Thorn's Camp (Outskirts of Ivy Territory)
The screaming had stopped.
A satisfied growl rumbled deep in Thorn's chest as she surveyed her collection of broken bodies. The orgy was over, a brutal, mind-shattering display of her absolute dominance that had served its purpose perfectly. But the real prize wasn't among the whimpering wrecks scattered around her feet. It was chained to a petrified log, a silver Bonding Collar biting deep into pale flesh like a brand of ownership.
Lady Milky Ashcroft. A prized scion of a noble house, now brought low. And Thorn's newest pet.
"So," Thorn purred, her voice carrying the lazy satisfaction of a predator who'd just gorged herself, "the great illusion has fallen." She rose with a predatory grace, her muscular body a roadmap of scars from a hundred victories. Her massive cockwomb had retracted, but the musky scent of her recent climax still hung in the air like a declaration of conquest.
Across from her, Marigold knelt with practiced deference, though her hands trembled with barely contained emotion. Between them both, Milky was a broken thing, a whimpering, sobbing wreck whose silver collar pulsed with a faint, malevolent energy against her throat.
"My scouts brought me more than just confirmation," Thorn continued, her voice lucid and sharp now that the haze of lust had cleared. She reached into a leather pouch at her belt. "They found the remains of a great beast, a temple reduced to dust and echoes. Just like you described." She gestured dismissively. "Ruins. And in those ruins..." Her eyes glinted with a cruel, knowing light. "...they found a psychic ward, shattered from the inside. And this."
She produced a fragment of crystalline mana, but not just any mana. This pulsed with an unmistakable Ashcroft family resonance: pure, refined, and utterly distinctive.
A jolt of panic shot through Milky, a stark contrast to the collar-induced arousal that still slicked her thighs. Marigold's breath hitched. They both knew what that mana signature meant.
"Oh yes, little pet," Thorn purred, her grin widening as she watched their distress. "Your precious Heir left quite the trail. A rather powerful, and very rare, Ashcroft teleportation device. A one-way trip to some forgotten little bunker, I'd wager. A desperate move." Thorn's voice was a venomous caress. "You didn't really think you could hide that from me, did you?"
The performance had been exquisite. Marigold's lies had been a masterpiece of soul-crushing betrayal, each word precisely crafted to shatter Milky's pride. Thorn had felt the exact moment the Ashcroft's spirit broke, when centuries of noble arrogance crumbled under the weight of perceived treachery.
Milky's mind fractured as the collar's magic flooded her system. Not like this. Not when Damask needs me. But her traitorous body was already responding, nipples hardening, thighs growing slick with shameful arousal. The bond forced her to crave her captor's touch even as her heart screamed in anguish.
"Where is he?" she gasped through tears. "Where's my Heir?"
Thorn's smile turned razor-sharp. "Alive. For now. But that depends entirely on how cooperative you choose to be." She stalked over to where her prize knelt, unclipping a length of black iron chain from her belt. The metal felt heavy in her palm, each link forged with restraining enchantments that would sap a Sow's will to resist. "You're a valuable asset, Lady Ashcroft. A prize. And prizes should be treated as such."
With practiced ease, she clipped the chain to the ring on Milky's collar. The metallic click echoed through the camp like a death knell.
"On your feet, pet."
Milky scrambled to obey, every movement desperate and clumsy. The chain clinked with each motion, its weight a constant reminder of her new station. Thorn gave it a sharp, vicious yank, and the pull dragged the noble Sow forward onto her hands and knees like a common animal.
"Good girl," Thorn snarled, genuine satisfaction warming her voice.
The degradation hit Milky like a physical blow. This is it. The ultimate shame. She was no longer Lady Ashcroft, Prime Sow in waiting. She wasn't even a person. She was an animal on a leash, a thing to be owned, used, and discarded. The collar's weight wasn't just physical. Each link carried Thorn's dominance, her absolute ownership. The cool earth beneath her palms felt wrong, foreign. Everything felt wrong except the warm pulse of submission that bloomed in her core like a poisonous flower.
And the worst part? Her body was singing with grateful arousal.
Thorn led her crawling prize over to where Marigold knelt, the chain's links dragging through the dirt with soft, menacing whispers. She stood behind the trembling Nightshade, one hand coming to rest possessively on her thigh, a pimp's casual caress that made Marigold flinch.
