With one arm draped over her face, Iskra’s rhythmic breathing came at a steady pace. The desire for a much needed nap had overdriven every other desire that her mind had once sought for her to accomplish earlier in the day.

Naps were something that she had come to enjoy ever since she had gotten pregnant, something that she had once loathed to take before her banishment from Ranislava. To Iskra, they were such a luxury these days that she had even decided to forgo whatever menial tasks she needed to take care of and instead indulge in the pleasures of slumber.

Her joy in experiencing such bless came to a sudden end when a terrible chorus of thrashing reverberated from Iskra’s office door, immediately sending the young girl into the air with fright as her metallic servant announced his presence from behind the expertly crafted oak frame.

“I’ve brought that snow person you were talking about.” Argonok’s echoing voiced boomed as he twisted and turned the doorknob without waiting for his mistress’s permission to enter.

As the door swung open, Iskra’s shocked expression twisted from frightened shock to a face that had become tainted with unadulterated annoyance.

“I keep telling you to knock more quietly,” Iskra grumbled towards her fleshless bodyguard as the creature in question made way for the aforementioned ‘snow person’. “You’re going to scare me to death if you keep doing it like that.”

Argonok twisted his helmet to gaze upon the flustered expression of his mistress as he moved to the side and held the door open so that the honored guest could take the first step into the young girl’s office.

“You’ve given up on having me quit stomping my feet, haven’t you?” The Fire Guard chuckled menacingly as he brought up another of his mistress’s failed attempts to ‘civilize’ his apparent uncultured attitude. “What makes you think that this’ll be any different from that?”

Iskra opened her mouth for a retort but quickly closed her lips tightly shut as her eyes turned towards the white-haired elven woman whose harsh gaze burned brightly behind a lavishly designed folding fan.

Her guest stood proudly, emanating a near-divine aura of confidence as she waited for the hostess to offer her a chance to take a seat.

Iskra thought over the best way to address her guest as she was only aware of the elven woman’s surname and not that of her first name. There were several ways for her to address such an issue, but none of the options that came to mind would be able to allow her to leave the desired impression that she sought.

While the Dark Elven matron held the coveted title of Dread Mistress, Iskra was aware of the fact that because she was married to a prince, she wasn’t bound to address her as such. It was only through such technicalities that she was both below the elven woman in station, but also above her in status as well.

In the end, Iskra decided to use the title of “Mistress” instead. It was a simple title that held multiple meanings, but in this case it would be used in the company of noble born women who the speaker was unsure of their social status and affairs.

“Mistress Snowstalker,” Iskra spoke up as she attempted to fix her posture into something a little more presentable but almost immediately gave up when her body, exhausted from pregnancy and an overabundance of sleep, refused to budge an inch.

Finding that she couldn’t care less about how her terrible posture was perceived by her guest, Iskra turned to look away from the head of the Snowstalker household and let out an exhausted sigh.

“If you would be so kind as to ignore my quarrel with my servant,” Iskra thrusted an open hand towards one of the many couches that lay within the confines of her office. “Please help yourself.”

The elven woman raised an eyebrow at the peculiar girl before her as she waved the fan in front of her face. The powerful Dread Mistress remained in contemplating silence as her eyes scanned the rest of the room around her, taking up an excruciating amount of time before finally taking the first step towards the countless number of options available to her.

Even before her esteemed guest had taken the first step, Iskra was confident in her assurance that the white-haired elven woman would choose the furthest option that had been offered to her.

Of which, said option just so happened to be the chair that stood behind her work desk.

As she watched the elven woman step towards Iskra’s most coveted seat, a wave of annoyance boiled beneath the young girl’s barely contained expressions as she suppressed her ire towards the Dread Mistress and instead turned her attention towards her body.

The girl’s gem-like emerald green eyes roamed over the elven woman’s matronly form, comparing both of their bodies as she watched the Snowstalker’s matriarch sway her wide, child-bearing hips with passionate, sultry precision.

Her eyes became jealous with envy as they became captivated by the shimmering, curve-hugging dress that clung to the elven woman’s skin as if she had been born to wear such a scandalous outfit. A bountiful amount of the woman’s back had been left exposed, but that only served to further entice any onlookers as their eyes drifted downwards, catching sight of the woman’s swaying hips and bouncing buttocks that remained hidden beneath the silk dress’s glittering surface that ended just over halfway to her knees.

Such a risqué outfit was a far cry from the raven-haired teenagers’ wrinkled up and oversized articles of clothing that she wore on a daily basis.

In the back of her mind, Iskra was nothing more than a bundle of quilted bedsheets that needed to be washed while the elven woman was an aristocrat whose radiant beauty could burn away the human teenager’s ragged form by her sheer presence alone.

Yet despite the obvious difference in their current fashion styles, there was one thing that kept the young girl’s spirit from falling into the deepest pit of despair.

While the elven matron may have been blessed with a body that was in abundance of bountiful flesh, Iskra could safely lay claim to the fact that her body was on an entirely different level. By several degrees, in fact.

