The door to Lord Corvus’s lavish guest chambers in the palace was thrown open.
Lyssa was hurled inside, stumbling on the thick rug. Before she could regain her balance, hands were on her. Two guards pinned her arms.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” she screamed, thrashing.
One guard, a man with a thick neck and sour breath, leaned in to grip her harder. Lyssa saw her moment. She lunged forward and sank her teeth into the cartilage of his ear with all her strength.
A wet, tearing sound. A guttural roar of pain. Hot, coppery blood filled her mouth. The guard stumbled back, clutching the side of his head, his ear hanging by a shred of flesh. He stared at her, stunned, as his comrades stared in shock.
Lord Corvus, who had been observing from a plush chair, let out a wet, delighted chuckle. “Spirited! I knew it. Bind her. And bind her legs. Stretched out.”
They were on her before she could spit the blood from her mouth. They tore her gown, not with care, but with efficient brutality, leaving her in her torn shift. Strong ropes bit into her wrists, tying them to the thick wooden posts of the massive bed. Then they grabbed her ankles, pulling each leg wide to the corners of the bedframe, tying them so tightly her muscles immediately protested, stretching her open, utterly vulnerable.
The guards filed out, the injured one glaring murder, clutching a bloody rag to his head.
Corvus heaved his bulk from the chair. The sound of his breathing, a labored wheeze, filled the sudden silence. He began to circle the bed, his eyes devouring her.
“Oh, Lyssa,” he sighed, a sound of pure, gluttonous pleasure. “How I have waited for this view.” His gaze crawled over her spread thighs, the thin linen of her shift tented by her knees, the shadowed cleft between her legs clearly visible. “All that fire. All that defiance. And now you are here. Mine. To take. To break. To seed.”
Several hours earlier…
The air in the throne room was thick with incense and ambition. King Theron lounged on his jeweled throne, his sharp eyes gleaming as they swept over the assembled family.
“Barlon,” the king began, his voice a silken blade. “Your service to the crown has been… remarkable.”He lingered on the word "service" with a sly emphasis, his tone dripping with double meaning, as if savoring how it bound Barlon to him like chains. “The northern rebellion was crushed with admirable efficiency.”
Barlon rose bowing his head, a mere nod. “I serve the realm, Your Grace.”
“Of course you do,” Theron purred. His jeweled fingers tapped the throne arm.
The King’s gaze slid past him, landing on Lyssa, then lingering on Lady Anya seated gracefully. “And this proposed marriage between your daughter and my brother… such alliances are the bedrock of our stability. A service to the realm’s future.”
Lyssa's irritation flared visibly. She bit her lip, her fingers digging into her gown beneath the table, the fabric bunching under her grip as silent anger coursed through her. The idea of her fate being treated as a foregone conclusion made her stomach twist, her breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts to hide her rage.
Theron leaned toward Corvus, his voice dropping to a low whisper that only his brother could hear.
"You are a lucky dog, brother…I admit that I am jealous. I have to say, I wish I had seen her first before I suggested her for you. That girl's body... those curves, soft and ripe, begging to be claimed. it's enough to drive a man wild. I could have kept her for myself, buried deep in her warmth." As he whispered, a bulge started rising slowly in his pants, the fabric tightening against his growing hardness.
Theron pulled back and turned to Barlon, his tone turning bold and invasive..
“Tell me, Barlon. Do you check her?"
Barlon blinked, the words not registering immediately. "Check her?
“The girl Barlon. Do you check her... cunt?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Barlon felt his face replaced instantly by a flush of hot, uncomfortable nausea. His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"Your Majesty?" Barlon asked, his voice strained, the polite formality feeling like a thin shield against a barrage of filth.
King Theron seemed oblivious to Barlon’s discomfort.
"Every day," the King hissed, his eyes wide and unblinking. "You must lift her skirts. You must part her legs and look at that tight little hole. You must ensure it is closed. That it is pristine. Making certain no other man has dared to wander there? We can't have surprises on the wedding night, can we?"
Lyssa's discomfort peaked. She shifted in her seat, her thighs pressing together as if to guard herself, her face flushing a deep crimson while her anger simmered like a pot about to boil over. She remained silent, but her eyes darted to her father, pleading for him to strike back, her body tense with the humiliation of being discussed so openly.
