I woke to an empty bed and the lingering ghost of her warmth. The pillow still held the faint floral scent of Kitty's hair, but the sheets beside me were cold. A plate of bread and cheese sat on the small table by the window, a cup of water beside it, a note tucked under the rim. Had to go. Duty. Stay as long as you need. - K. I ate standing, staring out at the city. The sun was high. Midday. I'd slept heavier than I thought, my balls still heavy, a dull throb that reminded me of what hadn't finished last night.
The Builders Guild was a squat fortress of granite and soot, wedged between a tanner and a smithy. Inside, hammers rang against anvils and the air tasted of iron dust. A dwarf woman with arms like tree trunks sat behind a cluttered desk, her eyes scanning my tusks, my height, the width of my shoulders. "Work," I said. She snorted. "In a forge? You'd be a hazard. We don't need muscle that breaks what it touches." I opened my mouth to explain—blueprints, load-bearing, the math I'd spent a career mastering. She held up a hand. "You're a half-orc. And a man. Try the fields or the brothels. That's where brute labor goes." There was no point arguing. I nodded and left.
The Adventurer's Guild was busier at midday. Pipe smoke curled toward the rafters, mixing with the clink of coins and the low murmur of conversations. I went straight to the request board. High-ranked quests sat on top, clean parchment with official seals, bold script promising gold. The bottom board was a mess of flyers, torn edges, desperate pleas scrawled on cheap paper. Lost Cat. Well Cleaning. Rat Tails. And there, tucked in the corner: Moonveil Petals. Payment: 5 silver. See Guild Clerk. I pulled the pin, reading the description. A few miles outside the walls, in the Thornwood. No magic. No politics. Just honest work.
The air shifted. The door swung open and the noise in the room changed pitch, brightened, sharpened. I recognized the voice before I saw the face. "Make way! The Hero of the Summoning has arrived!" Samantha Suckling, her voice carrying like a herald's trumpet. Viktor walked in like he owned the floor itself. Enchanted robes cut low across his chest, showing off chiseled muscle. Blond hair caught the light from the chandeliers. A smile, practiced and patient. Three women flanked him, one carrying a folio, another adjusting his collar, the third just staring at his back with wide, hungry eyes.
He went straight to the high-ranked board, pulling down a sealed parchment with a theatrical flourish. "The Bluefang Nest clearance," he announced, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "Triple S rank. It's been up for a month. Someone has to do it." A woman from the bar rushed over, blushing, to formally register it. He waved her off with a gesture of false modesty. "Please, it's nothing. Just a duty." The women around him tittered, their eyes following his every movement.
Then his gaze found me.
His smile sharpened as he crossed the room, the crowd parting for him like water around a stone. He looked at the scrap of paper in my hand—the herb quest. "Moonveil petals?" He laughed, a clear, bell-like sound. "Gathering flowers. How fitting for a brute." He paused, letting the words land. "Try not to get stung by a bee, half-orc. The guild can't afford to lose its newest—" he savored the word, "—member."
I met his eyes. Flat black against bright blue. I said nothing. I let the silence stretch, let him feel the absence of a reaction. The smile on his face twitched. "Got a death wish, scum?"
"No," I said. "Just not afraid of flowers."
It was a small thing. A tiny, sharp thing. But I saw the crack in his composure, the micro-fraction of a second where the mask slipped and I saw the irritation underneath. His eyes flicked down to my hand again, dismissive, before he turned back to his entourage. "Come," he said, loud enough for the room to hear. "I have a nest to clear."
The Thornwood swallowed the afternoon light. The name fit—every branch seemed to reach, to grab, to tear. I found a fallen limb, thick as my forearm, stripped of bark, heavy in my grip. The wood was cold, rough, a faint splinter digging into my palm. I tested the weight, let it settle. It wasn't a sword. It was a club. It would do.
I found Moonveil petals where the guild sketch said they'd be—clinging to the base of a dead oak, pale blue flowers that seemed to glow in the dim, a soft, cool luminescence against the rot. I crouched, filling the pouch, the scent of crushed leaves sharp and green, biting at the inside of my nose. Something moved through the undergrowth. Heavy. Rhythmic. The sound of it—a wet, deliberate crunch of earth and leaf—was a drumbeat in my chest. I froze, my thumb pressing a petal into pulp, the juice sticky and cold on my skin. The shape that emerged from the treeline was massive—a bear, maybe, but wrong. Spines along its shoulders, black and rigid, like broken glass. Its eyes reflected nothing. No light. No life. It snuffled the air, a wet, sucking sound, and turned my direction. My heart went still. I held my breath until my lungs burned, the pressure building behind my ribs, a dull, spreading ache. It moved on. I counted to sixty before I dared to breathe, the air rushing in, tasting of rot and soil.