This strange and awkward style of confidence boosting had left the young girl brimming with pride in her own conceited way as a self-indulgent huff of air escaped from her lips as she crossed her arms beneath her mountainous breasts, pushing them up by just enough to show the difference between the two women.

While Iskra was glowing in self-confidence over her body, the elven woman retained her silent composure as she sat down upon the working chair’s plush, cushioned surface. Only the elven woman’s calculating glare remained visible behind the lavishly designed fan as her pitch-black eyes locked themselves upon the pregnant teenager’s form.

As Iskra waited for her guest to thank her for giving her a chance to sit down, an awkward atmosphere soon took hold over the meeting’s procession as the two women looked upon one another.

Yet such words never came to fruition as the Dread Mistress of the Snowstalker household leisurely fanned her face.

Time continued to press forward and with each grain of sand that drifted down the perpetual hourglass, Iskra’s youthful features slowly began to soften themselves as she offered a gentler smile to her guest.

Even as she watched the human teenager present herself with a kinder expression, the elven woman, with her snow-white hair glimmering beneath the sun’s rays, continued to hide her expression behind the ornate fan as her harsh, calculating eyes gazed upon the abundance of flesh that the pregnant teenager possessed.

The elven woman’s pair of moonless, midnight-black eyes did not stare down at Iskra out of contempt or jealousy. Nor did they look upon the raven-haired teenager’s divinity-blessed curves with lust. Instead, those mercantile and well-trained eyes glimmered beneath the shimmering rays of penetrating sunlight as if they were evaluating a potential product that lay sprawled out before them and the associated risks that would befall them if they were to steal away such an invaluable item.

Eventually the elven woman relaxed her posture and sat back into the seat behind her, lifting her chin and snapping the fan shut before placing the ornate item between her meaty thighs.

“When my sorcerers received a request from the Dreadblade household to receive a teleportation request, they scrambled to oblige my household’s betters.” The Dread Mistress’s glaring eyes did not falter as she rolled her shoulders, planting her arms upon her seat’s plush armrests. “So imagine everyone’s despair when a singular Fire Guard from the Star’s Wastes had been teleported instead, brazenly demanding to see me. At first I had thought my enemies had gone mad in their hatred for my household, but when that very same creature held out a letter, I was perplexed as to who would have sent such a peculiar messenger.”

Iskra nodded her head at the elven woman’s words, agreeing with the idea of just how ridiculous it must have been to gaze upon one of the world’s most unkillable forms of demonic-possessions as they lay claim to hold in their possession a letter that was addressed to none other than themselves.

Yet she knew that such a method was necessary if she wished to receive the Snowstalker matron as an honored guest.

The visions that such a letter entailed was far too tempting of an offer for one to simply ignore it after having read the contents within.

“Now imagine my further disbelief when that very same creature laid claim to serving a mistress with the surname of Dreadblade. A human mistress, might I add.”

The Dread Mistress allowed for her words to drop off, owing to the silence that quickly followed as to how ridiculous everything had first seemed.

The revulsion that the legendary lineage of the Dreadblade bloodline, a bloodline that could directly trace themselves to the mythical Elven God-King; Aurelius Aurora Aurealis, held for the Snowstalker household was so intense that unless official court tasks required for both families to be in attendance, neither of the two families would dare to step foot on the same patch of soil as the other.

When she had first heard of such a thing, Iskra had thought of it as being extremely ridiculous as the whole thing felt nonsensical and downright theatrical in how the two families presented themselves to the other.

Yet her elven in-laws were so overly dramatic in everything that they had done to her, Iskra had no doubt in her mind that she was making the right call in asking for Dread Mistress Snowstalker’s help in her hour of need.

Taking Iskra’s silence as a sign of defeat, the elven Dread Mistress took the opportunity provided to her and scanned the room around her. Her eyes shifted from one direction to the next as she took in the ordinary, yet peculiar sights before her and beyond the human girl that lay sprawled out upon a couch with a massively pregnant belly before her; there was nothing of any particular interest that had managed to take hold of her inner thoughts.

“I don’t know how or why a human obtained the treasured name of the Dreadblade lineage, but judging from the size of that belly you’ve got there, I shouldn’t have to.” The snow-white haired elven woman smirked as she flipped her fan open, hiding the majority of her face behind the ornate instrument as she looked down upon the perplexed human girl. Her midnight-black eyes bore into the gem-like eyes of the human girl before her as they danced to and fro, desperate to catch hold of the words that now failed to materialize along the stretch of her tongue. “I would congratulate you on obtaining something that my household has coveted for generations, but what use would my words have for you when your mortal coil has very little left to offer to this world.”

The elven matron stood and turned to leave, no longer willing to stare at a young girl whose death, and the death of her unborn children, was all but guaranteed. Deaths that would be seen as natural occurrences that were on a similar level as mere passings of the wind.

That was until that very same girl, whose announcement of death was all but written in official documents, had found the words that she needed.