The knot in Barlon’s jaw tightened to the point of pain. A muscle in his temple began to throb in time with his heartbeat. He wanted to retch. He wanted to draw his blade and cleave the King’s head from his shoulders for speaking of his precious daughter in such a debased, animalistic way.
"Your Majesty," Barlon began, his voice steady despite the roiling in his gut. "I assure you, her virtue remains unquestioned..."
Corvus scoffed, a wet, phlegmy sound. "Virtue. Virtue is a physical state, Barlon. It is a seal. If the seal is broken, the virtue is gone.
The king’s attention shifted, settling fully on Anya.
”Lady Anya,” the king said, his tone shifting to a hungry appreciation. “Such a… devoted wife. Such a formidable presence.”
He leaned forward slightly his eyes fixed on the rounded curve of Anya’s buttocks, molded by the silk against the chair. “The court’s beauty is often celebrated,” he mused aloud. “But some forms are… particularly worthy of celebration. I find myself intrigued”
A stifled gasp came from Elara, seated beside him. Her face was a mask of frozen fury, her thoughts screaming protests she dared not voice. Her own glare fell upon Anya, a silent accusation for merely existing.
“Tell me, Lord Barlon. When.. Anya lies in the dark, what does she look like?"
Silence.
"Her posture," Theron continued, the words wet and thick. "When she sleeps. Does she curl up like a kitten? Or does she lie on her back, legs spread? Does she sleep on her stomach, presenting that magnificent ass to the air?"
Barlon’s rigid posture trembled with suppressed violence. He took a measured step forward. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice dangerously polite. “Why do you mention my wife?”
Theron smiled, a lazy, stupid curl of his lips. “Why? For the same reason one admires a fine sculpture, Barlon. For its composition. For the… pleasure of its form.” He made a vague gesture toward Anya’s lower back. “A woman’s posterior, when so exquisitely shaped, is a testament to nature’s artistry. A man must appreciate fine art. The… curve of a masterpiece.” His eyes lingered on the swell of her buttocks, clearly outlined by the fine silk of her gown as she sat.
Anya flinched. The leer was so palpable, so crude.. A flush of discomfort painted her cheeks. She shifted forward on her seat, a subtle attempt to break the line of his stare, her movements stiff and awkward, but the silk clung, betraying her movement.
“That is a… peculiar reason, Your Majesty.”
“Is it?” The King’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. “I find her form… agreeable. I find myself wishing to… curate such art.”
The air crackled. Lyssa felt her own skin prickle with shared humiliation
“I intend to extend my patronage,” Theron continued, as if offering a great honor. “Lady Anya would reside in the royal wing. She would be… available. For appreciation.”
Corvus’s smug chuckle cut through the tension. “It seems all your prized women are to be reallocated, Barlon.” His piercing eyes danced with amusement. “Your daughter. Your wife. What will you have left?”
Barlon’s control snapped. “Your Majesty…” he began, his voice rising.
Anya acted faster. She rose smoothly, a sudden, elegant movement. She stepped to her husband, placed a calming hand on his arm, stroking it with a firm, reassuring pressure. Her touch was a command: be still. Then she turned to the King and bowed, a deep, respectful dip of her head.
“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice cool and perfectly modulated. “I am honored by your… notice. But my place is with my husband. My devotion is to him, and to our household. I must decline your patronage.”
The King’s expression hardened. The smooth oil turned to ice. “Decline? One does not decline a king’s generosity. It is a command.”
“It is a command I cannot obey,” Anya repeated, her tone unwavering.
“And I propose you remember your place woman,” Theron snapped, but the heat was gone, replaced by a wheedling, conspiratorial tone.
He gestured to Barlon. “Look at her.” he said pointing his head toward Elara. “One mouth, one cunt. It is not enough. A woman like Anya… she is a feast. A man could dine for years and not taste every delight.” His eyes grew distant, imagining it. “I would start with that sway. I would have her walk for me. Naked. From the door to this very divan. I would watch those hips roll, that magnificent rear clench and release with each step. I would make her stand there, trembling, while I look my fill.”
Corvus watched him, a strange, covetous flicker in his own gaze. The king’s vulgar fantasy was igniting something in him.”While you are… marking the mother brother, I presume the Daughter is still mine? You will not….”
