The library smelled of old parchment and dust. Three days of sitting in this tower, reading about elemental affinities, about the way magic threaded through the world like veins through a body. My eyes were sore from squinting at cramped elven script, but I kept turning pages. Water, Wind, Stone, Fire. The arcane elements. Natural elements tied to race—Divine for Humans, Forge for Dwarves, Divination for Elves, Primal for Orcs. My element. The one I wasn't supposed to have.
Arelle found me in the alcove near the window, her silver hair catching the afternoon light. She held a glass vial in her long fingers, the kind alchemists used for potions. Small. Capped with a glass stopper.
"I need you to fill this." Her voice was clinical, but her pupils were slightly dilated. She'd been breathing the same air as me for three days. I could see the effort it took her to stay professional.
I looked at the vial. Then at her. "For the examination."
"Yes." She set it on the table between us. "I need to test concentration. Potency stability. Shelf life."
I picked it up. The glass was cool against my fingers. "You could just take it fresh. Like before."
The color rose in her cheeks. "I could. But I need a controlled sample for alchemical assays. And I can't..." She paused, choosing her words. "I can't have my judgment compromised every time I collect data."
I understood. She didn't want to lose control again. I knew the feeling.
I uncapped the vial. The act felt strange—businesslike, transactional. I worked myself under the table, out of sight, but she turned her chair to face the window, giving me privacy. A small courtesy. I appreciated it.
It took longer than I expected. My body wasn't conditioned to respond on command. But the thought of her mouth, the memory of her throat working as she swallowed, the way she'd shuddered—that did it. I filled the vial, capped it, and set it on the edge of her desk.
She picked it up without looking at me. "Thank you." Her voice was steady, but I saw her hand tremble, just slightly.
"Arelle." I waited until she met my eyes. "Is there a way to break the addiction?"
She went still. "You want to break it."
"I didn't know. Kitty didn't consent. None of this was—" I stopped. My jaw tightened. "I want to undo what I did."
She set the vial down. "The texts mention nothing about reversing the bond. The euphoric effect, the addiction—it's part of the Primal affinity's mating ritual. The orcs considered it sacred. They wouldn't have developed a cure."
"There has to be something."
"Zach." She said my name carefully, like she was testing it. "If there's a way, I haven't found it. But I'll keep looking." She paused. "Kitty's been by the tower. Twice. She asked about you."
My chest tightened. "What did you tell her?"
"That you were assisting me with research. That you were busy." Arelle folded her hands in her lap. "She seemed... eager to see you."
I ran a hand over my face. "I need to keep my distance. The small amount of precum she got—maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe she can just move on. Write it off as a one night stand."
"You don't believe that."
I didn't. But I wanted to.
"I can help you avoid her," Arelle said quietly. "But you'll have to stay in the tower. Work through me for guild business. If you want to keep your abilities secret and maintain your null reputation, this is the safest arrangement."
I nodded. "That's what I want. I want Viktor to keep thinking I'm worthless."
She raised an eyebrow. "Viktor?"
"I've heard him in the courtyard. Training. He's powerful—I can feel the magic radiating off him during his sessions. But he has no control. No patience." I leaned forward. "I want to watch. Learn."
Arelle studied me for a long moment. "You want to observe his lessons."
"I want to see how magic works in practice. Not just read about it."
"Viktor will insult you. Belittle you."
"I know. Let him."
She considered it. Then she nodded. "You can watch from the gallery. He'll see you, but he'll assume you're just a dumb half-orc gawking at real magic." A thin smile crossed her lips. "That's probably better for our purposes."
I followed her through the tower to a balcony overlooking the training courtyard. Viktor stood below, surrounded by a handful of young women from the Guild—acolytes, apprentices, a few adventurers who'd begged to watch the prodigy work. His enchanted robes hung open at the chest, showing off the lean muscle beneath. His golden hair caught the light, and he moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd been told he was special since birth.
"Watch," Arelle murmured beside me. "His form is terrible. He relies entirely on raw power."
Viktor raised a hand. Water coalesced from the air, spinning into a sphere the size of a horse. He gestured, and it shot across the courtyard, slamming into a practice dummy with enough force to shatter the wood. The acolytes gasped. A few clapped.
Viktor turned, preening, and noticed me in the gallery. His smile widened—not with warmth, but with anticipation.