The sun bled orange through the canopy, the light thick and syrupy, painting the trunks in long, dark fingers. I had most of the petals. Enough. I turned toward the wall, the city a distant smear of torchlight against the darkening sky, a faint, wavering orange. That's when the first wolf hit me.
It came from my blind side, no sound, just the sudden, sharp pressure of jaws finding my forearm, tearing through the leather of my jerkin. I felt the teeth sink, a hot, bright line of pain that hadn't yet become pain. I swung the club blind, felt it connect with a solid, meaty thud, heard a yelp and the scrape of claws retreating. Three more circled, low to the ground, their bodies a fluid, silent motion, eyes catching the last of the light, reflecting it back like wet stones. They didn't growl. They just watched. Waited. The one I'd hit was limping at the edge of the circle, blood dark on its muzzle—my blood. I could smell it now, metallic and warm. I didn't feel the pain yet. Adrenaline. It was a cold, clear hum in my blood, sharpening my sight, tightening my grip. I set my feet, the ground soft and yielding beneath my boots, adjusted my grip on the club, the wood slick with sweat and blood, and when the next one lunged, I swung with everything I had.
The impact shuddered up my arm, a jarring, bone-deep shock. The wolf's skull caved with a wet, hollow crack. It dropped mid-lunge, a heap of fur and stillness, the thud of its body hitting the ground a dull, final sound. The others hesitated. I didn't. I stepped forward, the club a heavy, familiar weight in my hands, swinging again, catching a second across the ribs, feeling bone give with a sickening snap. It scrambled away, yelping, a high, thin sound. The third and fourth bolted into the brush, a frantic rustle of leaves and snapping twigs, leaving the two I'd killed and the one I'd wounded, dragging itself after them, a dark smear on the ground. I stood there, breathing hard, the club slick in my hands, the air cold in my throat, and realized—I felt it. The hit. The speed. I'd moved faster than I should have. Hit harder. The wolf's teeth hadn't gone as deep as they should have. My skin had pushed back, a strange, dense resistance.
My arm was bleeding. Not badly. But enough. A warm, wet trickle down my wrist, pooling in my palm. The adrenaline was fading, and the ache was setting in, a deep, throbbing pulse at the site of the bite. I grabbed the pouch of petals, the fabric damp and stained, tied it to my belt, and started walking. The walls of the city took shape as the stars came out, a cold, hard line against the violet sky. I made it through the gate before they closed it for the night, the wooden timbers groaning shut behind me.
The guildhall was quieter now, the dinner crowd thinning. Kitty spotted me before I spotted her. "Zach!" She was across the room in seconds, her hands on my arm before I could speak, green eyes scanning the torn leather, the blood. "Sit. Now." Her palms glowed—a soft, warm light that spread through my arm like a deep breath. The torn flesh knit. The ache dulled. I watched her work, her brow furrowed, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
Her glow receded like a tide pulling back from a shore, leaving only the faint warmth of her palms still pressed against my arm. She lifted her head, and her green eyes met mine—tired, ringed with shadows. "I'm sorry about last night," she said. Her voice was thin, a thread about to snap. "I fell asleep. I wanted to finish. I—" She dropped her gaze, and color crept up her cheeks, a slow, helpless bloom. I watched the tendons in her throat tighten as she swallowed.
"It's fine," I said. The lie sat heavy on my tongue, a stone dropped into still water. But the words found their mark—I saw the tension in her shoulders ease, a fraction of an inch, like a knot loosening. She didn't look up. "I got kicked from my party," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken. "They found a better healer.
The guild clerk appeared at my elbow. A woman with sharp eyes and auburn hair pulled tight, her smile a little too still. "High Arcanist Arelle Vi requests your audience at her tower," she said. "She said it's urgent." She pressed a small, folded note into my palm, her fingers cool, and walked away.
