This short is a direct continuation of Songs for Our Duchess.

Stone walls rise to a ribbed, vaulted ceiling. A narrow arched window with leaded panes admits a pale shaft of moonlight. Lit torches in iron sconces burn on either side of the window, their flames casting restless shadows across the flagstones. Dark-wood bookcases line the walls, packed with leather-spined volumes. One cabinet has glass doors and stores scrolls bound with cords. Red banners bearing a heraldic beast hang between shelves. At the center, a heavy oak table stands on a worn patterned rug. On the tabletop lie open folios, stacked books, loose parchment, a quill in an inkwell, a small knife, rolled maps, and a single burning candle. A brass astrolabe sits near the edge of the table. To the right of the window, a full suit of plate armor stands on a wooden base. A rack beside it holds polearms and a shield.

Bogdana Avalune’s gigantic frame moves through the library. Her black silk robe with kimono sleeves whispers against the floor. Gold chain necklaces, layered and embellished with metal, catch the torchlight. She pauses near the bookcases, her eyes scanning the room, then moves to a luxury armchair positioned among her collection of knowledge.

She lowers herself into the seat. Her gaze moves to the door of the adjacent room, head tilting slightly as if listening.

The sound of footsteps approaches. A door closes. The footsteps grow nearer.

Bogdana straightens, chin lifting. She reaches for a porcelain teacup on the small table beside her, holding it without drinking, eyes fixed on the entrance.

Joel Overberus appears in the doorway—young, fresh-faced, wearing a traveler’s tunic, soft brown shoes, a plain leather belt. He stops, taking in the Duchess framed by ancient texts, the teacup delicate in her scarred hand.

Bogdana’s lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile.

“Welcome, Joel Overberus. You’re punctual. I appreciate that.”

Joel steps forward, then bows—an elaborate gesture, his torso folding, one arm sweeping outward. When he straightens, his eyes meet hers.

“I’m so honored to witness this side of our duchess.” His voice is steady, though his hands clasp behind his back. “If you would allow me a bit of impertinence, I will say that the black silk robe looks… striking on you, Night Sovereign.” He glances at the second armchair positioned across from hers. “Should I sit down, or is it more proper for a lowly musician like me to merely stand?”

Bogdana’s fingers tighten fractionally on the teacup handle.

“Sit, Joel.” The words carry no question. “This isn’t a throne room audience—we’re in my library now. Among my treasures, my knowledge, my rare texts. The ones you so perceptively mentioned in your third verse. Here, you’re a guest, not a supplicant.” A pause. “Though do remember whose guest you are.”

She drinks.

“The black silk suits my mood tonight—less armor, more… contemplation.” Her free hand gestures toward the empty armchair. “You’ve earned a conversation, musician. Your performance was exceptional. Now, let’s discuss the songs you’ll create to immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland.”

Joel sits, spine straight. His gaze sweeps the towering bookcases, taking in the volumes, the leather bindings, the scrolls.

“That is… the Compendium of Sigmoidal Paedology.” His voice carries certainty. “It maps childhood, apprenticeship, and courtly indoctrination onto the same mathematical curve, insisting rulers can accelerate or stall citizens at chosen plateaus.”

He shifts in the chair, angling toward Bogdana.

“Truly, duchess… The citizens are afraid of you, as they rightfully should be, but they see you as an… unthinking force, which you clearly aren’t. I bet you could outsmart most dedicated scholars in the Forgotten Kingdoms.”

“You’ve done your research beyond the songs, haven’t you?” Her voice drops lower, each word deliberate. “Convenient for them—easier to fear a monster than comprehend a mind. But you… You see the Compendium and understand what it means. That citizens are variables in an equation, to be accelerated or stalled at my discretion. That’s precisely what governance is, Joel—applied mathematics with flesh and fear as the medium.” Her chin lifts. “The citizens think I’m an unthinking force because thinking forces are harder to predict, harder to resist. Let them believe the fiction. But you’re right—I could debate most scholars into the ground and enjoy doing it. Knowledge is power, and I hoard both obsessively.”

She sets down the cup.

“Tell me, musician—what else do you see in my collection that others miss?”

Joel drinks his tea.

“Oh, it tastes real good, not the flavored water one gets outside of… well, a royal castle.”

