They were fat. They were young. They were noblemen—young masters, the kind who inherited money and spent it on wine and women and cruelty. They lounged in the bath. Their bodies were pale. Hairy. Soft. The kind of bodies that had never held a sword or swung an axe or run a mile. They drank from goblets. They laughed.

Their eyes went to Sera the moment she entered.

"Ah," one said. He was the fatter of the two. His face was round. Pimpled. His cock was visible under the water. Limp. Small. He stroked it lazily. "The massage girl. She is taller than I expected."

"Look at those arms," the other said. Thinner. Weasel-faced. His eyes crawled over her body. "She could wrestle a bull. Or ride one." He laughed. A wet, slimy sound.

Sera trembled.

She looked at Goliath. He stood beside her. He had removed his outer coat. His shirt was white. He was unbuttoning the cuffs. He looked at her with those ice-blue eyes.

"Prince," she said. Her voice was shaking. "What is this?"

Goliath looked at the two men in the bath. He smiled. Warm. Friendly. The smile of a host introducing guests.

"What?" he said. "You need to massage all four of us. We have had a long day. Sir Poul and Sir Renn here have been traveling. They are sore. They need attention." He looked at her. His smile did not reach his eyes. "Remove your clothes."

Sera’s heart stopped.

"What?" she whispered. "Prince, I cannot—"

Goliath’s gaze narrowed.

"What did you just say?"

His voice was low. Not loud. Not angry. Worse. Disappointed. The voice of a prince who has been disobeyed. The voice of absolute authority.

"I said remove your clothes. You are a massage girl, are you not? Your grandfather is a masseur. Your family trade is touching bodies. So touch ours. With your hands. With your body. With whatever else we require."

Sera’s hands were shaking. Her sword was gone—confiscated at the palace gate. She was unarmed. She was alone. She was in a room with three men who owned the world and had decided to own her too.

"No," she said. Her voice cracked. "No, I cannot. Prince, I am a competitor. I am a knight. I am not—"

Goliath chuckled.

It was a small sound. Almost gentle. It was more terrifying than any scream.

"Fine then," he said. He walked to the table. He poured wine. He sipped. He did not look at her. "I will have your grandfather executed."

Sera’s blood froze.

"What?" she breathed.

"Old Tomas," Goliath said. He swirled the wine. "The First Queen’s masseur. Your grandfather. Sixty-three years old. Served the Crown for twenty years. I will have him arrested tonight. Charged with treason. The charge will be that his granddaughter—you—attempted to assassinate the Crown Prince. In his name. Under his orders. A conspiracy. A plot against the Crown."

He sipped the wine.

"He will be tried. He will be convicted. He will be hanged. In the public square. Before dawn."

Tears fell.

Sera’s knees buckled. She did not fall. She caught herself on the doorframe. Her fingers were white on the wood. Her face was wet. Her lips were trembling. Her body was shaking.

"Please," she whispered. "Please don’t. He is old. He has done nothing. He is innocent. Please, Prince. Please."

Goliath looked at her.

"Remove," he said. "Your clothes."

The room was silent.

The two men in the bath watched. Their eyes were hungry. Their hands were on their cocks. Stroking. Slow. Anticipatory.

Sera’s hands moved.

She did not want them to. But they moved. Her fingers found the buckles of her leather vest. She unfastened them. The leather fell. It hit the marble floor with a dull thud. Her linen shirt was beneath. It was damp with sweat. It clung to her body. Her arms were visible. Corded. Muscled. The arms of a fighter. Not a masseuse.

She pulled the shirt over her head.

Her bra was visible. Simple. White cotton. It strained across her chest. Her breasts were not large. They were firm. Round. The muscles of her chest pushed them up. The bra was tight. The fabric was worn. It was the bra of a woman who spent her money on swords, not undergarments.

She unbuttoned her trousers. She pushed them down. They pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them. Her legs were long. Muscled. Her thighs were thick from years of training. Her calves were defined. Her boots were still on. She bent to remove them.

She fumbled with the laces. Her hands were shaking too badly. She pulled. The boot slid off. Then the other. She stood in her bra and panty. Her hands covered her front. One arm across her chest. One across her lower body. She was trembling. Her skin was flushed. Red. Humiliated.

The panty was simple. White cotton. It covered her mound. But the fabric was thin. Old. Worn. The dark hair beneath was visible. Her pussy hair. Thick. Natural. She had never trimmed it. She had never cared. She was a fighter. Not a courtier. Not a noblewoman. Her body was for battle, not for display.

But now it was on display.

Goliath looked at her.

His tongue came out. It ran across his lower lip. Slow. Wet. His crotch twitched. The bulge in his trousers shifted. He noticed. He did not hide it.

"So very good," he murmured. "You both see this?"

The two men in the bath leaned forward. Their eyes were fixed on her body. On her bra. On her panty. On the hair visible through the cotton.

"Gods," the fat one breathed. "Look at her. She is built like a fucking goddess. All muscle and skin and tight little cunt."

"I want to see the tits," the weasel-faced one said. "Are they big? They look firm. I like firm. Noblewomen are too soft. This one— this one looks like she could take a proper fucking."

They climbed out of the bath.

They did not bother with towels. Their bodies were wet. Pale. Hairy. Their bellies hung over their groins. Their cocks were visible. Small. Limp. The fat one had perhaps four inches. The thin one had five. They stroked themselves as they walked. Their hands massaged their balls. They tugged. They pulled. Their cocks began to stiffen. To lengthen. To thicken. Not much. They were not impressive. But they were hard. And they were coming closer.

They surrounded her.

Sera stood in the center. Three men. One behind. Two in front. She could smell them. Wine. Sweat. Bathwater. The cloying scent of noble perfume that could not mask the reek of their bodies.

The fat one picked up a wine bottle.

He poured it on her.

The red liquid hit her shoulder. It ran down her chest. It soaked her bra. The white cotton went transparent. Her nipples were visible. Dark. Stiff. From cold or fear or both. The wine ran down her stomach. It soaked her panty. It ran down her legs.

"What is happening?" she gasped. She flinched. The wine was cold. "Please, Prince. What are you doing? Please."

They poured more.

"Slurp.... I want to suck that drink now along with her tits... Hahahaha."