THE ROYAL MUSCLE ALTHEA, THE TITAN - Preview

[krischief]

Hello Everyone!
As the writing bug is still biting. I have written a new original book. It has myth, swords and royalty. Most of all muscle!

The Royal Muscle : Althea, THE TITAN

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She was forged for the throne—but became something greater.

In the fractured kingdom of Greffein, where legacy is blood and power is tradition, Princess Althea was meant to rule but the crown never quite fit. Not with muscles that outgrew courtly gowns, not with desires that bent protocol, and certainly not with a body that defied gender, myth, and biology alike.

But when betrayal seeps through royal veins and the crown begins to slip from her fragile brother's grasp, Althea does what she was born—and built—to do: protect, conquer, and transform.

Amid political intrigue, ancient rituals, and whispered legends of the flesh-gods, Althea becomes a living symbol of strength, her body a weapon, her love a tempest, her will a reckoning. As her harem worships her, her enemies fear her, and her people begin to mythologize her, one question remains:

Is she still heir, or has she become something divine?

A lush and erotically charged epic of queendom, sovereignty, and unrelenting power, Royal Muscle: Althea The Titan is a tale of dominance, devotion, and the legacy we forge with our bodies when history cannot contain us.


An extract from the book for you all


Althea, shed her heavy robes and paused at the edge of the bath, allowing their collective gaze to wash over her, like the steam curling from the water. Her skin, already flushed from the day's exertion, prickled with a delicious awareness. This body, she thought, a surge of power and pleasure rippling through her, they are drawn to it. They serve it. And through it, they serve me. This is my true crown. She slid into the mineral water, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the heat enveloped her. The warmth seeped into her muscles, a deeper satisfaction than any courtly pleasure. Rhiessa moved silently to clear the robes on the floor and proceeded to collect some scented soaps and balms. Her habitual routines becoming very evident.
   Her shoulders, broad and powerful, breached the surface like slabs of polished marble. Her clavicles protruded with striking, sculptural definition, and where her graceful neck met the massive swell of her traps, a formidable ridge had formed that Mira could not stop staring at, her breath catching softly, almost reverently.
   "You've outgrown every gown I've tailored, Princess," Mira murmured, her voice husky, thick with a mix of admiration and a breathless wonder. She reached out, her fingers lightly, almost tenderly, touching Althea's bicep beneath the water. The heat of her touch lingered, a subtle spark that went beyond friendly camaraderie, hinting at deeper, shared intimacies from their nights in the Hollow. Mira's gaze deepened, tracing the newly carved lines of Althea's muscle, her eyes reflecting a private memory of shared pleasure. "Do you intend to wear nothing but tunics and shame the rest of us with your sheer... presence? Or worse, tempt us beyond bearing?"
   Althea gave her a slow, wolfish grin, a hint of pure carnal power in her eyes. "Would it shame you, Mira? Or merely... remind you of what this body can do? Perhaps lead you to ask for more?" The suggestion in her voice, the lingering touch of Mira's hand, added a new, sensual layer to their dynamic, a subtle current of unspoken desire that crackled between them, a delicious promise.

[krischief]

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[krischief]

   Two days later, the castle buzzed with a new arrival: a noble suitor from the wealthy coastal city of Eldrath. His name was Kaedric Stormbrand, the second son of a powerful naval family whose influence swelled with each passing shipping season. Tall, broad-shouldered, and notoriously arrogant, he was renowned for his sword-fighting prowess, a reputation he wasted no time flaunting.
   He challenged three of the castle's seasoned knights to sparring matches before breakfast, defeating them all soundly, one after another, with a display of almost theatrical skill. By noon, rumors of his unparalleled swordsmanship spread like wildfire through the castle. By evening, Kaedric made an ill-advised jest in the great hall, his booming voice carrying over the polite murmurs, comparing the royal heirs to "soft songbirds too timid to guard their own nest." His eyes, Althea noted, lingered on her, a dismissive sneer on his lips.
   Althea had heard enough. Her own muscles twitched a silent challenge.
   The duel was not declared publicly, for such a challenge would be beneath a princess. It was Thalen who arranged it, his genius for subtle manipulation, shining. He whispered to Kaedric's overly confident manservant over dark ale in a hidden alcove of the castle, laying a trap that the arrogant knight couldn't resist: an anonymous challenger, a "mystery knight" from the North, who sought to test his mettle against the famed Stormbrand.
   It took place in the courtyard before dawn, cloaked in mist and the lingering cold. Althea wore a full plate suit—standard Northeld steel, polished to a dull gleam, though the joints strained against her thickening frame, a testament to her rapid growth.
   Kaedric grinned when he saw his opponent, a fully armored figure of imposing, though feminine, stature. He clearly anticipated an easy victory, a chance to further inflate his legend.
   He was sorely mistaken.
   The clang of steel on steel echoed in the predawn quiet. Althea moved with deceptive speed, her enhanced strength allowing her to control the heavy armor with effortless grace. She parried Kaedric's powerful, practiced blows, her blade deflecting his with a force that surprised him. His initial confidence gave way to confusion, then a dawning horror. She pressed him, her movements relentless, powerful, her attacks delivered with the precision of a trained warrior and the raw, untamed might of her burgeoning body. She felt the exhilarating surge of power, her muscles coiling and striking, her breath coming in even, controlled gasps.
   By the time she disarmed him—her blade slicing through his guard, sending his sword clattering to the stone, and then pressing the cold steel against his throat, her own visor close to his—his arrogant grin was long gone. Only wide, disbelieving eyes stared back at her from within his helmet.