“The marriage contract will be drawn. She will be yours in law brother.” Theron grinned, a grotesque expression. “You may take on your wedding night. Or before. I care not. A tight, young cunt is a simple pleasure. But a woman’s body, shaped by years, knowing its own power… that is a complex one. I crave complexity.”
Watching Barlon’s trembling fury, he gestured to a guard. “Bring her forward.”
A young slave girl, barely older than Lyssa, was ushered into the room. She stood trembling, her eyes wide with fear. She was beautiful, dressed in a thin, sheer shift that revealed more than it concealed. The King pointed at her. “A replacement. A tender thing. For you, Barlon. And lands. Gold. Silver. Any gift you name. For the… relocation of your wife.”
It was an insult, a barter for a wife. Barlon’s face darkened to a stormy purple. The tension escalated, a visible back-and-forth of power and defiance cracking the marble stillness.
“I do not trade my wife,” Barlon growled, the words scraping from his throat.
“You will,” the King stated, simple and absolute.
“I will not.”
“I have decided,” Theron stated, I find my appetite has grown. You will be content with the girl. A young, tight virgin. That should satisfy you.”
“Content?” Barlon spat, stepping closer. “She is my wife! You cannot…”
“I can,” Theron interrupted, his voice cold and absolute. “I AM THE KING. You are a lord who begs for scraps from my table. Do not forget that.” He gestured dismissively at the trembling girl. “You will have this girl tonight. Take her. Fuck her until you forget Anya’s name. That is your consolation“
“A woman who possesses such a magnificent body should be used, not merely wasted on a man who doesn't know what to do with her."
Corvus turned to the king “You are a greedy, worm,” he said, his voice low and joking.
The King’s eyes narrowed. “And you are a fat, lecherous pig.” He lashed out at him.
“Barlon you will do as I command. You will take the girl. You will marry her. And you will never, ever speak of Anya again. She belongs to my eyes now. To my hands. To my cock.”
The fury erupted. Barlon stepped forward, his size suddenly dominating the space before the throne. “If you want my wife, Your Grace” he said, his voice a low, dangerous thunder, all pretense of deference burned away “you will have to drag her from my cold lifeless arms.”
Then he turned his blazing eyes to Corvus. “You. You can forget about the marriage. My daughter will never… warm your bed.”
He moved then, a sudden, decisive storm. He grabbed Lyssa’s wrist, his grip iron-hard, and in the same motion, seized Anya’s wrist. He pulled them both, a single, forceful yank that tore them from their positions. Lyssa stumbled, her breath catching. Anya gasped, her elegance shattered by the raw, physical command.
Without a word, without a bow, Lord Barlon turned and strode from the throne room, dragging his daughter and his wife behind him, their wrists captive in his furious grasp, leaving the smirking Queen, the stunned fat lord, and the ice-cold furious King in a wake of silent, explosive rebellion.
The heavy palace gates, thick oak banded with iron, began to swing shut with a final, groaning creak. Lord Barlon’s convoy was halfway through, the lead horses already on the outer road.
“In the name of the King! Stop!”
Royal guards in polished steel surged from the shadows of the gatehouse, a two dozen of them, swords drawn but not yet raised. They formed a bristling wall before the carriages.
Barlon’s own personal guards, hardened men who had ridden with him through border raids, reacted instantly. Hands flew to sword hilts, their bodies shifting to form a protective cordon around their lord’s carriage. The metallic shings of blades leaving scabbards rang in the sudden quiet.
“Stand down!” Barlon’s voice boomed from within the carriage, raw with command. The door flew open and he emerged, his massive frame blocking the opening. His face was granite, but his eyes scanned the scene with a warrior’s cold calculation…the number of guards, the position of his girls, the glint of crossbows on the walls above. Bloodshed here. Now. With them here. The thought was a physical revulsion.
His guards hesitated, swords half-drawn, eyes darting between the royal guards and their lord. “My lord…” one began, voice tight with protest.
“I said stand down!” Barlon roared, the command leaving no room for argument. He stepped fully out, placing himself between the royal guards and the carriage door. “No steel. Not here.” His gaze swept over his men, a look of profound gratitude and bitter apology. “Not in front of the girls.”
