Morning came with a peace in Vekhaon village that didn't break, but rotted. The sun rose anyway, thinning the fog without cleansing what lay beneath.
It started with a sound that wasn't a knock. Knocks were polite. Knocks were for neighbors borrowing sugar or salt. This was a heavy, dull thud of iron-shod wood against wood, a vibration that rattled the dust from the thatched roof and made the meager fire in the hearth sputter as if afraid.
Nnael was sitting in the corner of the main room, whittling a piece of blight-wood with a dull kitchen knife. He froze. His hands, still trembling slightly from the effort of simply existing, went still.
Mina dropped the ladle into the pot of watery broth. The splash sounded like a scream in the sudden silence.
"He's early," she whispered. Her face, usually flushed from the heat of the cooking fire, drained of blood until she looked like the ash in the grate. "It's not... it's not even the end of the month yet."
Rhea was by the window, sharpening a hoe. She stood up slowly, her body uncoiling with that terrifying, restrained power she carried. The muscles in her thighs bunched tight against her leather breeches, and her chest heaved, the leather bindings creaking audibly against the sudden expansion of her lungs.
"Hide him," Rhea hissed, jerking her head toward Nnael.
"No," Nnael said. His voice was quiet, raspy, but it cut through their panic. He didn't move to the back room. He just shifted deeper into the shadows of the alcove, pulling his knees up, making himself small and invisible. "Open the door. If you wait, he'll kick it down."
Mina smoothed her tunic with shaking hands. The fabric was worn thin, clinging desperately to the generous swell of her hips and the heavy, soft weight of her breasts. She looked at the door like it was the mouth of a beast. She took a breath, a long, shuddering inhale that made her chest rise and fall in a way that was distractingly, tragically beautiful, and pulled the latch.
The door swung open. The light from the bright sun outside was blocked by a wall of meat and iron.
Garrow.
He was a Tier 2 brute, a man built like a barrel filled with rocks. He wore the rusted, piecemeal armor of a Duchy low-official, the leather stained with grease and old wine. He didn't smell like authority. He smelled like sweat that had soured in the armpits of a tunic worn for three weeks straight. He smelled of cheap ale and the copper tang of blood that wasn't his own.
He stepped inside without asking.
"Mina, Mina, Mina," Garrow grunted. His voice was wet, a slur of consonants tumbling over a tongue that looked too big for his mouth. "You're looking... healthy."
His eyes didn't meet hers. They dropped instantly to her chest. He stared at the valley between her breasts where the sweat had gathered, his gaze tracing the heavy curve of them beneath the linen.
Mina shrank back, her shoulders curling inward, but she didn't retreat. She couldn't.
"Master Garrow," she murmured, her voice trembling. "The Tithe... we paid last week. We have nothing left."
"Taxes change, widow," Garrow laughed, a sound like gravel churning in a mixer. He stepped closer, closing the distance until he was looming over her. "The Duke needs more iron. The Church needs more wax. And I..."
He reached out. His hand was thick, the fingers like sausages wrapped in cracked leather gloves. He didn't strike her. He touched her.
He brushed the back of his knuckles against the side of her breast.
It was a casual, claiming touch. Nnael watched from the shadows, his vision sharpening into a pinprick of red. He saw Mina flinch, a violent, full-body shudder. A whimper trapped in her throat. But she didn't pull away. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body going rigid, trembling.
What the fuck, this guy. Nnael saw the reaction, biological treason.
Her fear was spiking her adrenaline, flushing her skin with blood. The heat radiating off her was palpable, mixing with the scent of the stew. Her nipples hardened against the thin fabric, traitorous points reacting to the friction, to the sheer, overwhelming stimulus of being touched by a man, even a monster. She hated it, her face was a mask of misery, but her body arched slightly, a subconscious surrender to the hierarchy of power.
"Please," she whispered, tears leaking from her squeezed-shut eyes. "Not in front of the children."
"Children?" Garrow sneered. He looked past her, his gaze landing on Rhea.
Rhea stood by the hearth, the hoe gripped in her hands until her knuckles were white. The Laborer's Brand on her wrist was pulsing with a faint, dull light, suppressing the urge to drive the metal into his skull.
Garrow left Mina, satisfied with her terror, and walked toward Rhea.
"And the heifer has grown," Garrow said, licking his lips. It was a wet, disgusting sound. He walked around Rhea, circling her like a buyer at a cattle auction. Rhea didn't turn. She stared straight ahead, her jaw locked so tight Nnael thought her teeth might shatter.
Garrow stopped behind her.
"Strong back," he muttered. "Good hips."
He reached out and grabbed her ass, squeezing it. His massive hand encompassed the entire right cheek of her firm, muscular backside, kneading the flesh through the rough breeches.
Rhea gasped, a sharp intake of air that sounded like a sob. Her back arched involuntarily, pushing her ass back into his hand, her body betraying her will. The sensation, the sudden, violating heat of his grip, sent a shockwave through her nervous system.
Shit, this body so weak. Nnael saw her legs tremble. He saw the flush creep up her neck, turning her tan skin a deep, blotchy crimson. She was humiliated. She was furious. But beneath that, buried under layers of shame, was the biological response of a woman who hadn't been touched in years. Her body recognized strength, even corrupt strength, and it reacted with a confusing, itching heat between her legs that made her thighs clamp together.
"Get off her," Nnael finally said.
The voice didn't sound like his own. It sounded like scraping bone.
Garrow paused. He didn't let go of Rhea immediately. He gave her one last, degrading squeeze before turning slowly to look at the corner.
"Well, well, well..." Garrow chuckled, squinting into the gloom. "The ghost speaks. I heard you died, boy."
Nnael stood up. His legs felt like jelly. His head swam with the sudden movement. He weighed half of what Garrow weighed. If he fought, Garrow would snap his spine like a dry twig.
<
Nnael whispered with no sound at all.
The air in the room was thick with Garrow's lust, Mina's terror, and Rhea's confusion. It was heavy with sweat and pheromones. Nnael inhaled it all through his skin. He didn't filter it. He drank the toxicity. The rage in his gut turned cold, crystalline.
He fueled the skill. The tiny, microscopic trickle of mana in his veins gather up. Became a burning wire in his chest.
"The Widow's Share," Nnael said, stepping into the light. He looked frail. His cheekbones were too sharp, his tunic hanging off his frame. But his eyes... his eyes were dead, violet dead. "Is that what you call it? Touching women who can't fight back?"
Garrow sneered, taking a step toward him. "I call it collection, rat. Unless you have five silver marks hidden in your ass, I suggest you shut your mouth before I add you to the bill."
He loomed over Nnael, raising a fist.
Mina threw herself between them.
"No!" she screamed, grabbing Garrow's arm. Her chest pressed against his armor, her desperation overriding her dignity. "He's sick! He doesn't know what he's saying! Please, Master Garrow! I'll pay! I'll pay whatever you want next week! Just don't hurt him!"
Garrow looked down at Mina, at the way she clung to him. A slow, greasy smile spread across his face. He lowered his fist, but he used the opportunity to brush his arm against her breast again, harder this time. He massaged her breasts with the intensity of a man who wanted to suck her dry. "Hhapff-" Mina gasped, a moan escaped her, dragged out by an involuntary bodily reaction.
"Next week," Garrow growled. "Double the silver. Or I take the girl to the barracks. The soldiers need... laundry done."
He looked at Rhea one last time, his eyes undressing her, lingering on the way her breeches pulled tight across her hips. Then he spat on the floor, turning and walked out.
The door slammed.
...
...