"Well, well. The half-orc null. Come to watch real magic?" His voice carried across the courtyard, meant for his audience. "I hope you're taking notes. Though I doubt you could even light a candle."
The acolytes laughed. I kept my face blank, my shoulders relaxed. The dumb half-orc routine. Let him have his moment.
"Just curious," I said. My voice came out flat, slow. "Never seen magic before."
He scoffed. "Of course you haven't. Stand back. I wouldn't want you to accidentally get hit and die. The High Arcanist would be annoyed."
I stayed where I was. Watched.
He demonstrated more—drawing water into sharpened needles, shaping it into a cage, sending it spiraling in controlled whirlpools. Every spell was loud, flashy, and inefficient. He wasted power on visual spectacle. His focus wandered between each cast, and he had to recenter before every second spell. Arelle was right. All raw potential, no discipline.
But I saw how he shaped the magic. How his hands moved, how his breath aligned with the flow. The technical principles were visible beneath the sloppy execution. I memorized every gesture, every shift in stance, every moment of failure when a spell fizzled or flew wide. Those failures were more valuable than his successes.
After an hour, Viktor dismissed his audience and swaggered back toward the main hall. He paused at the base of the gallery stairs, looking up at me with barely concealed contempt.
"Still here, half-orc? Don't you have ditches to dig?"
"I'm done." I turned away, keeping my movements sluggish. "Thanks for the show."
He laughed. "Anytime. It's good for the less fortunate to see what real power looks like."
I walked back into the tower. My blood simmered, but I kept it bottled. The patience would pay off. Every insult was fuel.
That night, after Arelle retired to her quarters, I slipped into the lower chamber of the tower—a wide, circular room with bare stone walls. No windows. No one would see.
I stood in the center and closed my eyes.
The magic I'd watched Viktor use had been water, shaped by will and breath. But I didn't have an arcane element. My affinity was Primal. Natural. The body as conduit, magic woven into flesh.
I focused on my own skin. The thick hide, the muscle beneath, the bones that had cracked and healed and grown denser with every fight. I remembered the wolves in the Thornwood, the way my arm had pushed back harder than I'd expected. The strength that came unbidden when I needed it.
I could feel it now—a hum under my skin. Warm. Waiting.
I breathed deep. Pulled that hum inward, focused it on my chest, my ribs, the vulnerable places where a blade could slip between bone. I imagined the magic weaving into my flesh like thread through fabric. Tougher. Denser. Harder to cut.
The first attempt felt like nothing. I tried again. Slowed down. Breathed with the flow, the way Viktor hadn't. I imagined the energy settling into my skin like armor worn from the inside.
A warmth spread across my torso. Not painful. Deep. Settling.
I opened my eyes and looked down at my hands. They were the same green, same scars, same thick fingers. But they felt heavier. Grounded.
I picked up a loose stone from the floor—fist-sized, rough-edged. Braced myself. Then I brought it down against my own forearm.
The stone cracked. My arm didn't.
A low, rough laugh escaped me. So this was what Primal felt like. This was what I could do.
I spent the next three hours working on the technique. Hardening different parts of my body—shoulders, back, legs. Each area took focus to reach, breath to fuel. But I got faster. The magic learned the patterns.
By the time the moon was high, I was exhausted. Sweat dripped down my face. My muscles ached. But I'd managed to coat my entire body in a layer of reinforced toughness. Not for long—maybe half a minute if I held it steady—but it was a start.
I sat against the wall, my breath slowing, and stared at the cracked stone beside me.
Viktor had everything. Power, praise, women throwing themselves at him. And he used it like a child swinging a hammer, too careless to aim.
I had nothing. A null reputation. A body that terrified people. A power I couldn't even name without consequences.
But I had discipline. I had patience. And I had a teacher who'd given me her library, her trust, and the privacy to fail in peace.
I picked up another stone. Closed my eyes. Breathed.
Tomorrow I'd watch Viktor again. I'd let him sneer and call me worthless. I'd play the half-orc dumb enough to gawk at real magic.
And at night, I'd practice until my skin remembered what it felt like to be unbreakable.
The night air hit me cold and clean as I slipped out of the tower's side door. No torches, no guards, no witnesses. I kept my footsteps light, my breathing slow, moving through the shadows like I'd practiced for weeks now—a ghost in the dark.
