“So, why?”

Deflon, a big man with huge muscles that look like they could bend steel, shifts in his seat. He wipes his eyes, brushing away the salt from his now spent tear ducts. Despite his menacing appearance, he’s surprisingly soft.

“It’s complicated, Josephine,” he begins, saying her true birth name and refusing to use the one she prefers, “but it all stems from your house’s growing political strength.”

Jessica shifts in her seat.

“Please, explain. I need to know.”

Deflon takes a deep slow breath. His smile falters, but the big man carries on.

“Carpe Diem is known for their bloodline that, if they hold specific classes above certain levels, they unlock [Resurrection].”

“Dayum,” Quasi comments. “That’s a strong skill. Third-tier.”

Deflon chuckles. “Oh, so you know of it?”

Quasi stretches his arms and leans by the carriage window. “Well, I haven’t ever met someone with it, but I’ve read some notes on legendary skills.” he scratches his hairless chin. ”If the notes are correct, then that skill can resurrect the dead, with increasing mana cost based on the damage sustained by the body and the length of time since death.”

“That is correct,” Deflon affirms.

“I still don’t understand why they would be attacked…” Jessica puzzles. “What did they gain by killing them? Any kingdom would want to have a noble family that can resurrect the dead.”

The big man sighs. “And therein lies the problem. In the east, [Kings] are numerous, but weak as they control one, maybe two cities. But in the west, [Kings] number fewer but they hold more power. With large enough kingdoms, you start to see more noble classes like [Duke], [Count], and [Baron].”

“Huh,” Jessica murmurs, slightly overwhelmed. For her, she only really knows about [Lords] and [Kings].

“Most of those classes are just a slightly better version of [Lord]. None of them are as good as a [King], so it’s not too important,” Quasi explains

“Oh,” Jessica muses.

“It is important,” Deflon counters. “A good [King] needs powerful retainers to help run the many cities.”

“You mean a weak [King],” the fourth person in the carriage finally speaks. He leans up slowly and surveys the people in the carriage with him. He takes a longer glance at Quasi before returning to Deflon.

“A strong [King] can rule any number of cities as long as he has the willpower and levels, but if they do not, then they can ruin their potential by using retainers, as you call it.”

Deflon snorts. “Oh, and how do you know this?”

Abernick Faul opens his mouth to reply, but stops as a headache hits his head alongside an urge. His eyes widen as he lets his senses roam. Immediately, he senses the four corpses pulling the carriage. With barely a thought, his mana releases towards the corpses, only for foreign mana to interfere and suppress his own.

His head swivels to Quasi. “Please, just one.”

“No,” Quasi denies him. Groaning, Abernick curls up and waits for the pain to pass.

“What’s wrong with him?” Deflon asks.

Quasi yawns. “He’s suffering from undead withdrawal.”

“Which is?”

Quasi smacks his lips and glances at the shivering [Grand Necromancer]. “Well, when [Necromancers] create undead, they naturally suppress the remnant information or memories of the corpse, but there’s only so much one can hold back. As you near those limits, then some of the remnants of memories become voices in your head, little whispers.”

Quasi points at Abernick. “This idiot’s been sitting at that limit for years now. Those silly little voices became his best friends.” Quasi shakes his head. “Now he has no undead, and he will not be allowed to have any till he fully recovers.”

Abernick groans once more. He shakes slightly as the pain finally passes. He releases a shaky breath before sitting back up.

“It’s okay buddy, this is all for your own good,” Quasi half-heartedly comforts him while patting the older man on the back, which only gets an annoyed and angry glare from Abernick.

Quasi, undeterred, looks to Deflon. “So, you were saying something about classes and war?”

Deflon grunts and turns to Jessica. “As I was saying, the western kingdoms are comprised of many cities, and thus, there is a hierarchy of [Lords] and [Ladies]. These powers that are above [Lords] have many unwritten rules. One such rule is that marriages between these upper-level houses are expected to only happen upwards. A [Baron] lead household must marry with another household of similar standing or above, which means that the households of [Lords] and [Ladies] are never to be touched.”

“Carpe Diem didn’t follow those rules.” Jessica states.

Deflon grunts. “Carpe Diem was promoted from a [Lord] to a [Baron] by the [King]. Which makes sense considering that House Carpe Diem was almost as wealthy as a [Duke].” Deflon clears his throat. “Then, when they were elevated, numerous proposals of marriage were given to Carpe Diem.”

“They wanted the bloodline,” Jessica blurts.

“Yes. Carpe Diem was growing too powerful and influential thanks to the bloodline, so the upper-level houses devised a plan to obtain it for themselves.”

