Into the void of the dream, he sailed to the never-ending cycle of darkness, where there was no spark of stars nor a space rift scars, this nightmare schemed.

Before him, a shadowy feminine stood between the ashes, they swirled gently as if the center figure was formed by the clashes.

A figure cast by a nightmare if a stranger was to describe, but even if the devil had him bribed, he opposed that stranger's opinion, 'cause in his very own dream's dominion, she had the black hollyhock's allure: a flower of black magic, that summoned an unexplainable desire of his, to fuel his feet, for he to be pedaled towards the figure's finger gesture that assured.

The ashes enveloped him whole, and to his ears, her words were bowled. "My dearest, Dragos, oblivion may devour your mind, but the soul, and your heart, could not deny what you crave." Her womanly voice was soothing, and through the sea of blackness, she continued the sentence that was cruising. "So am I. The yearning was unbearable, even for a flawed god."

She reached her shadowy hand and caressed his cheek, and she turned into his yearning long-time lover, who had come back from a long time of absence— she had her following sweet words and touch, so intense that they were drowning his very being with unexplainable peace, longing, love, and... they were all blending in congruence.

'She is, unbelievably overwhelming,' he could not stop his shaken heart as he sighed internally, and seemed that he did not mind, from the way he responded casually.

'Let's just go with the flow as always,' he added.

He surrendered himself to the drifting waves of pleasant feelings, completely, he submerged himself in her dark embrace of clings, and perhaps she was correct, he had been only in denial but his honest bones were showing the opposite of deject, oh-look he, a hand of dishonesty, he reached for the woman's rear crevices he would love to wrecked.

He trailed across her ghostly dress' corsage, tried to wipe away the darkness on her face, for he had hoped to see her colored visage, but all that swayed were the dark ashes, that left out a face of nothingness, yet he could tell she was still there, even without the shadows, an invisible woman that pressed his chest with her soft mounds of boldness.

"Please, tell me, who are you really?"

"Traxa," at all times, the invader of his dreams uttered the same answer.

Mimicking a soldier's broken cassette, for his very same question she had the very same answer like an in-battle stubborn lancer.

He slacked his jaw, and attempted to further the dialogue, but his mouth was gagged by the plumpness of her ashen lips, through and through, he was seized by her smell of silence, as she forced her way into him, similar to a lustful beast serpent under the eclipse, slithered, hithered, and once again, he indulged himself, in his lucid dreams of unending drips.

------

"Fuck! In every fucking morning wood. She's the cause!" After he peeled out his eyes to greet the gentle morning sun rays that came from the window pane, he did not forget to curse the harshness of everyday life, but also the hardness in his pants that caused him a slight pain.

Wet dreams were normal for someone as young as him, 20 years of age. Oddly, every single night of those years had her forceful companionship that had him placed in her lust cage.

He certainly could not remember his baby dreams due to his young mind at that time, but since he had the ability to recollect his dream's chime, he was aware that she was the only visitor who had come.

As if she had no other claims but he, selfish was she, his body and soul as the bail, the constrictor woman of ash that repeatedly derailed his innocence without fail.

But what was there to dislike? Especially when in return, he could retaliate and strike, he made her crazily moan with his every impale, indeed, in his avail, without fail.

'Forget it. There are more important things to focus my life on. My dreams mean no harm anyway, and at least she's able to invoke some pleasant feelings out of this wretched life of mine.'

He glimpsed at the hand of the mechanical clock that thicks at 7'o clock, and stepped on his favorite cottony shoes possibly made of feathers from a pitiful duck.

With the soles that had him enabled, he pushed through the stack of documents on his office table, and although his room was spacious as two combined rooms, was lavishly decorated with various collectible antique accessories, the air was hugely occupied by the pungent thick papers, was it just him, or was their smell horrifyingly turning into a fishy Cowries?

'This must be a sign of stress, pull yourself,' he said to himself.

Those were just stressors, papers that could stress any public official such as himself, he certainly needed a break if such simple paperwork had his nose sniffed in unsavory distress.

He twirled down the mansion's wooden spiral stairs, and slid the loose sleeves of his elegant blackberry tunic robes into the smooth handrail, oh-how he wished that his life was the same, he could just smoothly slide through all the ambassador's troublesome tasks, no wonder some leisure books he had read had characters of busy nobles wanting the simpler life of a high commoner.

