His violet eyes — scanning the room, the corridor, the palace — found something. Someone. A woman. Standing by the wall. A guard. A knight. A female knight.
She was tall. Not as tall as the Empress. Taller than most women. Five feet ten. Her body was lean. Athletic. The muscles — not bulky, not thick, but visible, defined — were the muscles of a fighter. A swordswoman. Her hair was dark. Short. Cropped. Practical. Her face was angular. Sharp. The cheekbones high. The jaw strong. Her eyes were brown. Her skin was tan. Her armor — light, leather, the kind that allowed movement — was worn. The sword at her hip was long. Straight. The weapon of a knight.
Her name was Elena.
She had joined the ranks. The royal guard. The Empress’s guard. She had been recruited — not by the Empress, but by Raven’s people. By Ada. By the network that Raven had built. She had been tested. She had been approved. She had been placed.
Raven walked toward her.
Her brown eyes — the eyes of a fighter, of a woman who has killed, of a woman who is not easily frightened — went wide.
Not from fear. From — proximity. From — presence. From the mana. The dragon intimidation. The aura that radiated from his body. The heavy, ancient, predatory aura that said ’I am above you. I am beyond you. I am — your superior.’
"M-Master..." she whispered.
The word came. Not from her brain. From her body. The body’s response to the aura. The instinctive, biological, animal response to a predator. The submission. The word that her mouth formed without her brain’s permission.
Raven smiled.
The smile — thin, warm, the smile that had broken a hundred women — crossed his lips. His hand went out. To her shoulder. His large, warm hand on her leather-clad shoulder. He squeezed. Not hard. The grip of a man who is claiming. Who is — selecting.
"What happened, sir?" she whispered. Her voice was trembling. The voice of a woman who is in the presence of something overwhelming and who is trying to maintain composure and who is — failing.
He looked at the room. At the delegates. At the guards. At the Empress — who was on the bed, her blouse closed, her hair tangled, her face flushed, the evidence of the night and the morning on her skin. He looked at everyone. And then he looked at Elena.
"I am going to fuck this one," he said.
His voice was loud. Not shouted. Loud enough. The volume of a man who is making an announcement. Who is — declaring. Who is telling the room: this woman. This one. Tonight.
The room went silent.
The guards. The maids. The attendants. The people in the corridor. Everyone. Silent. The words — "I am going to fuck this one" — hung in the air. The words that were not a request. Not a suggestion. A statement. A fact. A — future event.
"Make sure to send good ones," Raven added. His voice was casual. The voice of a man who is ordering a meal. "Good models. Women with abilities."
He dropped his hand.
From Elena’s shoulder. The warmth left. The contact ended. Elena — the knight, the fighter, the swordswoman — stood. Her body was rigid. Her hand — on her sword — was white. The knuckles. The grip.
"W-What..." she stammered. "What is the meaning of—"
"Serve him."
The voice was the Empress’s. From the bed. Seraphina — the dragon, the ruler, the woman who had just been fucked and sucked and claimed — spoke. Two words. The command. The order. The voice of an Empress who had been broken and who was now — passing down the order. Who was now — sending another woman to the same fate.
Elena’s eyes went to the Empress.
The sea-green eyes — still glazed, still dilated, still carrying the evidence of the morning — met her brown ones. The look — the look between women, the look that said ’I know. I have been there. You will go there too. You will survive. You will — more than survive’ — was brief.
"Your Highness..." Elena whispered. Her voice was shaking. "I..."
Raven leaned.
Toward her ear. His mouth — the lips that had sucked the Empress’s tit, that had sucked the Empress’s pussy — was at Elena’s ear. The breath — the warm breath, the mana breath — was on her skin.
"Let us see if you are a virgin or not," he whispered.
Her eyes closed.
The lids — the tan, freckled lids — shut. The lashes — long, dark — trembled. The body — the lean, athletic, fighter’s body — went still. Not rigid. Still. The stillness of a woman who is processing. Who is — deciding. Who is — surrendering.
He vanished.
With her. The portal. The rift. The blue-purple tear in reality. It opened around them — around him, around Elena — and they were gone. The room was empty. The bed was occupied — the Empress, alone, the silk torn, the sheets stained. The corridor was empty — the guards, the maids, the attendants, standing, staring, the afterimage of the portal burning in their eyes.
The Empress ordered.
"Create the competition," she said. Her voice was the Empress. The ruler. The authority. "Find the ability holders. Throughout the kingdom. They are to come. Especially the women. Exclusively the women. All of them. No excuses."
The guards bowed.
The maids ran.
The order went out.
## The Bed — Elena
She was thrown.
Onto the bed. The imperial bed. The broken, repaired, stained bed. Her body — the lean, athletic body — hit the silk. The impact was soft. The mattress — the feather mattress, the expensive, imperial mattress — absorbed her weight.
She gasped.
The sound — the sharp, sudden intake of breath — was the first sound she made. Not a scream. Not a moan. A gasp. The gasp of a woman who has been teleported and who is disoriented and who is — on a bed.
The room was different.
Not the Empress’s chamber. A different room. Raven’s chamber. In the palace. The room that had been — prepared. The room that the Empress had ordered prepared. The room where the women would be sent.
The bed was large. Larger than the Empress’s. The silk was black. The sheets were clean. The pillows were many. The room was dark — the curtains drawn, the candles lit, the light flickering, the shadows dancing.
Raven was on the bed.
Lying back. On the silk. His coat — off. His shirt — off. His trousers — unzipped. The pants — open, the fabric pulled apart — revealed his cock.
It was out.
Hard. Twelve inches. The shaft — dark, veined, the head swollen — stood. Vertical. From his groin. The cock pointed at the ceiling. The pre-cum — the clear, slick fluid — leaked from the slit. The head — the dark, purple, glistening head — gleamed in the candlelight.
Elena looked.
Her brown eyes — the fighter’s eyes, the killer’s eyes — went wide. Not from fear. From — the sight. The cock. The size. The — impossibility of it. The thing that was larger than any she had seen. (Not that she had seen many. She was a knight. She was a soldier. She was not a woman who had — been with men.)
"Follow the orders of the queen," Raven said.
His voice was calm. The voice of a man who is lying on a bed with his cock out and who is giving an instruction. "Come on. Bounce on it."