The royal captain, a sneering man with a thin mustache, stepped forward. “Lord Barlon. By order of the King, you are under arrest for treason. The women are to be taken into custody.”
Several hours later…
Lady Anya’s world had narrowed to the brutal grip on her upper arms, the jarring stumble of her own feet as two royal guards half-dragged, half-marched her toward the king’s private chambers. The velvet of her dress whispered against the cold stone, a pathetic sound against the clank of armor. Her mind reeled, a storm of fear for Barlon, for Lyssa, for herself.
The ornate doors to the king’s solar were thrown open. The guards shoved her inside, the momentum sending her to her knees on the thick fur rug before the great fireplace. The impact jarred up her spine, a burst of pain in her knees. She caught herself on her hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the lush curves of her body presented in a vulnerable, kneeling arch.
“You lumbering oafs!”
King Theron’s roar filled the chamber. He stood by the divan, his face purpling with a rage that seemed disproportionate. His eyes were not on her face, but fixed lower, on the way her fall had made the fabric of her dress strain across the full, round swell of her buttocks.
“You manhandle the finest flesh in the realm as if she were a sack of grain!” he bellowed, stomping forward. He pointed a thick, trembling finger at the guard on Anya’s left. “Do you wish to crack the porcelain? To break the very perfection? Those buttocks are a national treasure, not a tavern bench!”
The guard paled, his mouth working soundlessly. Anya flinched, a fresh wave of humiliated heat washing over her. She tried to rise, to gain some dignity. A third guard by the door, his eyes wide with a different kind of fear, made the mistake of letting his gaze drop to the same cursed curve of her body.
Theron saw it. His fury found a new target. “You!” he screeched, spittle flying. “You dare to look? You dare to let your peasant eyes soak in what belongs to your king?” He whirled, his chest heaving. “Captain! The heads of these three! Now! I will not have my future companion gawked at by the rabble!”
“Your Grace, please!” one guard begged, dropping to his own knees.
Anya watched, numb with horror, as the captain, stone-faced, signaled. More guards entered, dragging the pleading men away. The door thudded shut, leaving a silence thick with the metallic scent of fear and the king’s heavy panting.
Theron turned back to her. His rage evaporated, replaced by that familiar, oily hunger. He smoothed his tunic, a grotesque pantomime of composure. “There, my lady. You see? I am a protector of beauty. They will not offend you again.”
Anya found her voice, though it was thin and reedy. “My… my husband. What is his fate?”
The King’s faux-sympathetic expression vanished, replaced by blunt, administrative coldness. “Barlon? The traitor? He disobeyed and threatened his king my love. He will be executed. At dawn. A clean strike. I am not a cruel man.”
The words were a physical blow. Anya’s composure cracked. A sob choked in her throat, but she swallowed it, forcing it down into the hollow ache now spreading through her chest. She would not give this man her tears.
The king began to circle her kneeling form, his boots whispering on the fur. His gaze was a tangible weight, crawling over the line of her back, the dip of her waist, the dramatic flare of her hips. “Such a silhouette,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“Your world is here now. You will learn to see that.”
He completed his circle, coming to a stop directly behind her. Anya could feel the heat of him, could smell the wine on his breath and the cloying scent of his perfume. She stared straight ahead, her body trembling not with cold, but with a terror so profound it felt like ice in her veins.
“Do you know,” he mused, his voice dropping to a intimate, disgusting murmur, “the most compelling part of a woman’s form, from this angle? It is the silence of it. The quiet, lush promise. The way the fabric hints at the deep divide beneath…”
Anya squeezed her eyes shut. Do not listen. Do not hear him.
She heard the rustle of his clothes as he bent down. Felt the shift in the air. He was crouching now, directly behind her. His presence was an oppressive shadow. She could sense his hands, hovering just inches from the rounded curves of her buttocks, not touching, but claiming the space.
His breath stirred the loose hairs at the nape of her neck. “No other man should view this landscape.” he whispered, his voice thick with a possessive thrill. “Not Barlon. Not anyone. This is now mine. My discovery. My kingdom.”
The heat of the fire was nothing compared to the shame burning through her. His nearness was an violation. The anticipation of his touch was a torture worse than the touch itself. She remained frozen, a statue of dread, waiting for the descent of those ring-laden hands, for the beginning of the end.