Elaric Voss stirred awake in the vast, rumpled expanse of Madam Seraphine's bed, the black velvet sheets tangled low around his naked hips. Morning sunlight filtered through heavy crimson drapes, casting warm, rosy glows across the room and highlighting the faint, dried traces of last night's excesses—sticky patches on the silk where multiple releases had soaked through, the lingering musk of sweat, feminine arousal, and thick semen heavy in the air like an intoxicating perfume.
His cock, still half-hard from dreams of tangled limbs and shared moans, twitched against his thigh as he opened his eyes.
Across the chamber, Thorne Blackwood was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the polished wooden floor with a damp cloth. Completely naked, his sturdy, freckled body gleamed with a light sheen of sweat; his thick shaft swung heavily between his thighs with each circular motion, balls shifting lazily, the broad head occasionally brushing the cool floor and leaving faint, glistening smears of pre-cum from his morning arousal. He hummed a jaunty, off-key tavern tune, hips swaying almost unconsciously, ass flexing as he worked.
Elaric propped himself on one elbow, the sheet sliding lower to expose the defined lines of his abdomen and the trail of dark hair leading to his own rigid length, already throbbing at the sight of his friend's casual nudity.
"Hey," he rasped, voice rough with sleep and lingering lust, "where are the girls?"
Thorne glanced over his shoulder, grinning, cloth still moving in slow circles that made his cock bob enticingly. "Oh, they're bathing again—probably soaping each other up nice and slow." His voice dropped to a teasing growl. "Then they'll help Seraphine with the accounting and paperwork. You know, bending over ledgers, skirts riding up…"
Elaric swallowed hard, cock twitching fully erect now against his belly, a bead of pre-cum welling at the slit. He nodded, forcing nonchalance. "I'll be back tonight."
Thorne stopped scrubbing, sitting back on his heels—thighs spread, erection jutting proudly upward, flushed and veined. "Wait—what? Where are you going? I'll tag along."
"No. You stay here."
"But—"
"There are no buts." Elaric swung his legs off the bed, standing naked in the sunlight, his own cock standing rigid and slick, curving slightly upward as he reached for his clothes. The cool air kissed the sensitive head, making him shiver.
Thorne pouted, crawling forward a step on his knees, shaft swaying heavily. "Man, where do you even go? Sometimes you vanish for three, four days straight. What the hell are you doing? I don't get it."
Elaric pulled on his trousers slowly, the rough fabric rasping deliciously against his aching erection as he tucked it away with a suppressed groan. He met Thorne's confused, pleading eyes—still on his knees, naked and hard, looking every bit the eager puppy denied a treat.
"Everyone has their own secrets," Elaric said quietly, voice low and edged with mystery. "Don't bother asking."
He turned and left the chamber without another word, footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving Thorne kneeling alone on the floor—cock throbbing untouched, cloth forgotten in his hand.
Thorne stared at the empty doorway a long moment, then shrugged with an exasperated huff. "Nah, forget it. Whatever."
He turned back to scrubbing, humming louder now, hips rocking subtly as if chasing phantom friction, the morning wood bobbing stubbornly with every motion—another long day of teasing and waiting ahead in the Velvet Orchid.
Cassian Veldt rode through the shadowed outskirts of the village under a moonless sky, his fine leather cloak pulled tight against the chill. His horse's hooves clopped softly on the dirt trail leading to the abandoned logging camp the Black Boarclaw gang had claimed as their temporary base—a cluster of sagging tents and flickering campfires hidden among dense pines.
He dismounted, tossing the reins to a nervous lookout who recognized the silver-trimmed cloak and the cold glint in Cassian's gray eyes. Wordlessly, he was led deeper into the camp.
Grimgut sat on a felled log near the central fire, nursing a tankard of sour ale, his scarred face twisted into a perpetual scowl. The other nine surviving gang members—bruised, bandaged, and still reeking faintly of dog piss despite frantic scrubbing—lounged nearby, sharpening blades and muttering curses. A dozen fresh recruits, drawn by promises of easy loot, eyed the newcomer warily.
