Aurein's POV
I pulled my hands back immediately, shaking my head with a deep sigh of disappointment.
"Nothing," I said flatly, pouting. "Absolutely nothing. Not even close to the first time I accidentally grabbed the General's manhood or even when he tried to go inside of me."
She let out a long sigh and shook her head.
"You experienced it before I did. How irritating," she muttered. "Hmph."
"Wait—so you still haven't?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"Can't you see?" she snapped. "I am a very respectable princess. Do you really think I'd be allowed to do something like that to any guy I wanted?" She paused, then leaned in, lowering her voice. "But tell me—how did it feel? Even just his fingers... was it painful?"
I looked away instinctively, suddenly finding the side of the hut extremely fascinating.
"It hurt at first, but it was satisfying the moment it was all inside," I admitted, my words coming out as if I were being tickled just by saying them.
"You're shameless, Aurein!" she teased, slapping my arm as we both burst into laughter. "But you want to do it again, don't you?"
I nodded, mortified.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "If you'd been born a woman, you'd already be pregnant by now!" Then she sighed dramatically. "But honestly—who could refuse General Voltaire? That man is the very definition of masculinity. The epitome of perfection. Was he rough though? Or gentle?"
"He was...gentle," I said quietly while trying go avoid her gaze.
She squealed and slapped my arm again.
"I swear, if you were a woman, we'd be sisters gossiping about men and fantasizing all day," she said, laughing.
"You're too harsh on men," I replied. "For me... it's just him. I don't like anyone else."
"Oh?" she said, raising a brow. "Loyal, are we? What if someone as dreamy and perfect as General Voltaire showed up? You know, like that guy we saw last time, the one with the white silky hair like me who called you cute prince boy? He's okay, to be honest. I think he likes you too!"
"Oh... him? Maybe no. I don't see him the way I admire General Voltaire." I said shaking my head really fast.
"Then give him to me!" Serena uttered as she laughed.
At that exact moment, the hut door opened.
General Voltaire stepped inside.
No upper garment. No armor. Just his bare upper body, muscles defined and powerful, skin glistening with sweat from labor. The morning light kissed every sharp line of his chest and shoulders, the slow rise and fall of his breathing almost indecent in its calm confidence.
Serena and I froze.
Completely.
I forgot how to blink.
"If you ever get tired of him, Aurein," Serena whispered without looking away, "tell me. I'll take him immediately."
"Not a chance," I murmured, swallowing hard as General Voltaire wiped the sweat from his brow—an action that felt less like a necessity and more like a deliberate attack on our sanity.
It was as if he were seducing the air itself.
He walked toward us, every step effortless, every movement cruelly composed.
"Finally, you're awake already, Aurein," he said. "I was planning to wake you for training, but I decided you should rest a bit longer."
"Ah... okay," I managed to say, my lips parting slightly as I stared at the bead of sweat that traced a slow path down his chest.
"I'm going to lick that sweat," Serena whispered. "Stop me."
"No," I said faintly. "That's... mine."
"All yours?" she breathed. "Spare me some."
"Oh—you're all here," Rowan said suddenly as he entered.
Then he looked at General Voltaire.
And promptly stopped functioning.
His mouth hung open. His eyes widened. His entire soul visibly left his body.
"Elder Henderson is preparing our meal and he'll be done anytime soon," General Voltaire said seriously. "Also, we will head to the city later to gather intel—"
No one responded.
The three of us were staring at the General. Shamelessly. Collectively. Reverently.
"I want you, Aurein, and Serena to wear something that will hide your identities," he continued. "Understood?"
Serena and I nodded at once.
"And you, Rowan," the General added, turning to him, "conceal yourself as well with a cloak."
"So... delicious," Rowan murmured, licking his upper lip.
"Delicious?" General Voltaire repeated, frowning. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes! Yes, I am!" Rowan snapped, jolting back to reality.
"What is wrong with the three of you?" General Voltaire asked irritably. "You all seem distracted. We'll eat shortly. I'll cut more wood first."
