The young prince stood by the arched window, gazing down at the medieval town below—red brick roofs huddled tight, their shadows unnaturally sharp beneath an aberrant sun that hung too low and too gold in the sky. Behind him, the castle's eastern wing rose in cheerful absurdity, its roofs glazed a bright, impossible blue like scattered gumdrops.
He was nineteen, heir to a throne, master of a kingdom in name—and utterly bored.
A knock, sharp and deliberate.
He didn't turn. "Enter."
The door opened and closed with quiet precision.
Viola stepped inside. She never announced herself; her presence was announcement enough.
"My prince."
Her voice was level, cool, the voice of a woman who had survived too many wars and too many men. She was older—noticeably so—scars faint on her forearms, authority carved into every line of her body.
Her gaze lifted to him, lingered a dangerous fraction on the column of his throat, the way sunlight gilded his skin, then slid deliberately to the window.
"You are late."
She crossed the room with measured strides, boots silent on polished stone.
"Training was set for the sixth bell. You are thirty minutes behind."
Auther smiled faintly, still facing outward. "That so?"
"Yes." Her tone cut clean. "And before you try to charm your way out of it—don't."
He turned slowly, deliberately—one step, then another, closing the distance until she could feel the warmth radiating from him. A calculated invasion.
Viola held her ground, chin lifted.
She met his eyes without blinking. "There it is," she said calmly. "The slow advance. You use it when you want someone off balance."
His smile deepened. "Is it working?"
"No." A pause, deliberate. "But you hope I'll pretend it is."
The smugness faltered, just enough.
"You mistake proximity for power," she continued, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth, then back up. "Your weight is forward. You expect me to retreat."
She stepped past him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest, reclaiming the space.
"In the arena," she murmured, "you'd already be on your back."
His breath hitched—barely audible, but she heard it.
"You're no fun," he said, voice lower now.
"I'm not paid to be fun," Viola replied, turning to face him again. "I'm paid to keep you alive long enough to wear the crown without dying to your own reckless desire."
He leaned in, emerald eyes dark. "And if I want both—discipline and desire?"
Her pulse jumped, traitorously. "Then chase them elsewhere. Put on your training gear."
She turned for the door.
"And Auther," she said without looking back, "if you're going to test me today, make it worth my time."
The door closed with quiet finality.
Later, they faced each other across the wide sand circle of the arena.
Both in training attire—his loose, hers fitted, accentuating every lethal curve. Viola held her rapier low and ready. Auther gripped his blade with outward calm, but his knuckles were white.
He had been here before.
The memory surged—sun on steel, the weight of inevitable death.
A lifetime ago: New York apartment, empty nights, fever, suffocation, regret.
Then gold. A voice. A bargain.
Defeat the Demon King. Exterminate them all.
Or spend eternity as grass in a desert.
He'd chosen this life again.
Steel flashed.
Viola lunged.
He twisted—too late in the first timeline, just in time now. Her blade grazed fabric, not flesh.
She pressed mercilessly, forcing him back, blade ringing, body moving with deadly grace. Sweat beaded on her skin; her breathing deepened.
"You're late," she said, voice cutting through steel song. "Still undisciplined."
He parried clumsily, wrist burning.
Then her intent shifted—killing edge to instruction.
He felt it in his blood.
Instinct took over.
His blade rose in a desperate, perfect arc.
Cold steel kissed beneath her chin.
Silence.
Her breath caught—sharp, revealing.
"…Luck," she whispered.
Auther stepped in until almost no space remained. Heat poured between them. He could smell her—steel, sweat, woman.
The blade lifted her chin higher, exposing the frantic beat of her pulse.
"This," she said, voice husky despite herself, "is seduction."
"Yes," he answered, low and certain.
Her lips parted. A flush rose on her throat, spreading downward.
"You know I could end this."
"I know." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "You haven't."
Her free hand rose—not to disarm, but to fist in his tunic, pulling him fractionally closer.
The kiss was fire.