[krischief]

The morning after, Althea's scouts finally delivered the grim news: Roric Blackfang and his main contingent of raiders were moving towards the devastated settlement of Oakhaven, a place already sacked, its silence a grim testament to his passage. He wasn't looking for plunder now; he was making a statement. He was waiting.
Althea led her party towards Oakhaven. The air was thick with the stench of charred wood and stale blood. The village, once a small, thriving hub, was a charnel house. And in its very center, amid the smoking ruins, stood Roric Blackfang and his raiders, awaiting them. Roric, a colossal figure even from a distance, seemed to absorb the devastation around him, embodying it. He met Althea's gaze across the blood-soaked ground, a grim satisfaction in his eyes. He recognized her. He knew this was their moment.
Althea dismounted, her movements fluid despite the weight of her armor. Kaedric and her loyal company fanned out, facing Roric's raiders, their expressions grim but resolute. There was no need for grand declarations, no challenge to be shouted. The air vibrated with the unspoken agreement. This was a duel to the death.
As her loyalists and the remaining raiders formed a wide, tense circle, Althea slowly, deliberately, began to shed her training clothes. Her heavy leather tunic, then her undershirt, peeled away, revealing the colossal power of her form beneath. It was a conscious act, a deliberate piece of psychological warfare. Her muscles, immense and bulging, rippled beneath her skin, the colossal curve of her biceps stretching the fabric of her remaining shorts. Her mountainous pectorals swelled with each breath, broad and powerful. She took her time, letting the biting wind whip against her exposed skin, letting Roric truly see the impossible physique he faced. Her skin seemed to pulse with contained power, a visible aura of latent force.
Roric Blackfang, who had watched her approach with arrogant confidence, now stared, his eyes widening. His bravado visibly cracked. A flicker of something akin to dawning horror crossed his features. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. He had heard the rumors, but seeing her... feeling the sheer, unnatural power emanating from her, stripped bare, was a different matter entirely. He clearly regretted having challenged her, recognizing the impossible nature of his opponent. The realization of her sheer, raw strength began to weaken his resolve, even before the first blow was struck.
They squared off, circling slowly in the thick, churned mud of the village square. The stench of decay clung to everything. Then, with a sudden, animalistic roar, Roric lunged, his massive hands reaching for her. Althea met him, her own grip like steel. The primal struggle began, a brutal dance of ancient grappling and primitive boxing. Every sinew of Roric's body screamed the reality of Althea's power. He twisted, pulled, pushed, attempting to gain leverage, to find a weakness in her stance, to break her balance. But she was a mountain. He was continuously reminded of his folly as Althea's strength easily matched and overwhelmed his every attempt. He struggled to simply hold on to her, her power radiating through their locked limbs, burning him.
The grappling transitioned into a brutal exchange of blows. Roric, a master of the Wolf and Dagger fighting style, met Althea's challenge with admirable skill. His fists were hammers, his feet precise weapons, aimed at Althea's joints, her throat, her temple. Each strike landed with sickening force against her, but they began to wane against her impossible resilience. Her muscles absorbed the blows, her bones unnaturally dense. She felt the impacts, but they were distant, like a dull ache compared to the inferno of power within her.
Althea, though absorbing his best efforts, was not struggling. She was toying with him. She let him exert himself, let him feel the futility of his attacks, making each impact hurt in a way he had never experienced. It was not a struggle for her, but a demonstration, a slow, agonizing breaking. Her movements were mostly clinical, precise in their brutality, devoid of overt emotion. She struck with the force of a battering ram, each punch a thunderclap, each kick a shattering blow that sent him stumbling through the mud.
Roric collapsed to one knee, spitting blood and mud, his eyes wide with a desperate, dawning realization. He saw his inevitable end. Humiliated, broken, and desperate to discourage Althea from extending his suffering, he gathered the last vestiges of his strength and resolve. He let out a primal, defiant roar, a desperate, final lunge, designed to force Althea to end it quickly, to grant him the dignity of a swift defeat rather than prolonged torment.
Althea accepted his implicit challenge. Her immense hands, calloused and impossibly strong, closed around him. His spine is crushed within her hands, a sickening, wet crunch audible across the stunned silence of the onlookers. As his body went limp, dangling uselessly, a final, pulverizing punch to the side of his face sent a wave of force through his skull, and his eyeball dislodged, bursting from its socket in a grotesque, final splatter of blood and gore. He dropped, a broken, twitching mass in the mud.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the wind whistling through the ruined village. Everyone present – Althea's loyalists, the remaining raiders frozen in terror, and the few cowering villagers – had witnessed her strength and brutality firsthand. Her victory was absolute and undeniable. Her legend, forged in blood and fear, grew, echoing through the desolate landscape.


