She saw a knight.

He was at the end of the corridor. Silver armor. The Queen’s Own. He was standing at attention, his hand on his sword, his eyes forward. He saw her. His eyes widened—she was in a sheet, her hair was loose, her face was flushed, and the room behind her smelled like a brothel.

"Guard!" the Queen called. Her voice cracked. It was not royal. It was the voice of a woman who has been fucked for an hour and is trying to sound like a queen. "Remove that man from my chamber. Now."

The knight blinked.

"My Queen—?"

"That man. The old man. In there. On the floor. Arrest him."

The knight looked past her. Into the room. He saw the bed. He saw the sheets. He saw the old man and the maid on the floor, unconscious, naked, intertwined.

His face went white.

He moved.

He entered the room. He crossed the floor. He grabbed Old Tomas by the arm. He pulled. The old man was heavy—dead weight—but the knight was trained. He dragged him. He pulled him off the maid. The maid’s body slid away. Old Tomas’s cock slipped out of her—thick, old, slick, soft. It flopped against his thigh.

The knight hauled him to his feet. Old Tomas’s head lolled. His eyes opened—slowly, groggily, the eyes of a man who has been woken from the deepest sleep of his life.

The Queen’s voice hit him like cold water.

"Arrest this man," she said. Her golden eyes were hard. The porcelain mask was back—cracked, chipped, but back. The voice of royalty. The voice of authority. The voice of a woman who has decided that someone will pay for what has happened and who has decided that it will not be her.

"What—?" Old Tomas gasped. His voice was thick. Confused. His eyes were unfocused. He looked around— at the room, at the knight gripping his arm, at the Queen in her sheet. "What happened? My Queen? Please— I did not do anything— please—"

"You did," the Queen said. Her voice was cold. Cold as the stone floor. Cold as the iron of the knight’s armor. "Your son-in-law. Your granddaughter’s husband. He did something very dirty. And you brought him here. Into my chamber. Into my bed."

Old Tomas’s eyes went wide.

"No— please— he is not my—" he stammered. "He is nothing to me— forgive me— he blackmailed me— I had no choice—"

The Queen’s eyebrow rose.

"Blackmailed?" she said.

"Yes— yes— he threatened me— he threatened my granddaughter— he— please— he was the one who hurt Prince Goliath—"

The Queen froze.

Her golden eyes went wide. The porcelain mask shattered. Not cracked—shattered. The word "Goliath" hit her like a physical blow. The prince. The prince whose shoulder had been erased. The prince whose room had been painted in blood. The prince who had screamed about a devil with violet eyes.

"What?" she whispered. "What did you say?"

Old Tomas trembled. The knight’s grip on his arm was iron. The old man’s knees were buckling. His face was gray. He had said too much. He knew it. The words had come out—spilling from his mouth like water from a broken dam, driven by fear and panic and the desperate need to deflect blame from himself.

"The man— the man I brought— Raven— he was the one— he hurt the prince— he erased his shoulder— he removed the noblemen’s legs— he—"

The Queen’s hand went to her mouth.

The man who had just fucked her.

The man whose hands had been on her body. The man whose cock had been inside her—inside her pussy, inside her anal. The man whose seed was leaking from her body at this very moment. The man who had massaged her with hands that could erase body parts. The man who had infused the room with pheromones. The man who had made her moan. The man who had made her squirt. The man who had made her nipples leak milk.

The man who had done all of this—the erasing of shoulders, the removal of legs, the killing of knights, the fucking of the Queen—was the same man.

And the 9th Circle mage Calodios had not sensed him.

The kingdom’s strongest protector—the prodigy, the sealed one, the man who was considered the living wall of the empire—had not sensed an enemy who walked into the Queen’s palace and fucked the Queen in her own bed.

"Remove him," the Queen said. Her voice was barely audible. A whisper. A breath. "The dungeon."

"Please—!" Old Tomas screamed as the knight dragged him toward the door. "Please— forgive me— he blackmailed me— I did not— I could not— he is dangerous— he is— PLEASE—!"

His screams echoed down the corridor. The knight pulled him through the door. His bare feet scraped on the stone. His old voice broke—cracked, shattered, the voice of a man who has been caught in a trap that he set for himself.

The Queen stood in the doorway.

She listened to the screams fade. She listened to the door at the end of the corridor open and close. She listened to the silence that followed.

She closed the door.

She leaned against it. The wood was cool against her back. The sheet was damp against her skin. The seed was still leaking from her body. Her anal was still throbbing. Her pussy was still aching. Her nipples were still leaking milk.

She looked at the ceiling.

A memory came.

The First Night.

She had been a princess. Not the First Queen— not yet. A princess. The daughter of a king from a neighboring kingdom. A political bride. A treaty in human form. She had been eighteen. Beautiful. Young. Innocent. Her hair had been golden then— not silver. Her eyes had been the same gold. Her body had been the same— tall, full-figured, the body of a woman bred for royalty.

She had been sitting on the bed. The marital bed. The king-size bed in the Crown Palace. The sheets were white silk. The candles were lit. The room was warm. She was wearing a nightgown. White. Thin. Sheer. Her body was visible through it— the swell of her breasts, the dark patch between her legs, the shape of her thighs.

The door had opened.

The King had entered. He was tall. Broad. His body was thick— not fat, but heavy. The body of a man who eats well and fights often. His face was hard. His jaw was square. His eyes were dark. He was thirty. He had been king for five years. He had taken three wives before her. None had survived.

He did not speak.

He walked to the bed. He grabbed her ankle. He pulled. She fell— backward, onto the silk, her legs pulled apart, her nightgown riding up. He was on her. His weight was on her. His hands were on her wrists— pinning them above her head. His knee was between her legs— forcing them apart.

"Wait—" she had gasped. "Please— Your Majesty— wait— I am not— we have not— please be gentle—"

He did not wait.

His cock was out. Seven inches. Thick. The head was dark. He did not remove her nightgown. He pushed it up. He pulled her panty aside. He positioned himself.

PAH—

"AHH—!" she had screamed. The pain was sharp. Sudden. The pain of a body being entered for the first time. Of a hymen being torn. Of walls being forced apart by something that was too big, too fast, too soon.

"Please—! Gentle—! Please—! It hurts—! AH—!"

He did not listen. He fucked her. His hips moved— fast, hard, relentless. The sound was wet. The sound was loud.

PAH PAH PAH PAH—

"AAAHH—! Please—! Stop—! You are— you are hurting me—! AH—! AH—! AH—!"