[check out this story on my personal page, where it looks better]

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

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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