“So, what happened next?” Jessica asks.

Deflon sighs. “Carpe Diem refused all marriage proposals and continued to marry within the family so as to keep the bloodline alive.”

Jessica’s eyes widen. “They were… Incest? B-but, that’s,” she stops, lost for words.

Quasi rolls his eyes. “Incest has been practiced by royal families for a long time. This is nothing new.”

“B-but then most of the children will die,” Jessica says.

Quasi sighs. “Not if the woman is high enough level. A strong vitality removes the chance of birth defects.”

“I-I see,” she says slowly, still not completely convinced.

After a bit of silence, Deflon clears his throat, “Now, as I was saying, Carpe Diem refused all marriage proposals, which angered all of the most powerful houses. Fortunately, that anger never led to attack, “his sad eyes shift to Jessica, “Until you were born.”

Jessica opens her mouth to say something but closes it. Her brow furrows. “I’m not a [Noble].”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He slowly nods. “Yes. Your mother slept with my master, a peasant [Master Runesmith]. In her family, it was considered taboo, and if not for your mother’s hardened attitude, you would have died in her womb.”

“What happened next?”

Deflon leans back and slumps in his seat. “Well, you were born, and to everybody’s surprise, you have the bloodline even though you do not have the [Noble] class. It was quite a shock, as most of the family believed that the bloodline was connected to their nobility. Your birth proved them wrong,“ Deflon chuckles, “wrong enough that your mother was able to convince her house to let her marry my master.”

The [Abess] frowns, “The other houses didn’t like that?”

Deflon’s expression darkens. He creates a fist as his anger rises, till his hand is clenched hard enough to bleed. “No. They saw that as a flaunting of the rules of nobility, an act of war. A literal civil war that destroyed half the kingdom and killed most of your house,” he explains, tears welling up again, though few droplets are released.

“Thank you… for telling me… and for saving me all those years ago.”

Deflon’s anger subsides slowly as he nods. “It was not me, but my wife. She… she was a loyal [Maid] to your mother. I didn’t do much but run. I,” he takes a breath and goes silent.

Then the carriage stops and Quasi stands up. “Alright, looks like it’s time to set-up camp.”

_________________________________________________________________

I have to admit, Loki muses to himself, I sometimes miss my old prison.

Granted, the place could have used a bit more decor and color, but not mana. Oh no, that would ruin the main theme.

Which was silence, and aloneness, and nothing to do but nap.

And panic over my imminent demise.

But that was only for the first thousand billion neutron decays. After that, naps became far more relaxing when the skill of my soul manipulation rose enough that keeping myself from dissipating into the mana-less void became a passive ability rather than a concerted effort.

Which, as I understand now, was the difference between a mid-god and a high-god.

I chuckle as I swish my arms, instantly changing the dreary sky for one of a sunset. I smile as I gaze through the window of my corporate office at a perfect recreation of Chicago, frozen in a glittering red, gold moment. Almost perfect, because the city below is unpopulated.

Unfortunately, I lack anything near the skill to create life, even simulacrums. It is not because of a lack of power but of experience. For example, my soul is stronger than the administrators that sleep within this system, but unlike them, my ability and skill to move mana is the equivalent of a toddler trying to walk.

A very powerful toddler, with the ability to wipe out entire dimensions.

A thought traverses my soul, and for a moment I contemplate flexing my soul and destroying Orbis along with all the gods.

It would be so easy. A fraction of my power, a simple intent.

But I refrain, my soul resonating negatively with my thoughts of destruction. Obliteration is not chaos, it is merely an end, one which would change little…

“You’ve changed,” a voice echoes behind me as I slowly turn. I see Eir, and I can’t help but grin.

With her oaths broken and chains removed, the white raven has spread her wings and risen. No longer suppressed, she stands ready and powerful as a goddess who rivals her father in skill, but not nearly in power.

“Oh? And what could that be?” I ask, already expecting the answer.

She takes several steps forward and stops at the wall-sized window, “You’ve lost your mind-” she answers while patting down her red velvet executive suit covered in white crows mid-flight.

“-is what I would like to say,” she blinks, “but something like that would be anathema to yourself as a god of chaos, never settling into anything predictable.” She smiles, her eyes glinting mischievously as she turns to me and begins straightening my tie. “So now you exist at the precipice of insanity, never allowed to take that last step.”

She lets go of my tie as I continue to gaze down at her. She looks me in the face, allowing me to glimpse at a choker tightly wrapped around her neck.

Then I sense it and eyes widen. Prediction is my forte, but predicting gods has limitations.

“You’ve changed,” I say, feeling the whims of fate shuffle once more.