The note was crisp, the parchment heavy, the handwriting precise. Tower of the High Arcanist. After dusk. Come alone. I folded it into my pocket, the gesture small but heavy. Kitty watched, her green eyes still carrying the shadow of her earlier confession, the ghost of her embarrassment. "Are you okay?" she asked, her fingernail tracing the faded pattern on the table, a nervous orbit around a chip in the wood.
In response I leaned forward, the chair creaking. "Hey. Listen." I waited until her eyes lifted, slow and reluctant. "Last night. You were incredible. The way you moved—I still feel it, right here." I touched my sternum. "When you arched your back, that sound you made, low in your throat. I've been replaying it all day."
Her fingers stopped tracing the wood. A flush crept up her neck, but she didn't look away. Her eyes narrowed, disbelieving, like she was waiting for the punchline.
I mean it," I said, softer now. "I keep thinking about how you felt around my cock. The way you tightened, that slow, wet pull when you sank down. Then that flutter, right before you came—like you were gripping me from the inside, trying to hold on.
After a moment of quiet. "I'm sorry," I said, the words scraping out of me. "About the party. That you got kicked." Her fingers resumed their orbit around the chip in the wood, a slow, deliberate circle. "It wasn't your fault," she said, but her voice was thin, a thread that could snap. The silence between us stretched, taut as a bowstring, and I felt the shape of the note in my pocket, a hard edge against my thigh.
The tower loomed against the night sky, a needle of black stone rising above the rooftops, its windows lit with the cold blue of arcane light. The door opened before my knuckles touched the wood. A acolyte, pale and silent, gestured me inside. The air in the tower was still and cool, carrying the faint tang of ozone and old parchment, and the smell of something floral, something that clung to the walls like a memory. The stairs spiraled up and up, and the sound of my own boots echoed in the hollow space.
The door at the top was ajar. I pushed it open, and she was there, standing by a wide window, her back to me. Silver hair cascaded down her spine, shimmering in the light of floating orbs that drifted lazily near the ceiling. Arelle Vi, High Arcanist, didn't turn when I entered. She spoke to the glass, her voice smooth and careful, like a knife drawn across a whetstone. "Viktor told me he saw you at the guildhall. That you'd took the Thornwood quest. He seemed… annoyed." She paused, letting the word settle. "I wanted to see for myself.”
"Your tests were wrong. I have magic." She turned at that, her violet eyes scanning me with a focus that felt like fingers tracing my skin. She walked toward me, her steps deliberate, the hem of her black gown whispering over the stone. She stopped a few feet away, close enough that I caught her scent—lavender, old books, something sharp and mineral. She inhaled, slow and deep, her eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second.
"Your scent," she said. "It's not like anything I've smelled in a century. Not like a half-orc. Not like a normal null." Her voice dropped, softer now. "I need to confirm something." She looked at me, and there was something in her eyes that wasn't professional distance. It was hunger. "I need to taste your seed."
The words hung in the air like a held breath. I felt my jaw tighten, the muscles in my neck straining. "Why?"
"Because the basic screenings can't flag Primal essence. But my gut tells me something in you doesn't match the null pattern. And the only way to verify a Primal-linked trait—" she paused, her voice going rough, "—is to engage it firsthand. I require a specimen. And I need to learn what it triggers." She moved in, her breath hot against my throat. "I need to taste you.
I stood still, my hands clenched at my sides. Every instinct said no, but the logic was cold and sharp: either she knows what she's doing, or I walk away from the only person who might have answers. I nodded, once. "Fine." I reached for the laces of my trousers, my hands not quite steady.
She watched, her violet eyes tracking my fingers, my belt, the fabric pulling apart. My cock was half-hard already, swollen with the adrenaline and the tension and the lingering heat of the day's violence. I pulled it free, and she breathed in, her nostrils flaring. "The musk is stronger up close," she whispered, more to herself than to me.
I didn't move. She knelt, the motion fluid, her silver hair pooling around her shoulders. Her fingers hovered over my shaft, not touching, but feeling the heat radiating from it. Then she leaned in, her lips parting, and took the head into her mouth. The sensation hit me like a wave—wet heat, the velvet of her tongue, the careful pressure of her lips. She closed her eyes, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked, her tongue tracing the ridge, the slit, the underside where the vein pulsed. I gripped the edge of her desk, wood biting into my palm.
She worked slowly, methodically, tasting, cataloging. Her hand came up to cup my balls, and she felt their weight, the heft of them, the way the sloshing within them seemed to move with her careful touch. A low sound escaped her throat, a hum of approval or discovery. Her mouth drew me deeper, and I felt the pressure build, the familiar tightness in my gut. She pulled back, her lips wet, her eyes hazy. "Almost," she breathed. "I need the first one."
