As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, and the singsong of birds chirping blissfully lulled him awake, Sigurd blinked his eyes open, only to be met by a surreal scene.

Surrounding him were several women, their forms entwined in various positions of sleep. Carefully extricating himself from under Camilla, the octopus woman to his left, he removed her suction cups from his arm. They made an audible pop sound upon being dislodged.

‘This was such a sloppy mess. And I really didn't want to do it with women…’ Joyce thought, staring at the ladies' bare breasts before her. ‘I'm not a lesbian, but after trying it out with men last night… it felt plain wrong.’

He then slid out from under Maria, the lamia to his right, and sat at the foot of the bed. It was that serpentine woman the madam of the brothel had recommended him at the end.

‘She was right. That snake-woman’s technique was weird... but it did the trick!' Joyce was grateful. ‘I also wasn’t expecting everything to feel so good in this body!’

Sigurd's gaze then fell upon a sheep girl nestled in the lap of Clarice, a dragonkin. The unexpected sight made him freeze in fear.

"What? No way!" He stood and took a few steps back, his expression one of shock and incredulity as he processed the bizarre tableau before him.

A sudden wave of concern gripped him, "Shit, did I do it with a minor?" His fear was palpable.

A burst of laughter cut through the tension, drawing Sigurd's attention to the madam who stood at the open door.

"She's just one of the servants busing food and drinks to your room, don't worry kiddo," her hoarse voice reassured him, and was laced with amusement.

He produced an audible sigh in relief, pulled up his boxer shorts, and held his head. “I need to take a leak.”

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“The outhouse is out back," the madam said, motioning with her head. As Sigurd tiptoed around her and down the hall, she added, “Oh, and Bertha says hi!”

‘Who's Bertha?' thought Joyce, stepping out into the dank alleyway.

The harsh sunlight hurt Sigurd's eyes. He turned towards the piss-stained wall, pulled out his member from within the shorts, aimed, and, as casually as if Joyce had always been a man, released the fluid.

As the stream hit the wall, Joyce rummaged through Sigurd's memories hoping to gain some clarity. Finding vague recollections of when he had lost his virginity, she found what she sought.

‘Ah, so Bertha is the sugar mommy that popped Sigurd's cherry,' she nodded in understanding. ‘She must be a regular here. I wonder how she's related to the madam.’

Before she could keep ruminating on the trivialities of the young soldier's past, the heavy stream of piss dried up.

Sigurd withdrew his member back into his shorts and stepped out of the alleyway for a moment. He could bear it no longer; he held his head, eyes straining in the light.

Stumbling out onto the road that passed in front of the brothel, Sigurd's head throbbed with the aftereffects of an intense binge-drinking evening. The heavy hangover settled like a dark cloud over him, bringing with it its usual telltale signs – the worst of which were the headache, sensitivity to light, and a despairing thirst.

From what he recalled of his stroll across the capital, none of the surroundings seemed familiar. Looking around, he didn't even see the castle – it would have been visible from any corner of the city.

Then the realization hit him like a slap across the face.

“Oh fuck, I was supposed to return at sundown to be taken to the manor!" He began hyperventilating and looking around frantically. “Where even am I? How the hell did I get here again?!”

Sigurd stopped a passerby and asked if they were in the capital, just to be sure.

“Oatheven? You wish, bud. This is Miltonshire.”

Joyce cursed at herself for mindlessly indulging in the way she did. The gaps in her memory, caused by the ridiculously excessive amount of booze she consumed, haunted her. Regret set in, followed by panic.

But then, a moment of clarity struck, “Wait, my gold coins! That's it, if I just pay someone, I can hitch a ride back to the capital!”

Seeking solace in the temporary familiarity of the brothel he'd stayed the night in, Sigurd made his way back inside through the alleyway entrance.

Passing by the madam in the hall, he asked, “I had a bag of gold with me last night. Do you know where it is?”

The madam nodded, “For someone as esteemed as you, I made sure to put you in a VIP suite. Your gold was deposited in the safe, by the bed.”

With a brisk pace, Sigurd returned to the room. The amalgam of women, and the servant girl, were still placidly resting on the bed.

He inspected the side of the bed, knelt down near the nightstand, and opened the cabinet door to find... an empty safe. It was cracked wide open, and not a trace of his sack or the treasure inside was to be found.

"Great," Sigurd's voice was heavy with resignation, a mixture of anger and defeat coloring his words as he surveyed the empty safe.

The cold realization that he had been robbed of his last shreds of security settled over him like a suffocating blanket, leaving him bereft of words.