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[color=808080][color=455955][b]#455955[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/xoWXZnD][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [color=6f5062][b]#b5c7eb[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://imgur.com/WZqKkms][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]the king's fist[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]It was a long and arduous journey through the King’s Fist. While Gloomfen might have been the closest hold to Thornvale, it was also far too close to warrant a journey by ship. With the Varrows controlling the King’s Gate, it was only practical to travel through the Fist. Regardless of how large or small their retinue, their passage was slow and laborious. It was a miracle in and of itself that they had not broken a linchpin or spoke on the rocks and rough terrain. 

They were on the tailend of their travels, only an hour or two from reaching the Valley of Kings. The narrow corridors they traversed nestled between the tall peaks of Mount Briar had begun to widen. No longer in the shade of the mountain, the light of the sun and its unbearable warmth had started trickling in through the window, unwanted like water rising in the hull of a boat. Their carriage pitched and rocked with every bump, pulling a dissatisfied grunt from Rhaevyn as he stared out at the steep crags and occasional tree. 

The young Lord had forsaken any desire to appear [i]‘proper’[/i] in lieu of comfort. He had long since abandoned his dress coat on the seat next to him. The sleeves of his dark tunic were rolled up into the crooks of his elbows, damp and hugging his forearms while his collar was unlaced, the open neckline revealing the pale skin of his chest. Sweat curled his silver hair causing the errant strands to cling to his jaw and the back of his neck like the dense fog that hugged the moors on the cusp of morning, thick and oppressive. He slouched on the black velvet bench opposite his sister with his legs stretched across the cabin, feet crossed and resting on the cushion beside her. 

How the weather could be so starkly different and suffocating with only a handful days of travel, Rhaevyn didn’t know. It was like they were traversing two separate worlds going from Gloomfen into Thornvale, and the heat only made the journey more unbearable. He could have been in the valley two days prior if he traveled by horseback. He had made the journey by himself before, but this time there was an entire retinue… and more importantly, his sister. No matter how much he bitched and moaned about the sweltering heat or the rattling of the wheels that reverberated through his teeth, he bore it all to make sure she arrived unharmed. They had dozens of armed guards in their party, but he did not trust a single one of them to do as honor demanded for the safety of Aelyria. So there he remained, blade never out of reach, melting into a puddle of his own making… for her.

Entertainment was few and far between locked in a rickety, rolling box deep in the heart of a mountain. Rhaevyn did not busy himself with books or learning an instrument like his sister, so he often found himself disinterested during long journeys and desperate for a distraction. He had spent one day of travel staring out at the South Sea as they crossed the narrow land bridge of the Fist, another was spent with his head in Aelyria’s lap as she read to him and played music, and the day before he walked alongside the carriage, stretching his legs and picking flowers in the rain. That day the sun was too high, too relentless for him to be outside, no matter how restless he was. With nothing to hold his attention, he toyed with his dagger to pass the time. He held the tip of the blade, sharp and perfectly polished, pinched between his thumb and index finger. [color=455955]"Traveling by horseback would have been faster, and less… [i]percarious,[/i]"[/color] Rhaevyn commented with a wry drollness as he flipped the knife in the air and caught it effortlessly. [color=455955]"This carriage is a damn furnace."[/color] 

Aelyria let the rhythm of the carriage steady her breathing, though the heat gnawed at every inch of patience she possessed. The sun, once filtered mercifully through the ribs of the King’s Fist, now spilled freely through the carriage window in molten sheets. It clung to her skin like a fever, beading wherever it pleased. A solitary drop gathered at the hollow of her throat, warm as breath, and traced its languid path down into the shadowed valley shaped by her corset. She felt each inch of it, an irritating, tickling thread of sensation she refused to wipe away purely out of spite. 

She had stripped down to her chemise hours ago, shedding her overdress with a cool disdain as though discarding a lie she no longer felt like wearing. The thin linen clung to her, translucent in places where sweat had insisted on blooming. The dark-boned corset cinched her waist and pushed her breasts upward, its laces tugged tighter than comfort allowed, but she endured it as she endured all things—with silent, sharpened grace. Gloomfen had taught her that beauty, like power, was a weapon. Rarely comfortable, always effective. 

