She gasps as her fingers press relentlessly against her stimulated clit. She feels the release wreck her body as she cums with a fierce intensity. Her walls collapse, desperate for Sigvid’s cock, as she whimpers from the additional ache the orgasm leaves. Avina lays panting on her bed as the fantasy melts into the cold reality of her life.
After her father forced her to marry King Rendel, her life has never been the same. She can not even allow herself to recall the disgusting acts he committed on her body. He would call her vile, inhuman names all because she had a thicker figure. Considering her lonely, younger life and the curses she suffered under her late husband, she can hardly look at herself in the mirror.
Sigvid may have been the only man to look at her with longing, but he is still a violent warrior carved of hard sinew and muscle, while she is different from the typical slender women the men of the castle sought. He is the Prince of Salt, the Lord Commander, and the most revered warrior in the country. No doubt, women lined up to lay with Sigvid. Unlike Avina, who had men beating down her door to abuse and subdue her so they can steal her crown.
Her cheeks flush in shame and anger as her emotions tumble to reality. Even alone in her bed, her secret thoughts feel dirty. Reprehensible. Sex produced heirs, and women certainly did not receive pleasure in the process.
“No!” She withdraws her wet fingers, glowering at them as if they had forsaken her.
This desire is wrong!
He is a monster, a villain from the fairytales she read as a child.
She reaches for her silver dagger on her bedside table and stabs the nearest pillow, releasing the agitation he evoked. Feathers burst around her bed as furious tears pour from her eyes.
August 9th, Year 100, 9th Era
Scarwood Citadel, Timber Province
Avina stands in her Council chamber. After five days, they finally wish to consult with her on Prince Sigvid’s fate.
“What is your plan with,” he swallows loudly as if he cannot bring himself to speak Sigvid’s name, “the barbarian Prince?” That is a fair enough question posed by Count Borg.
He and the other Council members sit behind a thick semicircle surface crafted of smooth redwood. A twisted iron fence separates her from the men who want to thwart her attempts to rule.
“He is still a Prince of the Salt Province.” She keeps her tone even. “Even if he has shown unwarranted aggression against Timber, he admitted to a Ridge lord named Lord Leto paying him to murder King Rendel.” His life is no loss to Avina, although the circumstances around his death raised more questions than answers.
The Council exchanges concerned glances. A wealthy lord of a different province paying for a war with them is understandably disconcerting.
A drawl condescending laugh draws their attention to her father. His arms cross tightly over his forest green vest as he shakes his crowned head.
“Does King Ceowald Bloodstone of the Ridge wish to issue a statement?” Count Borg offers.
“My young, naive daughter led her first torture session.” He steps forward to lay a hand on her shoulder. The demeaning words leave Avina’s cheeks and neck nearly as red as her dress. “She forgets the lengths men will go to escape a position in a helpless situation.”
“But Father, I have no doubt he was sincere.”
Over the last year, she communicated with the Salt Prince via letters and even learned the man’s strategy, actions, and life. She knew more about him than anyone should—even the type of tea he takes.
Peppermint. He loves peppermint tea—a fact she hoped to use to poison him someday.
“Do you know what he did to the surviving men you sent to distract him?” Ceowald raises an eyebrow.
She hesitates, knowing any surviving men likely tried to flee the battle. And Sigvid detested cowards.
“He skewered them alive with pikes, leaving them to ahorrific fate.”
Bile fills her mouth. The Council mutters at her back.
Avina stands as tall as she can in her short frame, pushing her chest out as she addresses the Council. “There is more information we can gain from him. I propose another torture session and then release him to his brother, King Thrain, as part of an agreement of peace between our three nations.”
“Counter.” Her father curls his fingers on the wrought iron fence separating them from the Council. “Make an example of him. He may be a Prince, but he has committed unspeakable acts against our men. Sell him to the Treland Arena. Let us earn back what he stole from us.”
“No!” Avina jerks into a frantic state.
Her father curls his lip, and his voice lowers while the Council deliberates. “This obsession with him ends now. He will not survive the Arena, and anyone foolish enough to follow in his footsteps will observe his death in excruciating detail.”
“We have reached a verdict.” Count Borg interrupts them. “Prince Sigvid Thordsson of the Salt Province is hereby sold to the Treland Arena. May the gods judge his fate.”