Slow, deliberate, his mouth claiming hers with patient hunger. He tasted her—salt, resistance, want. His tongue slid against hers, coaxing, demanding. She made a soft, involuntary sound that went straight to his blood.
Her body arched faintly toward him, breasts pressing against his chest through thin fabric. He felt her nipples, hard and straining.
When she finally tore away, her lips were swollen, eyes dark.
"Do not," she said, breathing ragged, "mistake that for surrender."
"I wouldn't." He lowered the sword instantly. "It was hunger."
She stepped back, chest heaving.
"You got lucky."
"Yes."
"You are still beneath me in skill."
"Yes." His gaze raked over her. "For now."
She turned to leave, paused.
"And Auther?"
"Yes?"
"Use that mouth on me again without permission," she said, voice low and dangerous, "and I'll cut it off."
A beat.
Then quieter, almost a confession: "But gods help me, I felt it in my bones."
She left.
Auther watched her go, pulse thundering, body hard and aching.
He hadn't won the duel.
But he had made her burn.
Viola could not sleep.
His mouth haunted her—soft, commanding, devastating. The memory of his tongue stroking hers, the way her body had melted against him despite every vow.
He was nineteen. She was old enough to know better.
And yet heat throbbed relentlessly between her thighs, slick and swollen, nipples tight and aching against her nightgown. She shifted restlessly, thighs pressing together, but the friction only sharpened the empty ache inside her.
She hated him for it.
She hated herself more for wanting more.
Finally she rose, choosing a dress that clung like a lover—arms bare, scars silver in moonlight, neckline low enough to reveal the upper swell of her breasts, fabric hugging her hips.
She told herself it was only restlessness.
She lied.
The castle grounds were silent, shadows deep. She walked swiftly, pulse already racing with forbidden anticipation.
He was waiting.
Auther leaned against the courtyard wall, moonlight painting him in silver and shadow. His gaze raked over her slowly—deliberate, possessive.
"You wander too late," he said softly. "Dressed like that, someone might take it as invitation."
Viola's chin lifted. "Do not toy with me."
His smile was slow, wicked. "Only because you crave it."
He stepped closer, glanced into the shadows. "Run."
Confusion flickered.
"Run," he repeated, voice rougher now. "Before someone sees how desperately you want this."
It was a game. She knew it.
Yet her blood sang.
She ran.
He chased—close enough that she felt his heat, heard his breath. Across moonlit stone, up hidden stairs, until he herded her into her own chamber and shut the door with a soft, final click.
Viola backed against it, chest heaving, nipples visible through damp silk. "Explain yourself."
Auther advanced, unhurried, predatory. "A test," he murmured. "And the truth."
He circled her, close enough that his fingertips brushed the air near her skin.
"You think you're in control," he said, voice velvet and steel. "But look at you—flushed, trembling, soaked for me."
A gasp escaped her. He was right; she felt the slick heat between her thighs, the throb that made her clench around nothing.
"And yet," he continued, breath against her ear, "you ran with me. You let me bring you here. You're not leaving."
Her knees weakened. She gripped his shirt, fingers digging into muscle.
He smiled, dark and certain. "Good. Because tonight I'm going to ruin you for restraint."
His mouth crashed onto hers—no more patience.
The kiss was raw, devouring. His tongue fucked into her mouth in slow, deliberate strokes, mimicking what she suddenly craved elsewhere. One hand slid to her waist, pulling her flush against the hard line of his arousal. She moaned into him, hips rocking instinctively.
He broke the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. His free hand cupped her breast, thumb circling the aching nipple through silk until she arched with a broken sound.
She should stop him.
She didn't.
Every touch stoked the fire higher—wetness soaking her thighs, inner walls fluttering with desperate need.
When he finally pulled back, her lips were bruised, eyes wild.
She could have commanded him to leave.
Instead she whispered, voice shattered: "Don't stop."
His smile was triumphant, tender, dangerous.
"I wasn't going to."
He had her trembling, aching, utterly undone—and they had barely begun.