With that, he turned and left.
The moment the door shut, the hut exploded with relieved breaths.
"I swear, Aurein," Serena said, pointing at me, "you're only lucky you got to him first. Otherwise—he'd be mine! And you, Rowan," she added, narrowing her eyes. "You were practically starving earlier. You looked like you were about to bite him."
"What was I supposed to do?" Rowan protested, sitting down. "His body was distracting!"
"I can't blame either of you," I admitted nervously. "Honestly... it's addictively distracting."
"You're unbearable," Serena groaned. "All of that—and he's yours?"
"Yes... even his... seed," I said weakly, my voice barely above a whisper as my gaze drifted down to my stomach. Almost instinctively, my hand followed, giving it a gentle, self-conscious caress—like the motion alone might explain everything I couldn't say out loud.
Like I was caressing a child inside my tummy.
Serena froze.
"Wait—wait," she blurted out, eyes widening in pure shock. "You mean you already had a taste of it too?" she said, nearly tripping over her own words.
I nodded, slow and shy, my ears burning.
That was all it took.
Rowan and Serena immediately scooted closer, the space between us vanishing as if pulled together by gossip alone.
"So," Serena whispered, leaning in until her face was far too close for comfort, her eyes sparkling with dangerous curiosity. "Tell us."
She paused dramatically.
"What does it taste like?"
Then, lowering her voice even more—because of course she did—she added with a grin,
"And more importantly... is he... you know."
She subtly gestured downward. Very subtly. Well, maybe not subtle at all as she was pointing at my manhood directly.
"...That big?"
I swallowed.
Rowan immediately leaned closer too.
I bit my lower lip and nodded.
"It was salty, with a bitterness that lingered on the tongue. And yet... there was something about it—something that made you crave it again, no matter how much you tried to forget the taste."
"So... you already took his... you know, inside your mouth?" Rowan asked, his curiosity unmistakable.
I swallowed before answering.
"Yes," I admitted softly. "I choked on it—it was too big, too long. I nearly drowned in him," I said, my voice dropping in embarrassed confession.
"You're infuriating!" Serena exclaimed as she was slapping the wooden floor really fast. "I should've peeked last night! Just a little!"
"Wait," Rowan said sharply. "Was he naked last night? And you did it while Serena was there?"
"For sure he was naked!" Serena said loudly. "They were doing things!" she burst out. "I could hear Aurein moaning—'Put it inside me, please'—and then I heard the General whispering, 'Good girl.'"
She crossed her arms, clearly offended.
"Hey! I'm a girl too! Why doesn't he ever say that to me?!"
"No!" I cried. "We weren't! He was just training me!"
"Then include us next time," Serena said brightly. "I'd love that kind of training."
"I might join too," Rowan added.
Serena stared at him in disbelief.
"Enough, Rowan!" she snapped. "Look at you—you're already built so masculine and you're still competing with us? Have some decency!"
Only a few moments later, Elric and Zen entered our hut.
"General Voltaire is calling for everyone. It's time to eat," Elric said.
Then his brows suddenly furrowed. He pointed straight at me.
"Prince Aurein... did a mosquito bite you? Why is there something red on your neck?"
My eyes widened instantly.
Serena grinned like a demon and shook her head, while Rowan simply stared at me with his mouth hanging open.
"Now that you mention it," Rowan said, squinting. "I was so focused on the General earlier that I didn't even notice your neck, Aurein."
"It's nothing," I said, laughing awkwardly.
"Yes, Elric." Serena added sweetly. "A very big 'mosquito' bit him."
"I want that mosquito to bite me too..." Rowan murmured dreamily, still staring at my neck.
"Grandfather!" Elric suddenly shouted. "Prince Aurein was bitten by a huge mosquito!"
Before I could stop him, Elric ran outside. Panic surged through me, and I chased after him, terrified that Elder Henderson might start suspecting something disastrous.
Elric skidded to a stop in front of his grandfather.
