured it into her own chalice. "Or, you may eat all the tarts you'd like tonight," she insisted, taking a sip. The bitter, warm liquid slid effortlessly down her throat.

Galwain's eyes brightened and he looked between the dessert table and his sister. "Really? I could?" he asked, hopeful. He was probably the one person in the room who wasn't afraid of his sister, even though he was the most naive and innocent of them all.

"Yes, but you have to play with our cousins. No standing alone," she ordered, sitting down in her throne. He seemed to consider this, and his eyes tightened like he would cry, but he nodded and ran off. Dimia was thankful for it too, since she didn't know if she would be able to comfort him.

Already, men were flocking toward her, discarding their drinks and whispering as they gave her approving smiles. She saw not a one of them she might fancy bedding at the end of the night. Perhaps I'll take two or three of them to make up for the lack of manhood they each have, she considered. Taking one of her handmaidens to bed also crossed her mind.

The throne was tall at her back and stiff. How she was expected to sit upon it for eternity was a mystery even to her. At this rate, she'd have no choice but to get up to dance to relieve the aching from her backside. She was grateful for the absence of Sir Wyliamme, who would have monopolized her for the entire night, destroying her chances of conquest.

Throughout the ball, servants placed gifts at her feet and noble houses bowed before her in introduction. Some of them she already knew, but they introduced themselves anyway, hoping to gain her favor. Lord Redmane helped orchestrate the introductions, and even gave his opinion on which would be the most advantageous to befriend.

Two men of similar stature approached suddenly. They were both finely dressed and well groomed. Their features were both dark, with thin eyes and full lips, slick black hair and caramel skin. They walked in unison and exchanged playful glances with each other. As they bowed, there was a femininity to them that was more elegant than half the noble women in the room. The only thing that separated them was the bright red lipstick one wore and the electric blue the other donned.

"I do not believe we've met," she said before either of them had a chance to speak.

"Your grace," Red Lips began. "I am Jean of House Rolof. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"And I am Leopold of House Berning," the other said, his voice much higher than his friend's.

"It is an honor, my lords," Dimia greeted. "Are you enjoying the ball?" she asked, taking a long drink from her cup.

Jean smirked and rubbed his smooth chin. "We have been treated most kindly. The food, the music, the--" he trailed for a moment, winking at Leopold. "--prospects. They've all been divine, thank you, your grace."

"The Bernings are excellent brewers of the finest wines Oren has yet to cultivate, my queen," Leo started. "Jean is my associate and tradesman. We travel together, so we don't often find ourselves at court. But, we've heard tales of your beauty, so we just had to come."

Dimia was pleased with these two. They were spunky, quick witted, and most obviously lovers. She wondered if perhaps they would be interested in a quick tumble in the sheets after the ball. She liked the eccentric sort-- the types of men and women her father would have disapproved of.

"We had hoped, your loveliness, that you might be interested in our services?" Leo continued, the way he said the last word alluding to more than one type of employment. "Your father was not inclined to selling our wines. But, Dratsac temperatures are too hot to maintain vineyards. And with the New Wave rising, it might be beneficial to the crown to have a connection between the two lands."

"And you believe your wine could cultivate such an alliance?" she asked, curious.

Jean stepped forward and hooked an arm around his colleague's shoulders. "We could. Wine brings people together. Why, with our help, one day the New Wave could be right here among us, sharing our bread and beds."

Lord Redmane scoffed, and Queen Goldrock smiled for the first time that night. "I'll think on your plans. I shall send correspondence to you on the morrow so we three may discuss this further."

Jean and Leo bowed and slinked away, their hands finding each other immediately. They were sensual beings-- just the type she wanted to always have around her in the coming, tiresome years.

With a cue from her grandfather, the queen rose and headed down the dais in search of her first dance partner. It didn't take long, and soon she had floated around the room with firve different Thomas' from three different households, Sir Yomish-- a fat and old childless wonder-- Sir Driff of house Manyard, and one dance with her Uncle Emmett for good measure and to catch up on the status of Lady Alse. Emmett was her youngest uncle, and a soldier in their Navy. He had returned for his niece's coronation, and also on rumor that he had impregnated a lower class girl.

Dimia rejected a dance from her father's childhood friend, Sir Burke of the Peddleton Bridge Peddletons. She associated him as a guilty party to her father's crimes and could not bear to look at him, though she managed to decline him gracefully. Her Uncle Roman and his young wife Lady Perri had no time to dance, as they chased around her cousins Lidal and Oreus. She chatted with her Aunt Tera, who looked eerily similar to her Uncle Merrin despite having a twin of her own, and her bubbling brats as they ran in circles around the meat platters. She had to continuously stuff her face with pieces of lamb or strips of fried pork to keep from screaming at the little imbeciles.

In the middle of their conversation about Alse, Dimia reached over to grab a morsel from the table, unable to hide her discomfort any other way. Her hand knocked into something warm, and she was struck with surprise at what the warmness belonged to. A tall and tan boy with platinum hair stared back at her with icy eyes. He smiled, in a sort of shy way, and withdrew, wiping his hand on his pants in a sloppy manner.

"I'm s-sorry, Queen Dimia," he stuttered, bowing. A female companion beside him-- with black hair and an equally tan complexion-- set her hand on the boy's arm.  Dimia raised a brow at the pair and their plain connection.

"Forgive my brother, your grace. His stomach gets the best of him sometimes," she said, apologizing.

Ah, siblings, the queen thought to herself. Quickly Jean and Leo fluttered away from her fantasies and were replaced with the two young faces before her. They both wore blue silk, which was breathtaking against their skin, and they had a fit demeanor, like they spend more time outside than in their studies like good little nobles. Dimia gestured to the platters.

"I've had my share. Please, eat," she offered. "I've seen many new faces here at court today," she inquired. "What are your names, friends?"

"I uhm, I--"

The girl nudges her brother with a playful grin. "Sorry, my queen. He's simply stunned by your, uh, beauty. I'm Lady Helena Westwood. This is my brother Tristan." They both bowed in unison.

"Westwood? I did not know there were any Westwoods left after Sir Oswald passed last summer," Dimia said, setting her chalice down. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Oh, uh, Oswald, yes. He was, uh, dear to us," Tristan answered. "We travel a lot. Didn't see the old guy that much," he said, forcing a nervous chuckle.

"Old guy?" she asked, pursing her lips. She was shocked by his dismissal of Sir Westwood, who was known as a noble and just a man. And from what she knew, he had been the last living Westwood since the fire that took their estate had killed his entire family. "Oswald was only a year under thirty. You must be mistaken," she said, confused.

But then she felt the cool steel against her belly, and the Westwood impersonators were very close to her-- inappropriately close. "You're gonna be careful of your next moves, your grace," Tristan whispered in the little space that separated them. "I'm very good with a sword."

Special Shoutout to ChukwumaDanokeke  for being such a dedicated fan. Thank you for staying on with my Adventure even in my hiatus !