Songs for Our Duchess (Short Story)
[check out this short story at my personal page, where it looks better]
A stone-built great hall extends in long perspective. Narrow arched windows high on the left wall admit pale daylight that falls in slanted beams through dust-laden air. At the center, a low dais supports a heavy oak-and-iron throne with a tall backboard carved with a bestial crest; short spikes edge the armrests. A fur pelt drapes over the seat. A longsword rests upright against the throne’s left arm. The floor is rough flagstone, and a dark, dried stain marks the step of the dais.
Courtiers occupy the side aisles, leaving a clear central path to the throne. Most wear dark cloaks and layered wool; a few armored guards stand among them. Wall sconces hold lit candles and torches that flicker in the still air. Red banners bearing a heraldic creature hang between the windows and along the opposite wall. Thick stone columns support the vaulted ceiling overhead.
Standing before the throne is a gigantic figure—Bogdana Avalune. Her hulking frame towers above the assembled court, fair-skinned and lean-muscled beneath her attire. Long, tousled black hair falls past scarred shoulders. Brown, almond-shaped eyes survey the hall. She wears a deep-crimson structured bodice that contrasts with fitted black leather trousers and rugged knee-high combat boots. A steel collar embellished with black diamonds and silver spikes encircles her throat.
“The lute-player approaches. Good. I’ve been anticipating this meeting,” she says, her voice carrying through the chamber.
She turns and lowers herself onto the throne, settling back against the carved wood. The fur pelt shifts beneath her weight. Her scarred hands rest on the spiked armrests.
Murmurs ripple through the courtiers along the aisles—hushed, nervous whispers.
The great doors at the far end open. A young man enters and begins walking down the central aisle. He is short, with an athletic, lean build. Round eyes survey the throne room as he walks. Short wavy brown hair frames his face. He wears a traveler’s tunic, soft brown shoes, a plain leather belt.
Joel Overberus stops on the red carpet that leads to the throne. He glances briefly toward the courtiers, then fixes his gaze on the massive figure occupying the seat of power. From within his traveling cloak, he produces a lute. His fingers find the strings, plucking a melody as he begins to sing:
“Mistress of the night, ruler of the world. Malicious tongues speak of demonic influences bringing her highness to this world, yet her beautiful features, enhanced by scars, speak of the divine. Wider than two men, taller than all, capable of mowing down whole armies by her naked self as her huge dong swings. Duchess Bogdana Avalune herself, inviting a lowly traveling minstrel to her domains! To what do I owe the honor?”
His fingers tighten on the strings, setting a taut note that hangs in the air.
Bogdana’s gaze holds steady on the young musician.
Joel’s fingers move across the lute strings again, plucking effortlessly. He begins his second verse:
“I’ve met many folks throughout the lands, even lands abroad, and I can tell those who have known the duchess by the bowed way they walk. Broken and conquered, too shameful to speak about their memories. And yet there are some, women and men alike, that react to Bogdana’s name with a dreamy sigh, even though they bear the scars their duchess blessed them with. Nowhere else in the breadth of this world could anyone find a ruler with such a personal care for their subjects. One they shall never forget.”
His fingers set a teasing tone. The notes fade into the vaulted space.
Still she says nothing. The wait stretches.
Joel closes his eyes. His fingers weave a melodic phrase across the strings.
“Even to my lowly ears came the news of a portent that happened mayhap a year ago. An evening when Bogdana, ruler of the night, was hanging out at a balcony when she saw luminous balls in the sky. She shook her tremendous fist at them and screamed, ‘Don’t just waltz around in the air, you fiends! Come at me!’ And so they did! The three luminous balls, a flying vehicle they turned out to be, descended and shot a beam of light at our duchess. But this beam didn’t hurt her; instead, it attracted her inside the ship! There, she met three green-skinned, five-eyed creatures from another world! They told Bogdana that they came from a star many leagues above. They wanted to show our duchess around, but she had no time for nonsense from another world, so she started punching heads until every foreign fiend was gone. Then the vehicle crashed into some hills, and exploded. But Bogdana’s majestic frame stepped out of the wreck and the flames. She merely dusted off her leather pants before walking back home.”
