His lips found her throat, her collarbone, and the curve of her shoulder. She gasped, pressing herself further against him, and her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him tightly as though he were her only anchor to reality.
His breath was hot against her skin, his mouth trailing down her chest. She could feel him everywhere, his hands roaming, his body pressed to hers, filling her so completely she thought she might burst. Every touch was electric, every caress a jolt to her system. Her body was on fire, her senses overwhelmed, her thoughts reduced to nothing but need and want and yes.
"Claudia," he whispered into her ear, his voice a ragged, breathless sound. "Claudia, I'm... I'm gonna come soon, I..."
He began to pull away from her, his movements halting, as though fighting against his own instincts. But she reached out, her legs wrapping around his waist, preventing his withdrawal.
Ansel stared down at her, wide-eyed, his breaths coming short and fast. "I-If you don't let go," he gasped, "I... I'm gonna come inside."
Her heart skipped a beat at that, an electric thrill shooting through her body. She knew she should let him go, should allow him to withdraw. It was the rational thing to do.
It was what she should have done. But…
Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer. Her hips rose, grinding against his with a slow, languid motion, her grip keeping him firmly lodged within her. She met his gaze, her lips parted, and she breathed: "Don't stop."
The words, barely more than a whisper, seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, the space between them shrinking, closing in, until there was nothing else.
Ansel stared down at her, his eyes wide, pupils dilated, breath coming in quick, shallow pants. His gaze flicked back and forth between her eyes, searching, as if seeking confirmation, some sign that he had misunderstood her.
But she only held his gaze, unwavering. She was sure.
His brow furrowed, his jaw setting. His gaze dropped to her lips, then down to the swell of her breasts, her nipples peaked and taut from the night air, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
And then, slowly, he slid his hips forward, pressing deeper, filling her to the hilt. His hands, trembling, gripped her waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He began to move, thrusting into her with a steady, deliberate pace, sliding in and out of her with a wet, slick sound that made her toes curl and her breath catch in her throat.
The training yard was livelier than usual.
Claudia had noticed the shift even before stepping onto the grounds. The clash of steel rang sharper against the courtyard walls, punctuated by the grunts and curses of men testing their mettle against one another. A low murmur of voices, some familiar, others unfamiliar, wove through the air like threads of an uneven tapestry.
She adjusted her gauntlets as she descended the worn steps leading into the training yard. Ansel was already there, testing the weight of a practice sword as he exchanged a few quiet words with Lieutenant Strava and the others from the mixed cavalry. A handful of her own armsmen were present, stretching, rolling their shoulders, checking the edges of their sparring blades.
And then there were the newcomers—the Black Hounds.
A dozen of them, at least. More likely closer to two dozen. Some had already shed their surcoats and mail to train, stripped down to loose tunics and breeches, while others loitered at the edges of the yard, watching. Their captain—A Kaspar Morgan—stood by the racks, arms crossed, talking lowly with one of his men. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with the sharp, appraising look of a man searching for an angle.
More and more of the Hounds had been trickling into the city over the past few weeks, some arriving in loose bands, others with their own small retinues.
A sharp clang rang out as a Levantine knight sparred against a Black Hound recruit, their blades ringing like church bells. The duel was evenly matched, a contest of brute force and technique. Claudia came to a stop at the edge of the courtyard, arms behind her back, watching as the bout ended with the Hound twisting at an odd angle, knocking the Levantine knight's legs out from under him and slamming the flat of his blade against the man's side before he could recover.
A perfectly legal move. A clever one, too. She couldn't help but be impressed.
The fallen knight scowled, his hand bracing against the dirt. "That was a damned cheap trick."
The Hound, a wiry man with close-cropped dark hair and a scarred lip, only smirked. "Many pardons, milord. I thought this was a fight. I must have missed the part where we established rules."
That earned a few chuckles from the watching Hounds, but the Levantine knights and armsmen weren't nearly as amused.
She caught Ansel watching the exchange as well. He stood beside Lieutenant Strava, arms crossed, brows furrowed. His mouth was set in a neutral line, but she knew him well enough to recognize that he was thinking.
"It was pretty clever," said Ansel. "I can think of a couple of guys who could've done with a move like that."
Strava huffed. "Clever's one way to put it. Another way is to call it what it was—A dick move."
"Yeah, well, dick moves come in handy when your life's on the line, Vera," said a girl standing beside them. Her hair was short and pale, almost bordering on silver.
Ansel grunted, seeming as though he wasn't sure whether to agree or not.
Claudia exhaled slowly through her nose. This was important.
