Two men entered.
She went still. Her eyes moved to Sevrin.
"Two?" she said carefully. "Majesty, perhaps this is too many."
He looked at her over the rim of his glass. "Perhaps."
Silence.
The men waited near the door.
"You need not trouble yourself, Yvara," Sevrin said quietly.
She looked at them again, at the door, at the single candle, at Sevrin in his chair in the near dark. Then she said, with a lightness she did not entirely manage, "I do not mind trying something new."
“Get on with it, Highness,” one of the men said.
Sevrin saw her stiffen at the raw edge in the tone, though she couldn’t see anything beyond the shadow that loomed over her. The wet sound of spit hitting a palm rang out, followed bythe rustle of cloth. A grunt marked the man’s movement as he pushed into her, rough and without hesitation. “Fuck, so soft… so damn sweet,” he growled, his voice thick with hunger. Sevrin watched the faint outline of the man leaning down, sucking loudly on her breasts.
The second man closed in soon after, his presence announced by a low, sneering rasp. “Open that mouth, Highness.” Sevrin noted Yvara’s flinch at the command. He heard her choked gasp as the man pushed himself past her lips, the harsh rhythm clear even in the dark. “Take it well, royal slut,” the man muttered before pulling back slightly. “Yes, I’m a royal slut,” Yvara said with false enthusiasm, remembering the king’s preference for degradation. Sevrin then caught the faint motion of him smacking her face with his length, a wet, degrading slap that echoed before driving back in.
It was then that a strange smell began to creep into the room. It was damp, raw, thick with the reek of unwashed skin and something primal, fouling the Ivory’s usually pristine air. Sevrin’s nose wrinkled in revulsion, and he pressed his handkerchief to his face, stifling a gag at the rancid stench. He kept his reaction quiet, a private disdain, but Yvara, blind to him in the darkness, seemed to misinterpret the muffled sound. Her movements grew more desperate, her moans louder, forced and exaggerated, as if to please whoever watched. Then, her voice broke through, tremulous but eager. “His Majesty enjoys this. Please… hit me with it again. Smack me with it, again and again. Rub it on my face.”
Sevrin sipped from his goblet. It was his favorite, aged perfectly. Asharin’s fork from weeks ago rested inside it, and he turned it once, watching as softened scraps of fowl drifted upward through the wine.
Perfection.
He took another sip, his eyes never leaving Yvara. The second man obliged her with a rough chuckle. The wet slaps rang out as he struck her face again and again, dragging himself across her cheeks, her pleas only urging him on. “Beg louder, Highness. Let the king hear how much you like it.”
“I love it,” she gasped, her voice shaking with a mix of shame and forced zeal. “Please, don’t stop. Smear it on me.”
The second man pulled back from her mouth with a rough groan, and Sevrin watched the faint outline of him leaning over her as he spilled across her face. “Wear that,” he rasped, stepping back with a satisfied huff.
The first man remained between her legs, his pace turning uneven before he looked toward Sevrin in the dark. “Where would you like me, Majesty?”
Sevrin looked at Yvara, his tone smooth and cutting. “That is up to Lady Yvara.” He paused, letting the moment hang, before adding with a pleasant edge, “There is no concern for pregnancy, since she already carries my child.” His eyes bore into her through the dimness. “And her face is already… soiled.”
Yvara understood the trap immediately. She heard it close around her. If she refused it would be clear that she was not pregnant. She had no room to refuse. She said, instead, “Inside of me is fine, although if it pleases the king, my breasts?—”
Before she could finish, the man grunted loudly, spilling inside her.
“You’re a good royal whore,” he said, wiping himself on her leg.
Afterwards Sevrin rose from his chair and moved through the room lighting the candles one by one, each wick catching in turn until the Ivory came back to itself, cream walls and gold veins and soft light rising in tiers. He did it without hurry, his back to the bed, as though he were simply completing a task that needed doing.
Yvara pushed herself upright.
Then she saw the first man properly. Older. Missing several teeth. Dirt worked into the creases of his hands and neck in a way that suggested it had been there for some time.
Sevrin turned. "I forgot the introductions," he said. "This is Lord Akin. He works the gardens and was kind enough to make time for us today.” He looked at the second man. Younger, an eye patch over the left eye, boils across his jaw and throat, something proud and unbothered in his posture. "And this is Lord Gizzard. He cleans the chamber pots of the lower levels.” He looked at the man. “Isn’t that right, Gizzard?”
The man grinned, his teeth brown at the roots. “Yes, Majesty.”
Yvara’s voice shook. “These are not lords, Majesty. These are… worthless creatures.” Tears streamed down her face as she began to process what happened. “How could you—why would you do this?”
Gizzard looked at Yvara with easy contempt. “Careful with that tone. One day you may find yourself below… and I will be the one emptying yours.”
Yvara looked at the first man. She gagged, her cheeks red. Her voice came out thin and vicious. "You're disgusting."