And shuffle they should, for the goddess fixing my collar isn’t just a soother of pain anymore. She’s learned the fine art of causing it, too.

____________________________________________________________

“Mistress, your tent is ready.”

“Good,” Trinity says to the woman. The woman, Fabia, stands there, waiting, expectant.

It is her turn tonight, isn’t it? Trinity thinks.

Her eyes roam the woman’s body, only now, it seems lacking. Fabia had done well to remove her body hair, and her tall, muscular, voluptuous body is very reminiscent of true amazons.

It would be a treat, and Trinity would enjoy feasting on her… if not for the fresh memory of Jess. That skin, those eyes, the nose, ears, and hair. Perfection. Truly, she can feel her loins getting wet just from imagining it.

She takes a quick moment, looking over Fabia’s features. The woman still waits, eager to share flesh, to indulge their wanton lust under the sheets and listen to one another’s moans.

“Tomorrow. Tonight I will be alone,” Trinity states. Another body would distract from her perfect image of Jess. Tonight, she will be alone, with only her memory and imagination to sate her appetite.

“O-of course Mistress,” Fabia stutters, surprised and disappointed, before leaving to set up her own tent.

Trinity does not watch her leave; instead, she goes to her mount and grabs a couple of important toys from a bag. While she does, she gazes at the building. A two story townhouse created by Bone, and an annoyance. She planned to sneak into Jess’s tent and let the [Archpriestess] know an Amazon’s body while she learned of perfection, but it seems that will be impossible.

“For now,” she whispers with a smile. Then she walks to her tent and enters. Her team is well trained and will guard the night while taking shifts. They aren’t too far from Camelot, so the likelihood of an attack is minimal, but needless risks cause stupid deaths.

Trinity ties closed the tent flaps, moves to her bedroll, sets her spear and shield to the side, and then begins to undress. She unclasps her breastplate and drops it to the side. She runs her hands up her naked torso, lifting her teats, squeezing them, tugging her nipples. Blood rushes to them, turning rigid in her fingers. She imagines the feel of Jess in her hands and Jess’s hands on her body. Her cheeks warm. She smiles as a thought of home surfaces in her mind, of Amazons fighting and walking without clothes, showing all their perfect bodies; of Jess showing her perfect body.

The Amazon leans down, unties her boots, and steps out of them onto the warm, soft fur of her pallet. She slides her pants down as she kneels on her bedding, savoring the feel of her smooth legs.

With the memory of Jess still fresh and the soft fur of her bed caressing her skin, she begins the deed. It starts slowly, softly massaging herself before the pace increases. She starts to moan, the pleasure intense and rising.

Then the tent flaps tear open violently. Jerked from her revery, she reaches for her weapon, but is too slow. Her legs and arms are forced apart and pinned down. Before she can call out a skill, a hand grabs her throat and a heavy weight on her stomach winds her.

“Trinity,” a voice echoes threateningly.

She blinks quickly, unable to see through the night, but the voice, she has heard it before.

Then, all of a sudden, four violet lights burst on in the tent, drenching the shelter in their baleful glow. Four undead are each pinning her appendages down while the masked man hovers above her. She tries to speak, but the hand tightens, and his knee presses painfully into her stomach.

“Sh sh sh, don’t speak,” Bone says softly, his hand is tight, but not so tight that she cannot breathe.

“Just listen,” he says softly, but Trinity can sense a bit of anger… no, rage.

His aura has smothered hers completely and with ease. It hovers above her, like an [Executioner]’s dull, rusty axe, promising death with more than one chop

“You forced yourself on my companion,” his hand tightens and she feels her throat begin to close, “and would have every intention to take this further.”

Mana pulses from the man. It enters her body quickly, easily crushing her own defenses.

She tries to cough violently, she struggles to breathe, and blood seeps from her nose and lips. Immense pain rages through her body, too much pain, but not enough to send her into the sweet darkness blinking at the edges of her vision. She wants to scream, but the hand on her throat is unmoving. She cries from the pain and fear. Her body spasms as the magic ravages her insides, then it is followed by the smell of piss.

“So this is your only warning,” he continues, his eyes beginning to glow through the mask, his aura strengthening, ripping away the last skills defending her. ”If you ever lay another hand on her, there will be nothing left of you.”

The hand disappears, the pressure on her stomach recedes and her limbs are no longer held down. But she does not move, even as the man exits her tent.

All she can do is lay there, her mind jumbled and her body continuing to shudder from pain. She feels fear, anger, helplessness, but most importantly, she feels shame. She was held down, completely at the mercy of the man… Her cheeks flush, now in embarrassment.