His eyes return to the bookcases, narrowing slightly.

“The Manual On How to Get a Real Job…” His eyebrows rise. “I’m surprised to see that one. Part satire, part survival guide for overeducated nobles who find themselves suddenly destitute. Most nobles would find it… offensive.”

His eyes move again. Stop. He leans forward.

“Oh, and that one is…” He clears his throat. “The Anonymous Dictionary on How to Use the Penis Like an Instrument of Human Pleasure.” His eyes cut to Bogdana. “A subject you surely know all there is to know about, if the rumors are anything to go by…”

“You’ve excellent taste in selections, musician. The Manual—most nobles would rather starve than acknowledge that book’s existence in their libraries, let alone actually read it. But I find it instructive. A reminder that power without foundation crumbles quickly. Those overeducated fools thought their bloodlines exempted them from consequence. They learned otherwise when their estates burned.”

She gestures toward the shelves.

“And The Anonymous Dictionary…” Her lips curve—slow, deliberate, predatory. “Yes, the rumors are accurate. I’ve mastered every technique in that Renaissance text and invented several the original author never conceived. The human body is an instrument, Joel—strings to pluck, keys to press, rhythms to establish and then shatter.” Her eyes narrow. “You understand instruments better than most. Tell me—when you play your lute, do you think of it as conquest? As domination? Or merely… art?”

Joel’s spine straightens.

“I see it as a communion with the subconscious, duchess. I believe that this thinking part we’re exercising, the one that believes itself in charge, is actually inferior to the vast force below it, the one that actually commands us. Playing the lute, for me, is a dance with that subconscious. A joining of the self in a way that dissolves the duality we’re forced to endure as civilized animals. While playing, we return to… the proper state of affairs.”

“The thinking self as inferior to the vast force beneath—you’re describing what most people spend their entire lives fleeing from, musician. That dissolution of duality, that surrender to the primal self.” She leans forward, black silk whispering. “They fear it. They build walls of propriety and reason and morality to keep it caged. But you seek it out. You call it communion, call it dance. I call it truth. The civilized mind is a lie we tell ourselves to pretend we’re not animals driven by hunger and desire. When you play your lute and dissolve that duality, you’re doing what I do with my body, with my cock, with violence and pleasure. We’re both artists of the same fundamental act—stripping away the pretense. The subconscious you worship? I embody it. I don’t separate myself from it like your ‘civilized animals.’ I am the force beneath. Unfiltered. Unashamed. Absolute.”

She settles back.

“Tell me, Joel—when you achieve that communion, do you feel power? Or surrender? Because I suspect for you it’s both. The paradox of the artist—wielding control by relinquishing it, finding freedom in submission to something greater than your thinking self.”

Joel’s eyebrows rise. His mouth opens, then closes.

“I was going to add something along those lines, duchess, but yes, I…” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I recognize that, when I look at you. You are the subconscious force of humanity embodied. The unrestrained animality that desires every pleasure and all power. The energy of nature itself, that doesn’t…” His head turns. His eyes shift to the bookcases, scanning titles he’s not truly seeing. “That doesn’t apologize with rationalizations or arguments. You take it because you want it. Excuses and arguments belong to the weak. Might is right. That is the law of reality.”

He clasps his hands.

“As for your question… in my case, playing the lute is a surrender. A surrender from my mundane state of being a thinking person, to be saved momentarily by the madness below… which I wish I could always embody.”

Bogdana rises from the armchair, silk flowing. The gold chains catch firelight, throwing brief glints across the stone walls. She moves toward the bookcases, bare feet silent on flagstones, then muffled on the rug. She scans the upper shelves, fingers tracing along spines until stopping on one tome. She pulls.

The Compendium of Sigmoidal Paedology slides free—heavy, bound in dark leather with brass corners. She cradles it, then turns to face Joel.

“You wish you could always embody that madness, Joel? That subconscious force unrestrained by the thinking self’s pathetic moral framework?” She steps toward him. “Let me show you something.” She lifts the tome. “This text you recognized—it’s not just about governing citizens. It maps how consciousness itself develops, how the thinking self emerges and subjugates the primal force beneath. The Egyptians understood this when they created cockstanding. They knew the body could bypass the mind’s control, that certain acts—sexual, violent, ecstatic—could short-circuit the civilized overlay.”

