Sera’s eyes went wide. She saw the pill. She saw his hand. She saw the pink tablet on his palm. She clamped her mouth shut. She turned her head. She pressed her lips together so hard that they went white.

"No—!" she said. The word was muffled. Barely audible. "Ngh—!"

Goliath grabbed her jaw.

His fingers dug into her cheeks. His thumb pressed into the hollow beneath her cheekbone. His other fingers found the hinge of her jaw. He squeezed. The pressure was precise. Targeted. He knew exactly where to press to force the jaw open without breaking it.

Sera’s mouth opened.

She tried to keep it closed. Her jaw trembled. The muscles in her face strained. But his grip was royal—enhanced, unnatural, stronger than any human force she had ever resisted. Her jaw was pried open. Her lips parted. Her teeth separated. Her tongue was visible. Pink. Wet. Trembling.

Goliath placed the pill on her tongue.

She tried to spit. She tried to push it out with her tongue. She tried to turn her head. But Goliath’s mouth came down on hers.

The kiss was brutal.

His lips sealed over hers. His tongue pushed in. It found the pill. It pushed it deeper. Past her tongue. Past the ridge of her teeth. Into her throat. His tongue followed—thick, wet, invasive. It explored her mouth. It pushed the pill into the back of her throat. It touched the back of her tongue. It probed. It swept. It claimed.

SMPH—SMPH—SMPH—

She gagged. She choked. The pill was at the back of her throat. She tried to push it out with her tongue, but his tongue was there, blocking, pushing, forcing. She tried to breathe through her nose. The air was filled with his smell. His taste. Wine. Musk. Something chemical. Something that burned.

She gulped.

The reflex was involuntary. Her throat contracted. The pill went down. She felt it slide into her esophagus. She felt it dissolve. She felt the first trickle of warmth spread through her stomach.

She tried to push him away. Her hands were still pinned by the weasel-faced one. She kicked. Her legs flailed. Her boots caught the sheets. The silk tore.

Goliath pulled back. A string of saliva connected their lips. It broke. It fell on her chin. Her mouth was open. Her tongue was out. She gasped. She coughed. She tried to spit. But the pill was already gone.

"No—!" she sobbed. "What did you— what did you give me—? Please—! No—!"

The fat one punched her pussy.

Not a slap. Not a rub. A punch. His fist closed. His knuckles pressed against her cunt through the wet cotton. He drove it upward. Not hard enough to injure. Hard enough to shock.

PAH—

"AAAH—!!" Sera screamed. Her body convulsed. The pain shot through her pelvis. Through her stomach. Through her spine. Her back arched off the bed. Her legs kicked. Her mouth opened in a cry that was half scream, half sob.

She gulped.

The pill was in her stomach. Dissolving. She could feel it. A warmth spreading outward from her gut. Into her blood. Into her muscles. Into her skin. Into places she did not want it to go.

They grabbed her ankles.

Both of them. The fat one on the left. The weasel-faced one on the right. They pulled. Her legs were spread. Wide. Her thighs were forced apart. The muscle resisted—the thighs of a fighter, built to hold a stance, built to resist—but two men pulling was too much. Her legs opened. Her panty was exposed. Soaked. Clinging. The hair of her pussy was dark through the wet cotton. The outline of her cunt was visible. The lips. The cleft. The mound.

"Look at that," the fat one said. He was breathing hard. His belly heaved. His cock was rigid. Leaking. "Look at that hairy little cunt. She is hiding it under there. Hiding it like a treasure."

"We should tie her to the bedpost," the weasel-faced one said. His thin voice was excited. High. The voice of a man whose cruelty has been given permission. "Tie her wrists to the post. Spread her legs. Make her watch while we take turns."

"Yes," the fat one agreed. His hand was on her thigh. Rubbing. Squeezing. His fingers were leaving red marks on the muscle. "And the bamboo of the bed frame. We can make her sit on it. The vertical one at the foot. Make her spread her pussy over it. Sit her down on it. Let the bamboo stretch her open. Then we fuck her while she is stretched."

"Her pussy would be so tight after that," the weasel-faced one said. He was stroking his cock. Fast. His hand was a blur on the shaft. "So fucking tight. Stretched around the bamboo. We could fuck her one by one while she sits on it."

"And her ass," the fat one said. His hand went higher. His fingers found the waistband of her panty. He hooked his thumb under it. "We should fuck her ass while she sits on the bamboo. Double. Her pussy stretched on wood. Her ass full of cock. She would scream. She would scream like a—"

Sera screamed.

Not a word. Not a name. Not a plea. A scream. Raw. Primal. Torn from the deepest part of her chest. A scream that carried every ounce of terror and shame and helplessness that had been building inside her since the moment she walked into this room.

"SOMEONE SAVE ME—!!"

The door opened.

Not knocked. Not announced. Opened. The wood swung inward on its hinges with a sound that was quiet and final, and the candlelight from the hallway spilled into the room, and a figure stood in the doorway.

He was tall. Dark-haired. He wore a black coat that was open at the front. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was casual. Relaxed. As if he had wandered into the wrong room and was mildly inconvenienced by what he found.

His eyes were violet.

Not blue. Not purple. Violet. The color of amethyst. Of twilight. Of something that does not belong to the natural world. They were calm. Still. Unhurried. They swept the room—the silk sheets soaked with wine, the candles, the naked men, the fat one with his thumb hooked in Sera’s panty, the weasel-faced one holding her wrists, Goliath at the head of the bed with his enhanced cock pressed against her cheek—and they did not widen. They did not narrow. They did not react.

They assessed.

"Is your name Sera?" he said.

His voice was quiet. Not soft—quiet. The way a blade is quiet before it moves. It carried across the room and cut through the noise—the breathing, the groaning, the crying—and it landed in the silence that followed like a stone dropped into still water.

Everyone halted.

The fat one’s hand stopped. His thumb was still hooked in Sera’s panty. The weasel-faced one’s grip loosened. Goliath’s head turned. His ice-blue eyes found the figure in the doorway. His expression shifted—from amusement to confusion to anger. The transition was fast. The anger won.

Sera’s eyes found him. The stranger. The man in the black coat. The man with violet eyes. She was lying on the bed. Her bra was pulled down. Her breasts were exposed. Her panty was soaked. Her lip was bleeding. Her face was wet with tears. Her body was trembling. The pill was dissolving in her stomach. Her skin was beginning to flush. Her nipples were stiff. Her pussy was warm.

She looked at him. At his calm face. At his violet eyes. At his still, unhurried posture. And something inside her—something that had been screaming into the void for the past hour—found a target.

"Please," she sobbed. Her voice broke. The words came in fragments, shattered by the hiccuping sobs that wracked her chest. "Please— save me— hic— please— sob— save— please—"

Goliath moved.

He was off the bed in an instant. His enhanced cock swung between his legs. He crossed the distance in three strides. His hand shot out. He grabbed the stranger’s collar. He twisted the fabric. He pulled. The stranger’s coat did not tear. It did not even wrinkle. But Goliath’s grip was tight, his knuckles white, his face inches from the stranger’s.

"You bastard," Goliath snarled. His voice was high. Thin. The voice of a man whose authority has been challenged and who does not know how to process it. "How dare you enter? Who are you? This is the palace! This is the Crown’s guest wing! You cannot— BRING MY SWORD! KNIGHTS!"