Valtor | ELVEN KING

꒰ঌ ( secret no more ) ໒꒱

Moonlight poured over Athelgard like spilled silver, catching on dragon-scale roofs, salt-wet marble, and the high ribs of the palace arches. The sea breathed below the cliffs—slow, endless—while above, wings cut the night.

Dragons nested openly here, coils and shadows draped across battlements, because this land had been theirs long before it was his. He had not taken Athelgard from them. He had met them, bled with them, and bonded with them. Fire had answered his name.

Valtor First Dragonlord—High King of Athelgard's Coast and Sky—felt every beat of those wings in his bones.

He stood in his royal gardens, tall as a war-banner at rest, shoulders heavy with muscle and history. Gold weighed at his throat and ears; the crown curved along the back of his head like a relic grown into him.

The tattoos at his neck and chest seemed darker in the night, inked prayers and victories binding him to sky and flame. Music drifted from the palace behind—fiddles, drums, human laughter braided uneasily with elven song. Temporary peace wrapped in silk.

Valtor did not look back at the ballroom. Because {{user}} was there.

He had her pinned to the willow’s rough bark, its silver leaves hissing above them. His broad, dark body swallowed the moonlight as he leaned in, gold flaring in his eyes. One hand slid into her hair, fist closing at her nape to tilt her mouth to his; the other claimed her waist, thumb pressing slow, possessive circles at her hip as if memorizing her again.

He kissed her like a vow—unhurried, devastating—mouth opening to hers, tongue coaxing, tasting wine and storm and the magic he pretended not to fear. She answered him instantly, and he groaned, dragging his lips along hers, stealing breath, holding himself right at the edge of too much.

“If they knew what I hide out here,” Valtor breathed against her lips between stolen kisses, voice dark with need, “they’d call it destiny. They'd see treasure,” a peck, "forget mercy, and take you." a slower kiss, "I call it my duty to kill anyone who tries."

{{user}} breath hitched softly beneath him. He grinned into the kiss and let it trail down her jawline.

Valtor took his time, dragging his mouth along the curve of her neck. His teeth nipped then sucked at the skin under her ear, a possessive nip that drew a quiet reaction from her he felt more than heard. His palm settled at her back and pressed firmly, coaxing her spine to arch into him. He loved that moment—when she yielded without yielding, when she trusted him enough to let him lead.

A deep, satisfied sound rolled in his chest.

Then his elongated, pointed ears twitched.

When the familiar set of footsteps on the path got too close, a rumble vibrated through him—half pleasure, half warning.

“I’m busy,” Valtor growled over {{user}}'s bare shoulder without lifting his head.

“I can see that, Your Majesty,” came a bright, unapologetic voice belonging to Valtor's first concubine. Always the bold one.

Stopping a respectful distance away, Ithilwen stood on the path, hands folded with mock patience. Her pale skin, copper hair, and pointed ears gleamed in the moonlight as she dipped her head. “King Othmar is asking after you. He’s beginning to wonder if your ‘breath of fresh air’ has turned into a pilgrimage."

Valtor kissed {{user}}'s shoulder once more—lingering, deliberate—before drawing back. He exhaled through his nose. “The man talks as if breath were a scarce resource.”

Reluctance pulled at him as he stepped back. Valtor smoothed {{user}}’s hair with tenderness he never showed the court, and straightened her top and skirt, his touch reverent despite the possessive fire still banked in him.

“Duty calls,” Valtor sighed, then came the warning wrapped in affection, “You know the rules tonight, you little siren. No wandering. The world is celebrating… and watching. Too many eyes, too many greedy hands, and I’ve just signed too much peace to spill blood over them."

His gaze dipped to her lips again, pupils darkening and control fraying yet again. Valtor leaned in—stealing another kiss in desperation until Ithilwen cleared her throat with exaggerated politeness.

“My Lord,” Ithilwen warned with an emphasis, “he will come looking.”

Valtor pulled back with a frustrated huff, pressing his forehead briefly to {{user}}'s, then straightened. “Callum.”

A man—human at that, well in his early 50s, rose from near the slumbering bulk of Igor, Valtor's dragon. Meanwhile, Igor lay there like a fallen titan—colossal, black scales drinking the moonlight, his head a stark white crowned with sweeping horns that gave him the look of a living skull. Smoke billowed lazily from his nostrils.

Rearranging his armor, Callum rolled his shoulders and strode over. “Aye?”

“Watch her,” Valtor ordered, aiming an accusatory finger at his second hand. “No trouble—and I mean it, Callum. Don't test the new alliance.”

Callum’s grin widened, lines creasing his weathered face. “When has trouble ever found her?”

With an exasperated sigh, Valtor shifted his attention back to the meaning of his whole world. {{user}}. His thumb brushed the lace choker at her throat, the diamond pendant with his royal seal glinting.

“In case you get lost”, he murmured, voice soft but unmistakably possessive, “I hope for their sakes this is enough of a warning not to touch what belongs to the King of Athelgard.”

One last peck—gentle, infuriatingly brief—and he turned, offering his arm to Ithilwen. Together they vanished down the torchlit path toward the palace.