The young musician’s fingers shift across the strings, drawing out a different quality of sound—mellower, almost contemplative. His voice softens.
“Yet at the end of the day, when night falls on the duchess’ domain, when the wounded have retreated to their hovels and all the seed has been spent, Bogdana Avalune, unique in the world, retires to her peace among paper and dried ink. Books upon books, knowledge of all ages, topics that most mortals will never know, won’t even wonder about. Beyond the lowly mortals that crane their necks to look up at her majesty, there exist realms that perhaps not even her highness’ might may fully know.”
He plays a final melodic phrase. The notes cascade and fade. His fingers still on the strings. The lute falls silent, and he lowers it to his side.
The silence stretches through the hall.
“Good. Very good, Joel Overberus,” she says. “You’ve done your research, haven’t you? Those weren’t improvised verses—you’ve listened to the whispers, collected the stories, woven them into something approaching art.”
She places her palms flat on the armrests and pushes herself upward, rising to her full height. She towers above the assembled court, her head well above the tall backboard. The candlelight casts her shadow long across the flagstones.
“Three songs,” she continues. “The first established my physical supremacy—scars as divine beauty, my size, my power, even my royal cock. Flattering, accurate, and bold. The second revealed understanding of my psychological impact—the broken and the devoted, those too ashamed to speak and those who sigh at my name. You recognized that terror and desire are two sides of the same coin where Bogdana is concerned.”
She moves forward. Her boot lands on the first step of the dais. The impact echoes through the stone hall. She descends another step, then another. Each footfall reverberates in the vaulted space.
“The third? Pure mythology. Aliens from the stars, cosmic battles, fabricated grandeur. But that’s exactly what legend-making requires, isn’t it? Truth becomes myth becomes immortality.”
She reaches the bottom of the dais and pauses on the red carpet. She stands perhaps fifteen paces from Joel, looking down at him.
“And then your final verse. Books and knowledge, realms beyond mortal understanding. You saw past the violence to the library, to the scholar beneath the tyrant. Very perceptive. So tell me, lute-player—did you come here hoping to leave alive? Or did you accept that performing for the Duchess of the Dark Motherland might be your final act?”
Joel shifts his weight. He executes a deep, elaborate bow—his right arm sweeping outward, his torso bending forward, his head lowering. He holds the position for a moment, then straightens.
“Mother Goddess, as a knight’s terror and hope is to one day face and vanquish a dragon, such is the terror and hope of an artist to find themselves before the most magnificent, and frankly terrifying, patroness of the arts of the whole Forgotten Kingdoms,” he says. “After hearing the tales, listening to the rumors, only the mad would dare to come willingly even if summoned. But nothing but pure madness prompts artists to insist on their trade. So, Duchess Bogdana Avalune called for a lowly musician such as me, and I came. If you decided to make this my final act, I would regret the pain, surely, but more so I’d regret the many songs I would have failed to create. It would be absurd to resist in any case. None can stand against your might.”
Bogdana takes another step forward. Then another. She closes the distance until she stands directly before him. Joel tilts his head back, craning his neck upward to maintain eye contact.
The duchess’ scarred face looms above him, blocking the torchlight from the sconces behind her. The scent of musk and leather fills the space between them.
“Madness, you say?” Bogdana’s voice drops lower. “Yes. I recognize that particular madness, Joel Overberus. The compulsion that drives artists to pursue their craft regardless of consequence.” She pauses. “You valued the songs you haven’t yet written more than the pain I might inflict. That’s truth. I respect truth. And you acknowledged my might without false bravado or pathetic groveling. That’s wisdom. I respect wisdom.”
Bogdana leans down slightly, bringing her face closer to his upturned one. Her long black hair falls forward over her shoulders.
“So tell me, lute-player—are you prepared to accept a commission from the Duchess of the Dark Motherland? To create songs that will echo through taverns and courts for generations? To make Bogdana Avalune immortal in music?”
