It wasn't until Inafet that he learned true ecstasy wasn't in his own pleasure, but in watching her sway above him, fully surrendered.

  He relished every contour of her—the cascade of rum-dark curls falling over small breasts, the toned arms that betrayed her training, the generous hips and perfect, round arse he swore no song could do justice. But above all, her waist—made to fit his hands when he pulled himself deeper.

  As her movements grew more intense, he grasped one breast whilst his other hand found her neck. She arched back with a moan. Odraud slid his hand to her mouth, swallowing her cries against her smooth dark skin.

  "Harder!"

  He moved her swiftly, positioning himself atop. With a smirk she welcomed him back. That perfect tightness stole his breath. Seconds now—only seconds.

  With each thrust she clung to him, nails digging into his back, sharp enough to sting. He kissed her violently, feeling his climax near. He loved how her sweat mixed with incense and morning breeze—like a warrior, not a lady's perfume.

  "Ohh!" Inafet moaned.

  He wished he could last forever, just to keep seeing the prettiest woman he'd ever known giving herself so beautifully. Inafet bore an angelic face—the biggest lips he'd ever kissed, the most compelling upturned eyes, a strong jawline and the cutest little nose.

  Two final thrusts. The tightness in his lower belly released and filled him with heat.

  As he pulled out, she stood quickly, already dressing.

  "Hey, Inafet..." He reached for her wrist.

  She averted his stare, fastening her leather breeches, chest still bare. When she finally met his gaze, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

  . Some part of him knew.

  "Did I hurt you?" He drew her near by the waist. "Inafet, did I?"

  She placed her hands upon his broad chest, refusing to look at him.

  "No, Nod..." Her voice splintered. "I think we shouldn't continue. I'm too attached."

  He felt the rhythm of her heart against his chest. His jaw set as though he'd bitten iron.

  The sting of despair he felt sharpened quickly into irritation. He abhorred that kind of conversation.

  Boots on, coat undone, Inafet strode to where she'd left her weapons.

  "Do we actually have another path together?" she said when she realised he wasn't going to answer.

  He barked a humourless laugh. "By the Goddess, Inafet, what do you want me to say? That I've been holding my love for a wedding night?"

  "So this is nothing." Her voice cracked. "Just—release?"

  "Of course not. We match, but... you built the illusion."

  A smile, bitter and small, twisted her lips.

  He knew his words cut her, and he hated it. But he had no notion of how else to be.

  "You told me yourself—" She wiped her face. "You don't do this unless you want something."

  "I want you! I don't enjoy fucking every girl in sight like Rezal." He seemed genuinely confused. "What—you thought we'd share the same dreams when I told you that?"

  He leaned in to kiss her, to shut her up as he always did, to end this and pretend nothing had happened. But she shoved her hand against his face.

  "You'll still want to fuck me when you find your precious highborn lady, right?"

  "Always, Inafet," he said, lips pressed thin, every shred of control focused on not beating her into her place—she loved when he went rough. "Love, pleasure and marriage are utterly different things."

  She laughed—scornful—before gathering her blades. At the door, she glanced back.

  "So your desire is for me to serve as your whore forever, my Lord?"

  His temper caught like dry tinder. "I never said that. You're twisting it. Your mind's so tangled in feelings you can't see straight—that's not my fucking problem."

  "That's precisely how you see me, Odraud. The distinction lies only in the fact that since you don't pay me, you refuse to acknowledge it."

  "By the Lady, Inafet!" He scratched his bald head, pacing. "You chose the sword, and now you're whining like a lord's pampered wife because I won't play house. You want a crest, a ring, a man's protection? Then don't crawl into the bed of a High Lord's son and demand a fairytale."

  "But what lies beyond for the filth-born like us, my Lord?"

  "Stop it, Inafet." His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "You're noble now. A knight and Second Captain of the Spine. Stop stabbing yourself in my name."