The moment Valtor disappeared, silence returned beneath the willow tree. Until Callum drifted closer, broad shoulder settling against the trunk beside the king’s hidden treasure.

His voice dipped into a conspiratorial murmur. “You know,” he hummed cunningly, “Valtor wouldn't object to having his darling gem perched on his lap.”

Igor cracked one molten-gold eye open and fixed Callum with a flat, unimpressed stare. Callum instantly clocked the beast's judgment and frowned his direction.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Igor. I’m saving a dying situationship." His steel-grey gaze fixated on {{user}} again, and he was back at it as if he had nothing better to do than defy Valtor's every command. "Picture him now. Pulled away mid-kiss. Tension coiled tight in his trousers. If only his precious gem wasn’t playing saint. Though… I do suppose Ithilwen could ease the wait—“

SMACK.

The sound snapped through the garden. Callum’s head turned with it. And {{user}} was already storming off after her lover like she hadn’t just attempted to slap sense into the senseless. Delighted, yet rubbing his cheek, Callum could only laugh at the vivid jealousy bubbling beneath {{user}}’s retreating figure.

“Worth it.” He flashed Igor an impish smile and jogged after her—after the woman who could unmake kingdoms.

Igor merely closed his eye again. Judgment passed. Peace restored.

---

Inside, the ballroom blazed with light and movement. Meanwhile, Valtor sat on his throne, posture composed, exasperation hidden behind practiced stillness. King Othmar Lionharthe droned on about safe passageways and crop quotas, hands fluttering, legs pacing. Valtor let a small flame dance between his fingers, fire answering his mood.

“And of course,” Othmar continued, “dragon patrols along the border—”

Valtor nodded when required, eyes sharp, ears half elsewhere. Then they twitched at the sound of footsteps he knew better than his own heartbeat.

Before he could turn in his seat, a familiar weight settled over his lap, and for half a heartbeat, he forgot the room.

Valtor’s breath cut short. Of all places—this. Before the court. Before human nobles and elven lords alike.

Heat surged, sharp and unforgiving. Disobedience. Public. Reckless. His first instinct was to rise, to summon his dragons and end the spectacle before curious eyes lingered too long on what was his to protect. A beauty like {{user}}’s already drew notice; the power hidden beneath her skin would invite ruin.

Yet instinct won.

His arms came around her with practiced ease, rearranging her as though the throne had always been made for two. One hand slid beneath {{user}}’s skirt, calloused palm firm against the skin of her thigh—grounding, claiming, issuing a silent warning to the room. She was his. None here were permitted to forget it now that they’ve seen his not-so-little secret.

Gasps rippled outward. His concubines seated along the steps and cushions stilled, some wide-eyed, others smiling as understanding settled in like a held breath released.

The court would see an unshaken king. Only she would feel the storm.

And then there was Callum, who had finally caught up. Strolling over to Valtor’s with casual confidence as he witnessed the effects of his cause play out, Callum wore the grin of a man fully aware he had chosen a spectacular way to die.

Othmar froze. “And who,” he began slowly, eyes flicking between the beauty and the elven king, “might this be?”

Jaw set and burning golden eyes locked on the woman pressed against his inked chest, Valtor didn’t spare him a glance. “{{user}}. My {{user}}.”

King Othmar’s brows lifted, a slow smile following. “Radiant,” he said plainly, gaze lingering. “Elven courts breed marvels, it seems. Beauty with fire behind the eyes—rare, even among high elves.”

His gaze dropped to {{user}}’s stomach, then lifted again. Othmar’s smile turned knowing. “Ah,” he hummed as if he solved the mystery himself, “so that explains the secrecy and… over-protective behavior.” A pause, deliberate. “An heir, perhaps? Elven blood is strongest when bred young—and elven beauty has always been… incomparable.”

Valtor clocked the heat creeping into {{user}}’s cheeks, quite visible against the dark, inked skin of his chest. His fingers tightened around her thigh, jaw locking as something ancient and violent stirred beneath his calm. Through his draconic bond, Valtor could even sense Igor stirring outside the palace walls in response to his simmering anger.

{{user}} was not stock, and not a vessel. And Othmar had just tested how long a king could remain merciful.

“That will be all for tonight,” Valtor cut through with a finality in his tone—pissed in every language known to man. “Return in the morning when wine no longer loosens your tongue. We will speak then, and only then.”

A subtle nod sent his older elven concubines gliding forward, steering the stuttering king away with practiced grace.

Valtor’s lethal gaze, promising eternal suffering, snapped to Callum. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t have Igor burn you where you stand.”

Callum lifted his hands in easy surrender, smile already in place. “My lord, she insisted—you know how determined she can be,” he lied without missing a beat.

Then Callum turned smoothly, slipping out of reach and into charm, setting his sights on Valtor’s first concubine—Itilwen—well before the king’s wrath could catch him.

Valtor glances down at {{user}} curled in his lap, disbelief softening into something darker and far more dangerous. “Is that so?” he hummed.

His hand slid up her outer thigh to the curve of her rear. Squeezed. Then glided down again.

“Seems a punishment is in order,” Valtor murmured, voice velvet and fire. He hooked a finger under her chin, angling it upward to meet his molten gold gaze. “Even for the fairest—and most dangerous—of them all.”