The guildhall was dark when I reached it. Locked, obviously. But the clerk's window had a loose shutter I'd noticed during my registration, a rusted hinge that didn't quite catch. I worked it open with my knife, slid through into the empty office, my boots landing soft on the wooden floor.
The quest board was pinned with bounty notices. Rat tails, herb gathering, lost cats. Routine work, the kind that kept the guild running. But one caught my eye—a C-rank marker, handwritten in red ink. Cave spider sightings in the eastern tunnels. No casualties yet, but the guild wanted it handled before someone died.
I copied the details onto a scrap of parchment, left the original pinned to the clerk's desk with a small stone holding it flat. No name. No signature. Just the job, handled.
I was back in the tower before midnight, my body humming with the night's work. The cave spider had been ugly—eight eyes, slick with venom, skittering across the tunnel walls fast enough to blur. I'd crushed its thorax with a reinforced fist, felt the carapace give way like wet wood. Then I'd dragged the corpse to the entrance, left it where the morning patrol would find it.
No one saw me. No one knew.
I liked it that way.
Three days passed like that. Days of watching Viktor waste his potential in the training yard, nights of hunting in the dark. I left no trace, claimed no credit. The guild clerk started finding finished quests on his desk each morning—a sewer rat infestation cleared, a stray dire boar driven off, a collapsed tunnel marked for repair. He never saw who left them.
The work was good for me. Practical. Every fight taught me something about my Primal magic: how to harden my skin before a blow landed, how to channel strength into my legs for a longer leap, how to quiet my breathing when I needed to stalk prey. The cave spider had taught me that the armor could hold against venomous strikes if I focused it right—a layer of toughness that flexed rather than shattered.
I was learning. Slowly, but truly.
On the fifth day, Viktor's lesson drew a larger audience. I took my usual spot in the gallery, leaning against the stone rail, my face blank, my body still. He was performing again—water whips that cracked through the air, ice shards that embedded themselves in practice dummies, a fountain that rose and fell in controlled arcs like a dancer's ribbon. The women watching clapped and murmured approval, their eyes locked on his chiseled form.
Then the main door opened, and the temperature in the room changed.
Samantha Suckling swept in like she owned the place. Her gown was deep blue, embroidered with silver thread that caught the torchlight and scattered it like stars. Her blonde curls were piled high, and her sapphire eyes swept the room with practiced disdain, landing on nothing and finding it all beneath her. Two attendants flanked her, their faces carefully neutral, their footsteps synchronized.
She didn't look at me. She looked at Viktor.
"Viktor." Her voice carried across the hall, cutting through the applause like a blade through silk. "We need to talk."
Viktor's performance faltered. The water whip in his hand splashed to the ground, a puddle spreading at his feet. He straightened, his charming smile flickering at the edges. "Lady Suckling. What an unexpected honor."
"It's not an honor. It's business." She walked toward him, her heels clicking against the stone floor like a countdown. The crowd parted for her like she was a blade, women stepping back, eyes dropping. "I've been patient. I've been generous. But my patience has limits."
The room went quiet. I shifted my weight, watching, cataloging. Her posture was rigid, her jaw tight. She was angry. Not theatrical anger—real, banked fury.
Viktor's smile tightened. "I'm not sure what—"
"Don't." She stopped a few feet from him. "Don't pretend. You promised results. You promised power. Instead, you've been showing off in training yards while my competitors advance." Her voice dropped, sharp as glass. "I didn't sponsor you for theatrics."
The silence stretched. Viktor's hands curled at his sides, water droplets forming between his fingers, trembling with restrained magic. I saw the anger flicker in his eyes before he suppressed it, forcing his features back into that practiced calm.
"Lady Suckling," he said, his voice smooth and cold, "magic of this caliber takes time. Patience. You can't rush—"
"I can rush whatever I want." She turned on her heel, her gown swirling. "You have one month. Deliver what you promised, or I'll find another summon who can."
She strode toward the exit. Her attendants followed. But as she passed the gallery stairs, she stopped.
Her head turned. Slowly. Her eyes found mine.
I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just met her gaze, flat and steady, my face a mask of dull indifference.
She stared at me for a long moment. Her nostrils flared slightly—a small, unconscious gesture. Then her lip curled.
"What," she said, her voice dripping with contempt, "is he doing here?"
Viktor laughed from behind her. "That's the half-orc null. Arelle keeps him around for—I don't know. Exhibition, I suppose. A demonstration of what happens when you have no magic."