"Look!" he said urgently, pointing at me. "Prince Aurein got bitten by a really big mosquito!"
Beside Elder Henderson, General Voltaire stood with an axe raised, clearly in the middle of chopping wood. He froze.
And then—he bit back a smile.
He looked pleased.
Of course he was. Someone had noticed his mark on me.
Meanwhile, Elric—thank the gods—was still innocent enough not to understand a single thing.
Elder Henderson's gaze shifted to my neck. His eyes narrowed.
Then he laughed—and coughed.
"Yes, that is a very big mosquito, Elric," he said. "Don't worry. This is not harmful. It will disappear on its own. The prince is perfectly fine. Perhaps this big mosquito ate too many oysters, and this is the result."
"When the mark disappears," General Voltaire added casually while looking at Elric who was innocently confused, "the big mosquito might come back to bite Prince Aurein again."
"Prince Aurein, you shouldn't cook oysters anymore so the big mosquito won't bite you again!" Elric said anxiously.
Elder Henderson shook his head, clearly suppressing laughter. Then he turned slowly to General Voltaire.
"Are you the big mosquito?" he asked calmly.
"U-uh..." General Voltaire hesitated.
"There's no need to answer," Elder Henderson said with a knowing smile. "I noticed yesterday already while we were eating together." Then he added gently, "But next time, perhaps the big mosquito should choose a less visible place to bite the prince."
"The big mosquito will remember that." The general uttered as he smirked.
"You can sleep inside our hut tonight so the big mosquitoes won't bite you!" Elric offered eagerly.
"I think I'll pass," I said, laughing.
"Oh? You still want to get bitten again by the big mosquito?" Serena teased.
"Me too." Rowan said shyly.
* * *
After we finished eating, we made our way to the city. General Voltaire, Serena, and I wore cloaks to conceal our identities, while Rowan blended in effortlessly—it was his hometown, after all.
Soon, we stood in front of a pub.
"This is where we gather intel?" Serena asked. "A pub? Seriously?"
"Yes," I added. "Shouldn't we be searching archives or historical halls?"
"Sometimes the best information is found in places like this," General Voltaire replied calmly. "Bartenders hear everything. All they need is something to exchange it for, like gold."
He turned slightly. "Did you bring what I asked for, Rowan?"
"I did," Rowan said. "But I've tried this method before. They said they knew nothing about the rebels."
"Then you were doing it wrong," the General said.
A sharp grin crossed his face. "Watch and learn."
He glanced back at us. "Don't draw attention. Act invisible. The less they notice you, the better."
Then he started walking.
We followed immediately—like obedient little minions.
When he pushed open the wooden door, chaos greeted us.
The moment we stepped inside, every head turned.
Rough men. Hardened faces. Eyes that looked like they'd seen blood—and were ready to spill more.
"Well," Serena whispered, "so much for not attracting attention."
General Voltaire continued forward without hesitation.
We clustered behind him, practically glued to his back. Serena and I used him shamelessly as a shield, while Rowan walked beside him, trying—and failing—to look unfazed.
My nerves screamed that we were about to be attacked at any second.
The air was thick. Heavy. Hostile.
When we reached the counter, the General finally stopped.
He rested his arm casually against the wood. The bartender, a massive man with a grim stare, polished a mug slowly, as if daring someone to challenge him.
"What do you want?" the bartender asked coldly.
If it had been me, I would have fled the moment he opened his mouth.
But General Voltaire didn't flinch.
"What I want is information about the rebels," he said quietly. "Can you provide it?"
"You won't get anything from me," the bartender replied, attempting to loom.
The General leaned in slightly.
"Are you sure? And don't worry," he added. "There will be compensation."
Silence swallowed the bartender.
Rowan handed over something wrapped in a thick cloth, where it was tied with a thin lace near the opening.
The moment he set it down on the counter, the bartender snatched it with practiced ease and peeled the fabric back just enough to peek inside.
His eyes widened.