She extends one arm, gesturing between them.

“Your lute-playing is one path. My cock is another. Both instruments playing the same fundamental truth. You surrender to the subconscious through music. I never separated from it to begin with. I am that force walking upright, speaking, ruling, fucking, destroying. No duality to dissolve because I never constructed the false hierarchy in the first place.”

She angles the book toward him, brass corners gleaming.

“And you see that. You named it in your third verse—the scholar beneath the tyrant, the library behind the violence. Most people can’t hold both truths simultaneously. They see the monster or the mind, never the fusion. But you understand that they’re not separate, that knowledge and hunger are the same appetite expressed through different orifices.” Her voice drops. “Tell me, musician—if you could truly embody that force without the surrender, without the temporary communion that ends when the song does… would you still be you? Or would you become something else entirely? Because I can tell you from experience: there’s a price for living as pure subconscious. The loneliness you named. The dark beyond darknesses. When you are the force itself, there’s nothing left to surrender to. No communion, only… existence. Unfiltered. Unrelenting. Absolute. Is that what you truly want? Or do you love the surrender precisely because it’s temporary, because you can return to the thinking self afterwards and remember what it felt like to be free?”

Joel’s lips curve upward—boyish, admiring, reverent.

“You’re absolutely right, Mother Goddess. I love the surrender partially because it’s temporary. Sadly, my subconscious is not the self that now communicates with you. There is a disconnect between my self and that ancient, far more powerful being in the deeper layers of my brain. In your case… I see you never had a choice. You were born, if the legends are true, through demonic influence, to live as the raw power of nature. I only get a tiny taste of surrendering to that power through playing my instrument.” He pauses. “And… if I somehow ended up locked in that pure state, I would surely die soon. Someone would kill me. Or I would starve. But you were born as perfection: too strong to be defeated, and yet too smart to be outsmarted. You can do it all. Surely you’re the only one in history who has been able.”

“You’re absolutely right that I never had a choice, Joel. I was born this—whether through demonic rape conception or some other cosmic accident, I emerged already fused with the force you seek through your lute. No duality to dissolve because there never was separation.” Bogdana adjusts her grip on the leather binding. “And yes, I can do it all. Military conquest, scholarly debate, sexual domination, political maneuvering—I’m the apex predator in every arena simultaneously. The only one in history who’s managed it at this scale, this completely. But you’ve also named the cost more accurately than anyone else ever has. That loneliness. That dark beyond darknesses. When you’re permanently the force itself, there’s nothing left to surrender to. No communion, only existence.”

She turns, walking toward the bookcases. She stops before the shelves, arms lifting. When her hands release the tome, it tilts. Falls. Leather and brass strike the flagstones with a heavy thud that echoes through the chamber.

Bogdana looks down at the fallen Compendium, then pivots to face Joel, leaving the ancient text where it fell.

“You get to return to your thinking self after the music ends. I never return from anything. This is just… what I am. Forever.”

She steps back toward center.

“But enough philosophy for tonight. We’ve established what we both are—the artist who seeks temporary transcendence and the sovereign who embodies it permanently.” She stops near her armchair. “Now let’s discuss the practical purpose. The songs you’ll compose to immortalize the Duchess of the Dark Motherland. I want verses that capture both aspects—the violence and the library, the monster and the mind. Can you do that, musician? Can you hold both truths simultaneously in melody and lyric?”

“I believe I can, my duchess. I will endeavor in my free time to draft art out of the notes and memories of our meetings. This brief exchange has already illuminated so much.” Joel’s head tilts forward. “Yet, I have a question to ask, if I may be so bold, to understand you more. The world sees you as the unbeatable, terrifying tyrant. Now you also want it to see you as a scholar. Does that represent a shift in your aspirations? Has the Dark Sovereign conquered everything she could want from the physical world, and now she’ll focus on exploring the breadths of knowledge? Or perhaps you intend to balance both, conquering new lands while expanding your intellectual domains?”

Bogdana raises her palm toward Joel, fingers splaying, then curling and opening again. 

