I Got Married to a Yandere Queen
Chapter 73 - 72 - A kingdom of Dusk and Fury

Chapter 73: Chapter 72 - A kingdom of Dusk and Fury

In the sun-scorched southwestern reaches of Eldoria, where the earth cracked like a starving man’s lips and the sky offered no mercy, the Kingdom of Arkham had festered for generations. It watched. It waited. Its hatred for Belmore simmered beneath the surface like molten rock trapped beneath barren stone.

While Belmore flourished with emerald meadows, ancient forests that whispered secrets, and lakes so clear they mirrored the heavens, Arkham knew only dust, grit, and the relentless fury of a land denied. Its people were not soft like the perfumed lords of the east, nor patient like the calculating strategists of the north. They were hardened. Forged in deprivation. Their hearts beat to the rhythm of vengeance.

Now, at last, their time had come.

Belmore sat like a gilded prize at the continent’s center, fat with wealth and complacent in its power. But its glory was fragile. Three hungry kingdoms surrounded it, their claws never sheathed. Tharion from the east, Rosendahl from the north, and Arkham from the southwest.

For centuries, Fort Valgarde had stood as Belmore’s unbreakable shield against Arkham’s advances. It was a monstrous bastion of black stone, its walls manned by elite soldiers, its granaries and armories replenished by a constant stream of supplies from the heartlands.

Now, its gates lay shattered.

Its defenders were slaughtered.

And above its tallest tower, the crimson-and-white banner of Belmore, marked by a lion’s head impaled by twin swords, had been torn down. In its place flew the obsidian standard of Arkham, a skeletal hawk clutching a broken crown.

A young man, no older than twenty-five, strode through the ruins, his boots grinding the remnants of Belmore’s pride beneath his heels. His cloak, black as a starless night, rippled behind him like the wings of a carrion bird. Beneath its shadow, his eyes gleamed with the cold light of conquest.

This was Prince Dilan Arkham, the mind behind Valgarde’s fall.

At his side walked a grizzled titan of war. The man’s face was a field of old scars, his presence heavy with the weight of a thousand battles. This was Commander Fargan, the Old Warhound of Arkham. He had bled more for the kingdom than most had lived. His voice, when it came, sounded like stone grinding on stone.

"So easy," Dilan murmured, running his gloved fingers along the neck of his restless black steed. "Almost disappointing."

Fargan gave a bark of laughter, rough and jagged like a rusted blade scraping free of its sheath. "We should send Belmore’s lords a cask of wine in thanks. Too busy cutting each other’s throats to guard their own borders."

Dilan’s lips curved with cold amusement. "And their Mad Queen... is no more."

Weeks earlier, Arkham had gambled everything on a single stroke. An assassination plot so daring that no one expected to return alive.

Elite agents slipped into the heart of Belmore, hidden in plain sight—posing as merchants, mercenaries, even disgraced nobles offering fealty. They bided their time, silent and patient. And when the moment arrived, they struck without hesitation.

There were no survivors. No messages. No proof of success.

Only silence.

In the days that followed, Queen Ashtoria Belmore disappeared. No one saw her in the marble halls of her palace. No word came from her war camps. No declarations echoed from the throne.

Then came the chaos.

The highborn vultures of Belmore, who had once cowered under her iron rule, turned on each other with frantic greed. Armies meant to hold the borders were recalled to the capital. Strongholds stood abandoned. The kingdom, once mighty, began to devour itself from within.

"She’s dead," Dilan said quietly, eyes on the distant horizon where Belmore’s fertile lands awaited. "If she were alive, even in ruin, she would have set half the kingdom ablaze before letting us take a single step past this fortress."

Fargan bared his teeth, more snarl than smile. "And now her lords tear each other apart like mangy dogs. They fear her ghost more than our blades."

Dilan let out a long breath, stirring the dust beneath his feet. "They abandoned their own walls for a taste of the crown. Fools. Their queen may have been a monster, but at least she understood war."

The two men shared a laugh, a dark sound echoing beneath the scorched sky.

But this was no end. Only the beginning.

Fargan’s voice dropped to a growl. "We don’t stop here."

Dilan tightened his grip on the reins. "We ride east. Straight for Belgrave. Before Tharion’s spies report the disorder. Before Rosendahl’s warlords wake from their frozen sleep and march south. We take the capital... or we reduce it to ash."

The time for waiting had ended.

Arkham’s wrath had just begun.

.

.

.

Riven slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, his breath heavy. The first thing he noticed wasn’t the pain in his body—but the fact that he had just been struck... by a stone hand.

Is this payback for all the times I took my anger out on rocks? he thought groggily. Is this... karma?

He wanted to laugh. But as soon as his chest moved, a sharp, constricting pain seized him, snatching the breath from his lungs. A groan slipped past his lips.

My chest... did it break?

His left hand moved slowly, trying to assess the damage. But he froze.

There was something—or rather, someone—clinging tightly to him.

A small head rested against his chest, long crimson hair spilling like strands of silk. Her breathing was steady, warm, and soft. Delicate arms wrapped around his torso like fine chains—light, yet unyielding.

Riven stilled. His breath caught, this time not from the pain.

Ashtoria...

The Mad Queen known for her piercing gaze and terrifying deeds now looked peaceful. Like a kitten curled up in its master’s arms. Her cheek was pressed against his wounded chest, and strangely... the pain seemed to fade. The ache from that man’s blow had vanished, as if her presence alone had healed him.

’This... is a room,’ Riven finally realized.

’When did I get here? When did she—’

A small shift in his body made Ashtoria stir. He immediately stopped moving, afraid of waking her. But his eyes remained fixed on her face.

He watched her for a long time. And slowly, a small smile crept across his lips.

His hand moved gently, fingers trailing through her hair with the lightest touch. He let out a breath and whispered softly—more to himself than to her.

"How can someone be this beautiful... and this pure?"

He leaned in a little, his voice almost a prayer.

"You’re perfect. That small, sweet nose... those lips, soft as flower petals... your eyes—even closed, I can still see how they shine when they look at me..."

His gaze drifted lower.

"Your slender neck... your delicate shoulders... and your body—"

He stopped for a moment, holding his breath. Something stirred deep within him.

"Your body is too beautiful... too tempting... I..."

Riven closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm inside him.

"I’m a man. And you... you make me want to be selfish. How can you torment me like this?"

Suddenly, Ashtoria moved. Her body tensed ever so slightly. Her cheeks, once pale, now flushed with color.

Riven froze.

Then slowly, Ashtoria opened her eyes. Those deep crimson irises locked with his.

They stared at each other.

Silence.

Ashtoria lifted her head from his chest, her hair slightly tousled. She sat up, looking at Riven—who now seemed more shocked than anything else.

Her cheeks were glowing red.

Riven couldn’t speak. He had no idea... how long she had been awake.

And more importantly—how much she had heard.

"Ashtoria, I..."

Before he could finish, the queen turned her face away—still silent—and lowered her gaze, hiding her expression. But from the way her teeth pressed into her lip and how her breath caught in her throat, Riven could tell...

She was trembling slightly.

Not out of anger.

But out of embarrassment.