I didn't argue. She took me again, her tongue pressing against the underside, her hand stroking my shaft with a rhythm that was too practiced, too knowing for someone who claimed this was purely scientific. I felt the surge, the release, and I gasped as my seed flooded her mouth. She didn't pull away. She held me there, my cock pulsing against her tongue, and she swallowed, her throat working with a deep, hungry motion.
She shuddered. Her body trembled, a fine vibration that started in her shoulders and spread down her spine. A soft, broken sound escaped her throat, and she collapsed forward, her forehead pressing into my thighs, her hands gripping my calves. I felt her body shaking, her breath ragged, and then a low moan, drawn out and raw, as her orgasm rolled through her. Her fingers clutched at my trousers, her nails digging in, and she gasped against my skin, the sound muffled but unmistakable. The violence of her release surprised me—stole my breath, set my heart pounding against my ribs as if it wanted to escape the cage of my chest.
I didn't move. I didn't speak. I waited, my hand still gripping the edge of the desk, the wood creaking under the pressure. She stayed there, her cheek pressed against my inner thigh, her breath slowly steadying. After a long moment, she lifted her head, her violet eyes meeting mine, pupils blown wide, a flush on her pale cheeks. "That," she said, her voice hoarse, "is not nothing."
She stood on unsteady legs, her hand pressing against her sternum as if to hold her racing heart in place. "Your seed is—" She paused, licking her lips. I saw the tremor in her fingers, the way her breath caught when she met my eyes. She turned away, walking toward a cluttered desk, her steps weaving. "Euphoric. Addictive. I didn't want it to end.
I felt a cold knot tighten in my gut. "Addictive?" The word came out ragged, a blade I hadn't meant to unsheathe.
Then a knock. Arelle stopped mid-sentence, crossed to the door. An attendant handed her a book—cracked spine, yellowed leaves—she accepted without a sound. The latch clicked shut. She opened it, her fingertips grazing the script, her brow creasing. "Highly," she read aloud. "Even the initial contact triggers a bond. A hunger." She turned a leaf, her voice sinking. "They had a custom. Marking. The females would yield to the male's clan, and he would—" She halted. Her hand froze against the fragile page. "Mark them with his scent. His taste. His essence." A chill ran through her. The words lingered, thick and exposed. I saw the shake in her fingers, the way her breath stalled, the blood draining from her face.
"I drugged Kitty," I said, the realization hitting me like a thrown stone. I saw her throat work, the way her hand dropped from the page and went slack against her thigh. "The sex last night. She tasted me—my precum. She fell asleep. She—" The cold knot tightened, a fist closing around my lungs. "She's already addicted."
Arelle turned, her violet eyes softening. "Possibly. Her reactions may have been altered by the initial exposure." She took a breath, steadying herself. "I want to perform regular examinations. To study the effect, to see how the bonding progresses. And to know if there are countermeasures." Her voice was carefully controlled, but there was a flicker in her eyes, something that wasn't purely clinical.
I nodded slowly, but the words that left my mouth were older and sharper than my agreement. "Then I need a place to stay. In exchange. And access to your library. I'm not a lab rat. I want to understand what I am—and how to undo this." The last words came out harder than I meant them, scraping against the air between us.
“Done." Her voice scraped out, barely a breath. "But you need to understand," she said, her voice sinking deeper, "Its changing me, I can feel it. You're inside me now." She held my gaze, and I saw something hollow in her eyes, something that had been locked up and quiet for far too long.
I pulled my hand back and turned toward the door. The weight on my shoulders was heavier than when I walked in—a stone I couldn't set down, a truth I couldn't outrun. "I need to think," I said, the words hollow. "I don't want to make anyone a drug addict. I didn't ask for this."
Her voice followed me, soft and knowing, through the dim archway. "None of us ask for what we are. Only what we do with it."
The door swung closed behind me, and I stood in the cold hallway, the tower's silence filling the space where her voice had been. My balls felt lighter now, the ache drained out of them, a hollow relief where the weight had settled. And somewhere in the city, a half-elf priestess was tossing in her sleep, her dreams already filled with a taste she couldn't name. The thought of her brought a sickness I couldn't swallow, a sickness I had to learn to live with.