A [url=https://imgur.com/X9K5SkV]lyre harp[/url] rested across her lap, its carved wooden frame dark and swirling like roots caught in a dream. Her fingers moved over the strings with absent precision, coaxing from them a low, wandering melody that seeped through the carriage like cool water trickling over stone. It softened the groaning of wheels, the creak of jolting wood, even the occasional clatter of loose stones striking the undercarriage. The song was one she remembered from childhood, though she had long since outgrown the sweetness of its original tune. Now, under her hands, it sounded wistful and faintly dangerous, as though some old god might be humming it beneath his breath. 

Rhaevyn’s complaint broke through her reverie, low and rough as gravel dragged across iron. Aelyria lifted her gaze to him, and for a heartbeat she forgot to pluck the next note. He looked carved by heat and impatience both, silver hair damp and unruly, jaw shadowed, collar open far enough that she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest. His legs stretched indolently across the velvet seat, feet braced beside her thigh. The posture was carelessly familiar, almost possessive in its ease. The knife glinted every time he flipped it, catching the sunlight in brief, sharp flashes. 

She admired him openly, because she could, because he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him, because no one else was here to witness the hunger she rarely allowed to slip through her mask. She took in the curve of his forearms, the damp strands clinging to his temple, the line of muscle visible through the sweat-darkened fabric. Aelyria let the pad of her thumb drag softly across a lyre string, letting it hum for a long, trembling moment before she finally answered. [color=6f5062]“Rhaevyn,”[/color] she murmured, her voice soft but touched with wry reprimand, [color=6f5062]“you complain only because you have never ridden horseback in a dress.”[/color] 

The corner of her mouth curved, subtle, sly, it was the kind of smile she wore when she enjoyed watching others squirm. She adjusted the harp on her lap, the wooden edge pressing lightly against her corset’s boning. [color=6f5062]“I assure you,”[/color] she continued, her tone lingering like perfume, [color=6f5062]“this is far preferable to gripping a saddle while the wind tries to fling your skirts over your head. Sweltering or not.”[/color] 

She plucked another soft series of notes, slow and coaxing, as though tempting the oppressive heat into stillness. Her eyes drifted over him once more, slow, thoughtful, the way one might study their favorite page of a beloved book. [color=6f5062]“And besides,”[/color] she added, almost idly, though her gaze lingered on the sweat-damp hollow at the base of his throat, [color=6f5062]“you complaining is a small price to pay for the view.”[/color] 

The harp thrummed, warm and intimate, filling the cramped carriage with music and something quieter, heavier, coiled between them like a shared breath neither had yet exhaled. 


Rhaevyn’s mind drifted, painting a vivid image from her words. He could see her, plain as she sat before him, adorned in her finest jewels of amethyst and diamond, wearing her plum velvet dress. [i]His favorite.[/i] The wind blew her silver curls loose and free, her face not contorted in determined frustration, but soft and unwoven in ecstasy. Aelyria did not mount a steed, but him. It was not hidden lust stolen in the dark, shadow blanketed corners of Dunhollow, quick and fleeting before they were caught by prying eyes. It was unfettered, a show of love and desire in the middle of a field for the world to see without shame or judgement. Her moans sang on the wind, her thighs gripped him, not a saddle, and those damned skirts she was concerned about were held in place by the wanton grasp of his hands upon her waist.

His expression of discontent shifted, the corners of his mouth curving into a lascivious smirk as his gaze unabashedly traced every curve of her body where the sweat dampened chemise clung to her skin, revealing glimpses of her form beneath. Rhaevyn wet his bottom lip with a subtle flick of his tongue. He ran the blade of his dagger along the frame of the window as he looked over at her from beneath the shadow of his prominent brow. [color=455955]"That sounded like a pleasurable view to me,"[/color] he commented low beneath the tunes of her lyre.

