The sun hadn't even bothered to properly rise when the fight started.
Vael was stuffing his meager belongings—mostly the leather journal and a shockingly clean handkerchief—into a satchel when the closet door violently slammed open. It wasn't Astra's usual entrance; it was more like a siege weapon.
Astra stood there, fully armored, helmet already on, radiating furious, crimson energy. She didn't look like a wife; she looked like a walking tactical misunderstanding.
"Where," Astra growled, her voice muffled but dangerous, "do you think you are going?"
"On a field study, Captain," Vael said, adjusting his spectacles. "With Vice-Captain Lyra. She needs me to—"
"Nonsense!" Astra roared, rattling the armory shelves. "Your place is here! Safe! Protected! Did that snake Lyra put a poem on you? You are my Consort!"
Just then, Lyra rounded the corner. She wasn't armored, just in thick, dark leather combat gear, making her look like a terrifying, agile cat.
"Don't flatter yourself, Astra," Lyra sneered, walking straight up to the Captain's face. "The poet is coming with me. He needs to witness the cost of war, not just write nursery rhymes about it. He's on assignment. My assignment."
"He will ride my warhorse! Behind my saddle!" Astra insisted, her armored finger tapping furiously on her helmet.
"He will ride my disciplined mule, beside my disciplined supply cart!" Lyra shot back. "I will not have him distracting my men with your ridiculous displays of affection!"
Vael, caught between the two towering, furious women, let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, perhaps I could just walk? I'm quite good at—"
Both women snapped their heads to him, their amber eyes—one fiercely possessive, the other sharply critical—locking him down.
"Silence, Consort!" they roared in perfect, terrifying unison.
This is my life now, Vael thought, sinking his face into his hands. Two gorgeous, lethal women fighting over who gets to torture me more effectively.
The compromise was, predictably, a disaster.
Vael rode on a mule wedged uncomfortably between Astra's heavily-laden warhorse and Lyra's precise supply cart. Astra rode so close her crimson shoulder plate kept scraping Vael's knee. Lyra rode just as close on the other side, shooting daggers at Astra every time the Captain so much as sighed dramatically.
"Vael, are you comfortable?" Astra asked, her voice dripping with sickly sweetness.
"Perfectly, Captain," Vael lied, trying to ignore the way the saddle was digging into his spine.
"Lies," Lyra scoffed, not looking away from the road. "He clearly requires water. Astra, hand him the waterskin."
"I will administer the water," Astra snapped, pulling her horse to a halt. She unhooked the waterskin, but instead of handing it to Vael, she held it to his lips, making him feel like an infirm infant.
"Drink, my delicate poet. Slowly."
Vael took a tiny sip. Lyra rolled her eyes so hard Vael was afraid they might get stuck.
"See? Useless," Lyra muttered. "Focus on the mission, Consort. We are passing through the Whispering Hills. This is Bandit territory. The infamous Black Cobra Clan operates here. Keep your eyes open."
Astra chuckled darkly. "The Black Cobra? Lyra, they're petty thieves. I'll squash them like grapes if they even look at my Consort."
"Precisely why we must maintain discipline," Lyra argued. "Unlike some people."
Vael sighed, closing his eyes. God, are you watching this? I know I asked for adventure, but this is less "adventure" and more "lethal couples counseling."
He spoke silently, a furious thought directed toward the heavens:
(Vael's Inner Monologue to God Aethel)
Alright, God Aethel. We need to talk. I said 100 Wives, yes, but I didn't mean 100 territorial, jealous, and violently possessive wives who want to murder each other. Look at this! I'm sandwiched between a knight and a viper! I was better off a thirty-year-old virgin reading poetry alone! I want a return policy! My life has turned into a dangerous reality show! Please, just give me a hint. Am I going to die from a poetic overdose?
The answer, as always, was silence.
The tension broke not with a fight, but a sudden ambush.
Three men—ragged, dirty, and armed—leapt out from the dense cover, blocking the narrow path. They looked like standard bandits, but before Astra or Lyra could draw steel, the leader stepped forward.
And she wasn't a man.
She was tall, lean, and draped in salvaged silks and black leather, her fiery dark eyes framed by kohl. She carried a wickedly curved scimitar and wore a crown woven from dark metal chains. She commanded attention, authority, and danger.
"Well, well, well," the leader purred, her voice low and husky. "Look what the Legion dragged in. Captain Astra. Vice-Captain Lyra. And who is this little pigeon you've brought for our dinner?"
Astra immediately drew her sword, the blade screaming out of the scabbard. "Stand down, Cobra! I won't warn you twice! This is my Consort, and you will not touch a single hair on his head!"
The bandit leader threw back her head and laughed—a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone.
"Your Consort? A poet, by the looks of him," she drawled, her eyes fixed on Vael's journal. She stepped closer, ignoring the two drawn swords. "I am Seraphina, the Queen of the Black Cobra Clan. And your little pigeon looks far too interesting for you to keep all to yourself."
Vael felt the familiar, terrifying itch of the Divine Flow beginning again. Oh no. Not again. Wife number three.
He had no choice. He had to write. But what do you write for a Queen who deals only in theft and danger?