Downstairs, he sat on the luxurious dining table set under a crystal chandelier, thankfully, this time, his nostril was tickled by the tantalizing aroma of the served breakfast, gracefully attended with silver cutlery and napkins by the maid's steadfast.

Voilà, a cooked whole river fish seasoned in turmeric, black pepper, and salt— furnished with roasted turnips on the plate's sides, he could not find any fault.

"Breakfast's ready, M'Lord," she gave him a quick respectful bow as a greeting before excusing herself.

Well done, a maid that deserved his approval, them salts were glistered on the served food, and not on the brunette maid's face, a common occurrence for commoners to be salty of their lords, how unprofessional of those, glad she did not belong to their group.

His noble dish was partnered with a bowl of steamy rice, together with chestnuts, and plums on a cutesy dessert plate, there it was, his typical sumptuous package of a noble's breakfast with white wine as a drink.

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A chaotic memory flashed, his brows creased with unpleasant yet pleasantness about the woman of ashes, those plums and white wine, what a strong resemblance, he shook the thoughts away and distracted himself with the crystalline wine bowl's gleam.

"Anything important today steward?" Seeing an aged man attentively in wait, he surmised that he had something major to tell.

"Yes, M'lord. A letter of importance." He laid down a parchment at the table's edge, just within his hand's reach.

The sharp Chateau mansion he currently owns had been occupied by only him, the maid, and the steward.

It's not that he was frugal to hire fewer houseworkers, he just had a notion that no matter how many of these servants accommodated his daily life, they could never bring warmth to this empty house, similar to the emptiness in his heart that could never be refilled after his parents had died.

The house of Trastamara was dubbed as noblesse de robe, as the name implied, they had maintained their nobility status by holding high-ranking office official titles of the kingdom for many generations, from financier to court official, not a single robe of those officials was not worn by a Trastamara, thus being called the noblesse de robe.

Alas, nothing was permanent in this world, for the current King, Senderis Mercia, had enacted a severe reformation of every non-military department of the kingdom's official ranks, they were shrunk down in number due to war.

In particular, the department of diplomatic officials wherein in the past was composed of ambassadors, envoys, ministers, and charge of affairs: now, oh-wow, they had only an ambassador title to represent the kingdom, and as if matters were not at worst, a single personnel could only be deligated in the said position.

With a satisfied stomach, thereafter, he unscrolled the small parchment, and Mercia's family crest was easily caught by his gaze, a royal scepter bordered and dazzled by the sun, to his simplified, the letter composed of prompts for his duty to be enacted, he himself will be sent out to request military assistance from the nearby allied nation, what a load of a mullock!

"Bastards!"

His thrown hammer fist snapped the table in half, and his two eyebrows were defined by half wrath and half bloodbath, if he failed to control his blazing anger and had his sanity clapped, he would surely turn into a psychopath.

Without dilly-dallying, under their Lord's burning glares, the maid ran in to broom the broken dining wares, while the steward swooped out the remains of the table, and judging from their unperturbed faces, this was not the first time their Lord lost his bearing.

He had become irritable and now cursed more often than not, how could he not, after the deceased of his family members due to Mercia's plot? The head of the family was struck by Mercia's aggressive clout, and all of the Trastamara's wealth was inherited solely by him, but what was to be happy about?

Even if he became a gold-hoarded dragon of stout, was the cause, the Mercia, are they unbold?

Their greed would push them to act upon him even if he was stronger by twofold.

"M'lord, Her Highness Crestel has paid you a visit, she's currently at the entrance hall." A knight guard marched in and declared.

Judging by his perfunctory salute, seems like most of the subjects' loyalty to the Trastamara household, had already been bought.

He dragged his cold face towards the entrance hall, where he met the smiling woman: in a dark emerald velvet and gold brocade gown, with her delicate sun crown, her voluminous messy blonde hair had been mended yet untamed.

As if her hair proclaimed, the gold shine almost concealed her two escorts: a woman knight in silver and a woman in her forties that he deemed as the worm of unworth.

"White Sapphire of Mercia, you are still as gorgeous even during your final plight, must I say it twice, be my prince consort and I shall shield you against these tortious smites."

