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The scene was hauntingly familiar to Ruy—a scene he had witnessed countless times in the aftermath of his merciless campaigns. The marauder had razed villages, slaughtered their inhabitants, and left behind a trail of despair so many times that the sights of grief and helplessness seemed as rehearsed as the sun rising. This woman’s slow, faltering approach was no different from the many he had seen before: her empty gaze fixed on nothing, oblivious to the chaos around as well as the threat that loomed in the form of the invader before her.

The man's cold, calculating stare sharpened as he studied the horned woman, as if assessing the worth of a trophy before claiming it. Whether intact or severed, he had seen so many of these faces that his eye had learned to discern their features with practiced ease: the high cheekbones, the deep curve of the flat nose, the wide empty eyes—all marked the figure before him as the daughter of the antlered giant whose blood still clung to his blade, the warmth of life at his feet that is soon to fade.

As her shuffling steps ceased and this broken soul collapsed to her knees before the body at the outsider's feet, there were no screams, no curses—only the dull moans of someone who had never known the brutality of war, and now faced it for the first time. She wept as only those unacquainted with cruelty could, the tears flowing like a river of innocence in a world that had no place for it.

This child of forests likely viewed the world with the same skyward vision her father had, an outlook untouched by the human perspective, where cruelty was not just a part of being, but its very foundation. The fleeting memory of the old forester’s dying look, filled with pity instead of hatred, caused Ruy’s teeth to grind, but the sight of the crying woman restored his calm. A crooked grin spread across the man’s face, the kind that stretched the scars on his cheeks, deepening the lines etched by years of violence. The thought of her naivety amused Fuerte, as did the knowledge that she would soon learn the harsh realities of her new state.

This peaceful forest dweller couldn’t have known that instead of the swift end she probably expected, a far crueler fate awaited her—a long, torturous existence as a slave, if lucky, to a merciful master. Nor could this unfortunate soul have realized that, until she was sold, her life would belong to the very same invader who had just slain her father. The old hornbearer’s actions had fractured something within Fuerte, leaving a void that he did not fully comprehend. Now, all that hatred, all that emptiness, had passed onto the daughter, as if by inheritance.

Mentally praising himself for this false nobility, the tormentor chose not to interrupt this spectacle. Instead, he savored the sight, letting the new slave's misery soak into his skin like a balm.

With grim satisfaction, he focused on the woman’s features. To the average person, a woodland maiden might have seemed strange, her angular face grotesque. But years of raids and massacre had dulled Ruy’s taste for human beauty, and he found something almost enticing in such an alien appearance.

His gaze slid from the woman’s tear-streaked face down to her body, wrapped in a wide, thick mantle that concealed her form. But the conqueror’s eyes had seen enough of her kind to know exactly what lay beneath the garment: a nearly flat chest with sharply defined nipples, greenish skin so thin that inhumanly wide ribs likely showed through. And lower still, a waist so slender it would be envied by any noblewoman, no matter how tightly she bound herself in a corset.

The thought of what lay beneath that waist set the man’s veins aflame and flesh to swell, hardening with eager excitement.

In his anticipation, the antlered one’s loins would be as delicate as an orchid, a flower whose petals he would tear away one by one. Dark delight filled him at this vision, a silent laugh echoing in his thoughts as Fuerte pictured defiling the horned elder’s daughter right on top of her father’s corpse.

Digging his teeth into the cracked lower lip, Ruy let his mind wander into the depths of his depravity, conjuring the image of the new plaything’s trembling lips parting in screams, her eyes wide with horror, glistening with tears, and silently begging for mercy. The thought of rending away the fabric that shielded her frail form from the man’s savage desires fueled the dark fire within him. Though the forest woman towered above him, taller by several heads, in his mind, she was nothing more than a fragile, broken-winged finch under the talons of a ravenous hawk—helpless, doomed.

He could see it all so clearly, the way her legs would buckle under the crushing weight of his assault as she was pinned to the cold earth, how this thin, greenish skin, once untouched, would stretch taut, bruise and bleed under the relentless grip. His mind conjured the sound of the breathless, anguished cries, the high-pitched wails that would fill the air as her flat chest heaved with every scream.

Ruy's mind painted vivid pictures of his fingers clamping around her fragile waist, so thin that he believed a single motion could snap it in two. Nails, already itching to dig into tender flesh, yearned to feel brittle ribs bend and crack under the pressure.

With each passing second, thoughts sharpened, growing more vivid and real. The man envisioned his grip tightening on her hips, feeling every muscle tremble and strain under the rough grasp. The thought of her pelvic bones giving way beneath the relentless force of the onslaught - her desperate attempts to escape only amplifying the suffering - fueled his depraved lust further, sharpening the edges of his cravings.

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Yet, it is the deepest women's fears where the defiler's most depraved urges lie.

The hand quivered with anticipation as he imagined his pathetic manhood plunging inside, watching hope fade from the victim’s eyes. The desire to spread her legs wide, so wide that sinews would rip under the force of the assault, became an unbearable obsession. In his mind, the hornbearer was virginally tight, dry, clenched in terror, every instinct fighting to expel the intruder, but to no avail.