Samantha's eyes narrowed. "A null? In a High Arcanist's tower?"
"Apparently she's conducting research," Viktor said. "On failed summons."
I said nothing. Just stood there, my face empty, my body relaxed, my hands loose at my sides.
Samantha took a step closer to the gallery. Close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, layered with rose and something darker underneath. Her eyes swept over me, cataloging my size, my scars, the worn leather jerkin, the tusks jutting from my lower lip.
"You're hiding something," she said.
I kept my voice flat. "I'm a half-orc null, my lady. There's nothing to hide."
Her eyes searched mine. For a moment, I thought she might press further. Might reach out, touch me, scent me the way Arelle had. But Viktor's voice cut in again, sharp and dismissive.
"He's pathetic, Lady Suckling. Truly. He spends his days staring at my lessons like a dog watching a butcher. It's almost sad."
Samantha's expression soured. She looked from me to Viktor, then back. Something flickered in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or suspicion—but she let it die.
"Pathetic," she repeated. "Yes. I suppose he would be."
She turned and walked out. The door closed behind her with a heavy thud, the echo reverberating through the hall.
I let out a slow breath through my nose.
Viktor was already back to his performance, his audience reassembling around him like iron filings to a magnet. He threw a wink at the nearest woman—a dwarf in leather armor with her hair braided tight—and she blushed, her eyes dropping.
I watched him for a moment longer. Then I slipped away, back into the tower's quiet corridors, my footsteps silent on the cold stone.
That night, I didn't hunt. I sat in the lower chamber, the cracked stone from my first practice still on the floor beside me. I'd been getting stronger. Faster. Tougher. But Samantha's eyes on me had been a reminder—I was still just a curiosity. A failed summon with nothing to offer but a body that could take a hit.
Except that wasn't true anymore.
I closed my eyes and reached for the warmth under my skin. The Primal magic hummed, waiting. I pushed it outward, coating my arms, my chest, my legs. The familiar heat spread, settling into my flesh like a second skin, weaving through muscle and bone.
I held it for two minutes this time. Then three. Then four.
When I finally released it, I was sweating, my muscles trembling, my breath ragged. But I was steady.
Tomorrow I'd hunt again. I'd keep growing. I'd learn to control this power until no one could dismiss me.
And someday, when I was ready, I'd stop hiding.
But tonight, as I stepped out of the tower into the cool night air, the moon high and full, I found myself heading toward the old sewer entrance near the eastern wall. A new bounty had appeared on the guild board that evening—a C-rank, marked in red, something about a nest of slimes blocking the drainage tunnels. Dangerous enough to need killing, not dangerous enough to attract attention.
Perfect.
I reached the grate and pulled it open, the metal screeching against stone. The stench hit me first—wet, organic, heavy with decay and something acidic. I dropped into the darkness, my boots landing softly on damp brick that squelched under my weight.
The tunnel stretched ahead, thick with shadows that swallowed the moonlight. I moved forward, one hand on the wall, my senses alert. The slime trail was easy to follow—a slick, glowing residue that pulsed faintly in the dark.
The slimes were easy to spot when I reached the chamber—a cluster of translucent blobs pulsating in a wide hollow, their bodies glowing with a faint, sickly light, their surfaces rippling with internal movement. They were slow, mindless, but their acidic touch could eat through leather in seconds. Through flesh in minutes.
I reinforced my skin. Took a breath. And stepped into the chamber.
The fight was quick. Hard. My fists crushed through the first slime's core, sending acidic ichor splashing across the walls, sizzling against the brick. The second lunged—I sidestepped, grabbed it by its gelatinous mass, and slammed it into the third. They burst on impact, their cores shattering like glass, ichor splattering across my arms.
I was breathing hard by the end, my forearms stinging from splashes of acid that had burned through my reinforced skin, leaving red welts. But I was whole. Alive. And the slimes were gone.
I wiped my hands on my pants and turned to leave.
That's when I heard the footsteps.
Light. Deliberate. Coming from the tunnel entrance I'd used.
I froze.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Small. Female. Her red hair catching the faint light from the slime residue, a familiar silhouette that made my chest tighten.
Kitty.
She stopped when she saw me. Her green eyes were wide, her lips parted, her hands trembling at her sides. She was holding a lantern, and the light flickered across her freckled face, casting shadows that made her look fragile.
"Zach," she whispered.