Aelyria’s fingers did not falter on the strings, though the note she plucked thrummed sharper, brighter—like a blade catching light. She lifted her gaze to him fully, letting her eyes trace the slow arc of his smirk, lingering on the way his tongue had swept across his lower lip. A single, elegant brow arched upward, a gesture equal parts challenge and amusement. The corner of her mouth tugged in answer, a small, knowing curve that promised far more than it revealed.

The carriage swayed, the melody shifted with it, soft and lilting, a tune that felt as though it were weaving itself around them both. She let the next note hum between them before she spoke. [color=6f5062]“Mm,”[/color] she breathed, a sound threaded with warmth and reprimand in equal measure, [color=6f5062]“I would [i]hope[/i] the view would please you.”[/color] Her voice dipped, smooth as honey. Her fingers glided across the strings in a slow run, each pluck deliberate, each note a quiet tease.

[color=6f5062]“But alas,”[/color] she went on, tilting her head just slightly as though considering the matter, [color=6f5062]“there are no horses for me to ride at the moment.”[/color] Her eyes flicked downward and then back to his face, measured, languid, purposeful. Her smile sharpened just a touch, wicked in its subtlety. [color=6f5062]“So,”[/color] she concluded with silk-soft finality, [color=6f5062]“you simply must be content with the current view.”[/color]

The lyre answered her with a shimmering chord, warm and intimate, as though the instrument itself shared in her mischief. The tune resumed, slow, deliberate, a quiet seduction disguised as a lullaby. She plucked another string, her gaze never leaving him. [color=6f5062]“Try not to suffer too greatly, darling.”[/color] She added, the faintest purr beneath her words.[color=6f5062]“I know how arduous such restraint can be.”[/color] Her smile widened by a breath, just enough to let him see the spark beneath it. The heat in the carriage had not lessened, but now it felt different. Coiled. Intentional. Waiting.

There was a sharp [i]chink[/i] of his blade against the window as Rhaevyn’s attention shifted fully toward her. Every muscle in his body froze, poised like a predator, patient and attuned to his prey, awaiting the perfect moment to attack. [color=455955]"Restraint has never been one of my strengths,"[/color] he confessed low, conspiratorial like a secret Aelyria was not privy to and would have to take to the grave. His hand flicked, swift and calculated, flipping the dagger another time. The blade sliced through the dense air and unspoken words between them, glinting in the rays of light that slipped through the canvas canopy before landing with the hilt perfectly resting in his palm. 

[color=455955]"Nor am I easily contented."[/color] He threw his dagger sideways without shifting his gaze from the icy grey-blue of Aelyria’s eyes that glowed like the moon from beneath the shadow of the carriage. The sharp blade lodged itself into the wooden side panel of the cabin on the opposite side of his bench, out of sight, out of mind, and of little concern. Rhaevyn’s feet slowly slipped from the cushion beside her, falling to the floor between them as he scooted forward to the edge of the seat. The rough hand of a fighter, worn and calloused, reached out, fingers delicately wrapping around the neck of the lyre, halting the reverberating tunes as he pulled the instrument from her grasp. He set it atop his overcoat with a tender reverence, not wishing to destroy something precious to his sister in his pursuit in ravishing her.

Rhaevyn fell to his knees on the floor of the carriage before her like a supplicant and she—haloed in the shadows, illuminated by errant rays of golden sunlight—was his God. He prayed to her, worshipped her. Pious and devout, he humbled himself before her, seeking her pleasure before his own. The tips of his fingers hungered to feel her, slipping beneath the damp hem of her chemise to caress the supple skin that curved along the back of her ankle. He was steady, patient, and maddeningly slow as his touch climbed the warmth of her legs while the fabric of her skirt pooled in the crooks of his arms. The heat from his palms radiated against her thighs as he inched higher until he took hold of her svelte hips and tugged her forward to the edge of the bench with a lustful impatience. He lowered himself further, guiding her left leg over his shoulder as he looked up into her eyes from beneath his sweat glistened brow. 

[color=455955]"Let us test your restraint."[/color] The words fell from his lips, rough, guttural, and laced with a devious challenge as he disappeared beneath the folds of her skirt. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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