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[krischief]

That afternoon, Althea visited Svana in the greenward chamber, a place of peace and earthy scents. The old herbalist was pruning winterroot with a calm, meticulous hand, her movements economical and wise.
"You were followed," Svana said without looking up from her work, her voice a low murmur.
"I lost them near the orchard," Althea replied, flexing her fingers. "They won't recognize me in full plate, or covered in mud and blood. These woods are mine. Mother needs to stop the stalking."
The doors whispered shut behind her.
Althea stood at the center of the room, still sheened in the dust and mud of the forest, her braided hair unravelling over traps that rose like granite shelves. She'd thrown her cloak onto the floor, leaving only the thinnest linen wrap clinging to her hips. Her thighs, streaked with the grime of the road, flexed with each breath—living sculptures barely contained by cloth.
Rhiessa and Svana moved wordlessly.
They did this often: the after-battle ritual. Rhiessa bore the silver basin and silk towels. Svana, the concoctions—creams of pale green and dark amber, salves that glistened like warmed resin, herb-wrapped stones that still steamed with crushed sacred roots. Svana's last few salves were potent—herbal extracts that had long since ceased to be simple ointments. Their scents were more complex now: bark, charred mint, something faintly metallic.
But tonight, Svana wasn't focused on the jars. Svana's eyes did not settle on Althea's shoulders or thighs.
They were drawn downward. Again.
To where the linen strained at the front—where Althea's clitoris, engorged and rising like a slow dawn, pulsed against the fabric. Thicker than before. Again.
It had been growing faster. By the day.
"Sit," Svana murmured, barely audible. "Let us begin."
Althea's clitoris—fully exposed now, thick and swollen—twitched lightly with her breath. It stood not like a woman's organ, but a phallic pillar, slick with pre-orgasmic sheen. Even now, at rest, it pulsed with presence.
"You've been growing again," Svana said, voice neutral.
Althea exhaled through her nose. "I've been lifting heavier again."
"You know that's not all of it."
Althea raised one thick eyebrow. "Don't start your legends, Svana."
Svana stepped forward with the warmed oil and began kneading it into Althea's inner thighs—slow, reverent circles, her small hands dwarfed by the meat of muscle beneath them.
"You may not believe in the flesh-gods," she said calmly, "but your body is doing things even I didn't predict. And I've been touching it for two years."
Althea smirked. "You're just upset it's outgrowing your theories."
"No," Svana said, her eyes lowered. "I'm wondering if I've stumbled into prophecy."
Althea gave her a dry, knowing smirk. "Spare me the hymnals. I built this."
She moved up the leg, rubbing deep into the hip, brushing just under the base of the clitoris. It jumped gently.
Svana paused. Her fingertips flexed in thought.
"I'm going to... explore it now," she said. "Not for pleasure. For understanding."
Althea gave no resistance—only a slow nod, muscles tensing across her chest, her lats flaring slightly beneath Rhiessa's calming hands.
Svana shifted into Althea's lap, straddling one thigh, not too intimate—but to align herself alongside the transformed and enhanced womanhood. Her torso pressed lightly against Althea's abdomen as her oiled fingers wrapped around the base of the clitoris and began a slow, rhythmic stroke.
Her hips moved subtly—shagging, but without erotic intent. A soft press of body to body. Reverent. Grounding. A ritual of presence.
Althea inhaled slowly.
"You feel everything?" Svana asked.
"Yes. Same as always. Just... bigger."
Svana nodded, continuing the slow massage. Her thumb circled the head, feeling how it flared with pressure. Althea's pecs rose like cathedral domes with each breath, her abs trembling now in time with Svana's strokes.
"Describe it," Svana said gently. "What do you feel now?"
"Deep. Behind the groin, but... up the spine too. Like lightning caught under skin."
Svana increased the pressure. Her strokes were now steady, clinical, yet deeply reverent. "And this?" she whispered.
"You feel this," Svana asked, her hand gliding up and down in slow rhythm, "not as a man would. But differently?"
Althea's voice was distant, entranced: "More than a man would. I feel it in my spine. In my breath. It connects everything. It isn't arousal. It's... purpose."