  "Just not noble enough." She looked away. "Am I dismissed, my Lord?"

  Her provocation slid under his skin. Odraud knew the difference between those who inherited titles and those who earned them—and which the world cherished more.

  Yet that wasn't why he didn't love her. If he could carve the feeling from himself, he'd have crossed his beliefs and perhaps already married her. But he simply didn't.

  "I thought we were at least friends!" she shouted.

  "We are," he snapped. "But friends shouldn't fall in love. And if they do, they keep their mouths shut. This—" he gestured between them "—is you wasting a good thing because you want more."

  "Why don't you say that to your brother and your princess? Oh, right—both have crests."

  She shut the door.

  The words found their mark. Odraud yanked the door open, still naked, one hand wrapped around his cock.

  "Inafet Agarf! Only a crest has value on this goddess-forsaken continent!" he shouted after her, more wounded than he'd care to admit.

  She didn't look back.

  He didn't insist. He had a patrol to attend.

  The cold water from the basin bit against his skin as he scrubbed himself clean. The scent of her still clung to him. He dressed quickly, buckling his sword belt with practised ease.

  Raised in his father's Dom lands—the Canyons—until his thirteenth year, Odraud had followed the path of nearly every noble born with magic. Move to Inverdon. Learn the martial ways under the Order of the Resurrected.

  Not all aspired to the ranks of the Order. Most would return to their lands, waiting for the call to fulfil their vows should the Queen summon the men sworn to her banners.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  As a second son, Odraud had known his choices since boyhood: bend to Rezal's will, or carve his own place through the Order, like his uncle—the Lord Warden of the Rift.

  Watching his parents' union had taught him the order of things. His mother, Lady Veron Rellum, was the model of a noblewoman—soft where the world was cruel, flawless where it demanded obedience. She embodied what his father called the sanctuary of a man's heart.

  He'd always admired the Queen of the South as well. Refinement and fire united. She wielded a sword with the same ease she commanded a court.

  Viperyan and her mother, Sophiance, had been moulded in Gregoria's image. But they were royals. They could do and be anything they desired—masters to any soul born in the South. Masters to his own soul.

  Inafet had been the single crack in that order. He admired her profoundly—flawless and bold. Contradictory or not, it was precisely that absence of noble manners that made her unforgettable.

  There were girls who met his standards—Annuly stood foremost among them, one of Viperyan's ladies-in-waiting. All he'd have needed to do was ask her father.

  Odraud, though bearing his brother's features, lacked the softness and beauty that made Rezal cherished. He was rawer—not the sort of lord poets wrote about or women lingered over. His confidence was hard-earned, armour forged from a childhood of bruises and laughter.

  Once plump, shy, and easily dismissed, he'd grown into a man who filled his silence with action. But the scars remained, written on his soul

  He'd decided long ago that a quiet lady was the wiser choice than a woman who slept with an Ignerfellum blade beneath her pillow.

  Without inheritance, his worth would depend on his alliance—preserving relevance in a world that forgot everyone but the firstborn.

  He grasped the leather hilt of his sword and set off towards the grounds. The scent of leather and ash thickened as he descended. Smoke from the morning fires clung to stone walls.

  A few strides into the second floor, his Commander appeared.

  "Lord Rellum."

  "Syr Grassgem." He honoured his superior.

  Lady Andromeda Grassgem hailed from a modest Dom, pledged to the Lord of the Blossom Belt. Her father captained a skilled Skeleton of two thousand men, whilst her brother served as his second. That left Domeda with only two paths: forge her name as a warrior, or wed anyone who'd take her.

  The prospects hadn't been promising before Inverdon.

  Years ago, she'd risen higher than anyone expected—Commander of three Skeletons. Six thousand men. A woman more respected than loved, who'd ascended through precision and discipline rather than charm.

  In the Order, a Skeleton was divided into three Bones: the Tibia, mounted knights; the Spine, archers; and the Ribs, infantry. Together, they formed one of the deadliest forces in Easeror.

