In the northern side of the camp, inside the central yurt, the chamber rose into a domed ceiling with a narrow opening that let in a shaft of pale light. Mana-lamps glowed along the beams, washing the space in a warm yellow hue. A wide bed draped in silk sheets dominated one side, while a low table nearby held a glass jar with chalices and the faint scent of sweet fruit.
On a cushion near the bed sat a regal, gray-haired woman in dark teal robes embroidered with gold. Heavy jewelry adorned her, yet it was the calm weight of her gaze that commanded the space.
"When do you plan to stop, Helda?" she asked evenly.
Helda, fresh out of a hot bath, stood across the chamber, hair unbound and damp, falling nearly to her thighs as she dried it with a touch of mana. Out of her battle gear, she seemed ethereal, yet no less formidable—muscles defined, curves sculpted, her beauty both commanding and dangerous. Turning slightly toward the woman, she spoke with steady calm.
"Stop what, Abby?"
"You know what I mean, Helda," Abby said, her voice soft and weary, yet carrying a quiet thread of steel. "How long will you live like this? Hating everyone for the sins of a few? Haven't you hated enough? Isn't it time to leave the past behind?"
Helda crossed the chamber, bare feet soundless on the soft carpets, and opened a wardrobe near the cushions. She drew out a thin white robe, so sheer it concealed nothing, and slipped it over her body. The fabric clung like mist, every line of her figure visible, sharpening rather than softening her allure.
"You know why I hate them, Abby," Helda said, her voice calm. "But at least… I don't hate you. Isn't that enough?" A faint smile curved her lips, the kind that carried no warmth.
She then continued, "My mother… she lashed out at her own children because she couldn't face her true enemy. Too weak to strike the woman she hated, so she vented her spite on us. That wasn't strength—it was cowardice. And once, I was fool enough to call her brave." Her lip curled in contempt. "What disgusts me most is that I forced myself to believe her, even when I knew…every word that comes out of her mouth is a lie."
Abby exhaled slowly. "Helda, you were once strong enough that the Drakthar even whispered you might replace Uldrak himself. But now?" Her eyes tightened with regret. "Now they call you nothing but a depraved whore who kills the men she beds."
Helda gave a light laugh, unbothered, and moved to the table. She poured the thick, honey-like red liquid into a chalice, holding it up so it gleamed like blood. "And why would I care what weaklings say? Their words mean nothing." She drank, slow and deliberate.
"Your hatred is eating you alive, child," Abby said softly, her voice weighted with concern. "You've been stuck in your cultivation for far too long. Unless you let go of this hate, you'll never break through to the Resonant tier. If you must kill, then kill swiftly, in the open. Not dragging men into your chamber, playing games, only to slaughter them. To the world you look like a monster. Yet the truth is—you don't let men touch you at all. You're probably more saintly than the Aenvari witches."
A bitter smile touched her lips. "At least admit this much, Helda: will you find a mate before this old woman dies? You're not young anymore, and you've never even known the touch of a man."
Helda lifted the chalice again, drinking deep before answering. "Then you'll die waiting, Abby. You know no one can lie to me—yet every man in this world is a liar and a scum. My own brothers lusted after me when I was a child. Others still think I'm some trophy to claim. Tell me, why should I bind myself to such filth?" Her gaze burned cold as iron. "The best way to live in this world is to live for yourself."
The red liquid glinted like blood as she lifted the chalice once more.
* * *
Hale, still sitting on the grass near the stream, straightened up and reached for his dried clothes, but before he could slip them on, the girls emerged from the stream.
"Not those," Rhea said, water still dripping down her shoulders. "You need special clothes before entering her chamber."
"Special clothes? What now?" Hale asked warily.
Rhea, still completely naked, swayed her hips as she walked over to her folded bundle of garments. She pulled something out and handed it to him. Hale's eyes twitched.
"You've got to be kidding me. Wouldn't it be better if I just walk in there naked instead of wearing this?" he asked, incredulous.
The outfit was nothing more than a see-through black silk gown that draped loosely over the shoulders, paired with equally sheer shorts. He honestly couldn't tell the difference between wearing this and not wearing anything at all.
"No can do. Those are the Blood Daughter's orders," Rhea shrugged, utterly unfazed.
Hale pinched the fabric between his fingers. Helda's fetishes are beyond me, he thought.
Remy chuckled, stepping close and plucking the outfit from his hands. "Don't worry, little brother," she purred, eyes glinting as they slowly turned heated again. "Sis will make sure you look… proper."
Rhea cut in sharply, her tone firm. "Not now, Remy. If he comes back in one piece, then you two can do whatever you want. But wasting more time is dangerous—for all three of us."
Hale raised an eyebrow. "Why don't we just… run away? We're already in the forest. Couldn't we just hide until they forget about us?"
