The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

HEIR

Mora wakes before the sun, Rick still deep in the middle of his slumber. Carefully she rises from the bed, wincing slightly when she stands. Finding the jar of cream on the floor, she makes short work of rubbing it into her wounds, a relieved sigh when the pain retreats and pleased to note that her broken fingers have seemed to set though they are a little stiff.

Sliding on her underdress before her robe, she gives one last lingering look to Rick, who lies peacefully still, his chest slowly rising and falling with each deep breath. Silently, she crosses the room and slips behind the privacy panel, depressing the small hidden latch to open it, shutting it with a soft click. Her limp has now lessened and she is able to navigate the black hallways easily, noting the muffled sounds of talking as she passes by areas occupied by servants or other attendants of the castle.

She is barely back into her room with the panel shut when Eunice softly knocks on the bedroom door, peeking inside, “Time to rise, Queen Namora.” The old woman looks startled briefly when she realizes that the Queen is already up, “Oh! My, sorry my Lady.” Quickly she retreats to the closet, finding another red dress and helps Mora get ready for the day.

When the old woman goes to put the crown on her head, Mora halts her, “I am riding to the western village today, so perhaps we hold off of on the crown. Would you see to it that Captain Franklin and Officer Jackson join me shortly for breakfast?”Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

The woman bows before disappearing, “Of course, Queen Namora.”

Mora rises from the vanity and slowly stretches out her limbs, walking to the ante chamber. On the desk, she discovers a large wooden box-one she recalls seeing her father hover over many times. Though there is no key hole, it is locked shut, however Mora knows how to open it. Her fingers trace over the intricate carvings, settling on the symbol of Derven, a genderless body with its hands folded in front, torso extending outwards into roots instead of feet. Pressing gently on the hands before squeezing two of the roots together, the royal box unlocks, lid slightly ajar.

Inside, she discovers a hefty stack important documents written and signed by her father; though most are simply contracts with Geofen in regards to exporting Derven goods in exchange for fish, a few are regarding local matters of land and such. Nothing entirely pressing; she imagines that the contents were things that used to be in the desk, but upon his death bed her father requested everything be packed away safely, no doubt by Laren.

After gathering up the documents to place them into the bottom drawer, she reveals a dark, leather bound book. Opening it up, it is hand written in a delicate scroll in a language she doesn’t recognize; her fingers trace over the feminine penmanship, curious as to the meaning behind the words. Before she can ponder it further, or explore the rest of the contents of the box, there is a knock on the door.

Eunice pokes her head in, “Franklin and Jackson are in the breakfast room, my Lady.”

“I shall be right there,” she replies, latching the box closed.

The walk to the small dining room is quick, where she finds Franklin and Jackson standing, waiting for her. She offers them a small smile before taking her seat at the head of the table and motioning to the open chairs, “Please, gentlemen, eat with me.”

Finding it odd, they glance at each other before sitting down and joining her for breakfast.

“Thank you for taking care of that yesterday,” she says softly. “I think it goes without saying that you will mention it to no one, nor will you speak of it unless I specifically talk to either of you about it.”

“Of course, Queen Namora,” they reply almost in unison.

“Have arrangements been made for those who perished in the battle?” She asks with a sad tone in her voice, her eyes locked onto a plate of sweet rolls in front of her. Since her acceptance of Irron’s proposal, she has not had bread, even after it was called off. Though Rick asked her, she feels that rushing into marriage with him is imprudent. Never the less, she knows that her heart is spoken for. Doing her best to ignore the bread, she reaches over it and picks up a bowl of fruit.

Franklin notes her choice before looking back at his plate, “The King’s funeral has been set for this evening just before sunset, Queen Namora. After his body has been laid to rest in the royal tomb, those who lost people will set their pyres alight. I imagine we will be able to see many burn from the roof of the castle, though not as many as Geofen or Sceadu.”

