The air in the slums tasted of rust and stale grease, a flavor that clung to the back of the throat long after one had left. Tonight, however, it was masked by the scent of roasted deer-meat Chip caught by today's fruit of hunting and the cheap, vinegary wine that Chip had procured with his meager savings.
"To the God Knight!" Chip cheered, raising a cracked wooden mug high in the air. The firelight danced in his eyes—eyes that were no longer dull with hunger, but burning with the fervor of a fanatic.
"To the Knight!" Gaston bellowed back, clinking his own tankard against the boy's. The old carriage driver had shed his stiff, noble facade hours ago. Here, amidst the squalor, sitting on an overturned crate, he was just a soldier again, laughing with the toothless crones and sharing bawdy war stories that made Chip blush.
I sat slightly apart from them, nursing a cup of the foul liquid, watching. I had intended to return to the Villa hours ago. The deed with Kara had drained me, and I needed to consolidate my mana. But Chip had been insistent. He had run his first perimeter—limping, sweating, his new leg glowing with that internal heat—and he had begged for a celebration.
"Just a small feast, Master! To honor the blessing!"
I had indulged him, but only on the condition that we would drink outside their house so as not to awaken his mother. It was a strategic delay for what I planned back at the villa, and I didn't want the poor boy to find his mother naked in the bedroom, still wet with my cum. Building a bond with the boy was as important as breaking his mother. But as the moon climbed higher, bloating into a pale, watchful eye in the sky, I checked the internal clock of my system.
It was nearing midnight.
"We leave," I announced, standing up. My robes, pristine despite the filth of the surroundings, seemed to absorb the firelight.
The celebration died instantly. Chip scrambled to his feet, bowing low. "Yes! Yes, of course, Master! Thank you... thank you for staying."
"Train hard, Follow the regiment, Chip," I said, placing a hand on his head. "The Goddess watches."
The ride back to the Noble District was a journey between two worlds. We left the noise and life of the slums and entered the silence of the wealth. The carriage rattled over the cobblestones, the sound echoing too loudly in the empty streets. Gaston dozed in the driver's seat, the horses knowing the way by habit.
By the time the iron gates of the Villa loomed out of the darkness, the silence had become oppressive.
Usually, there was movement. A maid closing a shutter, a guard walking the perimeter, or Pearl waiting in the shadows of the portico to take my cloak.
Tonight, there was nothing.
The windows of the Villa were dark, staring out like the empty sockets of a skull. The gravel crunched under my boots as I stepped down, the sound like bones breaking.
"Gaston, GoodNight" I said. "Do not wake the staff."
"Aye, Master," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.
I walked up the stone steps. I didn't need a key; a subtle pulse of Void mana engaged the lock mechanism, and the heavy oak doors swung open with a breathless sigh.
Creak.
I stepped into the foyer. It was cold. Colder than the night air outside. The grand staircase was swallowed by shadows. I paused, extending my senses. I expected Pearl. I expected the metallic tang of her aura to greet me.
But the house felt abandoned.
I moved toward the guest wing, my footsteps silent on the polished marble. My mind was already shifting gears, preparing for rest, preparing to analyze the data I had gathered from Chip's awakening.
I reached the door to my room. I reached for the handle.
Pause.
There was a scent leaking through the cracks of the door. Not the scent of a medieval room and not even the scent of the lavender of fresh linens.
Jasmine. Heavy, sweet, expensive Jasmine. Combine with grapy flavor, Alcohol
I pushed the door open.
The room was dim, illuminated only by a single wax candle burning on the bedside table. The flame was steady, unmoving.
Sitting in the corner of the bed, her back to me, was a figure draped in white.
"Pearl," I whispered, a soft voice trembling.
I stepped inside and closed the door.
Click.
Then i saw it moonlight to show it properly purple hair braided flowing in her back alcohol in her hands
"Lady Julienne," I spoke, my voice smooth, betraying no surprise. "To what do I owe this honor? It is past the witching hour. The villagers would talk."
She turned slowly, drunk. She looked like a ghost. She was wearing a high-collared white nightgown that brushed the floor, the fabric thick and modest. Her hair, usually bound in severe, intricate braids, was loose, cascading down her back in waves of chestnut. Her face was pale, drawn tight with exhaustion, her eyes rimmed with red.
She didn't look like the Lady of the Manor. She looked like a trapped animal.
"Talk?" She let out a dry, brittle laugh. "Let them talk. They already whisper that the estate is cursed. They whisper that the harvest will fail. They whisper that my husband will never return."
She took a step toward me. Her hands were wringing together in front of her chest, white-knuckled.
"I have been waiting for hours, Priest-sama," she whispered. "I watched the clock. Every tick was a hammer on my skull."
"Why?" I asked, leaning back against the door, crossing my arms.
"Because I need to know," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "I saw the boy today. The cripple from the slums. I saw him running. I saw the light in his mother's eyes."
She closed the distance between us, stopping just outside of arm's reach. The scent of Jasmine was overpowering now, mixed with the sour tang of fear.
"You have the ear of the Goddess," she said, looking up at me with wet, desperate eyes. "You have power. Real power. Not the empty platitudes of the Monks who tell me to 'endure.' I cannot endure anymore."
She grabbed the fabric of her gown, bunching it in her fists.
"Tell me," she begged. "What can I do to save my people? The granaries are empty. The soldiers are coming to collect a tax I cannot pay. If I fail, my husband... he will destroy this place. What must I do?"
I looked down at her. A butterfly flying into a storm, begging the lightning not to strike.
"You ask for salvation," I said, my voice dropping an octave, laced with a subtle hypnotic frequency. "But you stand there wrapped in your pride. You stand there as the Lady, the Wife, the Saint."
"I am none of those things!" she cried. "I am empty!"
"Then fill yourself with the Faith," I commanded. "But true Faith is not a prayer spoken in a chapel, Julienne. True Faith is total submission. It is the baring of the soul... and the body."
She froze. Her breath hitched in her throat. She stared at me, her eyes searching for a way out, but finding only the abyss of my gaze.
"Submission..." she breathed.
"Show me," I whispered. "Show me the truth you hide from the village. Show me the sacrifice you are willing to make."
Julienne swallowed hard. Her hands moved to the ribbon at her throat. Her fingers were shaking so badly she fumbled with the knot.
"My husband..." she stammered, tears spilling over her lashes. "He sent me a gift. A year ago. He said... when he returned... he wanted to see his property displayed properly."
She pulled the ribbon.
Swish.
The heavy white nightgown fell from her shoulders. It pooled around her ankles like a discarded shroud.
I didn't blink. But inside, I smiled.
Beneath the facade of the pure, untouchable noblewoman, Lady Julienne was wearing sin.
She stood in black lace.
It was a garment of absolute depravity, designed not for a wife, but for a high-priced courtesan. The black corset cinched her waist violently, pushing her heavy breasts upward until they spilled over the cups. The fabric was sheer mesh, embroidered with erotic, thorny roses that did nothing to hide the dark, hardened peaks of her nipples.
Her panties were a mere whisper of lace, a thong that cut into her hips, connected to sheer black stockings by garters that dug into the soft flesh of her thighs.
It was a jarring, violent contrast to her holy image. The Saint in the whore's skin.
"Is this..." She crossed her arms over her chest, her face burning crimson, her body trembling in the cool air. "Is this what you wanted to see?"
"No," I said softly.
To be continued