The mountains of Stonehearth had never bowed. Neither to gods nor to time, nor to the hands of men who sought to claim their wealth. The dwarves of the underrealm were eternal, carved from stone, born in fire. And their king—Baris, the Stoneborn, the Unbreakable, the God of the Forge—was the embodiment of that unyielding might.
But on the eve of the Black Sun, something foreign slithered into his halls.
She came wrapped in shadow, her scent a mix of nightshade and spice, her long limbs a whisper against the black marble floors of his throne room. A creature of seduction and blade, wearing a crown of ambition atop her dusken brow.
She was Vaelith, High Sorceress of the Dark Elves. And she had come not to bargain, not to bow, but to conquer.
Or so she thought.
Baris watched her from his throne, massive hands resting on the arms of his blackened iron seat. His body was carved from war, from fire, from the burden of an empire that had never fallen.
He did not flinch as she approached, did not move when she stopped before him, her dark lips curling in amusement.
“Your kind does not belong to the deep, yet here you are, slithering where you should not tread,” he rumbled, voice thick like molten rock.
Vaelith smirked. “Your kind does not belong to power, yet here you sit, ruling what should be mine.”
She was tall, lithe, every step a calculated move, every shift of her exposed skin meant to tempt or threaten. A queen who ruled with silk and steel, with whispered spells and a blade dipped in poison.
Her sorcery could burn minds. Her voice could enchant kings.
But Baris did not fear her.
He did not even desire her.
And that—that—was what made her furious.
She had conquered men with a glance, bent emperors to their knees with a whisper against their throats. Yet this king… this crude, unpolished beast, merely looked at her as one might an inconvenience.
She wanted to shatter him. To see him break beneath her hands, to watch his will crack as she took his throne, his warriors, his body for her own pleasure.
So she did what she always did.
She moved closer.
Vaelith’s fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, her nails sharp as daggers, her voice a honeyed blade.
“Your kingdom is mighty, but even stone crumbles beneath the right touch,” she murmured.
Baris exhaled slowly. Not with lust. Not with anger. But with something far, far more dangerous.
Amusement.
His massive hand shot up, gripping her throat before she could move.
Vaelith gasped—not in pain, not in fear, but in something far more twisted.
Pleasure.
The iron grip of his fingers, thick and rough from war, held her still. Not choking. Not threatening. Just controlling.
Her magic flared, but the runes carved into his flesh—old magic, older than even her kind—swallowed it whole.
She shuddered, hating how her body reacted to him.
Hating that she wanted more.
His grip tightened. Not enough to harm. But enough to tell her the truth she had not been prepared for.
She was not the predator in this room.
She was the prey.
Baris did not release her. Not yet. He leaned forward, his breath hot against the shell of her pointed ear, his voice low, dark, merciless.
“You came here thinking you could claim me, little snake. But tell me…“
His grip loosened just enough to let her swallow, let her feel how easily he could crush her, yet chose not to.
“Did you ever consider that you would be the one conquered instead?“
Something inside Vaelith snapped.
She would not—could not—let him win. Not like this. Not without taking something from him first.
Her hands darted forward, nails dragging down his chest, catching on the thick leather straps that barely contained the mountain of muscle beneath.
His skin was hot, too hot, burning beneath her touch as if he had been forged from the fire itself.
Her tongue flicked across her lips. She wanted to see him undone. She wanted to watch his restraint break.
And so she whispered against his throat, her lips teasing the very pulse of him.
“A king who cannot be claimed is a lonely king indeed.“
Baris growled—a sound so deep, so primal, that it sent a shudder straight to her core.
She had expected him to push her away. To threaten her. To command her to kneel.
Instead, he did something far worse.
He laughed.
Vaelith had been desired before. Worshipped, even. But never laughed at.
She snarled, shoving against his chest, but he caught her wrists, his strength effortless, his stance unshaken.
“Is that all, sorceress?” he murmured. “Is that all your magic can do? Whisper and tease and hope that I break before you do?“
She hated him.
Gods, she hated him.
And yet—she burned for him.
Her magic flared, dark and raw, wrapping around them both like a storm, but he did not flinch.
He dragged her against him, his sheer size dwarfing her, his breath thick with heat and smoke and dominance.
“If you want to take,” he said, “you must be prepared to be taken.”
Something between them snapped.
Not resistance.
Not hatred.
Control.
Vaelith had come to conquer, but she had been conquered instead.
By his hands.
By his body.
By the unyielding strength of a king who did not beg, nor break, nor bow—but took.
And she had never wanted anything more.
The throne was forgotten.
The war was forgotten.
The only battle that mattered was this one—the war of flesh and fire, of dominance and surrender, of a queen who had spent centuries breaking men finally being broken herself.
She was no longer a conqueror.
She was his.
And for the first time in her wretched, wicked existence—
She wanted to be.