Her heart aches while she slowly chews through the fresh strawberries, “Perhaps if we had arrived sooner-”

Franklin cuts her off, “It wasn’t necessarily a matter of timing, my Lady. Irron’s army fought with an uncanny precision, almost as if they were one massive unit. Geofen, though they have a trained militia, were not prepared to handle a battle. From what I saw, their forces are the weakest amongst the nations. Though Sceaduians are capable and well practiced, their tactics are crude and they do not work well in groups; I suppose they are more used to fighting one on one instead of depending on each other. When the first wave of our forces joined the fight, the casualties took a substantial decline.”

“How many lives were lost?” She asks, softly.

Jackson clears his throat, “From Derven, my Lady-fifty three. Each other nation had closer to a few hundred men go down.”

Sighing, she closes her eyes; if she had gone after Irron sooner during the battle, there would have been less casualties. Idly pushing a piece of cold ham around her plate, she says, “I’d like you to make it known to the villages that any excess food or cattle they have beyond what they need for winter, shall be brought to the castle within the next few days-have a fair trade offered for it, whatever is within the treasury that they need, be it cloth, metal, supplies or whatnot. I realize that this would normally fall upon Laren to attend to, but as he is looking after Alumenia, I will have to rely on the pair of you to assist me with matters of state for now.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Jackson replies, “We will see to it after breakfast.”

“I’d like you to appoint a few worthy soldiers to see to it-have them meet with the Advisor of Trade in town to see what offerings can be made. I am in need of you two to accompany me for a small journey this morning to the western village.”

…

Despite the early hour, her arrival at the western village does not go unnoticed. The sun barely peeks over the mountains, shining brightly in the crisp cool air while the farmers start their day in their fields. They all stop their chores, respectfully dropping to a knee with their hands over their hearts. She offers them a soft smile, inclining her head as acceptance of their gesture. When she reaches the small village several women and children appear in the plain market square, repeating the sentiments.

“Queen Namora,” the mayor says as he rises, “please accept our condolences at the passing of your father. He was a great man and will be earnestly missed.”

She nods thankfully, dismounting her horse; the fabric of her red dress wafts around her, the color still making her uneasy, “Thank you, good mayor. I know that these past few weeks have been difficult on everyone. Now that our disagreements with Alumenia have been resolved, life should return to normal soon. King Nathanial’s funeral will be held at the castle this evening, if any of you wish to attend you are welcome; please know, though, that no ill thoughts will be held if you are unable to make it. We all grieve differently.”

With a nod and a sad smile, the mayor bows, “Thank you, Queen Namora. May I ask what has brought you to our small village?”

Walking along side the man while leading her horse, she makes it clear to the others that she wishes a word alone with him. Soon the people return to their day, leaving Mora with the mayor, Franklin and Jackson trailing behind her. She speaks quietly, “I am looking for a man named Irving.”

“Oh, yes,” he replies with a smile. “He lives at the end of this road, my Queen. If you wish, I will fetch him for you.”

Offering a smile in return, she mounts her horse, “Thank you mayor, but I have used up enough of your valuable time today. We shall visit him on our own.” As the man bows, she spurs her horse into a quick trot out of the village.

It is a distance away, though the ride doesn’t take more than a quarter of an hour. The road winds through the fields before parting a thick cluster of forest; just beyond the rust laden branches lies a quaint cabin that reminds her of Amyee’s. She slows Greystar to a walk before halting him all together; from a small garden in the front yard, a man rises and walks towards them. When his dark brown eyes catch Mora’s, she draws in a sharp breath; his deep auburn hair is tucked behind his ears, stretching down to his shoulders it frames a strong square jaw, his tall frame is slender though laced with muscle. It is as if she is looking at a younger copy of Irron; he is a handsome man, his features not marred with the evil darkness his father radiated.

Quickly, Irving drops down to one knee, his hand on his heart in a fist, “I apologize, my Queen, I did not recognize you.”

Steadying herself with a deep breath, Mora dismounts, “It is quite all right as we have never met before, Irving.”

Chancing a glance up, he looks at her curiously, “You know my name?”