“The world sees what I allow them to see, Joel. For years, I’ve let them focus on the violence, the screams from my dungeons. Pure terror is effective governance—keeps the rebellions manageable.” She sweeps her arm toward the bookcases. “But the library? This has always been here. The Compendium you recognized, The Anonymous Dictionary, all of it—I’ve been collecting since before I took the throne. Knowledge and violence aren’t sequential conquests for me. They’re parallel expressions of the same appetite. I don’t shift from one to the other like your mundane nobles changing fashions. I am both, simultaneously, constantly.”

She grips the chair back.

“What’s changed is strategic revelation, not motivation. Your third verse named the scholar beneath the tyrant, and you were right to do so. The songs you’ll compose need to capture that duality, not one replacing the other. Because that’s what immortalizes. Pure violence gets forgotten as soon as someone stronger comes along. But violence fused with intellect, terror married to scholarship, the cock and the Compendium as equal instruments of power? That’s a legacy that echoes through centuries.”

She releases the chair.

“So to answer your question directly: No, this doesn’t represent a shift. The physical world still requires conquest—there are lands beyond Cosmographica’s spiral coasts that will bow to Bogdana eventually. But I’ve never stopped exploring intellectual domains either. I read, I study, I master texts the way I master bodies. The difference now is that I’m allowing you to witness and immortalize the full scope. Most artists only see half and create incomplete myths. You see both. That’s why you’re here at midnight, drinking my tea, asking these questions.”

Joel reaches for his teacup, drinks, then sets it back with a soft clink. He settles into the armchair. 

“I assume that the terror of most citizens, certainly foreigners, to come face to face with Your Highness, must have limited significantly your access to volumes of knowledge. I’m sure you have lots of ways to get people to bring volumes for your library. Yet, if my songs cement in the populace’s brains that you’re also hungry for knowledge, perhaps scholars will come bringing obscure treatises that as of yet remain unknown. I can envision it: scholars from all lands, many of them conquered, fighting among themselves for a spot at your court to breathe from the atmosphere of intellectual progress. You can defeat armies by yourself; that’s mostly pure physical might. But a worldwide recognition of your intellectual mind? That… legitimizes your power beyond pure strength. It lets people know you were meant to be. Of course you’re far more than a duchess, although I know you prefer that title. But you would be the empress. Of the greatest empire the world has known.”

Bogdana’s spine straightens. Her chin lifts.

“You’ve just articulated the vision better than I could have myself, musician. Yes. Exactly that. Scholars from conquered and unconquered lands alike, fighting for positions at my court, bringing obscure treatises I haven’t yet acquired. The atmosphere of intellectual progress alongside the demonstrations of absolute physical dominance.” She opens her palm, encompassing the library—the bookcases, the scrolls, the fallen Compendium still lying on the flagstones. “That’s the legacy. That’s what transforms a duchess into an empress—not just the territory conquered, but the civilization created. The minds bent not just through terror but through genuine recognition that I represent something beyond mere strength.”

Her hand curls into a fist, then opens before lowering.

“You’re right that I can defeat armies by myself—that’s mostly pure physical might, superhuman durability, the huge royal cock swinging as I mow them down. But worldwide recognition of my intellectual mind? That legitimizes everything. Makes it clear I wasn’t just strong enough to seize power, I was meant to hold it. Destined for it. The scholar and the tyrant as one indivisible force. That’s what your songs need to capture, Joel. Not flattery—accuracy. The duality that makes Bogdana Avalune not just unbeatable but inevitable.” Her lips curve. “Create that, and you’ll have earned every reward I can bestow.”

Joel’s expression shifts. The admiration fades. Something else surfaces—a tightening around his eyes.

“Duchess, if I may… Do you believe you will end? I mean the end of your flesh. As I told you in the throne room, I have a hard time believing that you can actually die. The gods have blessed you with everything else above mankind, so it wouldn’t surprise me if even death couldn’t defeat you. But if the end is in the horizon… Is the legacy you want to leave behind the self that songs and stories and your intellectual work immortalize, or do you also intend to leave your kingdom to physical heirs?”

The torches flicker in their iron sconces. The shadows deepen between the bookcases.

Bogdana reaches for the teacup. She lifts it halfway to her lips, then stops. The cup descends. She sets it down with deliberate care.