I didn't move. Didn't speak. My heart was pounding, but my face stayed flat, my body still.
"I followed the tracks," she said, her voice trembling. "From the guildhall. I saw you take the bounty. I wanted to—" She swallowed. "I wanted to see you."
The silence hung between us, thick and heavy, the only sound the drip of water from the tunnel walls.
"I'm not supposed to be here," I said quietly.
"I know." She took a step closer. "But I don't care."
She was close enough now that I could smell her—the faint floral scent of her hair, the leather of her boots, the sweat of exertion from following me through the dark. Her hand moved toward me, hesitated, then touched my arm, her fingers warm against my damp skin.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
I looked down at her hand. Small. Warm. The same hand that had touched me that first night, when she'd fallen asleep on my thigh, her breath warm against my skin.
"Yes," I said.
"Because of what happened?" Her voice cracked. "Because I—I fell asleep? I'm sorry. I was exhausted, I didn't mean to—"
"It's not that."
She waited. I could feel her trembling through her hand on my arm.
"I can't explain," I said. "Not yet. But I need you to stay away from me."
"No."
The word was quiet but firm. The same stubbornness I'd seen in her the first night, the same refusal to yield.
"No," she repeated. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know why you're hiding, or why Arelle called you to her tower, or why you keep leaving bounties on the guild desk without claiming them. But I know you." Her eyes met mine. "And I'm not going anywhere."
I felt something crack in my chest. A fissure I'd been trying to seal.
"Kitty—"
"Don't." She stepped closer, her body inches from mine, her heat pressing against the cold air between us. "Don't push me away."
Her hand slid up my arm, over my shoulder, to my neck. Her fingers brushed the base of my tusks, feather-light, sending a shiver down my spine.
"What happened between us," she whispered, "I felt it. In my bones. In my blood. I don't understand it, but I know I need you."
Her breath was warm against my skin, her eyes searching mine.
"Please," she said. "Don't make me leave."
The tunnel was silent. The slime residue flickered, casting dancing shadows across her face, across the curves of her body beneath the thin fabric of her tunic.
I closed my eyes.
I was in deep. Deeper than I'd wanted. And I didn't know if I could pull us both out.
But when I opened them again, I didn't step away.
And neither did she.
We walked back through the sewers in silence, her hand still on my arm, her fingers warm through the damp fabric of my sleeve. The slime residue flickered out as we climbed the ladder to the street, the moonlight washing over us like cold water.
Her room was small. A bed, a washbasin, a trunk with her things. The candle she lit cast jumping shadows across the walls, catching the beads in her hair, the curve of her neck. She stood by the bed, her hands clasped in front of her, and looked at me.
"I want to try again," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "Properly this time. Not falling asleep."
I shook my head. "I can't."
"Why?" Her green eyes searched mine, hurt flickering through them. "Did I do something wrong? Was I—"
"No." I kept my voice low, careful. "You didn't do anything wrong. It's me."
She waited, her hands tightening around each other.
I took a breath. "My cum is addictive."
The word hung between us. Her face went pale, then flushed.
"What?"
"It's not your fault," I said, the words heavy in my throat. "It's my biology. Half-orc. Primal affinity. When a woman drinks my seed, it creates a bond. A euphoric high. And it's addictive."
She stared at me, her lips parted, her breath shallow. "You're serious."
"I am." I met her eyes. "That first night, when you fell asleep on me—you'd already tasted me. I didn't know. I didn't realize until Arelle told me."
"Arelle." Her voice cracked on the name. "The High Arcanist. She—"
"She tested it. Confirmed it." I looked away. "I'm sorry, Kitty. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't." She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch my chest. "Don't apologize. I felt something that night. Something real. Not just—not just a drug."
"Kitty—"
"I'm not addicted," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "I know what I feel. I like you, Zach. I wanted you before I tasted anything. And I still want you."
Her palm pressed flat against my chest, her heat seeping through the leather. I could smell her—the faint floral scent of her hair, the clean soap of her skin, the something deeper, woman, that pulled at something primal in my gut.
"I can't," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Not until I understand more. I won't risk you."
Her hand dropped. She looked at the floor, her shoulders sagging. "Fine." A pause. "But I'm not leaving either."
She looked up, and there was steel in her eyes. "I've been struggling, Zach. Since my party kicked me out. No one wants a healer who takes too long, who gets too tired. I've been taking scraps from the board, barely enough to keep my room."
