The ride to the northern border took four days, four days of cold wind, aching thighs, and the constant throb of anticipation between Kairos's legs.
He had left the capital with only six trusted knights (men who, in his first life, had died shielding him from assassins). This time they would live. This time he would reward loyalty with more than just gold.
But first: Lady Seraphine val Thornridge.
In his previous timeline, Lord Alaric val Thornridge had fallen to the first Voidborn incursion, leaving his widow Seraphine to rule the keep alone for twenty bitter years. She had become a legend: the Ice Widow, they called her, beautiful, untouchable, commanding armies with a glance and breaking suitors with a word.
Kairos remembered her differently.
He remembered the night after the Battle of Ashen Ford, when grief and wine had stripped away her armor. How she had come to his tent, thirty-five and radiant with sorrow, and begged him to make her forget—even if only for a few hours. He had been twenty-eight then, exhausted, and too noble to take advantage. He had held her while she cried instead.
This time, he would not be noble.
The keep rose against the snow-capped peaks like a black blade. Banners flew at half-mast even now—Alaric had died only six months ago in this timeline. Perfect.
Seraphine greeted him in the great hall, tall and regal in mourning black that did nothing to hide the body beneath: full, heavy breasts straining the laced bodice, hips that flared dramatically beneath a cinched waist, long silver-blonde hair braided like a crown. Her violet eyes were sharp as winter steel.
"Your Highness honors us with this... unexpected visit," she said, voice cool, but Kairos caught the flicker of surprise when she truly looked at him. He was not the callow youth she remembered from court functions. Fifty years of memory burned behind his eighteen-year-old eyes.
They spoke of grain stores, troop movements, the coming winter—polite, political. Her steward poured wine. The fire crackled.
When the hall emptied and only the two of them remained, Seraphine set her goblet down.
"Speak plainly, prince. You rode through blizzards for more than taxes."
Kairos rose, circled the table slowly, until he stood behind her chair. He rested his hands on her shoulders—lightly, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn't.
"I know what's coming, Sera," he said quietly, using the nickname only her dead husband had dared. "The rifts. The Voidborn. In seven years, Thornridge will be the first to fall—unless we prepare. I need your swords. Your grain. Your loyalty."
Her breath hitched at the intimacy of his touch.
"And in return?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "In return... I give you what you begged me for the night Alaric died. What I was too much a fool to take."
Seraphine went very still.
Then she turned her head, violet eyes locking with his. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
The goblet tipped, wine spilling like blood across the table as she stood and kissed him—hard, desperate, teeth clashing. Kairos groaned into her mouth, hands finally—finally—filling themselves with the lush weight of her breasts. He unlaced her bodice with practiced fingers, peeling black velvet away until pale skin glowed in the firelight.
She was magnificent: heavy, perfect tits with dusky rose nipples already stiff, a soft belly bearing the faint silver lines of childbirth, wide hips made for bearing heirs and gripping tight.
He backed her against the long oaken table, lifting her easily to sit on the edge. Her legs parted for him like they'd been waiting decades.
"Slow," she breathed as he trailed kisses down her throat, her collarbone, finally closing his mouth over one aching nipple. "Gods, Kairos... I've dreamed of this for twenty years."
He suckled gently at first, then harder, rolling the bud against his tongue while his hand delved beneath layers of silk and linen. She was soaked—thighs trembling, pussy dripping onto the ancient wood.
Two fingers slid inside her easily; she clenched around him with a broken moan.
"You're so ready for me," he murmured against her breast, pumping slowly, curling to stroke that spot that made her sob. "Have you touched yourself thinking of this, Sera? Of the prince who should have fucked you senseless when you begged?"
"Yes—gods, yes—"
He added a third finger, stretching her, thumb circling her swollen clit in lazy figure-eights. She came with a sharp cry, back arching, breasts thrusting forward as her pussy fluttered and gushed over his hand.
Only then did he free himself—cock thick and aching, far larger than her late husband's if her wide eyes were any indication.
He rubbed the head through her slick folds, coating himself, teasing her entrance until she was writhing.
"Beg," he commanded softly.
"Please," she whimpered, spreading wider, offering everything. "Fill me, Kairos. Make me forget I was ever alone."
He sank into her in one slow, relentless thrust.
They both groaned.
She was scorching, velvet-tight, walls rippling around him like she'd been made for him alone. He stayed buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, kissing her slow and deep while her legs locked around his waist.
Then he began to move—long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her. The table creaked beneath them; goblets clattered to the floor.
Seraphine's nails raked his back, her hips rising to meet every thrust, breasts bouncing with the rhythm.
"Harder," she gasped. "I won't break."
He gave her harder—lifting her legs over his shoulders, pounding into her until the slap of flesh echoed through the hall and she was sobbing his name.
When she came again, it was spectacular—pussy clamping down so hard he had to fight not to follow, juices squirting around his cock as she shook apart.
Kairos pulled out at the last second, painting her belly and breasts with thick ropes of cum—marking her pale skin like a claim.
They stayed locked together, panting, her fingers tracing lazy patterns through the mess on her chest.
"Your swords are mine," she whispered eventually, voice hoarse. "Your grain. Your men. Everything."
He kissed her slow and filthy, tasting salt and wine.
"And you," he said against her lips, already hardening again, "are mine."
Outside, snow kept falling.
Inside Thornridge Keep, the Ice Widow melted—slowly, deliciously—for the prince who had come back from the dead to claim what was always meant to be his.