Althea's hand gripped the stone bench. Her breath hitched—then fell. Her face remained composed, almost annoyed.
Svana's strokes were careful, smooth. She watched for every reaction—the twitch of a thigh, the tightening of the abs, the rise of breath in the chest.
"Almost there."
She came with a low growl.
Not a moan. Not a scream. A forceful huff.
Her clitoris spasmed—once, twice—and then ejaculated in a short, warm arc against Svana's palm.
Both women froze.
Rhiessa's hands stilled on Althea's shoulders.
Svana's eyes widened.
She brought her hand up in disbelief. A string of translucent fluid ran between her fingers, thick and clear—not typical female orgasm, but unmistakably ejaculatory.
Althea exhaled sharply, her face blank. Calm.
"How many days has this been happening?" Svana asked softly, holding her slick hand in the firelight.
Althea didn't blink. "Three. Maybe four."
"You still orgasm the other way?"
Althea nodded. "Of course. Deeper. Longer. This is just... new."
Svana looked at the fluid again. "There's seminal texture. But the anatomy hasn't changed enough. You're not... male. You're not just female either."
She reached for a towel, wiping her palm slowly. "Your genitals are evolving into something the texts don't describe."
"You sound scared," Althea said, chest still heaving.
"No," Svana whispered. "I sound like someone who might be wrong."
She leaned forward, gently laying her forehead against Althea's collarbone. Her breath was steady, her heartbeat fast. "You might not be from the flesh-gods," she said, voice low. "But you may be what they were always trying to become."
Althea didn't answer.
Svana wiped her hand clean from the ejaculate, her brow creased with awe and calculation. Still straddling Althea's thigh, she leaned back slightly, her hands resting gently on the queen's granite-like obliques.
"Have you..." she began cautiously, eyes drifting lower again, "been penetrated recently? In the cunt, I mean. By others?"
Althea's eyes sharpened—not with anger, but intrigue. "Why?"
"For contrast," Svana said. "To understand what's still functioning as before."
Althea smiled—wide, leonine. The kind of grin that made lesser nobles wither.
"Yes," she said, drawing the word out. "Yes, Svana, I have. Multiple times. In the last week alone."
Svana's brows lifted. "That's... scientifically helpful."
But Althea wasn't finished.
Her voice dropped into a silk-lined growl, luxuriating in the words.
"One of the soldiers from the coast—he begged for it. Could barely hold himself together once I started squeezing him. I let him in, let him feel all of me. He didn't last long. But gods, I did. Three times. Deep. Full. I clenched around him and made him scream. I think he thought I'd break him in half."
Svana blinked, her fingers still resting politely on Althea's abdomen.
"I still come like that, you know," Althea continued, her voice low and smooth as wine. "The flood. The heat. That deep throb in the pelvis that rolls out through the spine. My entire core seizes. My back arches. I feel every inch of him lost in me—and still I want more."
"Right," Svana murmured, a slight pink rising in her cheeks.
"I ride them too, sometimes," Althea went on. "Press them down with my thighs, hold their faces to my chest, flex my glutes just right while I milk them. You should see how terrified and awestruck they are when I come. It's never silent. It's always earned."
Rhiessa, still kneeling behind, choked softly on a laugh, though she tried to disguise it as a cough.
Svana cleared her throat, gently extricating her hands and shifting backward, though not without respect. "A short answer... would've sufficed."
Althea smirked, folding her arms behind her head, pecs rising like carved ridges of living stone.
"You asked," she said. "It's not my fault you don't know how to listen to a good story."
Svana shook her head, fighting a smile despite herself.
"Just trying to map the unknown," she muttered.
"Well," Althea replied, voice indulgent, "next time, bring parchment."
As the massage continued, Svana dabbed something cool and faintly pungent on her wrist, a new, dark concoction, and motioned Althea forward. "The newest salve has matured. Less heat, more depth. You will heal faster, Princess. But it will stir other appetites. Other needs. Your body has changed, become... something more."
Althea held her arm out, unblinking. "Let it stir. I have little left to fear from my own body. And I quite like feeding my body's other needs."