"I know," I said softly. "I saw your name on the slime bounty."
"It's embarrassing." She laughed, bitter. "A cleric of the divine, reduced to killing slimes for coppers."
I felt something twist in my chest. "I want to help you."
"How?"
"I can't tell you everything. Not yet. But I've been doing work through the guild. Bounties. I can funnel some your way. Keep it quiet."
She studied me, her red hair catching the candlelight. "You're hiding something."
"I am." I didn't look away. "And I can't tell you yet. But I will. When I can."
She was silent for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I trust you." She smiled, small and fragile. "For now."
We stood there, the silence stretching, the candle sputtering. I didn't know what to say. She didn't seem to need words.
"Stay," she said. "Just—stay. Not for sex. Just... I don't want to be alone tonight."
I looked at the bed, then at her. The fatigue in her eyes, the hope beneath it.
"Okay," I said.
We lay down fully clothed, on top of the thin blanket. She curled against my side, her head on my chest, her hand resting on my stomach. I stared at the ceiling, feeling her breath slow, feeling the warmth of her body seeping into me.
She fell asleep first. I lay awake a long time, watching the shadows, thinking about what I'd done to her, what I'd done to Arelle. The weight of it sat in my chest like a stone.
But when I finally closed my eyes, her hand was still on my stomach, and I didn't feel quite so alone.
I left before dawn. The streets were empty, the air cold and damp. I made my way back to Arelle's tower, the stone steps echoing under my boots. The door was unlocked.
She was in her study, hunched over a desk littered with papers and glass vials. Her silver hair was tangled, her violet eyes red-rimmed. She looked up when I entered, and something in her expression softened.
"You're back."
"I am." I closed the door behind me. "What did you find?"
She gestured to the vials. "I've been testing your seed. The results are... disturbing."
I waited.
"The addiction requires consumption," she said, her voice flat. "Direct ingestion. Vaginal intercourse alone does not trigger the bond. The euphoric compound is in the seed itself, not in the act."
"So Kitty is safe? If I don't—"
"If you don't let her taste you, yes." She paused. "But the precum you leaked during intercourse? That's enough to create a dependency, not a full bond. She may feel a pull toward you, but not the same as—" She stopped, her hand touching her own throat.
"As what you feel?" I finished.
She didn't answer. She turned back to her papers, her shoulders tense.
"Your cum is also extraordinarily nutritionally dense," she said, her voice clipped. "One vial can sustain a person for days. Perhaps longer."
"That's... good?"
"For some purposes, yes." She picked up a vial, swirled it. "But there are side effects."
I waited.
She set the vial down slowly. "I'm losing my ability to taste normal food. My stomach rejects it. I can barely keep down bread and water."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Arelle—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "I chose this. I knew the risks when I tasted your seed the first time. But I didn't realize the cost until now."
She turned to face me, and for a moment she looked vulnerable, her pale skin even paler in the morning light, her violet eyes hollow.
"I need you," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Not because I want to. Because my body demands it."
I felt my jaw tighten. Guilt twisted in my gut, hot and sharp. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't undo this." She took a step toward me, then stopped. "But I don't blame you. You didn't know."
She was close enough now that I could smell her—the faint scent of arcane dust, the hint of something floral beneath. Her hand lifted, hesitated, then touched my arm.
I'm finding ways to manage," she said, her voice softer. "Elixirs. Extracts." She paused, her fingers brushing a vial on the desk. "Trying to cure it. Nothing's working so far."
She looked up at me, those violet eyes holding mine. "But I'll need more of your seed. For the examination. For my own sustenance."
Her fingers brushed the empty vial on the desk. "I could take it directly," she said, her voice dropping low. "If that would be easier. Faster." A pause, her breath catching. "I'd be careful."
I shook my head. "The vial's fine."
She held my gaze a moment longer, then looked away. Her hand retreated from the glass.
I looked at her hand on my arm. The slender fingers, the pale skin. She was beautiful, in a cold, sharp way. But I felt guarded, wary.
"I'll help you," I said. "But I need to keep my distance."
"From me?"
"From everyone." I pulled my arm away gently. "I've already hurt you. I've already hurt Kitty. I need to figure out how to control this before I hurt someone else."
She watched me, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, once.
"Very well." She turned back to her desk. "But you'll need to fill another vial tomorrow." she reminded me.
"I will."