Fuerte was certain that she would tighten in agony with each thrust, as his lust filled her insides, her body shuddering with every movement, shattered from within, with each merciless stroke driving him deeper. The anticipation of the dry friction, the mutual pain it would spark, awakened something primal and savage, too wild even for the beasts.

He knew the end would come quickly, as it always did, and to recapture that fleeting sense of twisted love, he would need to draw louder screams and inflict deeper pain. Saliva filled the man's mouth as fantasies grew more vivid, more intense—he longed for the sight of new marks of pain on her frame. Ruy’s fists clenched in anticipation as he imagined the lips, split and bleeding from blows, crying out in agony, the voice cracking under the weight of brutality, each scream intensifying his twisted desire.

The marauder’s mind swarmed with vivid images of his nails tearing into her thighs, leaving deep, ragged wounds, only to dig even deeper into the raw, bleeding flesh. The vision continued, picturing chunks bitten from her breasts, each drop of blood savored, as every inch of her body convulsed under the onslaught, orifices deforming and bleeding beneath this cruelty.

In these grim envisions, cries of despair mingled with the crimson streams, screams rising into a symphony of agony that would be stifled by the crushing pressure of his palms around her throat, fingers squeezing the breath from her lungs. As with every time before, his eyes would twitch with nervous excitement, watching her suffocate and crumble in his embrace until the convulsions and muffled cries ceased, and her gaze, once filled with suffering, became empty and devoid of life.

But even that, Ruy knew, would not fulfil the twisted desires gnawing at him. Only a motionless shell—cold and still—could bring the satisfaction he sought, a sense of completion that would fill the gaping void within.

Fingers, still gripping the sword, trembled fiercely in response to these dark thoughts. The air escaping his lungs in strained bursts, pulse quickening, while his humble length hardened and pulsed, pressing painfully against the pants’ fabric, making the wait unbearable.

The metallic tang of blood lingered on Ruy's lips, a bitter reminder of the limits of his "generosity." With a twisted grin, the man decided the time for mercy had long since passed.

"Mira a lo que ha llevado tu maldita fe. Voy a follar a tu hija justo frente a tus ojos, bastardo cornudo," Fuerte spat, turning the head of the dead forester toward his daughter, each word dripping with venom. The word "faith" oozed from his lips with particular disdain, as if the mere thought of it was enough to sicken him.

With casual indifference, Ruy stepped over the motionless corpse, his eyes burning with a fury that demanded release. Gripping the horned woman’s cloak, he yanked it with a vicious strength, ripping the fabric apart like peeling skin from bone. Piercing screams shattered the air, but before he could strip her, a mocking voice interrupted from behind him.

"Don Fuerte, ¿de verdad va a follar a esa fealdad?"

"Sí," Ruy snapped back, irritation sharpening the reply as he turned to face the comrade. Yet, the pride in the response was so thick, so misplaced, that it caused the others to grimace in both astonishment and disgust.

"Don Fuerte tiene gustos realmente específicos..." came the whispers, faltering in their poor attempt to mask the revulsion they sought to hide. The accusations of depravity, rather than filling him with shame, only served to deepen the man's twisted sense of superiority. He believed such tastes elevated him above those he deemed ordinary and limited, granting him a perverse kind of distinction.

But as Ruy turned his attention back to the ‘trophy’, a wave of disappointment and wrath surged within. The hornbearer’s stare, which he had longed to see brimming with terror, was not on him—it was fixed upward, as if drawn by something far more terrifying than the defiler before her. Spite churned within, ready to erupt in another ferocious outburst; Fuerte was unwilling to share the taste of her fear with anything or anyone else. But reason, a rare visitor, prevailed, and his gaze instinctively followed the direction of hers.

Above, the clouds twisted and churned, forming a massive vortex that pulsed with unnatural, vivid hues— crimson merging with ghastly green. Bolts of lightning slashed through the darkened sky, their gleaming blades illuminating the chaos below.

Whorls of fiery bursts spiraled across the sky, merging into intricate patterns that vanished as quickly as they appeared, only to be replaced by new, more grotesque ones.

Sparks hung suspended in the air, as if the stars themselves had been torn from the heavens and now hovered above the earth in a slow waltz. Their radiance spread out, filling the darkness with an otherworldly glow, a harbinger of something unknown and unimaginable. The air thickened with a strange, unsettling hum, a vibration that caused the ground beneath their feet to tremble. The wind, sharp and icy, lashed at their skin, its bite like needles driving deep into their flesh, leaving it raw and stinging.

Then, as if time itself had stopped, the celestial storm froze in place. For a brief, tense moment, there was silence. And then, with a deafening roar, the heavens split apart. A bright, blinding line of light poured from the gash in the sky, stretching from horizon to horizon, as if the world itself was being torn asunder.

Fuerte froze, his greed and lust evaporating as if washed away by the wrath of the elements. His fingers, once tight with anticipation, loosened, letting go of the woman’s hair and cloak. All his senses honed in on the unfolding scene above.

A sudden shout pierced the air: "¡Mira!" Ruy spun toward the sound, his gaze cutting through the darkness, locking onto a trembling finger pointing into the distance.

His stare locked on a strange presence, moving as if it glided above the surface, untouched by the filth and blood that marred it. Too tall to be human, not quite a giant, its slender silhouette ephemerally flickering in the dim glimmer. Everything around it seemed to stall, bending to its presence.