Joel’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. A boyish smile forms on his lips.
“Well, Duchess of the Dark Motherland, Sovereign of the Night, I know trick questions when they flow through my ears,” he says. “Am I prepared to accept a commission from Bogdana Avalune herself? There is no such thing as saying no, is there? Either I submit to your command, or I flee. And if I ran, I would wonder forever, assuming I kept my head, about the terror and glory of obeying your desire.”
He shifts his weight.
“As to whether I can make you immortal, as a humble citizen of your domains, one who now stands small and trembling before your musky, divine-demonic might, I truly wonder if you are physically able to die, whether of old age or any other cause. I’m sure that hundreds if not thousands of soldiers who charged at you wondered so as they lay bleeding on the ground.”
His smile widens slightly.
“Will I help with my arts in this endeavor for immortality? Surely! My concerns are of a more let’s say prosaic nature. Shall I serve you tea in your library as we speak about the wonders of the world at midnight? Or shall I start buying diapers for my inevitable incontinence?”
Several courtiers shift. The air feels charged.
Bogdana’s hand rises. Her fingers curl around Joel’s chin, the thumb resting against his jawline. The grip is firm, deliberate.
“Tea in my library at midnight. You’ve earned that much, lute-player,” she says. Her thumb brushes across his jawline in a slow movement. “Though I make no promises about your continence remaining intact. Bogdana takes what she wants, when she wants it. But first—yes, first we’ll discuss your commission properly. The songs you’ll create, the legacy you’ll build for me. You’ve demonstrated your research, your skill, your understanding of what drives me. Now I want to know what you envision. How will Joel Overberus immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland? What verses will echo through taverns for generations? What melody will make them whisper my name with that perfect blend of terror and desire you sang about so beautifully?”
Her fingers tighten on his chin. The increased pressure tilts his face further upward.
“And don’t bore me with false modesty or safe answers. You came here accepting the madness of your profession. Show me that madness now. Tell me something bold.”
Joel’s eyes hold hers despite the grip on his chin.
“Mother Goddess, a version of Bogdana Avalune already travels through words, and sometimes music, across the breadth of the Forgotten Kingdoms,” he says, his voice steady despite the large fingers gripping his chin. “But in the case that a supreme being like yourself could actually perish, wouldn’t it be a tragedy if that ghost of Bogdana Avalune, the one being spoken about in town, in the shadows, would be the one to endure? I believe the true duchess remains unknown. She’s the one who breathes in dark, cold nights, seated at a balcony and staring at the stars. The one who puts on glasses to read the treatises brought over from distant kingdoms. The one who lies spent and sweaty after a profound defloration and sees inside her mind even darker holes growing far below. That duchess should be most remembered, I believe. And for that, I need to meet and know her. The Bogdana Avalune that exists when there’s nothing worth left to conquer.”
The hall falls quiet.
Bogdana’s fingers release his chin. Her hand drops to her side. She takes a single step backward, creating distance between them. Her eyes remain fixed on him, studying.
“You want to know the Bogdana Avalune that exists when there’s nothing worth left to conquer?” she says. “Bold question, lute-player. Very bold. Most would assume everything is worth conquering—that my appetite is infinite, insatiable. And they’d be right. But you’re suggesting there are moments when the conquest pauses, when the battle ends, when I’m… what? Alone with my thoughts?”
Her right arm extends, the scarred hand gesturing toward the great doors at the far end.
“You’ve earned your midnight tea in my library, Joel Overberus. We’ll discuss your commission properly—what songs you’ll create, what melodies will echo through taverns for generations. But first, you’ll tell me what you think you’ll find when you meet that version of me. The one who breathes in cold nights and stares at stars. The one who sees dark holes growing far below even after profound defloration. What do you expect to discover in those shadows?”