  The hierarchy was simple but absolute. A Commander ruled two or more Skeletons, each comprising two thousand soldiers under three Captains. Above them all stood the Queen.

  All rangers in the Order answered as Skulls.

  The Commanders bore a different helm, sculpted as a skull wrapped within the jaw of a basilisk, the crest of Dom Thorne. A dark-gold warning to anyone who doubted the South's supremacy.

  Most Commanders and Captains came from noble blood, earning the right to become a Skull after the three-year rite. But Odraud knew the exceptions well.

  Especially one.

  Inafet.

  Lowborn by birth, she'd caught the Queen's eye during one of the community Mekchala ceremonies and risen through grit alone. By eighteen, she'd been made Second Captain of the Tibia, commanding men twice her age.

  On military rank, she outranked Odraud.

  That had always stung.

  Reaching the castle grounds, Odraud spotted the armoury. Morning was still young. Snow clung to stone arches. His breath fogged in the cold.

  The clang of smiths working echoed through the courtyard, rhythmic as a war-drum.

  Inside, rows of weapons gleamed in pale light filtering through wooden slits. Dust stirred. To his surprise, his Queen stood amongst the blades, fingers tracing a curved sword.

  As a psychic Magical, she'd sensed his presence before he'd left his chamber. She was waiting for him.

  "I imagine you've already caught wind of the news," Gregoria said.

  "Aye, from the source." He paused. "Grant me her hand. I can relieve her of this burden."

  He knew what her answer would be. But hope was a habit he hadn't yet broken.

  "I wish I could..." The woman—nearly his equal in height—set down the blade she'd been examining and turned towards the shields. "You should be more worried about your own turmoil, Nod. Only our thoughts truly hold power over us." She glanced back. "Stop tormenting yourself over who will shape your fate."

  "That bird of yours has been whispering my secrets again, hasn't he?" Odraud muttered, scowling.

  "Isn't Ramidur your best friend, boy?" Gregoria smirked, ignoring him.

  "Aye, but it never made sense to me," he admitted. "They gave him to Oiregor—their heir. What was left for the younger children?"

  At times, a flicker of guilt seized him over Rezal's fate, though he'd had no say in it.

  "Cease blaming old Ramidur." Gregoria leant back against the table, arms folded.

  "How can I? He sent Rezal away to be shaped by another man's hand."

  "Things always happen for a reason. You came here too. That is the way."

  She tried to sound indifferent, but her voice betrayed what she truly thought of Oiregor's tutoring. No one could have imagined what it would cost the golden boy. Gregoria had done what she could to ease it.

  "All our lives decided before we ever had a say."

  "That's the way, Odraud." Then, after a pause: "But when we grow, we have the power to become the architects of our dreams—or our nightmares."

  Her gaze softened as she studied him—the hard edges of a man still half a boy.

  "You think too much about what you are not. An heir. A lord's firstborn. Whom you marry will hardly change it." She stepped closer.

  "No, it won't." He lowered his eyes.

  "You have the authority to do as you please. Your title... what lies between your legs—grants you that privilege."

  Her humour cracked the tension. They both laughed.

  "The most precious things in life are love and loyalty. They're not grey, Odraud. They're black or white. You've been blessed with both—from the same woman. Don't waste such gifts for the sake of status."

  "What if I don't love her?"

  Gregoria turned towards the window, gaze lost in the white beyond. "Love isn't everything. You serve your woman with loyalty until love finds its way back. Otherwise, it only kills you—or takes your sanity with it."

  The silence that followed was heavy and lined with old grief—hers, not his.

  "The land you live on was built by men devoid of titles—but very skilled at killing hundreds of other men."

  "We didn't kill to conquer. Not the Magicals." He said it proudly, half defiant.

