Lorenzo and Marcello arrived for the introduction ceremony. Though Lorenzo held higher rank by blood, she'd come to the garrison a soldier. She'd risen to second-highest rank: First Officer to the Commander.
She was the youngest. By far the most experienced. She'd saved her commander's life. Shown more valour than any man under his command.
Her eyes were calm. Lifeless. She'd seen every kind of horror.
They bowed before the king and his adviser. The king, her cousin, Alfonso I, sat on the throne with wine in hand. Beside him stood his adviser, her uncle pretending to be her father: Orlo.
Alfonso smirked as they knelt, heads lowered. He stood and walked straight toward Lorenzo.
"Rise, brother," he said. "A prince of blood bows but never kneels."
Lorenzo rose and replied evenly, "I was raised a soldier. A sword in your arsenal. Forgive my brutish manners. My blood is for the Empire and for you, Brother Emperor."
Alfonso looked momentarily embarrassed, then laughed and turned to Orlo. "Uncle, your son is here. Will you not greet him?"
Orlo exhaled sharply and stepped forward. He kissed Lorenzo on both cheeks, holding her face with a false smile.
"My son... my firstborn," he said loudly. "You have grown into a fine officer. Come... meet your siblings."
As he led her away, Orlo deliberately let his hand press against Lorenzo's chest, feeling the binding beneath, the careful construction of her disguise. He leaned closer and whispered, breath hot against her ear, "I was surprised to hear the young First Officer often trains bare-chested. I am pleased you and your commander grew wise."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened imperceptibly. The violation of that touch, knowing, invasive, made her skin crawl beneath the layers of deception.
Marcello lowered his head, hands clenched into fists. He could barely endure seeing his child humiliated. Seeing the true sovereign of the empire treated like a trinket.
Orlo had two other children: Uraca and Sancho.
Uraca studied Lorenzo with curiosity, then stepped forward, gently taking her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, brother."
Lorenzo kissed her hand, felt the softness of Uraca's skin against her lips, caught the faint scent of rose oil. "The pleasure is mine, sister."
Uraca smiled and arched a brow, fingers lingering just a moment too long in Lorenzo's grip. "My older brother is quite mean. He never visits."
Sancho scoffed and stepped closer. "Are you really the First Officer everyone talks about? You look fragile. Small. Like a woman."
He shoved her.
Lorenzo caught his wrist effortlessly, fingers wrapping around bone with controlled strength. "You should learn to respect your elders," she said calmly.
Alfonso laughed loudly. "Come now, Lorenzo. Uncle spoiled him. But he does have a point. All I know of you is rumor, and from what I see, you look young for your age. Frail."
Marcello dropped to one knee. "If doubt is cast upon my First Officer, then my head should fall first. I raised and trained him myself. I took him to battle. He has saved my life more times than I can count. If false testimony has been given, I should be the one to die."
Alfonso smirked and sipped his wine, handed to him by a servant girl who clearly knew his chambers intimately. "A demonstration will suffice."
Lorenzo lifted her chin. "Fair enough. But I ask one thing, Brother."
"Granted," Alfonso said lazily. "What?"
"I do not wish to fight one of my garrison," Lorenzo replied coldly. "Victory would cost the empire a good soldier."
Alfonso's eyes lit with intrigue. "That is my kin! A man of valor. Let it be so."
Marcello approached Lorenzo and murmured, "Do what you must."
Lorenzo removed her chest piece. Then her coat. Then her leather vest.
The room held its breath.
She pulled off her shirt.
The reveal was deliberate. Calculated.
Her torso was lean, carved with muscle earned through relentless training. Scars crisscrossed her skin. Some jagged, some clean, all brutal. Her chest was flat, hard-earned warrior's flesh. Her shoulders were broad for someone her size, her arms corded with strength that came from swinging a blade thousands of times.
She was beautiful in the way weapons are beautiful, dangerous, honed, lethal.
Several courtiers shifted uncomfortably. Not because they suspected. But because the display of raw, scarred masculinity was undeniable. Visceral.
Uraca's gaze lingered, traveled slowly down the planes of Lorenzo's abdomen, the definition of muscle beneath skin, the way shadows pooled in the hollows of her collarbones. Her lips parted slightly, pulse visible at her throat.
Marcello whispered, "Is this necessary?"
Lorenzo took her sword. "I give them my chest so they stop wondering what lies in my trousers. I am done answering nonsense from those who already know the truth."
Alfonso smirked knowingly.
Orlo stepped forward. "Hector."
