The war room fell silent as the torchlight dimmed.
And then it appeared.
The air shimmered, mana condensing unnaturally into a swirling sphere of violet-black flame. From it, a voice emerged—smooth, commanding, deep enough to shake the bones.
"Kujo."
The figure formed slowly. A tall, horned silhouette with burning crimson eyes, sharp features, and a long black cloak that fluttered without wind. The Demon King's psychic projection. No physical body, but no less dangerous. His presence alone twisted the room's temperature.
"I see your walls. Your army of strays. Your harem of mongrels." The Demon King's lips curled into a smirk. "You cling to power, prince of nothing. But the hourglass is tipping."
He raised one clawed hand. Illusions flashed behind him—marching legions, flying war beasts, towers of fire in the distance.
"My army moves now. I will erase what you've built. Brick by brick. Body by body. And when your women scream—know it was your weakness that doomed them."
The projection flickered.
"Enjoy your last days of peace."
Then he vanished.
The silence after was heavier than his words.
Kujo stood at the center of the war table, jaw clenched. Zafira lowered her head slightly, whispering, "He's not bluffing."
Fiore folded her arms. "He's starting to feel threatened."
Setara furiously scribbled new calculations. "Mobilization must've started already. We'll need to shift resources immediately."
But Kujo noticed something else—just off to the side.
Aeva.
She wasn't speaking. Wasn't smirking. Wasn't teasing.
She was trembling.
Eyes wide.
Silent.
He walked toward her. "Aeva?"
She turned her back—but not fast enough to hide her expression. He caught the panic, the fear she usually masked behind seduction and swagger. Her tail, usually playful, hung limp behind her. Her arms hugged her torso.
"You know him," Kujo said quietly.
"…I knew him." Her voice cracked. "I was… one of his favorites. Before I escaped."
The room fell even more silent.
"He doesn't forget disobedience," she whispered. "He'll come for me. Just to make a point. Just to break me again."
Kujo reached out. She flinched.
"I won't let him," he said.
She shook her head. "You don't get it. If he wins—if he even sees me here—he'll tear me apart in front of everyone. And not quickly."
"You're not going anywhere," Kujo said, firm now. "You defected. You helped us. You earned your place. I'm not sending you away."
"But I'm dangerous," she whispered, voice shaking. "I'm a reminder. I'm a target. He—he owned me once."
He stepped closer.
"You're not his anymore."
Her eyes met his.
Tears welled.
And then—
She surged forward.
She grabbed him by the collar, pressed her body to his, and kissed him—hard. Desperate. No teasing. No flirtation. Just raw emotion, poured into lips that trembled as they moved against his.
It wasn't playful.
It was needy.
Her hands dug into his back. Her tail wrapped around his thigh. Her breath hitched between kisses like she couldn't stop even if she wanted to.
When she finally pulled back, she rested her forehead against his chest, panting.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For not pushing me away. For seeing me as more than what he made me."
Kujo wrapped his arms around her.
"You're mine now," he said softly. "And I protect what's mine."
The mission was straightforward—on paper.
A fortified Demon King outpost sat perched over a strategic cliff pass, supplying his eastern forces. Too well-defended for a frontal assault. Too isolated to monitor easily. The solution: a stealth strike. Disable the outpost's teleportation relay. Cripple the supply chain. Then vanish before alarms could be raised.
Kujo didn't go alone.
He brought her.
Seraka.
Once a knight of the Crimson Dunes, now his most disciplined commander. Obedient. Relentless. Sharp-eyed and sharper-bladed. She had never once disobeyed a command. Never flinched in the heat of battle. Never cracked her stoic, ironclad mask.
Until tonight.
They moved under darkness.
Her armor was stripped down to black leathers and matte cloth. Her movements were silent, practiced. Kujo's shadow magic blanketed their presence as they crept past patrols and scaled the rocky outcrop below the tower.
Disabling the core was almost too easy.
They moved as one. No wasted steps. No unnecessary words. Kujo channeled a disruption pulse. Seraka gutted the relay crystal with a well-timed blade thrust. The entire node pulsed—and went dark.
And then the ground trembled.
A rumble beneath the outcrop.
"Retreat—" Kujo started.
But it was too late.
The earth split behind them, the ledge collapsing inward. Stones rained down like thunder. They dove—hard—into the side of the cliff just as the entire path crumbled into dust and debris.
When the tremor faded, they were alive—but trapped.
A narrow cave.
Cold air.
No light but the faint purple glow of Kujo's mana residue and the soft red runes inscribed along Seraka's bracers.
The exit was blocked by a heap of stone, too thick to dig through from the inside until morning reinforcements arrived. The interior was barely large enough for them both to sit—shoulder to shoulder, thigh against thigh.
Neither spoke at first.
Time passed.
Breath misted in the cold.
Finally, Seraka muttered, "We'll need to share warmth."
Kujo blinked. "You serious?"
"I'm trained for cold resistance. But it's limited without armor. Skin contact conserves heat."
He opened his mouth, but she was already peeling off her soaked upper gear.
She moved like a soldier—direct, focused. But as her top fell away and she pressed against him, her body told a different story.
Wounds. Faint scars. Hardened muscle. Her face never flinched, but her breath hitched slightly as her bare chest touched his.
She didn't look at him.
"I served the Demon King once," she said.
Kujo didn't move.
"He promised structure. Power. A place for warriors. I believed him."
She pressed her forehead to his collarbone.
"He used us. Broke us. Laughed when we died."
Her voice lowered. "But I kept obeying. Until I saw what he did to children. To prisoners. Until I saw what loyalty meant to him."
Kujo wrapped his arms around her, slowly.
"You chose to leave."
"I chose you," she said, finally looking up at him. "And I won't regret it."
They sat in silence.
Her breath warmed his skin. Her thighs brushed against his. Her heartbeat was steady—but fast.
And then, suddenly, she moved.
She gripped the front of his coat.
Pulled him down.
And kissed him.
Fiercely.
Not like Aeva's desperate kiss, or Dimara's playful ones, or Zafira's slow seductions.
Seraka kissed like she was seizing a battlefield. Commanding. Passionate. Hungry.
When she finally broke the kiss, she whispered, "I've been holding that back since you beat me."
He blinked.
"Glad you stopped holding back."
She smirked.
Then curled against his chest, her body fitting perfectly against his as the chill of the cave seemed to vanish.
By sunrise, the rescue team found them asleep in each other's arms, Seraka's head resting over his heart, their gear scattered in neat piles beside them.