Even from where I stood, I could tell—gold, jewels, the kind that glittered with quiet arrogance. The sort of wealth that could buy silence, loyalty, or a brand-new life somewhere far away. Rowan had mentioned before that this tactic hadn't worked in the past, but let's see what the general can do about it.
"It's not enough," the bartender said flatly.
General Voltaire didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at Rowan.
With a stiff nod, Rowan produced another bundle and placed it beside the first.
The bartender examined it, then leaned back, unimpressed. His expression barely shifted—as if we'd offered him pocket change instead of a fortune.
Before anyone else could react, Serena reached up and unclasped her earring.
She slammed it onto the counter.
"This," she said coldly, "is worth more than your life. Don't tell me this still isn't enough. You could stop working today and live comfortably for the rest of your days."
Her voice was sharp, final—like a blade laid against a throat.
The bartender's lips slowly curved into a smirk.
"I need more," the bartender said coolly. "We're talking about the rebels here. This isn't information I give away so easily."
"Are you serious?" Serena said laced with irritation like she was ready to throw the bartender a punch in the gut.
Rowan's jaw tightened. "I don't have any gold left," he said cautiously.
The bartender's lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. "Then if you have no more gold to offer," he replied, voice low and deliberate, "you'll be leaving with no information at all."
A heavy silence followed.
Then—
"What about this?" General Voltaire said.
Then he lifted his hood—just enough to reveal his face.
The bartender's face drained of color the instant he recognized him.
"If you care about this pub," General Voltaire continued softly, his voice suddenly sharp as steel, "your life, and every customer that are here... you will answer my questions."
The room felt colder.
"A-All right... that's enough introductions, General Voltaire," he stammered, his voice faltering. "Why didn't you say it was you?"
His face had gone pale, fear draining the color from it as the weight of the name finally sank in.
Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice as though we were co-conspirators. "What is it you want to know about the rebels?"
My breath caught.
"Tell me about it," General Voltaire said. "Anything you know. Any information that could be useful."
The bartender glanced left. Then right. He drummed his fingers against the counter before speaking again.
"That's sensitive information," he said carefully. "And I don't have anything about them."
Serena snapped.
"Then you're useless! We just gave you enough wealth to make you rich, and you're telling us you know nothing?"
The bartender's smirk vanished. His eyes darkened as he turned toward her.
I reacted on instinct.
"Shh—Serena," I said quickly, clapping a hand over her mouth before she could say anything worse. I laughed awkwardly, nerves crawling up my spine. "She's... not in the best mood today. Girl problems. Abdominal pain. You understand."
The bartender stared at me for a long second.
I smiled harder.
General Voltaire exhaled slowly.
"Then give me something else," he said. "Something more useful. If you can't, I'll tear this pub apart. And you won't enjoy watching it happen."
The air changed.
Just like that.
The humor evaporated. General Voltaire didn't shout. He didn't snarl. He merely stated the threat—and somehow, that made it infinitely worse.
The bartender swallowed.
"There is someone," he said at last. "Someone who might help you get what you want. He knows secrets about the rebels. About their hideout here in the southern region."
General Voltaire's gaze sharpened.
"Who is he? I want to meet him."
"That won't be easy," the bartender replied. "He's dangerous."
"I don't care," Voltaire said calmly. "Danger has always been tied to my name. Tell me where I can find him. Is he one of the rebels?"
The bartender shook his head.
"He isn't part of them. He isn't part of 'anyone'. He appears without warning and disappears just as fast. He steals. That's all he cares about. Aggressive. Unpredictable." He leaned closer. "From what I heard, he stole something top secret from the rebels hideout. That information is in his hands now."
My heart skipped.
"He's wanted," the bartender went on, lowering his voice. "By the rebels themselves."
He glanced around the tavern as if the walls might be listening.
"Strangers have come into my pub—quiet ones, careful with their words. Those who conceal themselves. They ask about him. They offer their own deals."
His jaw clenched.
"I know exactly who they are. Rebels, all of them, hunting for that thief."
