Would she allow that? Why not? He has known pleasure, so it no longer holds appeal for me. She looked away, seating herself on the edge of the bed. It was soft against her below. Exactly what she needed.
Holding a piece of parchment she had taken from the table, she glanced through it, picking out details. Having been tasked with aiding the 'boy' by the Mother, Jean found herself forced to learn and understand countless things. From the wars of the third millennium to secrets about gods and, most of all… black.
Needless to say, it was quite a tiring endeavor.
It's as Madam Solace said, black was likely present during the second millennium. She had acquired this information by charming her way into an exotic priest who had access to the Canen’s tome vaults. She had planned on using Florus, but as it turned out, if she had tried, she would have found herself dead beyond reason.
And even then, Jean had not actually been given access to the tome vaults; instead, she received these parchment copies from the priest. However, given what he had done and the fact he knew who she was, Jean would likely have to kill him to keep the secret.
Might as well get on with it. She stood up and moved to the table. Among other things, there was a small finger-sized vial. Inside it was a sticky white substance. Thank the Mother that the priest was exotic, or I would never have gotten this. Of course, she had not bedded him… he was disgusting and repulsive to her. Yet, even the small she managed still made her skin crawl.
Bringing the white substance to her eyes, Jean smiled slightly, then pointed her finger at the tube. She first said a few words in High Astra, which left her panting before she spoke the last: “Maladiro!” a word in Draconis.
She dropped the vial on the table, her shoulders quivering with frantic breaths. It took a few minutes to recover, and after she did, she exhaled a relieved breath. That should take care of him.
She hoped. After all, if killing a feathered angel was so easy, then everyone would be doing it.
Turning, her eyes met the blond-haired boy sitting on the bed, a seductive smile curling on his lips. Not this again. Jean sighed in annoyance. What is it with men and thinking one night means something more?
Well, you once had that with Dunn. Jean shrugged off the thought, stepping toward the boy. She leaned down, picking up the clothes scattered on the floor—rags covered in dirt and dust. Tossing them onto the boy, she said, “Off you go.” You should be grateful you get to keep your sanity instead of becoming one of the lost.
The boy caught the clothes with a bewildered expression. “What? Ah… What the last hours?” he asked. “Was that nothing?”
Jean wanted to facepalm. “It was what it was,” she shrugged. “I was tired of studying history and needed an escape. You fulfilled that, and I fulfilled yours. That’s all. The deal’s done, I suppose.”
“Deal?” The boy’s eyes flared with a certain rage.
Oh Mother.
“Deal?” he shouted. “Did we write a contract or something? Did a notary sign it? So what do you mean by deal?” The boy slowly looked down, tears streaming from his eyes. “Please, no… I love you.”
Jean cocked her head. Did I use too much charm last night? She wasn’t sure. And even if she had, it was likely the boy’s fault for being so eager. She remained silent, watching him cry, his golden hair seeming to sway in rhythm with his whimpering…
Klaus!
What? Jean started, her brows furrowing. Am I mad? She lowered her gaze, then looked up at the boy… at his golden, tousled hair. Is that why I picked him? Because he looks like Klaus? No way, right?
“Please…” the boy suddenly pleaded, drawing Jean’s attention. “I’ll be good. Very good. Just don’t leave me.”
Jean remained silent for some time, then snapped her fingers. A figure quickly entered her chambers—slouched, dwarf-like, and covered in a red robe. The taut-skinned man rasped in a hoarse voice, “Yes, mistress.”
I am no mistress. Jean thought idly, then said, “Take him to one of my sisters’ orgies.”
The man suddenly quivered, a smile creeping onto his slimy lips. “Ah,” he looked at the boy. “So young. So vigorous. He will enjoy much of the mistresses’ company. I’m so envious.”
The boy glanced between them, confused. Jean remained silent, turmoil raging in her mind. She needed him out of here before she did something… dangerous. Endure it. She smiled, looking at the boy. “I accept your love,” she said. “Go with him, and I will come to see you.”
The boy’s eyes beamed with renewed hope. He stood, the bedsheet and clothes slipping down his body, revealing him to all. Mostly to the lost, who quivered ecstatically. Why? Does seeing male bodies also entice him?
Climbing off the bed, the boy curled around her legs, kissing them. “Thank you. Thank you,” he murmured, his lips wet against her skin.
Jean cared little for it and simply endured until the lost took him away. Soon, maybe in a month’s time, the boy would become like that man—a lost. His mind shattered beyond reason, leaving only pleasure as the recurring thought.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She sighed, sitting tiredly on the bed’s edge. Why am I still thinking of Klaus? She glanced at the table, at her pouch, which held her book.
She reached for it, unfastening the pouch and retrieving the book. And as she opened it, her eyes fell upon the numerous scribbles scattered throughout—notes about Black and various other matters. Her desires were also inscribed within: the wanting to become a lady of bliss, to seize power, and to exact vengeance upon the Venture House. And then, of course, there was Walter—the pleasure master who had sold her.
Though, she could afford him some leniency.
Her gaze drifted over the assorted writings. The Second Millennium, she thought, seeking distraction from the turmoil within.
The Second Millennium, which some call the Solitude Epoch, was an era of strife, yet it eventually came to an end. She scanned through her notes. Supposedly, the epoch concluded due to the demise of two gods. Well, they don’t matter. She shrugged.