I stood there, the silence between us heavy. My mind drifted to Kitty. The curve of her hip. The warmth of her breath on my chest. The way she'd looked at me before falling asleep, trust and want mingling in her green eyes.
If my cum only caused addiction through consumption, not intercourse... then it should be safe to fuck her. As long as I didn't come inside her mouth.
The thought sent a pulse of heat through my groin. I pushed it down, forced it away.
But the thought stayed, coiled and waiting.
Another week crawls by.
Arelle stands closer than she needs to. Her fingers brush my shoulder when she hands me a book. Her voice drops softer when she asks how I'm sleeping. I see the hunger in her violet eyes—the same dilation I saw in the summoning chamber, the same desperate edge she had when she swallowed my cum. She thinks it's just the magic. I let her think that. I stay guarded, give her short answers, keep my back to the wall when she's near. It's not that I don't trust her. It's that I don't trust what I do to her.
Viktor's lessons go quiet. No more shows of water blades and divination tricks from the gallery. I don't see Samantha either—no more haughty sneers from the doorway. Good. Less eyes on me. More time to work.
Kitty finds me at dusk three nights that week. She's got bounties—goblin ears from the eastern woods, bile sacs from a marsh wyrm, a bundle of Moonveil petals I helped her gather. We work together in silence, her healing light stitching cuts I get too slow to dodge, my Primal-hardened skin taking hits she can't. She laughs at nothing, fidgets with her braids, chews her hair when she thinks I'm not looking. She's trying to be brave. Trying to pretend she doesn't want what I told her she can't have.
On the fifth night, she corners me in her room.
"One reward," she says, hands on my chest. "You helped me. Let me thank you."
I should say no. I open my mouth to say no. But the guilt weighs heavier than the caution, and her green eyes are bright and desperate, and I'm so tired of pushing her away. "No mouth," I say. "No swallowing."
She nods, too fast. "I know. Just—just you. Inside me. Please."
I take her from behind, her palms flat against the wall, her red hair spilling down her back. I fuck her slow at first, watching the curve of her spine, the way she gasps when I push deep. She's wet and tight and I feel her clench around me every time I bottom out. Her moans are ragged, honest. She says my name like it's a prayer.
I hold my breath when I feel the pressure building. Pull out just in time, my cock slick and throbbing, and aim for the wash basin I set beside the bed. My seed splashes against the ceramic—thick ropes of it, white and hot. I keep pumping until I'm empty, then grab the rag I brought, wiping the head clean, wiping any drops that landed on her thigh. She shivers but doesn't turn around.
I dump the basin into the waste chute. I burn the rag in the hearth. I watch the fabric blacken and curl until nothing's left but ash.
Kitty eats breakfast the next morning. Bread, cheese, a cup of watered wine. She chews and swallows like normal. I feel a knot loosen in my chest. But when I look up from my plate, her eyes are fixed on my lap. On the bulge in my trousers. Her tongue wets her lips before she catches herself, and she forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
The relief is hollow. She's not addicted. But she wants to be.
I throw myself into training. Primal magic hums under my skin when I push it—hardening my flesh until a blade skids off my forearm. But I hit a wall. Can't get tougher. Can't feel the next layer. So I switch to speed. I run rooftops at midnight, timing myself against the bell tower. I dodge imaginary strikes in empty alleys. I feel the wind against my face and the burning in my lungs and the ache in my balls, always full, always heavy, sloshing when I move.
One night I'm heading back to Arelle's tower. The moon is thin, the streets dark. I take the shortcut through a narrow alley behind the tanner's district—the quickest way home.
A woman screams.
High and sharp, cut off by a wet thud. I freeze. Listen. A muffled whimper. The sound of a fist hitting flesh.
I move before I think. Three steps into the alley, and I see her—a small figure crumpled on the cobblestones, hands up to shield her face. A man stands over her, arm raised for another blow. He's human, broad-shouldered, wearing a leather vest. His face twists when he sees me.
"Stay out of this, half-breed."
I don't stay. I charge, my Primal magic flaring, my skin hardening. I'm three feet from him when the woman drops her hands and smiles.
The air shimmers. A circle of runes ignites around my feet—bright blue, burning cold. My body locks. Every muscle seizes. I can't move, can't breathe, can't even blink. The man steps back. The woman stands, brushing dust off her dress, and I see the gleam of a focus stone in her palm.
The ward closes. The world goes dark.