It shattered.
The sensation wasn't a fading. It was a visceral tearing, as if a root of living light that had been grafted to her soul was ripped out, leaving a raw, bleeding stump deep in her core. The molten gold didn't just vanish; it curdled into a cold, black poison that flooded the screaming void where her Dom's power used to be. A dread sharp as a shard of ice plunged into her gut, and her body reacted before her mind could process the impossible. Her internal cockwomb, which had been a warm, placidly coiled thing, convulsed violently. It was a grotesque, internal dry heave, a biological agony as the organ tried to tear itself free from the sudden, horrifying emptiness, screaming that its sovereign, its purpose, was gone.
The void screamed, and Kestrel's body answered with a single, desperate command: Fill me. It was a primal, biological imperative, a craving that clawed up from her gut, demanding the only cure it had ever known. It demanded the memory made flesh again: Damask's monumental cock, thick and unforgiving, ramming into her ass with a force that bruised her hips and left her impaled, gasping, her mind shattered into a million points of agonizing pleasure. It demanded the feeling of being stretched to her absolute limit, of her tight hole being forced open, claimed, and flooded with a torrent of hot, mana-rich seed that branded her from the inside out. That was how the bond had been forged—not with tenderness, but with a brutal, possessive fucking that had left her leaking and marked for days. And now, to fix this tearing, to fill this screaming emptiness, her body knew it needed more. It needed to be broken open again, harder this time. It needed a fucking so savage, so absolute, that it would cauterize the wound and burn the memory of this coldness to ash. It needed to be claimed all over again, with a violence that left no room for voids or ghosts.
This raw, carnal need propelled her. She didn't know what was wrong, not in any way her mind could name, but her body knew with an absolute, terrifying certainty. The bond was broken, and the only way to fix it was to find her Dom. She didn't think. She exploded from the sparring pit in a blur of motion, a body seeking its cure, shouldering past stunned students. Her boots hammered against the stone corridors in a frantic, desperate sprint toward the Heir's chambers, every instinct screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.
She burst through the heavy oak doors, half-ready to throw herself at her Dom's feet and beg to be taken, to be fixed. Instead, she found a scene of quiet, suffocating ruin. The air, once crackling with her Dom's potent, controlled power, was now a dead, stagnant pool thick with the coppery tang of a curse and the sour stench of spent mana. Lyra, the SteelClaw Bitch, lay gasping on the silken sheets, her eyes fluttering with a dawning, terrified lucidity. Marigold knelt beside her, a portrait of useless, soft-hearted terror.
And on the bed, a collapsed heap of sweat-slicked limbs and torn robes, was Damask. The vibrant, commanding aura that had once defined the Heir was gone. Her monumental cock—the very instrument her body craved, the tool that had forged her bond and was meant to be her salvation—was a limp, pale, useless length of flesh against her thigh. The monolith of her power had crumbled, leaving a chilling, mortal fragility in its wake. The sight was a second, more profound violation, shattering the desperate hope that had fueled her frantic run.
As Kestrel's mind reeled, another presence in the room asserted itself with venomous force.
"Traitor."
Milky Ashcroft stood rigid, her face a mask of incandescent, righteous fury. But her body, always a more honest creature, betrayed a filthier truth. When Damask's power had shattered, the curse's chaotic, untamed mana had flooded the chamber. For a high-grade Sow like Milky, whose body was a finely tuned vessel for absorbing and processing energy, the influx was a violation. The raw, unfiltered magic was a potent, agonizing aphrodisiac, a biological assault that sent her system into overdrive. Her cunt was weeping, her nipples were hard as pebbles, and beneath the fine fabric of her robes, her clit was painfully swollen, a hard, demanding knot of agonizing, unwanted arousal. She couldn't distinguish the physical torment from her political rage; they fused into a single, overwhelming need for release, a raw, carnal imperative to get herself off. When her venomous gaze fixed on Marigold, that hunger twisted, fusing with her political rage into a specific, vicious need: to punish, to dominate, and to find her release by fucking the traitor into submission. And her venomous gaze was fixed on Marigold.
"This is your doing, Nightshade slut," Milky hissed, taking a step forward. "You brought this curse into our halls. Your filthy, foreign mana has poisoned our Heir!"
Kestrel, her own grief and the gnawing agony of her broken bond momentarily eclipsed by the immediate threat, moved. She became a living shield, her lean, Bitch-perfect body positioned between Milky's fury and Marigold's terror. A deep, primal rage—cold and clean as forged steel—flooded her system. Deep within her, her internal cockwomb answered the call, swelling and hardening, a hot, wet patch spreading through the fabric of her trousers—a declaration of lethal intent.
The air grew thick with the clashing scents of their arousal: Milky's, a cloying, acidic sweetness like overripe fruit and jealous rage; Kestrel's, a sharp, clean tang of ozone and protective fury.
"Stand down, Milky," Kestrel's voice was a low, dangerous baritone. "You are out of line."
