The queen, Fien, and her army were standing right outside the ancient gates of Mela. Bears huffed steam into the early light, paws twitching against the dirt like they could smell tension in the wind. Soldiers from Steza and Zela stood silent, lines straight but eyes restless. This wasn't just another city. This was Mela—and if you knew your Senedro history, you knew you didn't just stroll in.
The gates of Mela were carved with runes older than most bloodlines in the region. Heavy. Imposing. Like they'd shut you out just on vibes.
Inside, the city was on edge. The king of Mela—old, half-ghost, more bed than beast these days—was breathing his last. And everyone with half a brain figured someone, somewhere, would try to take advantage of that. And guess what? Boom. Enter Fien and her not-so-tiny army.
But Mela wasn't exactly crumbling. Because now Mesa was stepping up. Mesa of Mela. That mad, battle-built stallion of a son. Jet-black horse half, tall as two damn soldiers stacked, body carved like someone told a sculptor, "Yeah, make him dangerous and sexy."
Mesa had opinions. Big ones. The kind that made the elders sweat and the young ones follow him like he farted thunder. He never liked hiding. Hated the whole "we centaurs must remain mysterious, cloaked, untouchable" BS. Nah. Mesa believed in showing power. Flaunting it. Reminding people what real muscle looked like.
When the runners came in saying an army was outside the gates, Mesa didn't blink. He went straight to the King's chamber—smelled like herbs and regret in there. The old king looked like a melted candle, eyes barely open, skin pale and flaking.
"Father," Mesa said, voice low, tight.
The King coughed once. Then again. Finally croaked, "Go see what they want. Don't kneel."
Mesa didn't plan on it. So now here he was, stepping out through the mighty gates with 300 centaurs behind him, hooves hitting the ground like war drums. No armor. Just leather belts, weapons, and a bad attitude. His presence was a whole damn flex.
He scanned the opposing army. Brown bears. Zela elites. War girls with serious brows. And there she was—Fien. Not just some queen. The Queen. The one whispers called the fallen Setrum, goddess of lust, warhead wrapped in skin. Mesa had heard stories. Who hadn't? He trotted up just enough to be heard.
"Peace or war?" Mesa shouted, voice slicing through the space between them. He didn't yell. Just loud enough to make it sting. The air paused. Every soldier in both armies leaned in with their ears. The ground, even, felt like it wanted to know the answer.
Fien didn't flinch. She rode forward slowly, that damn red horse of hers catching the light like a flame had legs. Her soldiers parted like water. She didn't wear a crown—she didn't need one. Aura did the job.
She looked Mesa dead in the face. Studied him. Pretty eyes, sharp jawline, that dangerous testosterone energy that said, I don't do compromise. Fien grinned.
"Depends," she said, her voice velvet wrapped around steel. "You throwing a welcome party or prepping a funeral?"
Mesa didn't smile. Not really. But something in his eye twitched—maybe amusement, maybe interest. Hard to say. He walked his horse-form closer, slow, careful.
"And if I say... both?"
Fien licked her lip like she was tasting options. "Then I hope your priest's on standby."
The tension was thick enough to stab. For a second, it felt like the whole world held its breath—bears, hooves, wind, gods. Then Mesa chuckled. Just once. But loud. He turned slightly to his left and raised one hand. Just a game of power. And both players had brought their A-game.
"I just want you to open the gates," Fien whispered, her breath brushing Mesa's ear, warm and low like a secret. "Let me and my people pass through your city."
Mesa blinked, slow. He could still smell war on her—like iron and sin. The queen didn't beg. She didn't ask twice. Which is why this asking felt... dangerous.
"Then what's in for me?" he asked, turning his head just slightly, close enough to smell the fire oil braided into her hair.
Fien didn't flinch. "Peace," she said. Just one word. It hit like a stone in still water.
But that word wasn't a gift—it was a gamble. See, Mesa didn't do passive. He wasn't built for submission. His pride was older than Mela's cobblestone roads. Centaurs weren't born to be docile. They were born loud, blunt, pissed off at the world for ignoring them. And Mesa? He was all that with abs.
"No," he said, looking her dead in the eyes. No blink. No bluff. "You're not going to pass through Mela."
His voice echoed like a threat wrapped in certainty. And just like that, it wasn't diplomacy anymore. It was egos in a knife fight. Fien didn't move, but you could feel the shift. Her soldiers tensed. Bears growled low. Even Shæz dropped her hand to her blade, sighing under her breath like, here we go again.
It was about to go very bad. Then— Clank. The gates behind Mesa creaked and everyone turned. Out came the old King, leaning on two centaur guards, his body thin and wobbling but his voice somehow still carrying weight. A living ghost of power.
"Fien," he called, raspy but firm.
Mesa's jaw clenched. "Father, you shouldn't—"
"Quiet, son," the king snapped, surprising even his own guards. Then his old eyes locked on Fien, and something like a tired smile played on his lips. "You're welcome to Mela."
And just like that, the gates swung open, wide and slow, like the city itself was exhaling. Fien nodded once, sharp, like royalty acknowledging royalty.
Behind her, Steza soldiers relaxed. Bears huffed approval. And Shæz? Shæz was not impressed.
"You gonna keep ruling with your nipples?" she muttered to Fien as they passed through the gates.
Fien smirked. "Worked, didn't it?"
They marched in.
The centaurs watched, silent but observant, muscles tight under polished gear. Mesa didn't say a word. He just turned and rode in after them, eyes burning a hole in the back of Fien's head. He didn't like this. Not the override. Not the loss of control. And sure as hell not her getting the last word.
Mela was a city caught between traditions and rebellion. The queen's presence tilted everything.
They were to stay one night—just one. Enough to rest the bears, sharpen the blades, and fill the soldiers' guts. At dawn, they'd ride. Through the inner gates, across the glowing rock valley, and onto the path that led them closer to Dalab.
But in that night? That short breath of calm? Yeah, a few things were gonna crack.
Because peace had a price. And Mela was about to learn that Fien always paid in chaos.