Joel’s expression shifts. His face contorts slightly, as if reacting to a sudden pain. He looks past her features toward something beyond—perhaps the throne, perhaps the shadows gathering in the vaulted ceiling above. His expression holds that distant focus for several seconds. Then he snaps back, meeting her gaze again. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath.
“What do I expect to discover? What I sense,” he says, his voice rougher now, the words emerging with a ragged quality. “A dark beyond darknesses. Not of violence, not of flesh being torn through extreme girth, but… a loneliness so cold it would burn at the touch. The loneliness of the most unique being in the world. One who can’t hope for an equal no matter how long she were to search. One who can never look up at anyone in respect.”
As the lute hangs from his left hand, his right hand curls into a loose fist, then relaxes. His round eyes hold the duchess’ domineering gaze without wavering.
The silence that follows extends through the great hall. The torches, flickering in their sconces, send shadows dancing across the flagstone floor, illuminating the dried stain on the dais step behind Bogdana’s towering frame.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Bogdana says. “That emptiness. Not through rumors or tales, but through your own artist’s eye. You looked past the violence and the conquest and the sexual domination, and you saw… the void. The hunger that nothing satisfies.”
Her voice drops lower, taking on a more intimate quality despite the watching crowd.
“Very few have ever articulated that particular truth, Joel Overberus. Very few would dare. But you did. You named the thing I myself cannot fully name. That dark beyond darknesses.”
She steps closer again, closing the distance she had created. Her frame once again looms directly above him. Joel tilts his head back further to maintain eye contact. The scent of musk and leather fills the narrow space between them.
“So yes. Midnight tea in my library,” she says. “We’ll discuss your commission—the songs you’ll create, the melodies that will echo through taverns for generations. But more than that, we’ll discuss what you think you’ll find when you meet that version of me. The one who breathes alone in cold nights. The scholar who sees dark holes growing far below. Show me what your artist’s vision perceives in those shadows, lute-player. Show me what even Bogdana cannot see in herself.”
The torches continue their flickering. The red banners hang still against the stone walls. Joel’s chest rises and falls with steady breaths, a boyish smile returning to his lips as he looks up at the massive figure towering above him.
THE END
A stone-built great hall extends in long perspective. Narrow arched windows high on the left wall admit pale daylight that falls in slanted beams through dust-laden air. At the center, a low dais supports a heavy oak-and-iron throne with a tall backboard carved with a bestial crest; short spikes edge the armrests. A fur pelt drapes over the seat. A longsword rests upright against the throne’s left arm. The floor is rough flagstone, and a dark, dried stain marks the step of the dais.
Courtiers occupy the side aisles, leaving a clear central path to the throne. Most wear dark cloaks and layered wool; a few armored guards stand among them. Wall sconces hold lit candles and torches that flicker in the still air. Red banners bearing a heraldic creature hang between the windows and along the opposite wall. Thick stone columns support the vaulted ceiling overhead.
Standing before the throne is a gigantic figure—Bogdana Avalune. Her hulking frame towers above the assembled court, fair-skinned and lean-muscled beneath her attire. Long, tousled black hair falls past scarred shoulders. Brown, almond-shaped eyes survey the hall. She wears a deep-crimson structured bodice that contrasts with fitted black leather trousers and rugged knee-high combat boots. A steel collar embellished with black diamonds and silver spikes encircles her throat.
“The lute-player approaches. Good. I’ve been anticipating this meeting,” she says, her voice carrying through the chamber.
She turns and lowers herself onto the throne, settling back against the carved wood. The fur pelt shifts beneath her weight. Her scarred hands rest on the spiked armrests.
Murmurs ripple through the courtiers along the aisles—hushed, nervous whispers.
The great doors at the far end open. A young man enters and begins walking down the central aisle. He is short, with an athletic, lean build. Round eyes survey the throne room as he walks. Short wavy brown hair frames his face. He wears a traveler’s tunic, soft brown shoes, a plain leather belt.