Although there’s a high likelihood that Black existed during the Solitude Epoch, there is very little evidence of his actions. Did he remain idle during that time? He was supposedly sealed at some point and later resurrected by the Mad King. That, according to Madam Solace.
Did Black pledge his allegiance to the Mad King because of that? Jean had attempted to uncover information about the Mad King—even his name—but aside from scornful writings and vilification, there was nothing. Even the priests found no trace of him in the tome vaults.
It’s as if he never existed, Jean thought grimly. Or perhaps he was simply buried and forgotten. She knew that the Mad King was linked to Black, just as the boy was. And following the logic of the Vortex, all these elements would inevitably converge. It was better to understand what was to come, lest she be torn to shreds by the currents of its events.
Not that she wasn’t already being battered by its waves. The Mother had ensured she sank deep within them… So all Jean could do now was move forward.
Forget Klaus. Forget everything. Focus on the Mother, and all will be well, she reassured herself. Oddly, as she did, a sweet ecstasy washed over her body. Perhaps the Mother had heard her. Jean steadied her heart with deep breaths—not the techniques taught by the Swordsmen Tower. No, she was no swordsman, so why should she adopt their breathing methods?
Rising from the bed, she placed the book upon it and moved to the side of the room. A mannequin stood there, clad in her garments. Her attire was rather plain: a red dress with black-edged hems. It cinched tightly at the waist, and the sleeves were styled in the fashion of the Knight Cities—one long, the other short.
She regarded the dress for some time. There was no particular reason to dress this way. But this was the Pavilion; she needed to look presentable. Jean sighed before quickly freshening up and donning the dress.
Walking down the gray-red corridor, passing various vixens like herself, Jean paid them little mind. Instead, she pondered her next steps. She was now tasked with organizing a group to aid the boy, which had resulted in her attaining something of a prominent position within the Pavilion. Well, prominent was an exaggeration—she was more of a rookie commander, chosen solely because the revelation had come to her.
And Jean simply felt burdened by it all. She sighed.
She moved through the pavilion, frequently glancing at the nobles as they laughed and reveled with Vixens like herself. She still found them repugnant, which in some way made her feel sane. What would she do if her disdain for nobles vanished due to some strange emotions?
Maybe Klaus did something to me? she wondered idly, hesitating as she lost her sense of direction. Odd. Ever since she had been stationed at the Black Desert Regiment keep, she had begun losing track of familiar places within the pavilion. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be sent on a mission that required her to be away from it for long.
Of course, there were other pavilions. It was just that this one had saved her. Indeed, many existed, but this was hers. Her sanctuary. Yet now… she wanted to be elsewhere.
I doubt these feelings are real, she told herself. Perhaps it was a lie, or perhaps it wasn’t. I need to see him again.
She knew it wasn’t a wise choice. After all, the last time they had met, she had practically poisoned him. And though she knew he had survived, chances were that a deep-seated hatred had taken root between them.
That would be better, right? It would be better for her. But still, I need to see him. I’m strong... and with Susan.
The sweet spider crawled within her clothes, soothing the turbulence in her mind. It was comforting.
With Susan, I should be able to secure a private meeting. It won’t be a long one, but it will be something. She glanced at the hunched lost leading her toward the gathering. As long as there isn’t warding, I should be able to escape with my life.
Her mind resisted the plan.
“Mistress,” the slouched man said slowly, his voice cracking as though he were on the verge of death. Perhaps that would be the true outcome.
Snapping from her thoughts, Jean looked up, realizing she had arrived at her destination. A plain red door stood before her, set within a vast, silent corridor of smooth, dark obsidian stone. This was the pavilion’s secret chamber, built using the expansive High Astra—used by the ministries in creating their tome vaults.
Taking a breath, she dismissed the guide, her eyes focusing on the door. There was no time to waver. Stand strong. She placed her hand upon it. It absorbed her mana with an unnatural force, like a sudden inhalation. Jean grimaced as a sharp, pinching pain flooded her mind.
She endured regardless. The door groaned open, releasing a deep, intoxicating aroma. It was the scent of pleasure, but not one born of physical acts. Jean pressed forward, stepping inside. The brilliance of the room’s illumination momentarily blinded her.
Shielding her eyes with a hand, she waited until they adjusted. Then she smiled and bowed.
Seated upon a large circular bed, a slender figure with silken blue hair gazed at her. The woman was an embodiment of purity—her very presence enough to shatter wills and invoke a singular, immortal yearning. A yearning to possess her. Jean tried to resist, but in the end, her body began to tremble, drool pooling at the corner of her lips.
She distracted herself by studying the chamber. It was vast—unnaturally so, given that the pavilion’s exterior was far smaller. Yet, somehow, this place existed within it.
It was like a golden palace. Walls gilded in gold, furniture glistening, and even the paintings deliberately depicted men and women adorned with golden hair. A mockery of the Empire’s Golden Court.
Regardless, it was breathtaking to behold.
Apart from the Mistress, other vixens lounged around her, some at her feet, kissing them. Of course, this was meant to be a discussion regarding the boy and the Mother’s orders. However, Jean couldn’t fault the others for losing themselves.
Mistress Cornelia was simply that mesmerizing. Perhaps because she saw her more frequently than the others, Jean had developed some measure of resistance. At least enough to speak.
“Mistress, the plan,” she said.
Cornelia smiled.
Black! Jean grimaced as she cursed.