Cassian approached without fear, stopping just outside the firelight.
"I hear," he began, voice smooth and precise, "that a single woman made fools of you all. Beat ten armed men senseless. Left you in the dirt for the dogs to mark."
Grimgut's knuckles whitened around his tankard. A low growl rumbled from several throats.
Cassian raised a placating hand. "I'm not here to mock. I'm here because we want the same thing."
He stepped closer, firelight catching the sharp lines of his face.
"That woman—Seraphine Vale—has something I want. Several somethings, actually." His lips curled in distaste. "She's taken to protecting two worthless orphan boys and a pair of demi-human whores as if they're her personal harem. She's denied me what I've paid good coin for, over and over."
Grimgut leaned forward, scar pulling tight. "What's it to you, rich boy?"
Cassian's smile was thin and venomous. "I propose an alliance. You bring the muscle. I bring coin, information, and a way inside the village walls when the time comes. Together, we burn the Velvet Orchid to the ground. We take Seraphine. We take the girls. We take everything."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And when we're done, that bitch will beg for the mercy she never showed any of us."
A slow, ugly grin spread across Grimgut's face. He stood, towering over Cassian, and extended a massive, scarred hand.
"Deal. We'll fuck that whore Seraphine raw, break her little pets, and make the whole village watch."
Cassian clasped the hand firmly, sealing the pact.
In the firelight, their shadows merged—two predators united by humiliation and hunger.
Back in the village, the Velvet Orchid's lamps still burned warmly, oblivious for now.
But the wolves were gathering.
Elaric Voss walked alone through the pine-shadowed trail toward the abandoned logging camp, the same one Cassian had visited nights earlier. The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dense canopy, casting dappled light on the dirt path. His steps were lazy, almost bored—hands in pockets, shoulders loose, sword sheathed at his hip as if he were simply out for a stroll. The forest air carried the sharp scent of pine resin and distant woodsmoke, but beneath it lingered something fouler: unwashed men, stale ale, and the faint tang of fear-sweat from the camp ahead.
A lookout spotted him first—a wiry bandit perched on a fallen log, crossbow half-raised. "Oi! Who the hell—"
The man's words cut off abruptly. Elaric hadn't even broken stride. His sword whispered from its sheath in a single, fluid motion, a silver blur too fast to track. The bandit's head toppled from his shoulders before his body realized it was dead, hitting the ground with a dull thud and rolling into the underbrush, eyes wide in permanent surprise. Blood sprayed in a brief, hot arc, splattering nearby ferns.
Elaric stepped over the corpse without glancing down, wiping a stray droplet from his cheek with the back of his hand.
Inside the camp, chaos erupted too late.
Shouts rose—"Intruder!" "To arms!"—as the Black Boarclaw remnants scrambled from tents and fire pits. Grimgut bellowed orders from the center, his massive frame heaving as he snatched up a brutal axe. Twenty-three men in total—ten battered originals plus the new recruits Cassian's coin had lured—rushed toward the lone figure walking calmly into their midst.
They never stood a chance.
Elaric moved like a ghost—lazy steps turning into lethal economy. His sword sang through the air, a continuous, deadly hum. The first two charging thugs fell in sprays of crimson, throats opened before they could swing. A third raised a shield; Elaric's blade slipped under it, severing tendons at the knee, then reversed to take the man's head on the backswing.
Grimgut roared and charged, axe raised high. Elaric sidestepped at the last moment, the axe burying itself in the dirt. Before Grimgut could wrench it free, Elaric's sword punched through the bandit leader's chest—once, twice—precise strikes between ribs that found heart and lung. Grimgut's scarred face registered shock, mouth working soundlessly as blood bubbled on his lips. He toppled like a felled tree, axe clattering beside him.
