Over a week had passed since Vivienne von Drachenberg arrived in Karsfeld, and as far as Cordelia was aware, her fiancée had yet to make a single move against Seraphine’s life.
More than that - aside from that opening evening when she had sensually flirted with the elder sister across the dinner table, Vivienne had ceased any visible parlor flirtations. Worse still, she deliberately disrupted Seraphine and little Rosalie von Rosenfeld’s walks, openly provoking the heir and throwing petulant tantrums. Cordelia simply couldn't fathom the thought process of that arrogant beauty.
The younger futa was no fool, however. She had begun piecing the fragments together: something was fundamentally wrong. Vivienne hadn't touched her with the whip or degraded her since the second day of her stay. On that day, she had thrown a fit of hysterics, kicked Cordelia out of the bedchamber, and cursed her with the foulest names imaginable. While Cordelia certainly didn't miss the humiliation, the fact that the sadist had suddenly abandoned the lash meant only one thing: she had completely lost interest in her plaything.
But why? Why would a girl who, just a week ago, derived perverse ecstasy from my pain change overnight? Unless something happened that very first night after her arrival...
The longer Cordelia scrutinized her fiancée’s strange behavior, the more convinced she became that a shadow game was unfolding behind her back. Despite her paralyzing dread of the cruel noblewoman, she resolved to wring the truth out of Vivienne in private at all costs.
Presently, Cordelia sat across from her elder sister at the heavy oak table.
Seraphine, dressed in a tailored feminine tunic of soft silk that sensually accentuated her firm cleavage and narrow waist, was chatting casually with twelve-year-old Rosalie about the sweet pastries piled on the platters. The family was happily devouring fluffy, baked pancakes - yet another culinary breakthrough carried over from Evelyn’s former life. Though Cordelia had no earthly idea where the elder futa was unearthing these recipes, she had to admit the meals in the keep had become downright exquisite.
Suddenly, Adelgarde Karsfeld’s stern voice cut through the morning chatter, and the Baroness's words made Cordelia stiffen:
“Seraphine, word has reached my ears that you have armed your peasant militia with hand cannons and fire-tubes. Do you truly believe that a prudent course of action?”
Seraphine gracefully swallowed a bite of smoked sausage, chased it down with a sip of milk, and inclined her head:
“Entirely so, Sire. Mastering archery or swordsmanship demands years of grueling discipline before a warrior attains the proficiency required on a battlefield. Handheld powder weapons are straightforward enough that simple peasant women can master their operation in a few weeks and establish a formidable defensive line. The range of these tubes is modest at best, making them suitable strictly for garrisoning walls and holding narrow mountain passes.”
Seraphine deliberately kept the true capabilities and lethal accuracy of her flintlock muskets hidden from her parent. Had she revealed the truth, Adelgarde would have commandeered the firearms for her personal guard without a second thought, allowing the technology to inevitably bleed into rival fiefdoms. Thus, the heir took great care to emphasize the weapons’ ostensibly passive, purely defensive nature.
The Baroness still harbored questions - reports indicated the militia’s barrels bore little resemblance to the known hand cannons or arquebuses - yet she trusted her firstborn. Convinced the weapons were good only for holding static positions, Adelgarde’s interest waned. She was far more intrigued by reports of the new artillery pieces:
“And what of those field engines? Word has it they can spit hundreds of lead balls in a single discharge.”
Seraphine already had a deceptive yarn spun and ready. In this era, black-powder artillery was synonymous with massive, immobile siege bombards, so she lied without batting an eye regarding the mobility of the twelve-pound Napoleonic cannons:
“Purely defensive emplacements, Sire. You have seen their cross-sections - the barrels are massive, heavy, and would prove a complete encumbrance on the march or in open field combat. They are best mounted permanently upon our castle bastions to deter anyone reckless enough to march on our gates.”
Cordelia had initially dreaded that sophisticated weaponry in the hands of the peasantry might threaten her own designs. Yet hearing that they were merely slow, stationary pieces of iron, she dismissed them as worthless junk, barely worth mentioning in a dispatch to her allies from House von Drachenberg in Arnsbruck. She had no inkling this was Seraphine’s masterstroke of deception - and neither she nor Adelgarde had any intention of personally testing the weapons in battle.
Adelgarde waved a dismissive hand, considering the matter closed. She was pleased that Seraphine kept the domain’s defense in mind and harbored no rash appetite for military adventurism. Minor nobility had no business embroiling themselves in the bloody clashes of great dynasties. Should a feudal muster arrive in the future, the Baroness would march at the vanguard of her sworn knights, leaving Karsfeld safely under the watchful eye of her heir’s militia.
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Only Seraphine knew that her formations, armed with socket bayonets and canister shot, would effortlessly tear through any host of chivalric knights on the continent, whether engaged in siege defense, guerrilla skirmishing, or open field warfare.
When breakfast concluded, the ladies of the household dispersed to their respective duties. Cordelia immediately shadowed Vivienne, cornering her in the castle courtyard. In her desperation, she caught her fiancée by the wrist - and regretted it the instant her fingers touched skin.