Joel Overberus stops on the red carpet that leads to the throne. He glances briefly toward the courtiers, then fixes his gaze on the massive figure occupying the seat of power. From within his traveling cloak, he produces a lute. His fingers find the strings, plucking a melody as he begins to sing:
“Mistress of the night, ruler of the world. Malicious tongues speak of demonic influences bringing her highness to this world, yet her beautiful features, enhanced by scars, speak of the divine. Wider than two men, taller than all, capable of mowing down whole armies by her naked self as her huge dong swings. Duchess Bogdana Avalune herself, inviting a lowly traveling minstrel to her domains! To what do I owe the honor?”
His fingers tighten on the strings, setting a taut note that hangs in the air.
Bogdana’s gaze holds steady on the young musician.
Joel’s fingers move across the lute strings again, plucking effortlessly. He begins his second verse:
“I’ve met many folks throughout the lands, even lands abroad, and I can tell those who have known the duchess by the bowed way they walk. Broken and conquered, too shameful to speak about their memories. And yet there are some, women and men alike, that react to Bogdana’s name with a dreamy sigh, even though they bear the scars their duchess blessed them with. Nowhere else in the breadth of this world could anyone find a ruler with such a personal care for their subjects. One they shall never forget.”
His fingers set a teasing tone. The notes fade into the vaulted space.
Still she says nothing. The wait stretches.
Joel closes his eyes. His fingers weave a melodic phrase across the strings.
“Even to my lowly ears came the news of a portent that happened mayhap a year ago. An evening when Bogdana, ruler of the night, was hanging out at a balcony when she saw luminous balls in the sky. She shook her tremendous fist at them and screamed, ‘Don’t just waltz around in the air, you fiends! Come at me!’ And so they did! The three luminous balls, a flying vehicle they turned out to be, descended and shot a beam of light at our duchess. But this beam didn’t hurt her; instead, it attracted her inside the ship! There, she met three green-skinned, five-eyed creatures from another world! They told Bogdana that they came from a star many leagues above. They wanted to show our duchess around, but she had no time for nonsense from another world, so she started punching heads until every foreign fiend was gone. Then the vehicle crashed into some hills, and exploded. But Bogdana’s majestic frame stepped out of the wreck and the flames. She merely dusted off her leather pants before walking back home.”
The young musician’s fingers shift across the strings, drawing out a different quality of sound—mellower, almost contemplative. His voice softens.
“Yet at the end of the day, when night falls on the duchess’ domain, when the wounded have retreated to their hovels and all the seed has been spent, Bogdana Avalune, unique in the world, retires to her peace among paper and dried ink. Books upon books, knowledge of all ages, topics that most mortals will never know, won’t even wonder about. Beyond the lowly mortals that crane their necks to look up at her majesty, there exist realms that perhaps not even her highness’ might may fully know.”
He plays a final melodic phrase. The notes cascade and fade. His fingers still on the strings. The lute falls silent, and he lowers it to his side.
The silence stretches through the hall.
“Good. Very good, Joel Overberus,” she says. “You’ve done your research, haven’t you? Those weren’t improvised verses—you’ve listened to the whispers, collected the stories, woven them into something approaching art.”
She places her palms flat on the armrests and pushes herself upward, rising to her full height. She towers above the assembled court, her head well above the tall backboard. The candlelight casts her shadow long across the flagstones.
“Three songs,” she continues. “The first established my physical supremacy—scars as divine beauty, my size, my power, even my royal cock. Flattering, accurate, and bold. The second revealed understanding of my psychological impact—the broken and the devoted, those too ashamed to speak and those who sigh at my name. You recognized that terror and desire are two sides of the same coin where Bogdana is concerned.”
She moves forward. Her boot lands on the first step of the dais. The impact echoes through the stone hall. She descends another step, then another. Each footfall reverberates in the vaulted space.
“The third? Pure mythology. Aliens from the stars, cosmic battles, fabricated grandeur. But that’s exactly what legend-making requires, isn’t it? Truth becomes myth becomes immortality.”
She reaches the bottom of the dais and pauses on the red carpet. She stands perhaps fifteen paces from Joel, looking down at him.
