The knights charged.
Vess did not move.
She stood. In the doorway. Her sword at her side. Her green eyes on the Crown Prince. On the man she had castrated. On the man she had been hunted by. On the man who had gang-banged her a decade ago with his men and who had left her broken and bleeding and who she had repaid by cutting off his cock head.
She did not move because she did not need to.
A knight screamed.
The sound was not human. It was the sound of a man whose body has been pierced. The sound of a man whose chest has been opened. The sound of a man who has been— the knight’s chest was pierced.
By an arm.
A long arm. Not human. Not the arm of a knight. Not the arm of a guard. The arm was— scaled. Dark. The scales were visible— thick, overlapping, the color of obsidian. The arm was thick. Muscled. The fingers were clawed. The claws were long. Black. They went through the knight’s chest— through the breastplate, through the ribs, through the flesh, through the spine. The knight’s body was on the arm. Impaled. The blood— red, bright— ran down the scales. The knight’s mouth was open. His eyes were wide. His sword fell.
The arm pulled out.
The knight’s body dropped. To the floor. The blood pooled. The body twitched. Once. Twice. Still.
A rift opened.
In the air. Beside the doorway. The air tore. Not gently. Not slowly. The air ripped— the sound of fabric being torn, of reality being split. The edges of the rift glowed— blue, purple, the colors of mana, of magic, of something that is not human. The rift was tall. Wide. A doorway in the air. A hole in the world.
Through the rift— a woman entered.
Not human.
Not fully human. Her body was humanoid. Two arms. Two legs. A head. A face. But she was— different. Her skin was covered. Not with clothes. With scales. Dragon scales. The same obsidian black. The scales covered her arms, her shoulders, her neck, her thighs, her calves. Her chest was bare— the scales did not cover her breasts. They were large. Full. The nipples dark. Stiff. The areolas wide. Her stomach was scaled— the plates overlapping, the navel visible between the plates. Her face was— human. Mostly. The jaw was strong. The eyes were yellow. Slitted. The pupils were vertical. The eyes of a reptile. A dragon. Her hair was— not hair. A mane. Dark. Spiky. The spines were scaled. They ran from her forehead to her shoulders.
She was thick-bodied. Not fat. Thick. The body of a creature that is built for power. For combat. For destruction.
She stood in the room.
The blood of the knight was on her arm. Her clawed hand was wet. Red. She looked at the room. At the Crown Prince. At the knights. At the maid. At Goliath.
She spoke.
Her voice was deep. Resonant. The voice of something that is not human. That is older than human. That speaks the human language as a second tongue.
"Master’s first order," she said. "Is to overthrow the Doria Kingdom."
The room froze.
The Crown Prince— on the floor, against the cracked wall— stared. His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. His jaw was slack. The cold was gone. The hatred was gone. What remained was— shock. Pure, absolute, incomprehensible shock.
"What?" he whispered.
The second knight charged.
His sword was raised. His shield was up. His body was moving— the trained, instinctive response of a soldier who sees a threat and who attacks. He swung. The blade arced— toward the dragon woman’s neck.
She caught it.
Her hand— the scaled, clawed hand— went up. She caught the blade. The steel met the scales. The edge— sharp, forged, the edge that could cut through leather and bone— stopped. On the scales. It did not cut. It did not scratch. The steel slid— off the obsidian. The knight’s eyes went wide.
She squeezed.
The blade shattered. The steel broke— fragments flying, the pieces scattering, the shards hitting the wall, the floor, the furniture. The knight stumbled— the broken hilt in his hand, the balance gone.
Her other hand went to his chest.
She pushed. Not hard. Not a strike. A push. The knight flew. Across the room. His body left the ground. He hit the far wall. CRACK— The stone cracked. He slid down. He did not get up.
The Crown Prince watched.
His body was trembling. Not from the impact— from the fear. The cold, primal, animal fear of a man who is facing something that he cannot fight. Something that is beyond his understanding. Something that is beyond his power.
He remembered.
The woman with red hair. The one he had gang-banged. The one who had cut off his cock head. The one who had returned.
"Vess—" he hissed. "How dare you enter the Prince’s palace—"
But even as he spoke, his mind was racing. How? How had she entered? The palace was guarded. The gates were manned. The walls were patrolled. How had a woman with a sword walked through the front door?
And the rift. The dragon woman. The scales. The claws. The shattered sword. The thrown knight.
What was happening?
His anger boosted.
The fear was there— deep, primal, shaking. But the anger was louder. The anger was always louder. The anger of a man who has been wronged. Who has been castrated. Who has been humiliated. Who has been— thrown. Against a wall. In his own palace. By a woman.
He remembered her.
The gang-bang. A decade ago. The woman with red hair and green eyes. She had been— beautiful. Strong. A knight. He and his men had cornered her. In an alley. They had— used her. All of them. One after another. In every hole. For hours. They had left her broken. Bleeding. On the cobblestones.
And she had come back.
She had found him. Alone. In his chamber. She had been fast. Faster than his guards. She had pinned him. She had drawn her sword. She had—
He remembered the pain. The sound. The wet, crunching sound of the blade. The searing, white-hot, blinding pain between his legs. The blood. The screaming.
She had cut off his cock head.
And now she was back.
In front of him. With a sword. With a dragon woman. With a rift in the air.
He would cut off her nipples.
He would cut off her boobs.
He would torture her. He would torment her. He would make her pay. For the cock head. For the decade of diminished pleasure. For the scar. For the shame.
"KILL HER!" he screamed again. His voice was high. Shrill. The voice of a man who is losing control. "KILL HER! KILL THEM ALL! NOW! I ORDER YOU!"
But there were no knights left to order.
One was dead. On the floor. His chest a hole. His blood a pool. The other was unconscious. Against the wall. His body broken.
The Crown Prince was alone.
Against a dragon woman. Against a knight with a sword. Against whatever was coming through the rift.
The rift.
It was still open. The blue-purple glow was pulsing. The edges were shimmering. And through it— more figures. Coming. One. Two. Three.
Women.
They came through the rift. One after another. Each one stepping through the tear in reality as if it were a doorway. Each one armed. Each one armored.
Four. Five. Six.
Six women.