The rest scattered in panic, but there was nowhere to run. Elaric walked through them methodically—no wasted motion, no anger, just cold efficiency honed from years no one knew about. Blades clashed briefly and shattered against his; arrows whistled past or thunked harmlessly into trees. One by one, they fell—limbs severed, bellies opened, throats slit—until the camp was silent save for the drip of blood on pine needles and the crackle of dying fires.
Twenty-three bodies lay strewn across the clearing. Not one left breathing.
Elaric stood in the center, sword dripping dark red onto the earth. He flicked the blade once, cleaning it with a practiced twist, and sheathed it without a sound.
The bored expression never left his face.
He turned and walked back the way he came, footsteps lazy once more, leaving the Black Boarclaw gang erased—nothing but cooling meat for the forest crows.
Whatever secrets drove him to vanish for days at a time, whatever silent purpose made him capable of this solitary slaughter… they remained his alone.
By the time he returned to the Velvet Orchid that night, the blood would be washed from his hands, and no one would ever know.
Except, perhaps, the reader who now understood: Elaric Voss was far more dangerous than anyone in his new family yet realized.
Cassian Veldt stumbled through the pines, drawn by distant shouts that had abruptly turned to screams and then to chilling silence. The acrid stench of fresh blood hit him first—thick, coppery, mingling with the sharp pine resin and the wet earth churned by frantic boots. His fine leather cloak snagged on branches as he pushed into the clearing, heart pounding with a mix of curiosity and dread.
What he saw froze him in place.
Bodies lay strewn across the camp like broken dolls—twenty-three in total, throats slit, limbs severed, chests pierced with surgical precision. Blood pooled dark and glossy beneath them, soaking into the dirt, steam still rising faintly in the cool forest air. Flies already buzzed, drawn to the warm carnage. Grimgut's massive corpse dominated the center, axe buried uselessly beside him, scarred face locked in eternal shock, eyes staring sightlessly at the canopy above.
Cassian's breath came in shallow gasps. He turned to flee—and felt the world tilt.
A blur of steel. Agony exploded in his legs as Elaric's sword flashed twice, clean and effortless. Cassian collapsed with a strangled scream, both legs severed mid-thigh in perfect, cauterizing cuts that sprayed arterial blood across the pine needles. The pain was white-hot, blinding; he clawed at the ground, fine cloak soaking crimson, as shock and blood loss rapidly drained the strength from his limbs.
Elaric stood over him a moment, sword dripping, expression as flat and bored as when he'd entered the camp. Then he sat cross-legged beside the dying man, close enough that Cassian could smell the faint metallic tang on his blade and the clean sweat of exertion on his skin.
Cassian's vision blurred at the edges, but he forced words through blood-flecked lips. "Who… who are you?"
Elaric regarded him calmly, voice flat and emotionless. "I am Elaric Voss."
Cassian choked out a wet laugh, disbelief warring with terror. "But… how? How can a worthless orphan… be this strong?"
Elaric tilted his head slightly, as if considering. "Because I am a reincarnator. I carry memories of a past life… and a golden finger."
The words hung in the blood-scented air. Cassian stared, confusion twisting his handsome features even as life ebbed from his eyes. "You're… making fun of me… aren't you?"
Elaric's lips curved in the faintest, coldest smile. "Yes."
Cassian's mouth worked soundlessly, a final gurgle escaping as the light faded from his storm-gray eyes. His body went slack, blood pooling beneath him in a dark, widening lake that soaked into the forest floor.
Elaric sighed, almost regretful, as he rose to his feet. "I told the truth," he murmured to the corpse, "but you didn't believe it. Not my fault."
He sheathed his sword with a soft click, turned, and walked away—steps lazy once more, disappearing into the pines as if nothing had happened.
Behind him, the forest began its quiet reclamation. Scavenger birds circled overhead; the first curious wolves slunk from the shadows, drawn by the feast. By nightfall, the massacre would be swallowed—bones gnawed clean, blood nourishing the soil, the Black Boarclaw gang and Cassian Veldt reduced to nothing but food for monsters.
And Elaric Voss's secret remained his alone.