Her words were like beautiful melodies that matched her charming outer appearance, but he knew that she lurked a cruel enslaver under that charmful skin of hers, the inside version of her who would want to bind to her castle of durance.

She no longer pretended that her family was innocent of the Trastamara's manmade ill health, the kingdom in need of funds had stripped out many noble titles with falsified allegations and crimes, thereupon, they had a forged reason to confiscate their wealth.

Those non-military wealthy nobles, who fought for their right were either, sent out as battlefield slain generals or as groups of unreturning envoys—

With the all-out war around many nations, where could they escape the riches they built?

They only had themselves ditched

and hitched,

to a new kingdom where they had the commoner's weak rights both in privilege and —in voice.

"A lucrative offer your highness. Too bad, a one-sided feeling does not sprout out a happy married life."

His mind additionally quoted, 'this bitch, do you take me as a fool? At which part do I look like a stupid mule?'

He was aware of her lascivious desire, she wanted him under her skirt, what was he to her?

A puny dirt?

A ragged disposable shirt,

that she could dispose of once drenched with the liquids between her satisfied legs of a pervert?

Not only could she further inflate her ego when she conquered the White Sapphire of Mercia, a name given by the citizens of the Mercia kingdom due to his crystal white hair, hard cold demeanor, and unmatched beauty; but she would absorb the Trastamara's wealth by having him married into her royal family.

She would possess the man she fancied and contribute to Mercia, a full win for her, but this could be the writing's fin for him.

"Jairo dear, what is there to lose? Just accept Her Highness' proposal, she will ensure the family's safety and she has the power to stop this suicidal endeavor of yours." A middle-aged woman butted in, her oceanic eyes had worried feigns under her black fringe: her husband, his cowardly uncle, did not even have the guts to face him, so he sent out his wife with a plastic personality to persuade him, to submit to the princess of cringe.

"Your Highness, If there's nothing more of significance to talk about, may I please excuse myself, I have many tasks in check." He gave her a final graceful neck bow, and ascended to the stairway towards his room.

The princess attempted to stop him with her lifted hand, zeroed chance, it was for naught as he scurried away like a man who was too busy to attend their bullshits.

"Why was he so disinterested? I swallowed my pride to chase him and this is what I got? He must be dim-witted, and a man with a hollowed heart." Grievance twisted her countenance, briefly, she regained her composure like how a royal would behave, even after they had fallen into the deepest of pits.

"What now, Your Highness?"

"A pity, short live flower withering like a hum ditty, stood its ground refusing to be plucked, burnt when the scorching sun struck." She uttered words of cadence. "Let us leave, hence, allow the original plan to commence."

Followed by the princess and her escorts' withdrawal from his abode, he too, ordered the steward to prepare his departure with the knight retinues, whom he was ignorant of their names, yet they were his companions in carrying a mission of heavy load.

With powerful minds and bodies, the nobles could certainly remember anyone's name they had interacted with, however, the nobles' pride maintained their distance from the people of lower status, behevaiour wise, these cultures were built by the past egoistic aristocrats during their sudden afflatus.

Next to the towering mansion gate with auspicious writing that reads Trastamara Le Grand, the sunlight bedazzled his gold lapel with Mercia's brand, don in his elegant obsidian caped robe that screams "I'm a diplomat you can't hit me where I stand," he marched to his carriage like an aristocrat disengaging from a Minuet dance.

With his chiseled handsome face that would make any noble lady scream, "he's the one." He mounted the carriage of depicted canary sun, Sun Ray Carriage, a flying vehicle befitting an ambassador of the kingdom.

"My old bones were brimmed with energy just by witnessing the Lord's grace, aye."

"When will the Young Lord bring home a lady? The Lord might smile more like in the past whe—"

"Shat ya dam mouth, don't bring up something that might sadden the Young Lord will ya?"

The peasant, freemen, paid him a nimble glance of awe and respect, but it seemed that their loud gossip needed to be kept in check.

"It seems their lord's kindness has been taken for granted, for these peasants to gossip openly huh?" A knight in dark steel armor scorned, draped in a flaxen cape.

"It's fine, General Vector, aren't we in a hurry?" His voice passed across the carriage's window.

"Heh, of course. Knights! Move out!"