The queen's chamber was quiet, scented with rose oils and cinnamon smoke from Mela's famous pinewood incense. Fien stood by the mirror, stripped down to her skin, wiping war dust off her neck with a wet cloth. Shæz lounged by the open window, sipping something sweet and fermented from a silver cup.
"You ever fucked a Centaur?" Fien asked, deadpan, like she was asking the time.
Shæz blinked. "What?" She laughed. "No. Have you?"
"Almost," Fien smirked. "Back in Dalab. Gideon caught one—tall, caramel skin, real athlete shit. We made him a gladiator. I was gonna let him ride more than just the arena."
Shæz laughed harder, choking a bit on her drink. "Let him do what, exactly?"
"You know what I mean," Fien winked, slipping into the steaming bathtub like it owed her money. "But he died in the ring before I could try the goods."
"Tragic."
"If you want one, I can order for you," Fien added, splashing the water with a lazy grin.
They both laughed. In another life, this conversation would've been happening in a Vegas penthouse.
Mela felt good—quiet, safe, even. The soldiers were well-fed, the bears were snoring like retired uncles, and the stars hung heavy over the city like glitter on black velvet. But not everyone was relaxed. Mesa wasn't.
He marched into his father's chamber still in his armor, hooves clacking like war drums on marble.
"Father," he growled, "what the hell have you done?"
The old king barely turned. He was propped up in bed with half a dozen pillows behind his back, sipping warm herbs and aging by the second. "I made peace," he said simply.
"With her?" Mesa snarled. "You told me Fien murdered Uncle Hasifas."
"She did," the king said, eyes closed. "And if we fight her, she'll murder you too. That woman is death in beauty."
"We're stronger than them!" Mesa snapped. "One Mela warrior is worth a hundred of their walking fur coats."
The king finally opened his eyes and gave his son the look only dying kings can manage. That slow, disappointed look that says you have no idea what the fuck you're talking about.
"You ever fought a Denefremim?" he asked. Silence.
The king leaned forward. "Do you know they have a Night Rider with them?"
Mesa's jaw tensed. "Screw it," he muttered. "I can kill the Night Rider myself."
"Stubborn idiot," the king murmured, leaning back again. "You're not your uncle."
"No," Mesa said, turning on his heels. "I'm better."
And with that, he stormed out—burning with the kind of fire only ignorance and ego can cook up.
Morning rose over Mela like a calm before chaos. The queen and her army were saddled, fed, and waiting at the city's inner gate. Bears stretched their thick limbs, warriors murmured idle gossip, and Shæz stood next to Fien, eyes scanning the ramparts. They were waiting for the king to come out, say his blessings, open the back gate, and wish them safe travels.
But in the high tower chamber, Mesa had other plans. He walked in silent, his father barely awake in his bed, breathing through cracked lips. Mesa dipped a cloth in the cold bowl beside the bed, squeezed it gently, and whispered, "It should've been me long ago."
Then, without hesitation, he pressed the wet cloth to the old king's face and didn't stop until the breath was gone.
By the time the servants screamed, it was too late. Mesa was already walking through the halls, blood still singing in his ears. He wore the old crown like it was molded to his skull. All the Centaurs and Centauresses who saw him shouted in one voice: "Oh hail our king!"
Because everyone in Mela knew what the crown meant: if it's on your head, the last one's probably dead.
Mesa didn't wait. He gathered about three thousand armed Centaurs and stormed down to meet Fien and her battalions at the lower gate.
"You're not passing through Mela," he said, voice hard, ego louder than reason.
Fien narrowed her eyes. "And where's the king?"
"You're speaking to him," Mesa said, smug and tall and stupid.
Fien didn't flinch. She was counting everything. Her eyes darted to positions, wall heights, numbers. They were already inside the city, and she could see five ways to burn it down. If Mesa wanted a war, he'd get it—and a lesson with it.
But before she could speak, Shæz stepped forward, voice steady.
"Oh hail, King Mesa," she said.
Fien shot her a quick look. But Shæz just smiled and continued, "Then we are leaving."
The Denefremim army began to turn around, bears grumbling and hooves heavy.
Mesa watched them go, chest puffed, proud like a child who'd stolen cookies and didn't get caught. But one thing made him hesitate: that one-winged Miteon boy in white, riding a pale horse, dressed in Night Rider black. He didn't blink. He just looked at Mesa, quiet, unreadable. That image stuck in Mesa's head like a prophecy.
The army rode off, but the storm didn't pass. Mesa had done what he wanted—but he'd also lit a fuse.
War wasn't gone. It was just loading.