Milky came to consciousness with a sour taste in her mouth. The air in the hollow was a thick, unholy perfume: cooling cum, the sharp ozone of spent mana, and the animal musk of sweat. The wet, slick sound of skin peeling away from skin echoed as the pride began to stir from their tangled pile.
She felt the tacky glaze of dried seed on her inner thighs, a deep, pleasant ache in her womb, and the lingering traces of Damask's essence deep inside her. It wasn't the potent, life-giving flood she was bred for, but a gritty, nascent seed that felt like an irritating friction, like a grain of sand in the most sensitive folds of her flesh. A brand.
Her body, the prized vessel of the Ashcroft line, had been thoroughly, brutally used. She felt less like a cherished Sow and more like a cheap whore, ridden hard and left glistening in the aftermath. A filthy, traitorous part of her soul reveled in the feeling.
She hated it. She wanted more.
This shameful cognitive dissonance—the pride of an Ashcroft warring with the secret, slutty craving to be treated like a worthless fucktoy—coiled in her gut. She had to offload it, to channel it into something that felt like power, not submission.
She sat up, the thin silk of her robe clinging unpleasantly to her skin. Across the smoldering fire pit, Kestrel was already awake, her naked form a study in lethal grace. Lyra was kneeling before her, presenting her ass in a posture of subordinate inspection.
"Your scent is agitated," Kestrel said, her voice a low, clinical baritone. She ran a hand over Lyra's flank, her fingers tracing the tense muscle there. "Your mana is still volatile from the curse's release. It stinks of fear. A liability in the field." She leaned in, inhaling deeply from the nape of Lyra's neck. "Unacceptable."
Lyra's jaw tightened, the muscles in her ass clenching in a silent, furious spasm. Kestrel's fingers dipped lower, pressing firmly against the wet heat of Lyra's cunt. "Relax," she commanded. "I need to feel the state of your cockwomb. As First Blade, it is my duty to ensure all assets are combat-ready. And you, Second, are far from ready."
Good, Milky thought with a sliver of satisfaction, watching the humiliating inspection. Let Kestrel hammer her back into place. Let them wear each other down.
Her gaze drifted to Marigold. The other Sow was tending to Petunia, gently applying a salve to a raw chafe mark high on the Fem's delicate inner thigh. The sight of Marigold's tender, nurturing expression made that hot, ugly thing in Milky's gut twist with a possessive, predatory urge.
She wanted to stride over there, shove the pathetic Fem face-down into the dirt, and force Marigold onto her back. She imagined feeling their soft, trembling bodies beneath her, a throne of pliant flesh. She would command them both to worship her, to lick the sweat from her thighs while she grew her own clit-cock, hard and demanding. She would fuck that infuriatingly noble look right off Marigold's face, using the Sow's cunt as a sheath while Petunia's mouth serviced her from below.
To claim them both.
It was pure Bitch-behavior, a vicious, dominant streak that felt entirely alien to her. And it was coming from Marigold. Milky could feel it now—a subtle, almost imperceptible current of seductive mana radiating from the other Sow. It wasn't the clean, nurturing energy of a Nightshade; it was darker, more complex, laced with a thorny, possessive quality that her own refined senses found both repellent and intoxicating.
What is this? she wondered, a flicker of genuine confusion cutting through her contempt. It was as if the little slut was unconsciously broadcasting a signal of carnal command, a power that subtly hooked into Milky's own desires and twisted them into something aggressive. It was a fascinating, infuriating violation.
This new, unsettling variable didn't stop the image of pinning Marigold down, of feeling her struggle, of making her cry out her name, from lingering like a drug. Her thoughts were a hot, filthy haze, a private world she could almost taste. But the fantasy shattered as a new pressure entered the hollow—not the subtle, seductive pull from Marigold, but the heavy, earthy weight of a Dom making a decision. The shift was palpable, silencing the crickets and making the very air feel thick with command.
"We're not walking."
Damask's voice cut through the morning haze. His power, though nascent, was palpable now—a heavy, earthy, sexual pressure that made the air feel thick. He was only at the crescent stage of raw solid-grade mana, but it was something.
"We've skulked long enough," Damask declared, a note of his old arrogance returning. "Anyone who means us harm already knows we're in the Grove. Let them come."
He knelt, retrieving a small, intricately carved object from his pack. It was a turtle, no bigger than his palm, crafted from what looked like petrified wood and veined with dormant mana-conduits.
"My mother was not so cruel as to send her heir into exile completely defenseless," he said, his voice laced with a bitter pride. "This was a gift, for my majority. A last resort."
With a grunt of effort that was pure masculine exertion, he slammed his palms onto the artifact. A tremor ran through his arms, and for a second, his hands shook uncontrollably before he clenched them into fists, hiding the weakness.
The earth groaned. The small turtle began to glow, its mana-conduits flaring to life. It rose into the air and then slammed back to the ground, growing with impossible speed. Rocks, corrupted soil, and twisted roots were drawn to it, pulled by an invisible force.
Milky watched, a critical but impressed arch to her brow, as the mass of earth and stone coalesced around the artifact, a raw, phallic extension of her Dom's will.
Slowly, a shape emerged. Four thick, stumpy legs. A long, rugged carapace large enough for all of them to ride upon. A blunt, reptilian head. A golem. A massive, turtle-like beast of living earth. It was monstrous, ugly, and utterly defiant.
Damask stood back, panting from the effort, a sheen of sweat on his brow that highlighted the powerful lines of his torso. It was a moment of vulnerability that was, in itself, a display of power.
"Get on," he commanded.
As the others began to load their meager supplies, Milky paused, her hand straying to a small, embroidered pouch tied to her belt. Kestrel's gaze flicked down to it, then back to Milky's eyes. She didn't know what was inside—a poison, a spell—but she recognized the gesture for what it was: a hand hovering over a final, desperate option. An Ashford trump card. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear: I'm watching.
Milky's hand dropped. The Ashford emergency seal remained her final choice, her true loyalty.
She looked at Damask, standing proudly beside his creation. She looked at the simmering rivalry between the Bitches. She looked at Marigold, her secret obsession, her ass a perfect, heart-shaped target as she climbed onto the golem. Her gaze even softened for a moment as it fell on Petunia, who scrambled up after the Sows like a dutiful, adorable pet. A perfect little tool, she thought, a flicker of something almost like affection warming her chest before she crushed it.
This was a broken pride, led by a broken Dom on a suicide mission. But it was not yet a failed pride. There was power here.
For now, she would see it through. Let's see if the Heir's name still carries any weight at the border, she thought. The fort is the last bastion of Ivy law. The court expects us to resupply, to commandeer what we need. If they treat us like exiles, then we truly are nothing more than beasts in the wilderness, and my choice will be made for me.
With a final, lingering look at Marigold's back, Milky stepped onto the golem, her expression a perfect mask of Sow-like compliance.
The beast lurched forward, beginning its slow, inexorable journey towards the border fort, and deeper into the shadows of the Ashen Grove.