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“Presenting the Honorable Lady Romelle of Pollux, for her instrumental role in the Battle of Arus.”
Trumpets erupted from the balconies overhead as Romelle entered the throne room, the silvery plate of her armor clinking with every step. She silently thanked the gods for that sound; it hid the thunderous pound of her heartbeat and the shaky wheeze of her breath. Every tink-clunk-shink grounded her, kept her steady and focused.
Aside from holding her head high and gritting her teeth, there was little she could do to quell the anxiety of feeling the court’s eyes on her; of seeing the long blue velvet carpet yawning before her; of knowing that the entirety of the wide, golden-white room and its violet-pink stained glass was framed around her like a fancy cage, designed to trap her and make a spectacle of her and put her every error on harsh display.
Terrifying.
Exhilarating.
She had thus far managed to will her cheeks to remain uncolored, but as she came to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, she knew she would have to admit defeat. She bowed low, and as she straightened, her gaze rose hesitantly, surreptitiously. She was uncertain whether it was allowed, this glimpse that she so desired to claim.
She took it anyway. She had to.
For her boldness, she was awarded an image for which the eyes of mankind were wholly unworthy.
Queen Allura stood before her, tall and proud and glowing in the dewy rose light that filtered in from the great windows behind her throne. She was nothing short of empyrean, with the sheen of her black coils forming a halo around her head, and the twinkling folds of her gossamer gown gently shifting with each subtle movement. Every few seconds, the sparkles would glint, wink, laugh at Romelle—and then, like a thousand dandelion florets coming to rest, would settle along the queen’s form.
Romelle wondered if she could wish upon them like florets, too. Wondered if they would disappear into the wind with her exhale.
“Thanks to her quick wit and resourcefulness,” the herald continued, interrupting her reverie, his voice pompous and loud enough to echo off of the finely sculpted walls as the trumpets faded, “our forces were able to push back against the Galran invaders and secure victory from the jaws of what many feared would be certain defeat. Her tireless dedication to our people resulted in one of the most astounding feats of Altean military history since the Rift Age.” He rolled up his scroll and stepped out and away, leaving her line of sight and presumably melding into the gathered audience.
“Lady Romelle of Pollux.” The queen’s voice was cream poured over chocolate; sweet and silken and irresistible. “You have exhibited bravery and devotion befitting of a true knight of Altea, and for that you have the gratitude of this kingdom—and of me.” Her words softened at the end, just a hair. Not enough for anyone else to notice it, but Romelle knew. She always knew.
Romelle watched, her breath thin and suspended in her chest, as Allura gestured to a nearby squire, who strode forward with a long, bejeweled sword perched reverently on his upturned palms. He presented it to the queen, who wrapped an elegant brown hand around the gilded hilt and raised it, letting the engraved runes along the blade catch in the light.
“Kneel,” she said, holding Romelle’s gaze and pointing the sword directly at her, “and be chosen.”
She was the most gorgeous Romelle had ever seen her. That alone was a remarkable statement in and of itself, for Romelle had been privy to the most precious secrets of the queen’s beauty. She had seen Allura in the nude, in the throes of ecstasy, vulnerable and soft and radiant all at once—and yet still this moment managed to soar above the rest.
With the light bathing her body in confidence, and the depths of her dark eyes bright with passion, and the line of her arm taut and precise where it stretched until it became one with her blade, Allura was in her element. This was her, this being of strength and benevolence united, this arbiter of justice and oracle of hope. She was deity, and she was woman. She was all the warrior this sword claimed her to be and more.
Romelle noticed a flash of heat in the queen’s eyes that made her momentarily forget herself. It roared through her in a wave, locking her feet in place for an instant before she regained her senses and stepped forward. She knelt at the base of the royal dais, but she kept her head raised—a transgression of some kind, to be sure, but a worthwhile one, for she was able to bear witness as Allura laid her sword on Romelle’s right shoulder, light and tender. The edge of the blade toyed with her blonde hair, where it lay pooled against the chainmail at the junction of her neck.
“In the name of all my forebears,” the queen declared, lifting her sword over Romelle’s head and bringing it back down to tap the left shoulder, “I pronounce you a knight of the realm.”
Romelle closed her eyes a moment, breaking that precious link as she inhaled deeply. The scent of peaches and May bells surrounded her. She could hear the schiff of metal against metal as the sword was pulled from her shoulder. When she blinked back up at Allura, she found the queen’s sight still trained upon her.
“May your life last long and your honor longer.” Allura held the hilt with both hands now, directly over her stomach. The blade pointed down toward the floor.
Romelle watched. Waited. Dared to breathe, when she could manage it.
“Arise, Dame Romelle.”
Romelle, never one to deny Allura, rose.
⚔
When the last of the court members filed out through the grand wooden doors at the other end of the throne room, Romelle found herself hovering, almost, in the strange, silent emptiness that followed. She felt as though she could sense every dust mite caught in mid-air, could hear every shift of a servant’s shoe. There was a numbness in her brain as the pressure of the ceremony subsided, leaving in its wake a tingle at the base of her neck and the tips of her fingers.
“Leave us.”
Romelle snapped her eyes back to Allura. The queen, now standing directly in front of her throne, was looking not at Romelle, but at her attendants. They jolted at the instruction and bowed low.
“I want a moment with my newest knight.”
As the servants shuffled out and closed the door behind them, Romelle kept her eyes fixed on Allura. The queen held her gaze, kept it steady for a few seconds, then quirked a brow and curled her lips in a little smirk.
Romelle swallowed once, then cautiously took a step forward, and then another, until she was climbing the dais and standing before her queen, close enough to touch.
“The celebratory festival will be commencing shortly,” Romelle murmured. Even her quietest tone felt harsh and intrusive in the moment.
“Yes,” Allura said, lifting a manicured hand and laying it on Romelle’s armored waist, pulling her closer.
“Our presence will be expected.”
“Yes.”
“We should—” Another hand came to rest against Romelle’s neck, threading through the hair at her nape. She gasped at the contact. “We—should go.”
“Is that what you want? To go?”
Romelle exhaled shakily as Allura leaned into her space, pressing her lips close enough that their breaths embraced in the space between them, damp and hot.
“No,” the knight admitted, and inched her head forward to meet the queen’s tempting mouth with her own.
Before Romelle could feel that sweet slide of lips against hers, before she could even spare a thought or a grunt of confusion, Allura pulled back and spun her knight where she stood, and suddenly all Romelle knew was she was falling and oh gods and—
Padded cushioning. She felt padded cushioning beneath her. It took her a second to realize she was, in fact, seated in the queen’s throne, with the queen herself leaning over her, and oh, this was a new level of oh gods she was feeling now.
“Then stay,” Allura said, those deep brown eyes boring into Romelle’s, heated and yet also tempered with happiness and—Romelle felt her lungs seize—love. “The kingdom can wait for us.” Her hands, which had been tracing idly along Romelle’s breastplate, wandered up to the knight’s neck and then to her cheeks, cupping them. She climbed, one leg at a time, onto the throne, knees falling on either side of Romelle’s thighs, nose bumping against against nose.
Romelle could only let out a weak, willowy, contented sigh as she leaned in to tease Allura’s lip with her teeth and placed her hands on the queen’s waist. Her gloved fingers, desperate but reverent, scratched lightly against shining chiffon as she kneaded into the flesh of those hips perched so perfectly above her.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” Allura said, then sealed the plush warmth of her lips against Romelle’s, drowning her faithful knight in the heady aroma of peaches and May bells.