Rhea gave a weak smile, almost pitying. "Bad idea. Do you think it's that simple? Helda has special units with hound-like beasts that can track your scent anywhere. More than that; where exactly are you planning to go after escaping? Back to the Aenvari?"
She tilted her head. "Do you even know where your tribe is?"
Hale suppressed a wince. He hadn't told the girls the truth—that he wasn't really Aenvari at all. Instead, he'd spun some quick bullshit: claimed he'd lived in the mountains with his grandfather, and after the old man's death he'd tried to return to his tribe but got lost… and then captured. Not the most convincing story, but still better than blurting out that he was basically a Narnian. Even he knew that sounded like premium-grade horseshit.
With a sigh, Hale finally took the see-through outfit from Remy and slipped it on.
That was when Remy's smile curled into something mischievous. She stepped behind him, trailing her hand along his back before cupping his ass through the thin fabric. A sudden shiver shot up his spine.
"What the hell was that?" Hale hissed.
"Hehe… little brother," Remy whispered, pressing close, "those clothes are special. The fabric heightens sensitivity wherever it's touched. You're in for a hell of a ride."
Her lips brushed his ear as she leaned in closer. "If you come back alive… we'll be fucking each other in these."
She sealed the promise with a kiss, tongues intertwining, hot and insistent.
"Mmmh—" Hale groaned into her mouth, hands sliding up to cup her full breasts, giving her nipples a firm squeeze.
"Ahhnn—brotherrr…" Remy moaned, clinging to him.
Before things could spiral further, Rhea yanked Remy back by the scruff of her neck, like she was hauling a disobedient kitten.
"Enough," Rhea snapped.
"Come on, sis," Remy protested, lips swollen, eyes glazed. "What if we never see each other again?"
"Time is up, Remy," Rhea said flatly.
Hale exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then bent down to grab his own folded clothes. At least his boots were intact. After slipping them on, the three of them headed back toward camp.
The place was quiet—it was almost midnight. Only a handful of tribesmen lingered near the massive campfire, their shadows dancing in the glow. Hale's outfit itched at his pride more than his skin. Am I really supposed to walk through camp wearing this?
As Hale and the twins passed near the great campfire, a sharp whistle cut through the rowdy noise.
Phee–weew!
"Oi, ye three lasses! Come here an' spend the night wi' me. I'll make sure ye enjoy it… kahah!" A bald barbarian, drunk on some rum-like brew, leered as the men around him chuckled.
Hale, already in a foul mood, turned his cold gaze on the man. "I've got a better idea, forehead. Why don't you drag your fat ass with me to Helda's chamber? Oh…and maybe bring your mama too. I'm sure she's tired of sucking barbarian shit all day."
A sudden silence fell on the campfire.
Then—
"Kahahaha!" Brom, the orange-haired brute, burst out laughing. He slapped the bald man's back so hard it echoed. "Ye fool! He's Helda's next blood-game prey. If ye're
so eager, ye can join 'im… hehe."
The bald man, sobering fast, snorted and leaned forward. "I like yer guts, boy. But guts won't save ye from the Blood Daughter." His eyes narrowed, drunk lust twisting back across his face. "Once ye're dead, I'll take good care o' the lasses behind ye. Wouldn't want 'em lonely… heh."
Hale's expression darkened to ice. I need to kill this bastard. He didn't know why, but since awakening his meridians, thoughts of killing came too easily…like he was drunk on power. Back home, the only lives he'd taken were chickens for meat. Yet here, every inconvenience looked like something he could cut down. And with his talent, he was certain strength would come quickly once he had time.
As he was quietly considering the best way to end the bald man, Brom rose from his seat and strode toward him.
Brom stepped up to Hale with a low chuckle. "Got guts, lad. Unlike the other Aenvari mutts—too prideful fer their own good, or pissin' themselves as soon as they're caught…you walk like ye're just out fer a stroll."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to something sober. "But if ye want t'live even a little longer, heed this…never give in to yer lust. The clothes on yer back? All part o' her game. If ye think ye can't hold yerself, then lie—lie through yer teeth. The truth won't save ye. Lose control, and it's over. Then in the mornin'… we'll be pickin' up yer bones."
His words carried no drunken slur, only a grim warning.
Hale frowned, thrown off by the sudden seriousness. Lose control? A game? He didn't understand, but there wasn't time to ask. He simply nodded. "Thanks for the advice, man." With a half-smile, he patted Brom's shoulder and turned north, the twins falling in behind him.
Brom watched them go, then muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Hells, I'm hittin' the den…"
"Ohh, missin' yer lassy already, Brom? Kaka!" the bald man cackled, earning another round of drunken laughter.
None of them noticed the raven perched high on a tree at the camp's edge, its pale eyes glimmering as it watched the scene unfold.