She materialized out of nowhere, holding a bowl of soup that she must have been preparing at the back of the room. She set it down in front of him with exaggerated care, then stepped back and crossed her arms and looked at the other women with the expression of someone who had won something.
"I made the soup," she announced.
"You knocked over the soup pot twice," Nara said.
"I made the soup," Rika repeated, louder.
From the wall near the doorway came a sound.
A person clearing their throat.
Raven looked. Rika’s fake husband — the petite woman in the man’s tunic — was standing against the wall with her arms crossed, her jaw red, rubbing her face with one hand. She was doing her best to look like someone who was not in the room.
Edda stood nearby, watching the fake husband with the steady attention of a warrior monitoring a threat.
"Lord," Edda said. Her voice was carefully neutral. "What do you want us to do with the traitor?"
The room went quiet. Everyone looked at the petite woman.
The fake husband stiffened. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes went to Raven’s face with the calculating assessment of a person estimating whether to run or stay.
Raven ate a piece of chicken.
He chewed. He swallowed.
"Nothing," he said. "Leave her."
A pause.
"The prince she deceived for," he continued, his voice mild, "will eventually deal with her himself. It does not concern me."
The fake husband’s eyes went wide.
The calculation in her face collapsed. Something raw replaced it. Panic, then disbelief, then a furious rejection of what he had said.
"He would never hurt me!" she yelled. Her voice cracked against the hut’s walls. "He would never! It is impossible! You know nothing about him!"
Rika turned.
Her face was the face of a woman who had been deceived for years and had not yet finished being furious about it. "How dare you yell at my husband?"
"I WAS your husband three days ago!" the petite woman screamed. "You DAMN BITCH! You forget that fast?! After everything?!"
"You lied to me for YEARS!"
"BECAUSE I LOVED—"
"You are DEAD!" Rika’s fist went back.
"Ladies," Raven said.
Both women stopped.
He had not raised his voice. He had simply said the word. The authority in it was not force. It was gravity. The kind of weight that stopped things without effort.
He pushed back from the table.
He stood.
He stretched his back. The vertebrae popped in a slow, descending series. He reached his arms upward. His shirt rode up over his abs. Multiple pairs of eyes went to his stomach immediately. He lowered his arms.
"I am going to sleep," he said.
The room shifted.
Rika turned from the fake husband. Her face changed. "Wait. Wait— why are you sleeping so soon? We can—" She stopped. She looked at the other women. She looked back at him. Her hands went together at her front. Her voice went careful. "I mean. If you want. We could take a bath. Or— I could— we could—"
He was already walking to the bed.
The bed was large. It had been pushed against the far wall. The sheets were clean — someone had changed them. He sat on the edge. He pulled his boots off. He lay back.
"Just shut up," he said.
He looked at the ceiling.
"Edda."
The old dragon slayer straightened. "Sir Lord."
"Take everyone out. Start their training. Three-hour rotation. Sword forms, endurance, and mana circulation."
"Yes, Sir Lord."
"Fatima."
The room went very still.
Fatima was one of the milf-bodied women who had been claimed at the waterfall. She was thick everywhere — thick thighs, thick waist, heavy tits that sat full and round under her dress. Her face was soft. Her hair was dark and long. She had been quiet all afternoon, seated with Marla, the two of them pressed together. She heard her name and she looked up.
Her face went pink.
Her hands went to her lap.
"Strip," Raven said. "And lie here."
The protests came immediately.
"That is not fair!" Nara’s voice. "Why her? I cooked the—"
"I caught the chicken," Celia said, flatly furious.
"I cut my finger!" Gia pointed at her bandaged hand.
"I made the SOUP," Rika said.
"Ladies." Edda’s voice cut through all of them. The dragon slayer did not raise her voice. She simply spoke in the tone of a woman who had commanded battle formations and was accustomed to being obeyed. She looked at each of them in turn. The protests stopped.
They did not stop happily. The women’s faces were a masterclass in restrained grievance — Nara pressing her lips together, Celia staring at the ceiling, Gia looking at her bandaged finger with renewed focus, Rika glaring at the back wall. Marla and Fatima looked at each other.
Edda herded them.
She moved through the room with the efficient authority of a woman who had been training warriors for decades. She pointed. She gestured. She gave the fake husband a look that made the petite woman press herself flat against the wall and then silently, carefully, edge toward the door.
The women filed out.
They filed out complaining under their breath, trading sharp looks, Rika giving Fatima a glare that contained multitudes. Celia grabbed a piece of chicken on her way out. Gia limped past with her head high.
The door closed.
The room was quiet.
Fatima stood near the window.
She was alone with him. The light through the window was afternoon gold. The fire in the hearth was low. The smell of the roasted chicken was still in the air. She stood with her hands pressed together in front of her stomach and her bottom lip between her teeth.
She was wearing a simple dress. Brown. It fit her poorly — it was someone else’s, pulled on after the night at the waterfall. The fabric pulled across her heavy tits. The skirt sat wide over her thick hips.
She bit her lip harder.
Her hands moved to the ties at her back.
She undid them slowly. The dress loosened. She reached for the shoulders. She pulled it down. The fabric fell. Her bra was simple cotton — old, worn, the cups barely containing the heavy flesh. Her panties were plain white. The cotton stretched across the wide curve of her ass.
She stood in her undergarments.
She looked at him.
He was lying on his back with his eyes on the ceiling. He had not moved. He was not watching her with the hungry attention he had shown at the waterfall. He looked like a man who was very tired and was waiting for something soft to fall asleep against.
She reached behind her.
She unhooked the bra.
The straps fell from her shoulders. The cups released. Her tits came free. They were heavy. Full. Round, but with the natural weight of a woman her age — they settled against her chest with the comfortable gravity of flesh that had been this size for years. The nipples were dark. Stiff from the exposure to the air.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties.
She paused.
She looked at him.
Her eyes were wet.