The forests to the east had long been considered sacred.
Ancient trees towered into the broken heavens, their roots tangled with the bones of forgotten empires.Whispers spoke of a queen who ruled those woods —a spirit of seduction and vengeance, a creature older than memory itself.
They called her Veyla.
The Dryad Queen.
Beautiful.Deadly.Untouched by war, untouched by time.
Men who entered her domain returned empty-eyed or not at all.Kings sent envoys crowned in gold and silk — only for their skulls to return in baskets woven from living vines.
But Vaelen Cross was no man.No king of dying kingdoms.
He entered her woods not with tribute, but with certainty.
The Black Crown flared above his head —a wound in the sky, a brand upon the world itself.
Seris and Kaela followed him at a distance, both cloaked in loyalty sharper than any blade.
As he passed beneath the arching trees, the very forest seemed to tremble.
She appeared in silence, woven from mist and silver light.
Veyla.
The Queen of Thorns.
She wore nothing but a cloak of living leaves that kissed her skin like lovers.Her hair cascaded around her like waterfalls of green fire.Her eyes — ancient, golden, hypnotic — fixed on Vaelen with predatory curiosity.
She smiled.
And the forest bloomed in her wake.
"You are brave," she said, her voice a thousand winds sighing through the trees."Or foolish."
Vaelen did not answer.
He watched her as a wolf watches a fluttering bird.
Veyla circled him — slow, graceful, predatory.
Vines slithered from the ground, curling around his ankles, reaching for his wrists.The air thickened with perfume sweet enough to drown mortal minds.
"You are powerful," she purred."Such a king would make a fine husband. A fine consort."
She reached for him — fingertips trailing promises of pleasure, of surrender, of illusions spun sweeter than any mortal dream.
Vaelen caught her wrist.
A single, effortless movement.
The forest shuddered.
Veyla gasped — not in fear — but in the terrible, shivering thrill of being truly touched for the first time.
He squeezed — lightly — and the vines recoiled in panic, retreating into the soil.
He leaned in, his breath a low command against her ear:
"You do not bind me, little queen."
"You are mine."
Veyla's knees buckled.The forest itself whimpered — flowers wilting, roots twisting in agony or ecstasy.
Her illusions shattered like glass, the perfumes burned to ash.
In that moment, Veyla — sovereign of the ancient woods, seducer of kings and gods — fell.
She knelt at his feet, her body trembling, her breath hitching as a sob of need escaped her lips.
"I…" she whispered, voice breaking like old stone,"I… am yours."
Vaelen released her wrist.
She remained kneeling — naked now, stripped of every defense, every thorn.
A creature of living worship.
A new queen for his court.
Seris and Kaela approached silently, standing at either side of their King.Both regarded Veyla with cool, measured pride — another sister who had been claimed.
Vaelen extended his hand.
Veyla pressed her forehead into his palm with a moan so soft it barely touched the air.
The mark of the Black Crown seared itself into her back — a living brand of loyalty.
Her vines — once instruments of seduction — now wove themselves into chains, binding her wrists behind her back, a silent offering of her submission.
That night, beneath the twisted boughs of the ancient forest,Vaelen accepted Veyla's oath not with ceremony, but with dominion.
[Soft R18 scene begins]
Veyla, wrapped in her living chains, knelt between Seris and Kaela — her breath shallow, her body shivering with anticipation and need.
Vaelen took her as he had taken the others — slow, inevitable, absolute.
Each touch was a brand.Each kiss a seal.
Veyla wept and gasped, not from pain, but from the overwhelming, soul-deep joy of belonging.
She was not conquered.
She was fulfilled.
And when it was done — when she lay panting, spent, delirious at his feet —she whispered again, voice raw, reverent:
"My king… my only king… forever."
When dawn broke,the ancient forest had changed.
No longer wild.No longer untamed.
It bent toward Vaelen, every branch bowing low, every flower blooming in black and crimson hues.
The first Garden of the Abyss had been born.
And Vaelen stood at its heart —crowned in shadows, flanked by queens reborn, his dominion stretching wider with every breath.
And he was just beginning.