“What if my life was guaranteed by none other than the Witch-King?”

Iskra asked of her guest as she lifted her head in defiance of prophesized demise, staring defiantly at the swaying backside of the motherly elven figure before her.

The very same figure whose footsteps faltered into a complete stop, twisting her neck to look back at the raven-haired teenager as a closed fan tapped at the underside of her chin.

The Dread Mistress remained quiet, choosing to wait to hear what else the young girl had to say.

“Aren’t you curious as to who the father is?” Iskra openly wondered as she watched the elven woman turn to face her, a look of calculating curiosity was present upon the older woman’s features as she crossed her arms across her chest, pushing her breasts up while waiting for the teenager to continue with what she had to say. “Maybe you’re right in that I don’t have a lot of time left in this world and I can see why you would think that, especially after witnessing just how dangerous my husband’s blood mother can be. But with what little time I’ve spent around my new in-laws, I know all about the vile rumors that surround my husband.”

The elven woman remained quiet as she thought over the teenager’s words. Her eyes flickered in every direction as her mind fought over what the young girl could have meant in having chosen to speak in such a roundabout manner.

The context clues that had been provided to her were very little, but most likely deliberate in their description.

It was true that the Witch-King’s children were rarely without rumors surrounding their persona and the man had an extreme fetish for sorceress’s that managed to catch his eye. Yet the man held an abundance wives that contained a vast array of arcane might at their beck and call.

So while there were a handful of women who the Dread Mistress could disqualify from the list of potential mothers that bore the potential of having birthed the mysterious father figure, the clues that had been offered to her were of seldom any help as to which of the Witch-King’s sons the young girl was speaking of.

“Forsaken by my parents and abandoned in this harsh land, I was destined to die a gruesome death at the hands of heinous beasts,” Began a teary eyed Iskra as her voice cracked with emotion at the memories that spilled forth from her quivering lips. “But through his radiant grace and mesmerizing figure I was saved by my husband. Almost as if the very gods themselves had ordained that the two of us would meet in such a hostile world.”

As the raven-haired girl spun the dramatic retelling of the apparent fated meeting, the Snowstalker’s matriarch couldn’t help but roll her eyes. She couldn’t tell if the girl was always this dramatic or if she was romanticizing the actual events in order to spin a more favorable retelling that would help to sway the white-haired elven woman.

With how much family drama that she had dealt with over the years the last thing that she needed was to get involved into the family drama of such a legendary household, especially considering that she had to deal with her own army of underaged children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and etcetera.

“So when it was found out that I had been blessed with children by such a radiant knight, I had grown ecstatic over the thought of meeting more of my future in-laws.” Iskra continued, pushing more of the waterworks from her reddening eyes as they flickered over towards the elven woman as she grew curious as to how her guest was reacting to her tale. “Yet after beating back Mother-In-Law Velicion’s murderous rage, my husband was helpless as he watched her vow to bring over the Witch-King to deal with me and put an end to the wayward son’s actions.”

Tears continued to flow down the side of her cheeks as her tale had reached its apex. Before she could finish retelling the story’s finale, Iskra grasped at her oversized shirt to dab at her tears, but found that her arms had instead decided to wipe away at the glistening trails that had been left behind by the splattering droplets.

“As I waited, assured of my demise, I clung tightly to the world’s most righteous and benevolent soul. A soul whose radiance shines brightly in even the darkest of apocalypses. Whose radiance clasps the souls of his loved ones and etches utter devotion into their very being while tearing an unfathomable terror into the hearts of his enemies. I wailed as I begged him to reconsider-”

“Enough already.” The Dread Mistress uttered in an exhausted tone, shaking her head in annoyance at just how far the human girl was willing to go in order to make herself look more favorable in this dramatic theatrics. “You aren’t a playwright, so quit acting like one.”

“Fine,” Iskra pouted as an annoyed huff of air escaped from her lips, perturbed by the sudden dismissal of her life’s retelling. Wiping away the last of her tears, Iskra waited for a quick moment in order to stabilize her inner thoughts after they had been directly assaulted by the torrent of false emotions. She had hoped that a quivering voice accompanied by fake tears would help her in her goals, but she could now see that they weren’t welcome at all.

Despite having declared that she found the overly dramatic flair of her in-laws to be in poor taste, Iskra couldn’t deny the fact that she had greatly enjoyed the very same style of drama that she had grown accustomed to over the past several months.

“What I was trying to say was that I’m married to Aurelius and now my in-laws are forcing me to look over a few girls to find an elven wife for him.” Iskra started as she thought over what other types of stories she could dramatically spin in her favor.

Stunned by what she had just heard, the elven woman gave the human girl an inquisitive look as she opened her mouth to speak. Hoping to confirm the name of what she just said.

“Aurelius? As in-”

“You’ve heard me,” Iskra let out in a huff as she turned to look away, crossing her arms as a sign of defiance towards the other woman. “Aurelius Sylvos Dreadblade.”