One Man to Breed Them All
The sun dipped toward the horizon as the procession wound along a flower-lined path toward Willowmere. Ethan walked at the center, flanked by Elara, Sylva, and Liora. Mira skipped ahead, chattering excitedly, while Kira and the twins brought up the immediate rear. Behind them, the crowd had swelled—nearly a hundred women now, their soft voices rising in song as fireflies began to glow in the twilight.
The village appeared like a dream made real: elegant homes woven into the crowns of ancient willow trees, connected by swaying bridges of living vines. Lanterns of bioluminescent flowers hung everywhere, casting a warm, golden light over the lake below. The water reflected the scene in perfect stillness, broken only by the occasional ripple of silver fish.
At the central platform—a wide, circular dais carpeted in petals—a tall woman awaited them. She was older than most, yet still radiantly beautiful: long black hair streaked with silver, falling over a flowing robe of deep emerald silk. Her presence commanded quiet respect. The crowd parted as she stepped forward.
"Welcome, Breeder," she said, her voice rich and resonant. "I am Seraphine, High Matriarch of Willowmere. The goddesses have favored us beyond measure by bringing you to our shores."
Ethan inclined his head, unsure of protocol. "Thank you. I'm… still getting used to all this."
Seraphine smiled warmly, gesturing for him to follow her to a raised pavilion overlooking the lake. A feast had been laid: long tables groaning under platters of roasted fruits, honey-glazed meats from some tender beast, crystal goblets of sparkling nectar. Musicians played gentle strings and flutes; dancers in translucent silks moved in slow, sensual circles.
As Ethan was seated at the place of honor, women pressed close—feeding him bites from their fingers, refilling his cup before it emptied, tracing idle patterns on his arms and thighs. The nectar was sweet and warming, sending a pleasant heat through his veins that sharpened every touch.
During the feast, Seraphine sat beside him and spoke quietly, her words meant for his ears alone.
"You deserve the full truth, Ethan. Our histories are not all light and joy."
He turned to her, sensing the shift in tone.
"Men have walked Elysara before you," she continued. "Not many, and not often. The veil between worlds thins only rarely—once every few thousand years. When it does, a single man is drawn through. One man… for every ten thousand women."
Ethan's eyes widened.
Seraphine nodded gravely. "The Breeder is never common. He is singular, precious, and overwhelming in his duty. In ancient times, the arrival was cause for continent-wide celebration. Queens and commoners alike shared him, traveling great distances for a single night in his arms. Bloodlines flourished. Daughters were born strong and numerous."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the dancers.
"But there were always those who wanted more than their share. A hidden sisterhood formed—the Shadow Women. They believed the Breeder's power could be claimed entirely if they took his seed first… and his life immediately after. By killing him in the moment of climax, they thought they could absorb his essence, become immortal beyond even our natural span, rule unchallenged."
Ethan felt a chill despite the warm night.
"They succeeded," Seraphine said softly. "Not at first. The early Breeders were protected, revered. But over centuries, the Shadow Women grew cunning. They infiltrated courts, villages, even the Breeder's own bedchambers. One by one, the men who came before you were lost—seduced in secret, slain at the height of pleasure before the rest of us could intervene."
She met his eyes, steady and fierce.
"That is why no man has survived the last three arrivals. The Shadow Women grew bold, and we… we grew complacent. By the time we realized the full danger, the veil had closed again, and our world slipped deeper into the Great Absence."
A dancer brushed past, trailing fingers along Ethan's shoulder, oblivious to the dark history being shared.
Seraphine leaned closer. "But we have learned. Willowmere keeps ancient wards now. We watch for the signs—pale skin that drinks the light, eyes too dark, a chill that lingers in their presence. They are few, but they still exist, hiding among us, waiting for their moment."
Ethan glanced around the feast. Beautiful faces everywhere—laughing, singing, gazing at him with open longing. Yet now he searched for anomalies: a woman who stood too still, whose smile did not reach her eyes.
He spotted her almost immediately.
Near the edge of the pavilion stood the pale figure he had glimpsed earlier—tall, raven-haired, skin like porcelain. She wore the same delicate silks as the others, but something about her seemed apart. When his gaze met hers, she did not look away in shyness or excitement. Instead, she smiled slowly—a predator's smile—and raised her goblet in silent toast.
Seraphine followed his stare. Her expression hardened.
"Nyra," she murmured. "She arrived only this morning, claiming to be a traveler from the northern marshes. We have no proof… yet. But I have set watchers on her."
The music swelled, signaling the next part of the welcome.
Seraphine rose, addressing the gathered village. "Tonight, we perform the First Blessing—an ancient rite to bind the Breeder's gift to our hearths and fields. Three of our most fertile daughters have been chosen."
Three women stepped forward onto the flower-strewn dais at the pavilion's center.
First was Rowan—a shy, curvaceous redhead with freckles across her chest and hips that swayed with nervous grace. Beside her stood a lithe brunette archer named Talia, and a voluptuous blonde healer called Lysa. All three wore crowns of white blossoms and sheer robes that concealed almost nothing.
The crowd hushed in reverence.
Seraphine turned to Ethan. "You need only follow your desire. The rite is joy, not obligation. But know this: once begun, every woman here will feel your blessing through them."
Ethan's heart pounded—equal parts arousal and sudden wariness. Nyra still watched from the shadows, unmoving.
Rowan approached first, cheeks flushed, and reached for the ties of his tunic with trembling fingers.
As the robe slipped from his shoulders and the warm night air kissed his skin, Ethan realized the true weight of his role.
He was not just desired.
He was the last hope of an entire world.
And somewhere in the crowd, death waited patiently in silk and shadow.