"I am out of line?" Milky's laugh was a high, cruel sound, her full Sow-breasts heaving with each furious breath. "Our Heir has been gelded, and you defend the foreign cunt who did it? She needs to be interrogated. Properly."
Her eyes, gleaming with a vicious, carnal light, swept over Marigold's trembling form. "I'll do it myself. A full-spectrum mana-interrogation. We'll strap her down, hook her up to the pleasure-breakers. I'll ride her with a barbed dildo until she's screaming and convulsing, her mind shattered, her cunt weeping every last one of her filthy Nightshade secrets. I will personally oversee the pleasure-breaking of this traitor. It is my right, as the future Prime Sow."
The threat was a physical thing in the room. Kestrel's internal cock gave a single, violent throb against her trousers, a final warning. "You will not touch her."
"And who will stop me? You?" Milky's voice cracked, halfway between a sob and a snarl. "Our Heir is crippled, and you just stand there! We have to do something!" She took another, wild step forward.
The air crackled, the two pridemates locked in a standoff, a Sow's righteous fury against a Bitch's unshakeable loyalty.
"Kestrel."
The voice was not a roar. It lacked the thunderous, mana-infused power that had once shaken the very foundations of the court. It was quiet. It was cold. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated will, and it was more terrifying than any scream.
Damask had pushed herself up on the bed. The movement was a struggle, and it revealed a horrifying transformation. The raw, physical power that had defined her was gone. The thick, sculpted muscles of her arms and shoulders, once a testament to her Dom status, had deflated. The mana that had fueled that impressive bulk had vanished, leaving her frame leaner, almost wiry. She was still tall, still powerful, but she now looked less like a Muscle Mommy and more like a large, rangy Bitch, her physical dominance stripped away as surely as her magical might.
Her body was a portrait of powerlessness, but her eyes… her eyes were a frozen hell. They were fixed on Milky, and in their depths, the spoiled, arrogant Sow saw the unmaking of her world. For Kestrel, that voice was a flicker of hope in the screaming void. The mana was gone, but the Dom was still there.
"Bind her," Damask commanded, her voice utterly devoid of emotion.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Kestrel, her face a mask of grim, absolute obedience, nodded once. From a pouch on her belt, she produced a set of thick, leather straps. She advanced on Milky, not as a rival, but as an executioner, her actions fueled by a desperate loyalty to the ghost of the power she craved.
"You can't be serious," Milky gasped, her fury turning to a pleading disbelief as Kestrel seized her wrists. She struggled, looking past Kestrel to the bed. "My Lord… she's the one who did this to you! Why are you protecting her?"
Kestrel didn't answer. Her movements were brutally efficient. She snapped the leather cuffs into place, pulling them tight. The act of Kestrel, the First Blade, physically restraining a high-ranking Sow on the order of a Dom who could no longer back her command with a single spark of mana, was a shocking, profound declaration. It was a testament to a hierarchy built not on magic, but on a loyalty that transcended it.
"On your knees," Damask commanded, her cold gaze never leaving Milky's.
Milky's face contorted with a final, desperate surge of defiance, but the sheer, unyielding force of Damask's will was an invisible, crushing weight. Her knees buckled. She sank to the floor, her swollen clit pressing uselessly against the rough leather of her bonds, her arousal now a source of burning, abject humiliation.
Damask looked down at the kneeling Sow, her expression unreadable. "You are a Sow of this pride, Milky."
A Sow of this pride. The words hit Milky with the force of a physical blow, cutting through her hysterical rage and the thrumming, unwanted heat in her cunt. For years, it had been an unspoken assumption, a political inevitability. But Damask had never said it. Not like this. Not with such cold, possessive finality. Was this it? The official acknowledgment she had craved, delivered now, in this moment of ruin? Or was it just a desperate gambit, a powerless Dom reasserting her authority with the only tool she had left—the weight of a title? Of course I will serve you, a loyal part of her screamed internally, I was always going to serve you. But serving a god was one thing. Serving a cripple… that would be troublesome. The thought was a bitter, pragmatic poison, but the declaration had been made. Whether by design or desperation, Damask had finally, irrevocably, claimed her.
Damask's voice continued, each word a cold, hard reinforcement of the hierarchy. "You do not give orders to my First Blade. You do not presume the authority to interrogate anyone within these walls. That is my right, and mine alone. You have forgotten the order of things. I am still your Heir. You will remember your place. And you will obey."
Each word was a brutal lesson in the architecture of their pride. In the suffocating silence, the only sound was the soft, broken weeping of Marigold—a sound of grief, of terror, and of a dawning, soul-deep devotion to the powerless Dom who had just upheld the law with nothing but the sheer, terrifying force of her own unbroken will. Kestrel stood guard, a silent statue of steel, the cold void in her gut now warring with a fragile, desperate hope. The Dom was broken, but the order she commanded remained. And for now, that would have to be enough.