He was shocked.
His soldiers— his royal guard, his elite, the men who stood between him and death— were burning. Alive. The flames were orange. Red. They licked the armor. They consumed the cloth. They melted the steel. The men screamed. They ran. They fell. They burned.
In front of him.
The man stood.
In the center of the throne room. In the center of the fire. In the center of the carnage. As if the flames were his subjects. As if the screaming was his music. As if the burning palace was his throne.
Raven.
His violet eyes— the disguise was gone, the black gone, the violet visible— were calm. His face was calm. His body was calm. He was dressed. Not in armor. Not in battle gear. In his coat. The dark coat. Open. Unbuttoned. Beneath— bare chest. Muscled. Ridged. His trousers. His boots.
His hand was in his pocket.
The other hand was not.
The other hand was on a head.
The Duchess.
She was on her knees. Before him. Her body was— thick. Full. The body of a woman who has been fed well and housed well and used well. Her hips were wide. Her ass was round— enormous, the kind of ass that a man can write his name on, the kind of ass that the King had written his name on. With his seed. With his handprint. The marks were visible— the red, the bruises, the dried cum.
She was naked.
Completely. Her body was bare. Her breasts were large— heavy, pendulous, the nipples dark, stiff, the areolas wide. Her stomach was soft. Rounded. Her thighs were thick. Her pussy was visible— the hair trimmed, the lips swollen, the seed— the King’s seed— visible. Dried. On the lips. On the thighs. In the hair.
She was sucking Raven’s cock.
Her mouth was on him. Her lips were wrapped around the head. Her tongue was working. Her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes were— crying. The tears were running. Down her cheeks. Over the cock. Onto the shaft.
His hand was in her hair.
His fingers tangled in the brown strands. He held her. Not forcing. Guiding. His hand on the back of her head. His fingers in her hair. His thumb stroking her temple.
Her body was— marked.
The deep marks. The bites. The bruises. The handprints. The evidence of the night. The King’s night. The night that the King had spent with her. Fucking her. In every position. In every hole. For hours. The state of her body— the marks, the seed, the swelling— told the story.
She sucked.
Her head moved. Up. Down. The shaft sliding in and out of her mouth. The sound was wet— SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK— the sound of a mouth on a cock. Her throat convulsed— the gag reflex, the swallow, the attempt to accommodate the size.
Raven looked at the King.
His violet eyes held the King’s bloodshot ones. His face was calm. The same calm. The same stillness. The expression of a man who is receiving a blowjob and who is looking at a king and who is not impressed.
"You are a mess," Raven said.
His voice was flat. Conversational. The voice of a man who is commenting on the weather.
"A mess should not be treating a woman like that," he continued. His hand moved— in the Duchess’s hair. Stroking. Comforting. The gesture of a man who is holding a woman’s head while she sucks his cock and who is, simultaneously, offering comfort.
The King’s face twisted.
"You bastard!" he screamed. "Who are you?! How dare you— in my palace— in my throne room—"
He moved.
His hand went to the ring. The dark sorcery ring. The red glow intensified. The symbols flared. The demonic energy surged— through the metal, through his finger, through his hand, through his arm. The mana gathered. The spell formed. Dark magic. Sorcery. The kind of magic that was forbidden by the Church, by the Mage College, by every civilized nation.
He cast.
The dark energy shot— a bolt. Black. Purple. The energy of the nether. The force of a demon. The spell— the dark sorcery— flew toward Raven.
The stones moved.
The marble floor. The flagstones. The stone that the throne room was built on. The stones— the floor, the walls, the pillars— responded. Not to the King. To Raven. The stones shifted. They rose. They integrated— with the King’s body.
His body integrated with the nearby stones.
The floor rose— up, around his legs. His calves. His thighs. The stone climbed. It covered. It merged. The stone did not break the skin— it went through. Into the body. Through the flesh. Through the muscle. Through the bone.
The King screamed.
"AAAAGH—!"
The pain. The stone— inside him. Through him. The marble— the solid, dense, heavy stone— was passing through his body. Through his legs. Through his hips. Through his torso. The organs— displaced. The bones— pierced. The flesh— torn.
The stone climbed.
Through his chest. Through his ribs. Through his heart.
"AAAAA—"
His scream stopped.
His eyes rolled. The bloodshot whites. The dilated pupils. His mouth was open. His jaw was slack. The stone— through his heart. Through the organ. The heart stopped. The blood stopped. The body stopped.
He fell.
To the floor. The stone— the marble that had passed through him— fell with him. The white dust. The red blood. The shattered organs. The body— the King’s body— lay on the marble. In a pool of his own blood. Surrounded by the stone that had killed him.
Saturn.
The shadow— on the wall. The torchlight. The flickering. The shadow of a man. Cast on the stone. The shadow was— calm. Composed. The silhouette of a man who is standing still. Who is not moving. Who is not excited. Who is not afraid.
A devil.
The shadow on the wall looked like a devil. The horns— the silhouette of the coat, the collar, the way the fabric fell. The tail— the way the coat hung. The impression— the silhouette— of something that was not human. That wore a human shape. That cast a shadow that told the truth.
He was standing.
Unzipped pant. His cock— out. Twelve inches. Thick. Dark. The head swollen. The shaft veined. The Duchess— on her knees. Her eyes rolled. Her mouth— on his cock. The head in her throat. Her nose— against his groin. Her chin— against his balls. The deep throat. His hand— in her hair. Holding her. Her face— pressed against his pubic hair. Her throat— convulsing around the shaft.
The King’s eyes reflected.
The last thing the King saw— before the stone went through his heart— was the horror. The throne room. The fire. The burning soldiers. The dead knights. The naked woman. The cock. The man. The shadow. The devil.
His eyes rolled.
The flame engulfed his empire.
The fire— the orange, the red, the white— climbed the walls. The curtains ignited. The tapestries burned. The throne— the golden throne, the throne of a thousand years— caught fire. The gold melted. The wood burned. The jewels cracked.
The kingdom fell.
In a single night.
~ Morning
The morning light came.
Golden. Warm. The sun rose— over the capital. Over the city of Doria. Over the walls and the towers and the gates and the streets and the houses and the mansions and the palaces.
The ruckus was instant.