Her soldiers would be fighting alongside these men. Not against them. The last thing she needed was for their styles to clash in battle. If the Black Hounds fought differently, her knights needed to understand that difference. They didn't have to like it.
But they needed to adapt to it.
She stepped forward, clearing her throat. "Continue."
The Levantine knight rose to his feet, begrudgingly nodding at his opponent before stepping aside. Then, another pair took to the yard.
This time, Ansel stepped forward.
Claudia wasn't surprised. He was already rolling his shoulders, testing his grip on the practice blade, eager. He hadn't sparred much with others aside from her, and she had no doubt he was itching for the opportunity.
His opponent was a tall man with a shaved head and a jagged scar across his left cheek. He was older than Ansel, likely more experienced, and he fought like it.
The match began swiftly.
Ansel was fast—his footwork light, his blade moving in quick arcs—but the Hound was patient. He didn't try to meet speed with speed. Instead, he absorbed the pressure, waiting for Ansel to overextend.
And then he struck.
Not a traditional counter, not an elegant riposte—a brutal check to Ansel's ribs with the pommel of his sword.
The hit staggered him.
Gasps rippled through the yard, but Ansel recovered fast. Very fast. Instead of retreating, he surged forward, sidestepping a follow-up slash—And shot his fist into the underside of his opponent's jaw. The blow snapped the man's head back, sending him reeling, sword slipping from his grip. He stumbled back, stunned, but had the presence of mind to grab at Ansel's shirt, bringing both of them down onto the dirt.
The bout devolved into a wrestling match, bodies grappling and twisting, seeking any purchase they could find. They rolled across the dirt, the clash punctuated by grunts, curses, and the occasional cheer. Within moments, the Hound managed to gain the upper hand, pinning Ansel's arm beneath a knee, hand gripping his throat, forcing him to yield.
"What the shit was that?" The man said, even as he extended a hand down to Ansel and pulled him to his feet.
Ansel wiped at his brow, breathing hard. Claudia realized that he was grinning. "A dick move," he said. "Figured I should try one."
The man laughed, slapping at Ansel's hand, the sound drawing a ripple of laughter from the watching Hounds.
Eventually, Morgan turned to her. His tone was almost playful. "Care to test your own mettle, Excellency?"
Claudia studied him for a moment, her lips pursed in thought. Then, with a slight smile of her own, she nodded. "I don't see why not."
Unlike the rest of her household, Claudia did not play into their game. Even as Morgan tried for feints and misdirection, she did not fall for them. The moment his guard gave way to an opening, she flipped her sword into reverse, wrapped a hand around the blade in mordhau, and thrust the pummel into his stomach.
Morgan doubled over, gasping, drool hanging from the corner of his lips. "...Y-yield," Morgan coughed, wiping at his mouth. "I yield."
She took a step back, lifting a brow as the crowd fell silent, their gazes fixated on the scene. She offered him a hand, but he waved it off, shaking his head.
Claudia nodded. She returned her sword to its scabbard, the weight of it a comfortable presence at her side as she stepped from the yard.
And as she stepped away, she noticed that the pale-haired woman from before had stepped next to Ansel, holding a waterskin to his swollen jaw. She murmured something to him, too low for Claudia to hear, but it made him smile and laugh nonetheless.
"Have you ever been with a woman? Before, I mean."
Ansel blinked, as if the question had startled him. He turned his head towards her, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. He lay half-propped on one elbow, naked, the blankets draped across his hips. The heat of their earlier passion had faded, leaving only the warmth of their bodies under the covers, the quiet intimacy of presence.
Claudia wasn't sure why she was still here, why she hadn't done what she always did—pull away before the silence became unbearable. But tonight, she felt no urgency to leave. So she lay beside him, curled on her side, her arm draped over his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin. There were new scars there, only a few days old, crossing over his ribs. Her hair, unbound from its usual bun, spilled across the pillows, a cascade of brown waves.
He watched her, silent, the scar on his brow furrowing. In that light, he didn't quite look the same. Still boyish, yes, but older than she was accustomed to seeing. It was the shadows, perhaps, or the way the candlelight played across his features. Or maybe it was the fact that he wasn't looking at her the way she had grown used to. She had asked the question without quite knowing why. Maybe out of curiosity. Maybe because the silence had grown too heavy, too full of things unsaid.
She felt his chest expand, his lungs filling with a deep breath. And then he exhaled slowly, the air tickling the back of her neck. His fingers trailed up her arm, tracing the lines of her muscles, the curve of her shoulder. "...Yeah," he finally said. His voice was low and soft, as though speaking too loudly might bring the past too close.