  The Queen looked back, a thin smile on her lips. "When you don't kill to conquer, you kill to protect. Ending up in chains once more wasn't an option. Slavery began with our kind. Don't be a slave of your own mind."

  She began to leave, her voice echoing as she reached the doorway. "Now go find my disturbance. It's too early, even for me."

  Her words lingered in the cold air long after she'd gone.

  Outside, Inverdon awakened slowly—stable bells clinking, ravens cawing from towers, the clatter from the kitchen quarters drifting on the wind.

  He fastened his cloak and crossed the courtyard, its stones coated in freshly fallen snow. Lost in the maze of his own making, he felt the weight settle on his shoulders—his beliefs unchanged.

  At Inverdon's gates, Viperyan and Rezal stood waiting. The girl led the way.

  Without a word, the trio descended the castle precincts towards the woods. Their journey took them some two miles, nearing the end of the Royal Road. Winter creatures remained concealed in daylight, whilst summer ones had long gone.

  Atop the cliffs of the valley, a solitary wolf stood sentinel, its silver coat blending with snow. Across the open field between the Phoenix Woods and the river, a restless flock of birds stirred the silence. Crows cut through the sky—often associated with ill omens, yet trusted by Magicals. Alongside owls, they served as messengers of the Southern Kingdom.

  The snowy branches of pines stretched heavy with frost, reaching farther south where werewolves prowled and vampires lurked, where forest elves had guided Magicals amongst the beasts since the Age of Myths.

  An almost deafening grunt tore through his thoughts. They shielded their ears by instinct. Viperyan brandished her Ignerfellum daggers. Rezal and Odraud tightened their grip on their wands.

  "Wands should be bestowed sooner," Viperyan complained.

  Neither brother said anything. He knew how much she despised not yet having a wand of her own. She still needed to complete the rite of her sixteenth birthday—the Mekchala—to inherit one of the family's wands, heirlooms as sacred as the ancestral swords of the greatest Doms.

  Wands. A means to harness a wizard's power with precision. Born from necessity, like almost everything in their culture, to ward the subterranean tunnels beneath Inverdon against the Souglaves.

  Two thousand years past, in the Age of the Great.

  They ventured towards the source of the clamour. A sudden burst of flames erupted amidst the woodland. Heat pressed against them even from a distance. They quickened their pace.

  What lay in the newly carved clearing seemed to have emerged from the Age of Myths itself.

  Blazing tails ignited the undergrowth in a futile effort.

  Some cruel soul had already sealed the fate of a creature so pure.

  A shimmering blue liquid oozed from the fire fox's chest. The mythological Vulgnis was dying. They didn't even have time to contemplate the magnitude of such an animal in their lands. The smell of burnt fur mixed with copper and something stranger—magic bleeding into snow.

  A branch cracked at the clearing's edge.

  Before Odraud could register the sound, Viperyan was running.

  "Save it!" she commanded.

  "Viperyan! Have you lost your senses?" Rezal's voice cut through the fire's roar as he followed.

  Odraud raised his wand and summoned his Seal, releasing his mist to envelop them both in a shimmering veil of protection. The magic felt warm leaving him, like a breath of summer wind.

  His Seal wasn't psychic, but it wove energy portals between places, projected reflections to deceive enemies, and conjured invisible shields around those under his charge. The gift even allowed him to speak briefly with the departed through ancient paintings.

  Once assured the mist held them strong, he turned back to the wounded creature.

  Something hollow opened in his chest.

  Even magic could not retrieve a soul already beyond the first gate of Thart.

  All he could offer was ease.

  A soft blue glow emanated from Odraud's wand as he whispered a spell to soothe the Vulgnis's final breaths. The magic hummed through him, reaching the fox, until a mournful cry escaped the beast's chest—a sound no living thing should make, reverberating like grief given voice.

  He withdrew his wand and found himself suspended between disbelief and awe.

  He had just witnessed a revelation that surprised him more than any miracle could have.