“Throne of Desire”

Chapter 1. A Political Princess and a Fallen God

The sunlight streamed through the arched windows of Dragan's palace, painting my skin with golden warmth. I stood there, fingers lightly pressed against the cool glass, watching the bustling capital below with its yellow flower garlands and white-gold buildings. My position was enviable—wife to a powerful warlord, mother to the heir that secured our alliance, architect of peace between once-warring domains. And yet, as I closed my eyes against the brightness, it was not this sunny kingdom that filled my thoughts, but the memory of rain-soaked darkness, of lightning illuminating pale skin and dark eyes, of a fallen god who had claimed a throne in my heart that no political alliance could ever touch.

Behind me, servants moved quietly, preparing the royal chambers for evening. Dragan would return soon from his council meeting, and we would dine together as we had for years—with respect, with friendship, with the comfortable silence of two people bound by duty rather than passion. Our marriage had brought decades of peace, stabilized trade routes, ended bloodshed between our tribes. Our son would inherit a unified domain rather than the fractured lands we had grown up in. These were not small accomplishments; they were the foundations of history.

"My lady," a servant's voice called softly, "shall I prepare your evening attire?"

I nodded without turning. "The blue and gold. Prince Dragan enjoys seeing the colors of his domain."

She retreated, and I returned to the window, to the sun, to the memories that pulled at me like gravity. Beyond these sun-soaked plains lay the pass—the storm-swept territory where lightning scarred the sky and rain fell like tears of gods. Veles' domain. Even thinking his name sent a shiver through me, a response so visceral it frightened me.

I had not meant to find him. Had not meant to feel what I felt. I had been traveling through his domain en route to visit my father, Warlord Altezar, in the northern Heatherfields. It was a routine journey, one I had made many times before. The carriage rocked over uneven ground, my guards alert but not particularly concerned. We had traveled this path often enough that it felt safe—a grave miscalculation.

They came from the crags, dark figures slipping from storm-shadows. Rogues, bandits, desperate men. My guards fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered. I remember the crack of thunder overhead as I huddled in the carriage, clutching my dagger with white knuckles, knowing it would not be enough.

Then he was there.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating him as he moved—graceful, terrible, beautiful. Even injured, even with blood staining his dark clothing, he fought with a fluid precision that seemed almost divine. Because it was. I did not know then what I learned later: that Veles had once been a god of light, that the endless wars of his domain had forced him to learn darker crafts, that he was caught between what he had been and what he was becoming.

I only knew that he saved us.

When the fighting ended and the remaining rogues fled, he approached my carriage. Rain plastered his dark hair to his pale face, and his eyes—those eyes that would haunt my dreams for years to come—held a depth of pain and power that stole my breath.

"You should not travel these roads, Princess," he said, his voice low like distant thunder. "The pass grows more dangerous by the day."

"You know who I am," I replied, surprised.

A smile flickered across his face, there and gone like lightning. "Everyone knows the daughter of Altezar, bride of Dragan. The alliance that ended the northern wars."

I stepped from the carriage, ignoring the protests of my guards. The rain soaked through my traveling cloak immediately, but I hardly noticed. Something about him pulled at me—a recognition that felt older than memory.

"You're injured," I said, noticing the way he held himself, the pain he concealed behind stillness.

"It will heal," he answered, but I saw the strain in his eyes, the effort it cost him to stand before me.

Without thinking, I reached into my travel bag and withdrew a small pouch—one containing rare metal from Dragan's domain, intended as a gift for my father.

"Take this," I said, pressing it into his hand. "For your sword. The metal from the Sunlit Plains carries power—it will strengthen your weapon against those who would harm travelers."

His fingers closed around the pouch, and when our hands touched, I felt it—like a current of lightning between us, a connection that defied explanation. His eyes widened slightly; apparently, he had felt it too.

"This is valuable," he said softly. "A gift from your husband's domain."

"Well, now it is a gift to you," I countered, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thank you for saving my life."

He didn’t say anything in response; and for a moment, we stood there in the rain, something unfolding between us that neither of us had words for. Then he stepped back, clutching the pouch.

"I am Veles," he introduced himself. "Should you travel this pass again, Princess Tazula, know that you have protection here."

I watched him go, watched the storm envelop him until he was merely a shadow in the rain. Only later did I learn what it meant—that he was a fallen god, that the constant wars and suffering in his domain had corrupted what was once pure light. That the metal I had given him would help renew his sword, would let him channel the storm's power, would bind us in ways neither of us could have foreseen.

In the days that followed, I told myself that the encounter meant nothing. That the strange pull I felt toward him was merely gratitude, or perhaps fascination with the mysterious figure who had emerged from the storm. I returned to Dragan, to my duties, to the sunny capital and its peaceful routines. But at night, I dreamed of rain and lightning, of pale skin and dark eyes, of a connection that felt both impossible and inevitable.