Claudia nodded, absorbing that. Waiting, listening. "Who was she?"
Ansel shifted onto his back, resting an arm behind his head. His gaze softened, and for a moment, she thought he might not answer. Then, his lips quirked up, a half chuckle escaping him. "There were two 'she's', actually."
Claudia blinked. "Oh?"
Ansel was smiling, but it was a small thing, almost melancholic. "Adela," he said. "I knew her since we were kids."
"A childhood love?"
He hummed an affirmative. "We grew up together in Blumenbruck—my hometown. Spent half our lives running through the fields, climbing rooftops, sneaking off to the river. She was... grounded. Always had my back, always called me an idiot when I needed to hear it. I think I fell for her before I even really understood what that meant."
Claudia closed her eyes briefly, imagining it. A young Ansel, hair tousled, eyes bright. Smiling, laughing, chasing his friend through the long grasses of the countryside. A girl with whom he had fallen in love, and who had loved him in return. It was easy to picture him like that, carefree, reckless, unburdened by the weight of the world upon him.
The innocence of youth, the simple joys of friendship. The kind she had once shared with...
"What happened?" Claudia asked.
Ansel was silent for a moment. Then, he let out a slow breath. "I joined the army."
Claudia had already guessed as much. But hearing it aloud still made her chest feel tight.
"She didn't want me to go. Tried to tell me it wasn't worth it, that I didn't need to prove anything to anyone. That I was good enough as I was." He ran a hand through his hair. "But I was stupid. I thought I knew better, that I could just..."
She reached out, brushing a stray strand of red hair from his forehead. "I understand," she said quietly. "It's... what children do." Then, after a minute, she asked; "Do you regret it?"
"I..." Ansel hesitated, his brows drawing together, his gaze flickering towards her. He swallowed, his eyes searching hers. "I don't know. But I hope she's happy."
He meant it, Claudia realized. He genuinely, truly did.
"What about the other?" She asked.
"Her name's Diana," said Ansel. "We met in Halem, a few months ago."
Claudia hummed. "Your claim to fame," she said. "The beast in the north."
"Yeah," he said. "She was a militia fighter—a damn good one, too. Smart. Brave. Things happened fast between us," he admitted. "Too fast. I don't think either of us really thought about it much. It just… happened."
Claudia understood that, too.
"A fleeting thing?" she asked.
"Yeah." Then he bit the inside of his cheek,seeming almost sheepish. "She was the first woman I'd ever seen, you know. Like that. Fully."
Claudia couldn't help it. She laughed, a short, surprised sound that escaped before she could stifle it. It wasn't a mocking laugh, not really, but the absurdity of it caught her off guard. It was such a simple thing, so trivial, and yet so very much him. "So I'm the second woman you've ever bedded?"
"Yeah."
"...You're very impressive," said Claudia.
He shrugged at that. "Thanks."
"Do you miss them?"
Ansel closed his eyes. "Sometimes," he admitted. "...But not the way I used to."
She hesitated for a moment, smile fading. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying at it. Then, finally, she asked, "And Colette?"
Ansel blinked. "What?"
"The young woman from Lieutenant Strava's squad," she said. "You seemed to be getting along well."
"Oh," he said. "...Yeah."
"She's fond of you."
"I know." Ansel sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. For a moment, he looked genuinely conflicted, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing. "She's a good person. She deserves better than me."
Claudia's fingers curled against the sheets.
Better than him.
Did she think the same of herself? The thought made her throat feel tight.
Ansel turned his head to look at her again. His expression was difficult to read, but there was something searching in his gaze. "Why do you ask?"
She didn't have an answer. Or perhaps, she had too many answers, none of which she was willing to give.
She turned away slightly, letting her hair spill across her face, obscuring it from view. "No particular reason," she muttered. "I was merely curious."
She felt Ansel watching her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled and settled back into the mattress.
She wondered if someday, she too would be another name. Another weight in his voice. Another memory he spoke of in past tense.
...It would be for the best.
Brechfeld Crossing was supposed to be a critical point—a narrow stone bridge spanning the Brech River. The Legion's forces would have to cross here if they wished to mount another assault on Wallesdorf.
But when the Levantine forces arrived, they found nothing but carnage.
Hundreds of aberrant corpses lay scattered across the riverbanks, their twisted bodies half-submerged in the shallows. The air stank of decay.
"No signs of a fight," Lieutenant Strava observed, dismounting. "No blood from our side. No broken weapons. It's like they turned on each other."
Ansel stepped carefully among the bodies.
"Or like they were running from something," he murmured.
The river gurgled quietly beside them. In the distance, the path northward lay empty.