“And then your final verse. Books and knowledge, realms beyond mortal understanding. You saw past the violence to the library, to the scholar beneath the tyrant. Very perceptive. So tell me, lute-player—did you come here hoping to leave alive? Or did you accept that performing for the Duchess of the Dark Motherland might be your final act?”
Joel shifts his weight. He executes a deep, elaborate bow—his right arm sweeping outward, his torso bending forward, his head lowering. He holds the position for a moment, then straightens.
“Mother Goddess, as a knight’s terror and hope is to one day face and vanquish a dragon, such is the terror and hope of an artist to find themselves before the most magnificent, and frankly terrifying, patroness of the arts of the whole Forgotten Kingdoms,” he says. “After hearing the tales, listening to the rumors, only the mad would dare to come willingly even if summoned. But nothing but pure madness prompts artists to insist on their trade. So, Duchess Bogdana Avalune called for a lowly musician such as me, and I came. If you decided to make this my final act, I would regret the pain, surely, but more so I’d regret the many songs I would have failed to create. It would be absurd to resist in any case. None can stand against your might.”
Bogdana takes another step forward. Then another. She closes the distance until she stands directly before him. Joel tilts his head back, craning his neck upward to maintain eye contact.
The duchess’ scarred face looms above him, blocking the torchlight from the sconces behind her. The scent of musk and leather fills the space between them.
“Madness, you say?” Bogdana’s voice drops lower. “Yes. I recognize that particular madness, Joel Overberus. The compulsion that drives artists to pursue their craft regardless of consequence.” She pauses. “You valued the songs you haven’t yet written more than the pain I might inflict. That’s truth. I respect truth. And you acknowledged my might without false bravado or pathetic groveling. That’s wisdom. I respect wisdom.”
Bogdana leans down slightly, bringing her face closer to his upturned one. Her long black hair falls forward over her shoulders.
“So tell me, lute-player—are you prepared to accept a commission from the Duchess of the Dark Motherland? To create songs that will echo through taverns and courts for generations? To make Bogdana Avalune immortal in music?”
Joel’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. A boyish smile forms on his lips.
“Well, Duchess of the Dark Motherland, Sovereign of the Night, I know trick questions when they flow through my ears,” he says. “Am I prepared to accept a commission from Bogdana Avalune herself? There is no such thing as saying no, is there? Either I submit to your command, or I flee. And if I ran, I would wonder forever, assuming I kept my head, about the terror and glory of obeying your desire.”
He shifts his weight.
“As to whether I can make you immortal, as a humble citizen of your domains, one who now stands small and trembling before your musky, divine-demonic might, I truly wonder if you are physically able to die, whether of old age or any other cause. I’m sure that hundreds if not thousands of soldiers who charged at you wondered so as they lay bleeding on the ground.”
His smile widens slightly.
“Will I help with my arts in this endeavor for immortality? Surely! My concerns are of a more let’s say prosaic nature. Shall I serve you tea in your library as we speak about the wonders of the world at midnight? Or shall I start buying diapers for my inevitable incontinence?”
Several courtiers shift. The air feels charged.
Bogdana’s hand rises. Her fingers curl around Joel’s chin, the thumb resting against his jawline. The grip is firm, deliberate.
“Tea in my library at midnight. You’ve earned that much, lute-player,” she says. Her thumb brushes across his jawline in a slow movement. “Though I make no promises about your continence remaining intact. Bogdana takes what she wants, when she wants it. But first—yes, first we’ll discuss your commission properly. The songs you’ll create, the legacy you’ll build for me. You’ve demonstrated your research, your skill, your understanding of what drives me. Now I want to know what you envision. How will Joel Overberus immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland? What verses will echo through taverns for generations? What melody will make them whisper my name with that perfect blend of terror and desire you sang about so beautifully?”
Her fingers tighten on his chin. The increased pressure tilts his face further upward.
“And don’t bore me with false modesty or safe answers. You came here accepting the madness of your profession. Show me that madness now. Tell me something bold.”