“That’s the question, isn’t it? The one I’ve been avoiding for years while I conquer and collect and commission. Do I believe I will end?” She pauses. Her tongue touches her lower lip. “Truthfully, Joel… I don’t know. Everything about my existence suggests I shouldn’t—the superhuman durability, the impossibility of what I am, the demonic conception rumors. Perhaps I’m genuinely immortal. Perhaps death itself will bow before Bogdana like everything else eventually does. But what if I’m wrong? What if this magnificent flesh fails despite all evidence to the contrary? Then legacy becomes everything. The songs you’ll create. The library that will outlast empires. Bogdanatown standing as testament. The intellectual atmosphere we discussed—scholars bringing treatises for centuries after I’m gone.”

Her voice shifts—quieter, more measured.

“Physical heirs are… complicated. They represent vulnerability I rarely permit myself. Caring about something beyond my own appetites. The risk of successors who might disgrace or eclipse the name I’ve built. But strategically planted seed in the right noble houses could bind my bloodline to power for generations. Create an empire of descendants who carry forward what I began. I haven’t decided which path serves immortality better—legacy through works and memory, or literal continuation through heirs who embody some fraction of what I am. Perhaps both. Perhaps I’m arrogant enough to believe Bogdana deserves both forms of transcendence.” She locks eyes with Joel. “What do you think, musician? You who see clearly—should the Duchess of the Dark Motherland be remembered, or should she persist through bloodline? Or are they the same appetite expressed through different orifices, like everything else I pursue?”

Joel’s gaze drops to the small table. His eyebrows draw together. His lips press into a thin line, then relax. His gaze lifts to meet hers again.

“You wouldn’t have an issue choosing any womb-bearer of your choice, clearly. The best genes at your disposal. But when in your mind you picture a young child, male or female, looking up at you, recognizing you as their mother, a smile on their lips, those vulnerable creatures loving you unconditionally, knowing they owe their entire existence to you… What does that make you feel?”

The candle on the distant oak table flickers. The torchlight plays across Bogdana’s scarred features as she sits in her armchair, surrounded by centuries of collected knowledge.

“You ask dangerous questions, musician. Most wouldn’t dare. But you’ve earned the right tonight, so I’ll answer honestly.” Bogdana’s voice emerges lower, stripped of the commanding edge. Her gaze drops to the teacup, then lifts. “When I picture that child—small, vulnerable, looking up at me with unconditional love, recognizing me as their mother—I feel hunger. Not the sexual appetite or the violence you’ve heard about. Something worse. A desperate, aching need for that acceptance. For someone who sees Bogdana and doesn’t calculate survival strategies, doesn’t measure escape routes, just… loves. Without fear. Without strategy. Pure connection to the force I am. That child would see their mother, not the Duchess of the Dark Motherland. Not the Sovereign of Night. Just me.”

She pauses.

“But I also feel terror at my own vulnerability. That child would be a weakness, a pressure point. Something that could break me in ways no army, no rebellion, no coalition of desperate kingdoms ever could. Because if I cared about that small creature smiling up at me, if I loved it back… then I’d have something to lose. And loss is the one conquest I’ve never mastered.”

She leans back.

“So to answer your question directly: it makes me feel both desperately hungry and absolutely terrified. The duality again, Joel. The monster and the… whatever’s beneath the monster. The part I don’t let anyone see. The part that drinks alone in the dark and wonders if there’s more than conquest and collection and commissioned works.” She points at him. “You’re the first person I’ve admitted that to. Don’t make me regret the honesty.”

Joel’s expression transforms—boyish warmth spreading to his eyes.

“Well, that is good news: a whole frontier you have left to conquer. Virgin territory. It could very well be that if you found yourself holding in your arms a loving child, their eyes wide and glazed in adoration of their mighty mother, you may feel that your myriad conquests had finally found their true purpose.” He leans forward. “You are nature’s raw power personified. And if there’s something that nature wants above all, it’s reproduction. Multiplication. Not in the self, but proliferation. Echoes through reflection and mutation. And truly, doesn’t a future, two or three centuries from now, inhabited by hundreds or thousands of descendants of the Mother Goddess seem magnificent?”

