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[center][color=#808080][i]In the depths of the Black Rose brothel  |  Present day[/i][/color][/center]
[center][color=355E3B][i]#355E3B[/i][/color][/center]

[color=#808080]From where he sat at the foot of the man-sized torture table—for that’s exactly what the sturdy piece of furniture was—Ser Torin Kenra could not simply shift away from the insistent prodding of the thing. Leaning forward at the waist, he reached behind himself with his one remaining hand, feeling for the offending device.

His fingers brushed something hard, smooth, and cool, wedged among the ebony velvet pillows arranged to prop him up. Grasping it fully, Torin pulled it free of its pillowy confines and brought it around before him.

[color=355E3B]“By The Nine,”[/color] Torin scowled.

The phallus was carved of dense hardwood—lacquered, smooth, and obscenely detailed. Its size beggared belief, more cudgel than pleasure device. Torin lifted his gaze along his crooked nose, one eye perpetually squinting in judgment, and fixed the woman before him with the full weight of his displeasure.

[color=FFFFFF]“Ah, my apologies, Lord,”[/color] said the Domme with a flat tone. Stepping forward, her black silks rustling, Domme Xyla plucked the object from his hand as casually as if retrieving a tankard needing refill. [color=FFFFFF]“I had little time to prepare for your arrival.”[/color]

Torin wiped his hand on his trouser leg before waving away the apology. The metal hook affixed to the stump of his left arm flashed dully in the dim light. The Keeper of Secrets had been in fouler places—and had worse things pressed into the small of his back.

[color=355E3B]“No bother. Pray, continue,”[/color] Torin said.

The Domme hid the phallus in some shadowed drawer and then claimed the only true chair in the space. Crossing one long, muscular leg over the other, she settled her silks with practiced grace. Torin knew her to be of Sunderlandian descent: sun-kissed skin, dark hair, vulpine features, and immersive eyes. A striking, dominating beauty—and one of the Valley of Kings’ most sought-after disciplinarians. She happened to be one of Torin’s most reliable informants as well.

Torin did not often deign to visit informants personally, but the Domme’s calls were an exception. Visiting the Black Rose was said to be beneath nobility—especially one in direct service to the king. Yet it was equally accepted that nobles loved whoring as much as anyone else. Slinking down to a brothel as part of his duties conveniently upheld appearances that Torin valued his cock for more than its utility in urinating while standing—though that assumption was wholly untrue.

[color=FFFFFF]“A huntsman from your homeland paid for my services two days ago,”[/color] the Domme began. Her filed nails drummed a slow rhythm atop her thigh, her accent rich but clear. [color=FFFFFF]“In his state, he was very forthcoming…”[/color]

She picked at her thumb nail with another. [color=FFFFFF]“He reported he had completed a hunting expedition—along with a cohort of other Ender brethren—with the approval of Lord Kenra himself. A hunting expedition that took him well within the borders of Stonefallow.”[/color]

At the mention of River’s End’s volatile eastern neighbor, her manicured brow rose fractionally.

Torin’s face remained impassive, the squinting scowl as rigid as stone. Internally, he cursed. How could his brother be foolish enough to risk such blatant provocation? Peace with Stonefallow was recent and fragile. The previous border skirmishes, born from an earlier spat over Ender poaching, had nearly sparked outright conflict. If expeditions were now truly sanctioned by the Lord of Brackmere himself, there would be hell to pay—and the currency would be blood.

[color=355E3B]“This huntsman,”[/color] Torin growled. [color=355E3B]“What was his name?”[/color]

The Domme canted her head as though recalling a dream. [color=FFFFFF]“Trarrow, Lord. That was the name he offered. At least in my company.”[/color]

Torin chewed his cheek when no recollection surfaced.[color=355E3B]“What else about him?”[/color]

The Domme recited what she knew—appearance, demeanor, idle talk, even the preferences he indulged during his time with her. Little of it was immediately useful, but Torin’s traplike mind gathered every detail. When she finished, Torin pushed himself off the cushion-covered bench and rose to his feet. His hook came to rest naturally at the broad leather belt around his waist.

[color=355E3B]“You’ve done well, Mistress,”[/color] he said, adjusting himself. He withdrew two golden coins and placed them at the foot of the torture table before moving past her. His mind was already distant, dwelling on the grim conversation he would soon have with his brother.

[color=355E3B][i]War in the north is all the king needs. Damn your eyes, brother! And for what? A few hides and herd sires? The Nine help us.[/i][/color]

Domme Xyla stood as her patron shuffled past, offering a dignified bow and quiet word of thanks. The coinage vanished into her possession with the seamless ease of long practice.

Torin reached the chamber door and grasped the iron hasp—then froze. The metal was warm beneath his fingers. With silver hair hanging around his face, he lifted the hook from his belt to sweep a few strands behind his ear, clearing it. Eyes tilting upward as though the heavens might aid his hearing, he stood utterly still.

Beyond the wall to his left, voices murmured. Male voices. Not the language of passion—the tone was too sharp, each phrase clipped.

Moving with the care of a man stepping onto thin ice, Torin placed his ear against the plaster. Domme Xyla, reading his sudden stillness, went silent. She heard the voices too, though she could not make out the words.

Torin listened, his one squinting eye beginning to twitch as the meaning sharpened. Declan. Dorian. The princes of the realm—arguing fiercely inside a brothel chamber not ten feet from where Torin stood. Their exchange carried the cadence of old rivals trading blows they knew all too well.

With a genuine sigh of regret, Torin remained fixed to the wall. Like a gargoyle, he kept his place until the voices spilled into the main body of the Black Rose, heralded by the thud of a heavy door opening. Only then did he move to his own entryway and listen again. The hook returned to its place on his belt.

Domme Xyla watched him, curious but stoic. Though Torin’s scowl never faltered, the unwavering focus in his posture spoke of danger and iron will. After a long moment, he grasped the metal hasp and gave her a curt nod.

[color=355E3B]“The way is clear,”[/color] he said. [color=355E3B]“If you hear more of River's End, do not hesitate to reach out. The usual way will do.”[/color]

Without another word, the Keeper of Secrets slid open the heavy door and shuffled out of the Black Rose—past Madame Lyssa, past the bawds and their too-sweet perfumes—his scowl and grim purpose leading the way.[/color]


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