"You see, little spy," Thorn whispered, her breath hot against Marigold's ear, "you and I have a new arrangement." Her fingers began tracing idle circles on the soft flesh. "You've proven your utility. You will help me hunt down the two Bitches you so despise."
Marigold's hands trembled. Keep Milky as her personal toy? The woman she'd betrayed? The rival she'd helped destroy? This is what I wanted, she told herself desperately. This is why I turned traitor. But looking at Milky, broken, collared, reduced to this, something cold and bitter settled in her stomach like lead.
"My gut tells me they're still in those ruins," Thorn continued, her other hand giving Milky's leash a playful tug that made the Sow whimper. "They had something to do with the illusion's fall. And in return for your loyalty..." Her grip on Marigold's thigh tightened possessively. "I will allow you to keep your little rival here as your personal fuck-toy."
"I..." Marigold started, then stopped. What was she becoming?
"Choose quickly," Thorn's voice cut through her hesitation like a blade. "The offer expires with my patience." Before Marigold could answer, Thorn continued, "As for the crippled Heir and his little pet, I'll send a fresh team after them. A small hunter-killer pack with two of my best Bitches, a Sow for support, and a Fem to sniff out their trail. They're trackers, experts in this terrain. The boy can't have gotten far. And when my team finds them..."
Her smile was all teeth and hunger. "Well, a powerless Dom and a C-Apt 5 Fem are valuable commodities. My mistress will be very, very pleased."
Ashcroft Bunker (Outskirts of Ivy Territory)
The cold, heavy feel of the stone floor was the first sensation to pierce through the grey fog of Damask's grief.
He stood at the mouth of a forgotten cave, the air clean and sharp, a stark contrast to the cloying poison that had filled the Grove. He was alive. He was safe. And he was utterly, completely alone save for the small, trembling figure at his side.
Petunia. The Fem who had stayed. The one who had pulled him back from the brink when despair threatened to consume him entirely.
"We're a week's travel out, at least," Damask said, his voice hoarse from disuse. He could feel it now, a faint, thrumming echo in the void where his power used to be. Kestrel's signature. She was alive, and that bond, forged in submission and sealed in flesh, served as his compass now.
The ruin, he realized. She's at the heart of it all.
The journey ahead was a terrifying unknown. Without his abilities, he was just another refugee fleeing through hostile territory. His mind began cataloging threats with cold, tactical precision.
First, the political angle. Belladonna would see his powerless state as an opportunity. Anya would view it as a weakness to exploit. The court is a nest of vipers, and I am a wounded lion. To be found now would mean death, or worse: a collar around my own throat.
Then the physical dangers. Thieves and bandits infest these borderlands like plague rats. Two lone travelers make a tempting prize. And the wildlife... the Grove's corruption might be fading, but the beasts that roam these lands are still wild, still hungry. The forest wanted them dead. Damask could feel it in the too-still air, the unnatural silence where birdsong should be. Every shadow could hide a blade.
"We're being hunted," Petunia whispered, his voice barely audible.
Damask nodded grimly. Without his abilities, they were prey. But he still had his tactical mind, his knowledge of terrain, and most importantly, he still had something worth fighting for.
But the ruin is the key. Kestrel and Lyra survived, he reasoned, his gaze hardening with renewed purpose. They were at the heart of the cataclysm. The illusion shattered because of them, because of something they discovered or unleashed. If they hold the key to that kind of power, they might hold the key to my restoration.
This wasn't just a rescue mission. It was a reclamation.
He looked down at Petunia, at the unwavering devotion in those wide, luminous eyes. Even broken and powerless, he was still a protector. He had failed his pride once; he would not fail again.
"Stay close, Pet," he commanded, his voice hardening with new resolve. His hand came down, gripping Petunia's shoulder in a gesture that was both anchor and claim. "The road ahead will be dangerous. But we will survive. We will find our pride. And we will reclaim what was lost."
He was no longer the Sovereign of the Ivy Court. Those days had burned with the Grove. But from the ashes of his ruin, something new was emerging. He was an Ascendant now, a conqueror with a brutal new path to walk. The architecture of his destruction would become the foundation of his new empire.
As Damask took his first step toward the ruins, a distant howl echoed through the forest. It was not animal, not quite human, but something far worse.
And it was getting closer.
"Then we become the hunters," he said quietly, steel entering his voice. Whatever was stalking them through these woods would learn that a broken Dom was still dangerous. Perhaps more dangerous than they knew.
The road ahead would not be his tomb. It would be his forge.