The air in Damask's private chambers was thick enough to choke on, a soupy cocktail of old power, fresh political blood, and the cloying scent of a curse. Marigold, her Sow instincts screaming at the sight of the broken Bitch on the divan, fussed uselessly over Lyra's limp form. She smoothed the unresponsive girl's hair, her touch a gentle wave of nurturing mana that simply washed over Lyra's sealed essence-script, finding no purchase. Lyra was a beautiful, empty doll, her vacant eyes staring at the ornate ceiling, a silent testament to the court's brutal games. She was the problem at the center of the room.
The heavy chamber door swung open, and Kestrel entered. She'd been summoned from the Academy, expecting a debrief on border skirmishes or supply chain logistics. Instead, she walked into a scene of quiet, domestic chaos: her Dom, his new Sow, and a catatonic Bitch who, just that morning, had been the prized asset of another house. Kest's amber eyes took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance—the political implications, the resource drain, the sheer, beautiful mess of it all. Her posture, already that of a coiled predator, tightened.
"My Lord," she said, her voice a low, steady baritone that cut through the tension. Her gaze flickered from Marigold's soft, concerned face to Lyra's empty one, her mind already calculating the new threats and weaknesses within the pride.
"Kestrel," Damask's voice was a low rumble of command. "You've seen what happened. The court sees a political pawn. Anya sees a broken tool. Tell me what you see."
Kest's assessment was immediate and brutal. "I see a liability, my Lord. I was there in the arena. Gristle's methods were crude, but the result would have been the same. It's not a biological flaw; it's a magical lockbox. Her essence-script is sealed. She's a drain on your mana and a political target on your back. The pragmatic move is to dust her and be done with it."
"Dust her?" Marigold gasped, spinning around, her eyes wide with horror. "She's not a thing! There's still a person in there. I can feel it. Her mana is just… trapped. My Lord, you claimed her to save her, not to discard her."
Damask watched the two of them, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. The heart and the steel of his pride, already at odds. Perfect.
"Your heart is your strength, Marigold. And your steel is yours, Kestrel. But neither of you understands the other. You will. To the training yard. Now."
The command was absolute. The training yard was a brutal sanctuary of sand and sweat. Damask stood, arms crossed, his own massive, girthy cock a heavy, semi-hard weight against his thigh as he watched them circle each other.
"Kestrel," he commanded, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Test her. I need to see the resolve behind that soft flesh."
Kest didn't hesitate. She moved like a blur, her attack a relentless storm of precision and force. It was a test, a brutal lesson in the reality of their world—that compassion was useless without the strength to back it up. Marigold, hopelessly outmatched in skill, met the assault with a stubborn, unyielding endurance. She took the blows, her soft body absorbing the impacts, her feet planted, refusing to fall. She was proving that her softness was not weakness, but a different kind of strength.
Finally, Damask raised a hand. "Enough."
Kest stepped back, her chest heaving, her lean body slick with sweat. She looked at Marigold, who was bruised and panting but still standing, her eyes blazing with defiance. A flicker of grudging respect entered Kest's gaze. "You're stronger than you look," she admitted.
"Good," Damask's voice was thick with satisfaction. "That's the fire I need." He led them back to his chambers, back to the silent, waiting form of Lyra. He stood before them, two perfect, opposing forces, slick with the sweat of their conflict.
"You have your orders," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl. "But a council bound by duty alone is brittle. Tonight, we forge a bond of flesh and mana. Tonight, you both belong to me, together."
The air crackled with a new kind of tension. He led them to the sprawling bed, a nest of silks and furs. He took his place at its center, a king on his throne, his monumental cock now fully, brutally erect, veins like thick ropes coiling around its length, the head a glistening, angry purple.
"Marigold," he commanded. "On your knees. Show Kestrel how a Sow serves her Dom."
Marigold obeyed without hesitation, crawling onto the bed, her own magically expandable clit tingling with a mix of fear and desperate arousal. She took his massive shaft into her mouth, her throat stretching to accommodate his impossible girth. He fucked her mouth with slow, deep, punishing thrusts, his eyes locked on Kest, who watched, her own internal cock throbbing with a jealous, hungry ache.
Then, he pulled Marigold up, laying her on her back. "Kestrel. Your turn to serve."
The warrior, the unshakeable second-in-command, melted. She knelt, her usual hardness giving way to a desperate, carnal need. Damask took her ass, a tight, powerful sheath that clenched around his cock with a warrior's strength. He pounded into her, his hips slamming against her, each thrust a brutal reminder of who held the ultimate power. Marigold watched, her own cunt weeping, her body aching for his touch.
Then, he brought them together. He pulled Kest forward, positioning her over Marigold. "Kestrel," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "Show her your power."
With a guttural groan, Kest's internal phallus extruded from her cunt, a thick, slick, veined weapon of its own. She positioned it at Marigold's entrance, and on Damask's command, she thrust forward, filling the Sow's wet, waiting hole.
Damask mounted Kest from behind, his own massive cock sliding back into her tight, gripping ass. He created a chain of pure, carnal dominance: his power flowing into Kest, and Kest's power flowing into Marigold. He began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through all three of them.
"Take it," he roared, his voice a raw, animalistic thing. "Take it all. Feel her. Feel me. Become one."
He fucked Kest with a savage, relentless rhythm, forcing her to fuck Marigold in turn. The room was filled with the wet, slapping sounds of their bodies, a symphony of moans and screams and raw, unfiltered lust. Marigold was stretched, filled, claimed from within by the Bitch, while the Bitch herself was impaled and controlled by their Dom.
The climax was a cataclysm. Damask's body went rigid, a deep, guttural roar tearing from his throat as he flooded Kest's ass with a torrent of thick, hot, mana-rich seed. The sheer force of his orgasm, the alchemical potency of his cum, blasted through Kest's system, triggering her own violent release. She screamed, her cunt-cock spasming as she pumped her own seed deep into Marigold's womb. Marigold cried out, her body convulsing as the dual infusions of power sent her into a shattering, soul-deep orgasm.
They collapsed in a tangled, sweat-slicked heap, their bodies still joined, their mana signatures a shared, thrumming hum of perfect, sated harmony. The tension was gone, replaced by the deep, unbreakable bond of a pride forged in the crucible of sex and power.
Damask held them both, his ownership now absolute, his inner circle complete. He looked from Kest's dazed, submissive face to Marigold's soft, satisfied one, and then his gaze fell upon the still, silent form of Lyra on the divan.
He whispered, his voice a promise in the musky dark, "Now you are one. Now, we begin."