Hector emerged, wide, powerful, confident. A man who'd won many fights.
Orlo moved beside Marcello and whispered, "Well played, old fox. No one would believe this is a woman. How young was she when you gave her the seeds?"
Marcello said nothing.
"I hope Hector finishes what my father failed to do,"Orlo added. "Traitor."
Marcello turned toward him, ready to strike, but only said, "Hector's blood will be on you."
Hector bowed to Lorenzo. "You called for a fight to the death. Reconsider, my lord. I would rather not kill you."
Lorenzo drew her blade. "Forgive me. Your life will be lost, but I will ensure your family is cared for."
The fight began slow.
Hector pressed hard. His strength and reach were that of an experienced man.
Then Lorenzo's face went blank. Her aura changed.
Her movements sharpened. Turned ruthless. Precise.
Hector started shaking. It was like fighting a beast. Her movement and flow were almost inhumanly unpredictable. Each strike flowed into the next with terrifying grace, a dance of death choreographed by instinct and curse-born power.
Steel flashed.
Hector screamed as his sword fell from a severed hand.
One clean motion. She beheaded him.
Blood sprayed across the marble floor. His body crumpled.
Lorenzo stood over him, chest heaving, skin glistening with sweat and blood spatter. The sight was primal, ancient. A warrior drenched in violence, unflinching.
She grunted, annoyed that such a great warrior fell this way.
Uraca watched, enchanted. Her breathing had quickened, pupils dilated. There was hunger in her gazer, aw, unabashed fascination with the violence, with the body that delivered it.
Sancho turned away as the court's eyes burned into him. His mockery had cost a good man his life.
Lorenzo retrieved her coat from Marcello and covered Hector's body. Planted her sword before him. Knelt.
She prayed.
The sight moved Alfonso deeply.
He stepped forward and bowed his head, standing beside her, hand on her shoulder.
---
After that day, and against Orlo's advice, Alfonso began giving Lorenzo more favours. Sending her on increasingly dangerous missions.
One campaign ended in catastrophe, half the troops lost. Lorenzo returned alive.
When rebellion flared in the south, he sent her again. She returned unscathed, her victory decisive and merciless. The rebellion collapsed entirely.
Alfonso rewarded her by granting command of her own garrison. She named it the Dragon Garrison. Of Lorenzo's original garrison, only twenty remained and joined her, with Marcello as First Officer to the newly appointed Commander Lorenzo.
She traveled only with them. Chose the most dangerous missions. Trusted no one else at her side.
Soon after, she was nominated ambassador of the Empire.
He continued to send her into peril.
By then, Lorenzo had endured everything war could offer. Marcello had been gravely wounded and was forced to withdraw from the battlefield. Though his injuries healed, scars remained etched deep enough to remind them both that resilience alone wouldn't be enough.
They needed to make the most with what they were given.
In less than a year, the Dragon Garrison grew. Soldiers sought her out. They respected her. They followed because she fought beside them and because she cared for them. She ensured fair pay, proper medicine, clean camps. Discipline was strict, but punishment was just.
Most importantly, they were the best trained, most organized killing machines.
Many believed Alfonso favored Lorenzo because he trusted her.
Yes—and no.
Alfonso trusted her because she couldn't fail. She was cursed, after all. She'd bent the knee, so he put her to work.
By placing more lives under her command, more alliances within her reach, he tightened the leash. Responsibility was the chain.
He'd seen her kneel beside Hector's body. He understood her nature.
She was dutiful. Loyal. And she possessed a conscience.
That was her greatest weakness in a game built on cruelty.
Meanwhile, Uraca began seeking Lorenzo's presence more and more, finding excuses to be alone with her.
At first, it seemed harmless.
"You leave too early," Uraca said one evening, falling into step beside Lorenzo as she exited the council chamber. "The court barely sees you."
"I am not here to be seen,"Lorenzo replied calmly. "Only to serve."
Uraca smiled at that, slow and knowing. She moved closer, close enough that Lorenzo could smell her perfume, something heady and expensive. "That is what makes you interesting."
Lorenzo did not answer.
Another day, Uraca appeared unannounced at the Dragon Garrison's camp. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of steel and sweat, but her eyes never left Lorenzo as she supervised drills.
"You run them hard," Uraca observed.
"They survive," Lorenzo answered. "That is the point."
Uraca stepped closer, lowering her voice. Her breath ghosted against Lorenzo's neck. "You are different when you command. Colder. Sharper." She paused, letting her gaze trail deliberately down Lorenzo's body. "One wouldn't believe you have a woman visiting you in your free time."