Vivienne’s hand cracked out like a whip. A resounding slap echoed off the stone masonry, drawing the startled eyes of laundresses scrubbing nearby. Vivienne’s eyes blazed with unadulterated fury.
“How dare you lay your hands on me without my leave?! Who do you think you even are, you wretched bitch?!”
This was no calculated performance; Vivienne was genuinely enraged. The only soul in this world permitted to stroke her smooth skin and take her into their arms was Seraphine. Though her former sadistic tendencies had bent entirely into absolute submission before the heir, she held strict instructions from her mistress: in the public eye, continue treating Cordelia like dirt.
A bright scarlet handprint bloomed across the younger futa’s cheek. Yet rather than cowering away, Cordelia let out an almost perverse sigh of relief - this was her old, cruel mistress. She dropped obediently to her knees in the dirt of the courtyard, averting her eyes:
“Forgive me, my lady... I meant no offense. I merely wished to ask of your progress with Seraphine.”
Vivienne maintained a cold, detached mask, though she seethed internally at the mere thought that this little mongrel dared plot against her mistress.
“I haven't managed to get her alone,” she lied smoothly. “She remains vigilant and surrounds herself with people at all hours. She has proven far more clever than you led me to believe.”
Cordelia felt a sharp pang in her chest. Had this noblewoman just praised her loathed sister?!
Vivienne had never uttered a compliment of that sort toward her! Yet despite the surge of jealousy, she could hardly dispute the fact that Seraphine had grown dangerously astute.
“What do you plan to do, then?” Cordelia asked, her voice tinged with unease.
Vivienne looked down her nose at her with scathing disdain:
“I will keep pressing the issue. But if she continues to evade me, you may simply have to accept that your sister is far too shrewd to be ensnared by a pretty body.”
Cordelia knit her brows. A nagging suspicion began taking root: something was profoundly wrong with Seraphine.
How could a young, healthy adult futa in the prime of her youth resist a creature as otherworldly as Vivienne?
Cordelia knew futa physiology intimately; sharing the exact same anatomy, she understood all too well how difficult it was to keep carnal lust chained down.
Cordelia herself regularly had to take her pleasure with a few of the prettier maids. She even began wondering if her elder sister harbored twisted proclivities, favoring young girls, given the obsessive care with which she doted on little Rosalie.
Beyond that very first night, not a shred of open desire for Lady von Drachenberg had shown in Seraphine’s eyes.
Before she could pursue the thought any further, Vivienne’s iron grip clamped down on her shoulder, and a low, predatory whisper grazed her ear:
“And more to the point... it seems the lack of discipline this past week has gone straight to your head. It is high time I reminded you of your place.”
In an instant, Cordelia’s lingering suspicions burst like a soap bubble. She silently berated herself for entertaining such absurd conspiratorial nonsense - Vivienne was simply testing her loyalty on unfamiliar ground!
She swallowed hard as her fiancée dragged her mercilessly toward her chambers to mete out a brutal punishment.
***
Meanwhile, Seraphine oversaw the militia drills in the outer bailey. Day by day, the ranks swelled; word of revolutionary weaponry and an equitable heir drew peasant women in droves. Grizzled veterans of bygone peasant skirmishes watched in awe as rolling musket volleys transitioned seamlessly into synchronized, devastating bayonet charges that ripped the straw training dummies to shreds.
The heir watched the formations with quiet pride. Sabine Keller drove her manufactories relentlessly, delivering fresh shipments of barrels and gun carriages without pause. Over the past twenty-four hours alone, fifty new recruits had enlisted, bringing the unit’s strength to a round three hundred soldiers. That amounted to half of Adelgarde’s entire wartime levy! For every hundred foot soldiers, they fielded one modern, steel twelve-pounder. Seraphine looked upon these women as the shield of her domain; she knew that when anarchy erupted following the monarch’s death in the Kingdom of Alaria, her modest army would hold the valley against any invader.
Adelgarde would march her feudal forces to the sovereign’s banner without a second thought, and Seraphine intended to persuade her parent to name her regent of Karsfeld for the duration of the campaign. Once vested with full authority, she would unleash reforms that would transform the barony beyond recognition in a matter of months.
Returning to the keep to inspect the installation of irrigation conduits and finalize the steel contract with Margarethe von Rosenfeld, she found little Rosalie waiting faithfully outside her bedchamber door. Her betrothed balanced a wooden tray laden with spiced ginger biscuits and a mug of milk in her small hands. Seraphine smiled warmly and ushered the girl inside.
Together they spent the afternoon detailing plans for the upcoming engagement gala, and the sight of Rosalie’s sapphire eyes gazing up at her in unabashed adoration brought a soothing calm to Seraphine’s heart. In a few short years, this little noblewoman would blossom into a rare and radiant gem.
And when dusk settled and Rosalie retired to her chambers, Vivienne slipped into Seraphine’s room once more - this time quiet, pliant, and boundlessly devoted, greeting her mistress on her knees to plead for her touch.
Seraphine had secured a legitimate future bride, an exceptional master of whispers, and an unswervingly loyal army of commoners. A bright, unassailable horizon beckoned before the young futa, even if the mountain of work ahead remained staggering...