He met our eyes, steady and unflinching.
"But I don't know where he is. Not truly."
General Voltaire didn't blink.
"What does he look like?" he asked. "And his name."
"No one knows his name," the bartender said quietly.
He paused, then continued, each word deliberate.
"But you'll recognize him when you see him."
His gaze sharpened.
"Sharp eyes. A powerful build. The kind of presence that makes people uneasy without knowing why."
Then his voice dropped.
"And most of all—his fangs."
A faint, uneasy smile touched the bartender's lips.
"They show when he smirks. Just enough to notice."
He leaned back.
"Long brown hair. Usually tied back. Always messy. Like he never bothers to tame it."
Silence crashed over us.
I felt it at the same time they did.
General Voltaire slowly turned to Rowan. Rowan was already staring back at him, disbelief written across his face.
"Wait," I murmured. "That description—"
"So that's him," Rowan said quietly. "The thief I encountered." He let out a short, incredulous breath. "Of all people... the man I wanted captured is the one holding the information we need."
His jaw tightened.
"Then we need to find him again," Rowan continued. "The problem is—how?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.
Somewhere out there, a thief walked free with secrets powerful enough to shake the rebels themselves or the whole kingdom's secret.
And now, he had just become our next target.
* * *
Third Person POV
Somewhere deep beneath the forest, hidden from the bustling city, there was a cave where a single man lived in silence.
It was not merely a refuge—it was a vault.
Within those stone walls lay treasures most men would never touch in a lifetime: stolen heirlooms, rare artifacts, weapons taken from the powerful and the careless alike. Every object hidden there stolen by the same man—the one Aurein and his companions were hunting.
He returned as the cave breathed around him, the faint drip of water echoing through the darkness. In one hand, he carried a dim lamplight, its weak glow struggling against the shadows. In the other, he casually held an expensive piece of jewelry, letting it catch the light as he smirked—admiring not just the gem, but the memory of taking it.
His gaze swept over the scattered spoils with lazy satisfaction.
He approached a rough wooden table and set the lamplight down. The flame steadied, illuminating the object resting at its center.
Rowan's sword.
The man tilted his head, lips curling in amusement.
"Oh," he murmured to himself, voice low and mocking, "the dog's sword. I have your leash ready when we meet."
His eyes drifted onward, catching on something half-hidden beside the table—a small chest, unassuming yet carefully closed. Recognition flickered across his face.
"...I almost forgot about this," he said absently. "The thing I stole from the rebels' hideout." He huffed a quiet laugh. "What was so important about it, anyway?"
With little ceremony, he opened the small chest.
Inside was a single piece of paper.
He stared.
"...A piece of paper?" Disbelief edged into his voice. "This is what those rebels were so desperate to get back?"
He scoffed. "I thought there'd be gold. This is trash."
He was about to toss it aside when something caught his eye.
Writing.
His brows slowly drew together as he began to read.
Line by line, his expression changed.
The longer he stared, the quieter the cave became—until even the flame seemed to tremble. His eyes widened, breath hitching as realization struck him with the force of a blade driven too deep.
When he finally finished reading, silence swallowed the cave once more.
Then he smiled.
It was slow. Sharp. Dangerous.
His fangs slipped into view as the lamplight reflected off his eyes.
"So this is it," he murmured, voice dark with amusement. "A piece of paper more valuable than gold."
A soft chuckle escaped him.
"No wonder those rebels…"
His grin slowly widened, sharp and knowing.
"…were so desperate to hunt me down for this."
The flame flickered once.
Shadows stretched along the cave walls, swallowing gold and steel alike, as if the darkness itself had leaned in to listen.
And far above the earth, beyond stone and secrecy, the hunt had already begun its turn—sharper, deadlier, irreversible.
Because in a thief's hands lay not gold, nor jewels… but a truth powerful enough to fracture alliances, unravel crowns, and bring the kingdom's fragile balance crashing down.
And once that truth was unleashed,
there would be no way to steal it back.
End of Chapter 44