[krischief]

"Ride until the wheels crack," the driver whispered to the horses, eyes wide.
The carriage lurched forward.
Veltrius sat in the dark interior, his face lit only by flashes of passing lanterns. His lip was bleeding. His robes torn at the collar. They hadn't beaten him, not exactly—but they'd made it clear:
This was the only warning he would receive.
He pressed a hand to his ribs. Bruised. Maybe cracked.
It didn't matter. He had to vanish.
A few days later, His private villa stood like a crumbling echo of his former influence—walls draped in shadow, the hearth cold, the servants dismissed long ago. No guards left. No sigils still flown.
Only silence. And the rustle of panic.
Veltrius moved quickly, dragging books from shelves, pulling open hidden panels. He retrieved satchels of coin, forged documents, a coastal cloak with a fake brooch. He had once made plans for exile—quiet, intellectual fantasies of escape if the court ever turned.
Now they were laughable in their inadequacy.
"I should've run months ago," he muttered, fingers shaking as he rolled scrolls into a satchel.
But where would he go? The Chancellor had washed his hands of him. The Queen Mother would not save him. The noble houses who once whispered in his ear now whispered only in fear of her.
Althea. The lion.
He had heard the stories—how she tore through war camps in silence, how she stood taller now, broader, eyes like polished obsidian and arms thick enough to crush a grown man's spine. Her soldiers called her the mountain. Her enemies called her the Reckoning.
Veltrius used to call her manageable. Now, he called her close.
He looked to the window. The forest outside was still. Too still.
He'd sent a runner to the southern coast hours ago. No reply. He had packed what he could carry. But escape was already a fantasy slipping through his fingers.
His allies were dead, imprisoned, or scattered. And the Chancellor—Tyrion, that serpent—had used him. Discarded him. He was alone.
Veltrius drew the bolt on the front door. He checked the second-story windows. But it didn't matter. And it was no longer a question of if she would find him.
Only how long he could breathe before she did.
The caravan was trying to move fast and quiet—but the forest was no longer still.
Veltrius's horses stumbled through the muck, and the men around him were muttering. They weren't loyal—not truly. Paid blades and frightened staff. The kind who vanish at the first clang of steel.
"Faster," Veltrius hissed. "We're not far from the coast. The barge is waiting."
His robes were muddied, his satchel soaked through. The long-forged letters of passage he'd once thought so clever were now heavy weights against his chest.
Then he heard it.
Hoofbeats.
Not frantic. Not scattered.A measured thunder.
Deliberate. Controlled. Unstoppable.
A scout to his left cursed and turned pale. "Riders," the man whispered. "From the ridge."
Veltrius turned, heart seizing. There—emerging like a silhouette torn from war itself—she came.
Althea.
Not galloping. Not charging. Approaching.
Her warhorse was immense—armor-plated, snorting steam with every breath. She sat astride it in full plate: blackened steel sculpted to her form, tracing the impossible breadth of her chest, the carved symmetry of her thighs, her biceps bulging beneath reinforced armguards. Her helm was open, face bare to the moonlight—expression unreadable.
Behind her rode her vanguard. Fifty soldiers. Silent. Formed. Not a word among them.
Only her.
The men around Veltrius panicked. One dropped the reins. Another dropped to a knee and began muttering half-prayers to half-forgotten gods.
Veltrius? He didn't move. His hands trembled. His mouth worked soundlessly. How?
How had she found him so quickly? The villa had been abandoned less than a night ago. The trail barely marked.
Was I betrayed? Or is she simply that good?
The truth didn't matter.