She circled slightly, studying Lorenzo like a puzzle like prey. Her fingers brushed Lorenzo's arm as if by accident. "I like that duality."
Lorenzo finally met her gaze, jaw tight. "My free time is mine to do as I please, sister. Father never complains about it, so no harm done. I am young and have needs. Marriage is not a requirement yet"
Uraca laughed softly. She reached up and caressed Lorenzo's cheek, fingers trailing along the sharp line of her jaw. Her touch was possessive, claiming. "We could avoid scandal if you decided to keep it in the family."
Lorenzo felt revulsion crawl up her spine. The touch was wrong, invasive, predatory. She stepped back, breaking contact.
That night, Lorenzo barricaded herself in her room earlier than usual.
Marcello noticed.
"She is circling you,"he said later, as they reviewed reports by candlelight. "Carefully. Persistently."
"I am aware,"Lorenzo replied, disgust evident in her tone.
"She is Alfonso's sister and your cousin."
"I am also aware."
Marcello studied her face. "You must be careful. We do not know how much she knows. Desire from a woman like Uraca is not harmless. It curdles when refused."
Lorenzo exhaled slowly. "Have Clara come to my chambers tonight."
Marcello nodded. He knew it was the only way to keep gossip at bay and to give release to Lorenzo who, though a woman, did enjoy other women's company.
---
Later that night, Clara arrived. She was one of the few Lorenzo trusted. A camp follower turned confidante, discreet and perceptive.
She knew the truth of what Lorenzo was and never judged.
Clara entered without knocking, closed the door softly behind her. Lorenzo stood by the window, still fully dressed, shoulders tense.
You're wound tight tonight," Clara observed, moving closer. She reached up, began unlacing Lorenzo's shirt with practiced ease. "Let me help."
Her fingers traced the scars across Lorenzo's chest—the flat, androgynous planes that needed no binding.
The body that belonged to neither world completely but had learned to navigate both. "There,"Clara whispered, letting the shirt fall away. Her palms smoothed over Lorenzo's skin, tender at first, then more insistent.
Lorenzo turned, and Clara was there, warm, willing, understanding. Their kisses started slow but quickly turned hungry. Clara tasted like honey wine. Lorenzo's hands found her waist, pulling her roughly against hard muscle and scarred skin.
Clara gasped at the force of it, arousal flooding through her.
Lorenzo walked her backward to the bed, movements controlled but urgent. She pushed Clara down onto the sheets, looming over her.
There was dominance in every line of Lorenzo's body, the soldier, the prince, the predator. Clara's breath quickened as Lorenzo unlaced her dress with practiced efficiency, revealing soft curves and flushed skin.
She spread Clara's thighs with firm hands, positioning herself between them. The prosthetic, pressed against Clara's entrance. It was warm from being against Lorenzo's body all day, and Clara moaned at the first pressure of it.
"Please," Clara whispered, arching into the touch. Lorenzo didn't make her wait. She entered Clara with one smooth thrust, and Clara cried out, part pleasure, part relief.
Lorenzo set a rough rhythm immediately, hips driving forward with strength born from years of combat training.
Each thrust was deep, claiming, relentless. Clara's nails dug into Lorenzo's shoulders as she was taken with an intensity that left no room for gentleness. This wasn't soft or romantic. This was need. Raw and primal.
"Harder," Clara begged, and Lorenzo obliged, gripping Clara's hips hard enough to bruise, driving into her with punishing force. The bed frame creaked with each powerful thrust.
Clara's cries grew louder, less restrained. She wrapped her legs around Lorenzo's waist, pulling her deeper, meeting each thrust with her own desperate movements.
Lorenzo felt the tension coiling in her own body, the release that came, from prosthetic sensation on her clit but from dominance, from control, from the freedom to be exactly what she was in this moment.
A woman taking another woman. Roughly. Completely.
When Clara shattered beneath her, gasping Lorenzo's name, Lorenzo continued through her climax, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, until Clara lay spent and trembling.
Only then did Lorenzo slow, eventually pulling out and collapsing beside her.
They lay in silence, both breathing hard. Clara's hand found Lorenzo's, fingers intertwining. "I have always and will always love you Clara murmured, turning to press a soft kiss to Lorenzo's scarred shoulder. "You do not need to say it back! I know you don't love me. I can't help but hope one day you will" And for a few stolen hours, Lorenzo was just content with her life.