Joel’s eyes hold hers despite the grip on his chin.
“Mother Goddess, a version of Bogdana Avalune already travels through words, and sometimes music, across the breadth of the Forgotten Kingdoms,” he says, his voice steady despite the large fingers gripping his chin. “But in the case that a supreme being like yourself could actually perish, wouldn’t it be a tragedy if that ghost of Bogdana Avalune, the one being spoken about in town, in the shadows, would be the one to endure? I believe the true duchess remains unknown. She’s the one who breathes in dark, cold nights, seated at a balcony and staring at the stars. The one who puts on glasses to read the treatises brought over from distant kingdoms. The one who lies spent and sweaty after a profound defloration and sees inside her mind even darker holes growing far below. That duchess should be most remembered, I believe. And for that, I need to meet and know her. The Bogdana Avalune that exists when there’s nothing worth left to conquer.”
The hall falls quiet.
Bogdana’s fingers release his chin. Her hand drops to her side. She takes a single step backward, creating distance between them. Her eyes remain fixed on him, studying.
“You want to know the Bogdana Avalune that exists when there’s nothing worth left to conquer?” she says. “Bold question, lute-player. Very bold. Most would assume everything is worth conquering—that my appetite is infinite, insatiable. And they’d be right. But you’re suggesting there are moments when the conquest pauses, when the battle ends, when I’m… what? Alone with my thoughts?”
Her right arm extends, the scarred hand gesturing toward the great doors at the far end.
“You’ve earned your midnight tea in my library, Joel Overberus. We’ll discuss your commission properly—what songs you’ll create, what melodies will echo through taverns for generations. But first, you’ll tell me what you think you’ll find when you meet that version of me. The one who breathes in cold nights and stares at stars. The one who sees dark holes growing far below even after profound defloration. What do you expect to discover in those shadows?”
Joel’s expression shifts. His face contorts slightly, as if reacting to a sudden pain. He looks past her features toward something beyond—perhaps the throne, perhaps the shadows gathering in the vaulted ceiling above. His expression holds that distant focus for several seconds. Then he snaps back, meeting her gaze again. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath.
“What do I expect to discover? What I sense,” he says, his voice rougher now, the words emerging with a ragged quality. “A dark beyond darknesses. Not of violence, not of flesh being torn through extreme girth, but… a loneliness so cold it would burn at the touch. The loneliness of the most unique being in the world. One who can’t hope for an equal no matter how long she were to search. One who can never look up at anyone in respect.”
As the lute hangs from his left hand, his right hand curls into a loose fist, then relaxes. His round eyes hold the duchess’ domineering gaze without wavering.
The silence that follows extends through the great hall. The torches, flickering in their sconces, send shadows dancing across the flagstone floor, illuminating the dried stain on the dais step behind Bogdana’s towering frame.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Bogdana says. “That emptiness. Not through rumors or tales, but through your own artist’s eye. You looked past the violence and the conquest and the sexual domination, and you saw… the void. The hunger that nothing satisfies.”
Her voice drops lower, taking on a more intimate quality despite the watching crowd.
“Very few have ever articulated that particular truth, Joel Overberus. Very few would dare. But you did. You named the thing I myself cannot fully name. That dark beyond darknesses.”
She steps closer again, closing the distance she had created. Her frame once again looms directly above him. Joel tilts his head back further to maintain eye contact. The scent of musk and leather fills the narrow space between them.
“So yes. Midnight tea in my library,” she says. “We’ll discuss your commission—the songs you’ll create, the melodies that will echo through taverns for generations. But more than that, we’ll discuss what you think you’ll find when you meet that version of me. The one who breathes alone in cold nights. The scholar who sees dark holes growing far below. Show me what your artist’s vision perceives in those shadows, lute-player. Show me what even Bogdana cannot see in herself.”
The torches continue their flickering. The red banners hang still against the stone walls. Joel’s chest rises and falls with steady breaths, a boyish smile returning to his lips as he looks up at the massive figure towering above him.
THE END
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