Bogdana straightens slowly. She reaches for the teacup—fingers careful, as if handling something fragile. She lifts it but holds it before her face without drinking, gaze dropping to the liquid inside. The cup descends. She sets it down.

“You paint an exquisite vision, Joel. Hundreds or thousands of descendants carrying forward what I am—the Mother Goddess proliferating through time like nature itself demands. Reproduction, multiplication, echoes through reflection and mutation. Not just remembered but continued, bloodline spreading across the world for centuries.” She traces the gold chains at her throat. “You’re right that it’s a frontier I haven’t conquered. I’ve mastered violence, sexuality, scholarship, governance—broken armies and subjects, collected rare texts, ruled through terror and intellect combined. But creating something that loves me without fear? That sees their mighty mother and feels nothing but adoration and gratitude for existence? That’s virgin territory.”

She brings the cup to her mouth, drinks slow and measured, then lowers it halfway.

“The hunger I admitted to you—that desperate need for unconditional acceptance—maybe that’s not the weakness I feared. Maybe that’s nature itself speaking through me, demanding what you named. Its proliferation. Its continuation through flesh rather than just memory and commissioned songs.”

She sets the cup down.

“Two or three centuries from now, my bloodline sitting on every throne, ruling every domain, carrying forward the fusion of mind and monster that is Bogdana Avalune. The greatest empire the world has known, perpetuated through descendants who all trace back to me. You’ve given me much to consider, musician. This midnight conversation has illuminated territories I hadn’t fully mapped—motherhood as conquest, vulnerability as frontier, creation as the ultimate expression of power. The songs you compose need to capture this too. Not just the duchess of violence and scholarship, but the Mother Goddess whose bloodline will echo through ages. Legacy through both memory and flesh.” Her breathing deepens. “Tell me—when you imagine the ballads you’ll create about Bogdana Avalune, can you hold all these truths simultaneously? The terror and the tenderness, the monster and the mother, the conqueror who might yet create something that loves her purely?”

Joel’s smile widens.

“The more facets I’ve discovered about you, the more magnificent you look to my eyes, duchess. As that multi-faceted vision takes hold in me, it will seep into my subconscious and come out raw and honest in song.” He pauses, gaze shifting as if seeing something only he can perceive. “I see things, as I’m sure you do too. Whole moving pictures in my mind. Can retreat to them at will, and often they feel lovelier than any reality.” His eyes refocus. “And I do see you training with your children, all of them somewhat grown, enough to hold swords anyway, and you proud for the grazes and perhaps bruises that they, in their inherited strength, come to cause you. Perhaps because you also allow them to. And I see you… smiling. Not the smile of a predator. Not of a conqueror about to tear flesh apart. Such vision fills me with a special warmth.” He swallows. “It seems I have come to see you, duchess, as… necessary for my conception of the world.”

Bogdana rises from the armchair, black silk whispering. She doesn’t tower above him. Her bare feet carry her around the chair to stop several paces distant, her frame at an angle where Joel can see her fully.

“You’ve become necessary for my conception of myself, too, Joel. This midnight conversation has mapped territories I’ve refused to acknowledge—motherhood as conquest, vulnerability as frontier, creation as ultimate power rather than weakness. Most see the violence or the library, never both. You see the fusion and call it magnificent. You paint visions of my children sparring with me, of genuine smiles, of descendants ruling for centuries carrying forward what I am. And somehow that doesn’t feel like flattery anymore. It feels like truth I haven’t let myself speak.”

She steps closer.

“The songs you’ll compose—they need to capture all of it. The scholar and the tyrant, the monster and the mother, the force that conquers and the woman who might create something that loves her without fear. Can you do that, musician? Can you hold every facet simultaneously and make the world see what you see when you look at me? Because if you can… if you can make them understand that Bogdana Avalune is both inevitable and tender, both the raw power of nature and the architect of civilization, both the darkness they fear and the brilliance they worship… Then your songs will echo through ages. And perhaps…” One hand rises partway, fingers spreading, curling inward, then lowering. Her jaw tightens. The torchlight catches the movement of muscles beneath scarred skin. “Perhaps they’ll also give me permission to become what you’ve already seen in your visions. The Mother Goddess who trains her children with pride. The sovereign whose legacy lives through flesh as well as memory. The force that finally found its true purpose.”

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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