They keep enjoying the moment at the Queen's palace .
The throne groaned under their weight as he fucked her hard, her cries mixing with his grunts, the sound of bodies colliding ringing like war drums. Her crown slipped, tumbling to the floor, but her eyes—those cold, sharp eyes—never looked away. Even in ecstasy, she met him with fire.
"You think… this makes you… my equal?" she gasped between moans.
Jean bit her throat, his voice a growl against her skin. "No. It makes you mine."
Her back arched, her body surrendering even as her tongue spat venom. "Then take me, Carlos Jean. Take me until your name is carved into my cunt, and I total surrender to you."
He did. Again and again, until the throne was slick with sweat and seed, until her voice was hoarse from screaming, until he felt her body quake beneath him in surrender.
When it was done, she lay slumped against the cold iron, lips swollen, thighs trembling, hair a wild crown of black fire. Jean stood over her, chest heaving, cock still dripping, eyes burning.
The silence stretched. Then, weak but sharp, she smiled.
"Well fought," Sarah whispered. "Now… let us speak of war."
The throne hall reeked of sweat, sex, and steel. Torches burned low, shadows flickering across the cracked silk of Serenya's gown and the sheen of Jean's blood-streaked muscles.
The Queen still sprawled against the throne, her crown discarded at her feet, her thighs glistening, her lips swollen from his teeth. For a heartbeat, she looked less like a monarch and more like prey devoured. But her eyes—sharp, unyielding—had not dimmed.
Jean pulled his breeches back on, buckled his belt, and slung his sword across his back. His chest heaved, but his face was calm, unreadable.
Sarah watched him through heavy lashes. "You fight like a god," she said hoarsely. "And fuck like the demon they whisper you are."
Jean smirked, pouring water from a jug and drinking deep before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And yet you're still breathing. Which means I was merciful."
Her laugh was soft but edged with iron. "No, gladiator. It means you were wise. You may have conquered my body, but my throne remains mine."
He stepped closer, towering above her slumped form. "Your throne groaned under me. It knows who sat upon it tonight."
Her smile sharpened. "Arrogant bastard. But perhaps arrogance is what I need."
The torches hissed as though in agreement. Then Sarah straightened, pushing herself upright on shaky legs. She didn't cover herself; her nakedness was no weakness, only a weapon wielded with precision.
She stepped down from the dais, every movement a slow declaration of control. Standing before Jean, she raised a hand—not to caress, but to press against his chest, right over his heart.
"There is a cult rising beyond my walls," she said, her voice shifting from hunger to command. "The Order of the Falling Star. Fanatics who whisper of a night when gods will return and men will be ash. They burn villages, they spread plague, they take women and children for sacrifice."
Jean's jaw clenched. He had heard whispers, even in the pits. Rumors of dark banners, of warriors with eyes black as pitch.
Sarah's fingers curled against his chest. "Their priests speak of a prophecy. That when the last dawn fades, there will stand the last man to fall. A killer who survives every blade, every bed, every trial, until the end of the world. They believe he will either lead them… or destroy them."
Her eyes bore into his, cold and fierce. "I believe that man is you."
Jean's laugh was low, dangerous. "A prophecy? I'm no god. Just a bastard with a blade and a cock."
"Exactly," Sarah said. "A man of blood and lust. A beast who cannot be tamed. That is why you terrify them. That is why I need you."
She circled him slowly, her nails tracing along his shoulder, down the scars of his back. "Be my weapon. Spill their blood in my name. Spread your seed to strengthen my line. Rule beside me, not as King—but as consort, champion, and the monster they fear."
Jean turned his head, his eyes following her like a wolf tracking prey. "And if I say no?"
Sarah stopped behind him, her lips brushing his ear. "Then I'll keep you in chains. And when the cult comes, they'll flay you alive and carve prophecy into your skin."
Jean turned, catching her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. The tension crackled like lightning, a clash of wills sharper than any sword.
"You want me to fight your war," he said. "And warm your bed."
Sarah's smile was wicked. "In that order, or the reverse—it makes no difference."
Jean studied her for a long moment, then released her with a grunt. "Fine. I'll play your game, Queen. But know this—" He stepped back, his voice dropping into a growl. "I don't serve crowns. I don't serve gods. I'll fight your enemies because killing is all I know. I'll fuck you because you'll beg for it. But if you ever chain me like a prisoner…"
His eyes burned like embers. "…I'll be the last man you'll ever see."
For the first time, Sarah's smile faltered. Not with fear—but with a shiver of something darker. Excitement.
"Then we are agreed," she whispered.
She leaned forward, kissed him hard lips to lips, teeth biting his lip until it bled, then pulled away, her voice sharp with command.
"Now, Champion—go bathe. Tonight you are mine. Tomorrow, you march to war."
Jean turned, striding toward the doors. The guards outside shifted nervously as he passed, smelling the sex and violence clinging to his skin.
As he left the hall, Sarah sank back into her throne, touching her lips where his blood lingered. All what was on her mind was how hard Jean has handled her like a beast in the hall.
And far beyond the palace walls, under a sky thick with storm clouds, black-robed cultists whispered in the ruins of a burned village:
"The Last Man to Fall has risen."