Elaraion walked on, processing the thoughts in his head.
He wondered if it could be possible. At this time, he began to consider the effect of the bows and arrows.
They passed a dimly lit establishment, its wooden sign depicting a buxom woman winking suggestively. A brothel. From the open doorway, the heady scent of cheap perfume, sweat, and something musky, almost animalistic, wafted out.
Within, through the murky light, he saw movement, glimpses of pale flesh. Women, some half-clothed, some entirely naked, sprawled on cushions, their bodies inviting. They beckoned with painted smiles and languid gestures, their breasts, full and ripe, offered for inspection.
A shock, hot and insistent, jolted through Elaraion. His blood surged, pooling low in his loins. His dick, dormant and unremarkable his entire life as Andreas, stirred, rising with an embarrassing eagerness against the rough fabric of his breeches.
The sight of the women's exposed bodies, the nipples dark against the pale mounds, the curves of their asses as they shifted, the dark, inviting shadows of their pussies – it all slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.
Desire, raw and primal, overwhelmed him. It was as if he had been fired by his own arrows, struck by the very essence of lust he could command in others. He wanted to have sex. He wanted to lose himself in the heat and the touch.
As Andreas, he had been a virgin, untouched, unloved. He realized, with a pang of bitter recognition, that Elaraion, too, in this life, had known no woman's touch. No woman would follow a man with nothing, a man despised even by his kin.
"Would my Master fancy a moment of… solace?" Kael voiced. "A whore, perhaps? For your pleasure?"
The offer hung in the air, tempting and illicit. Elaraion's reputation was already stained, smeared with the mud of defeat. To be seen entering such a place, even as a disgraced noble, would only deepen the ignominy. Yet, the yearning for release, for something, anything, to fill the void, was overwhelming.
"Yes," Elaraion said, the word escaping him before he could think. Then, recalling himself, he added, "But… people would see me. A noble should be seen in the inns, not… here."
Kael smirked. "Fret not, Master. We can have you disguised. A simple cloak, a hood, and perhaps a smear of charcoal to smudge your noble features. Whoever you wish to be, Master, it shall be so. I shall pay the coin."
Disguise. "Do it."
Within moments, a coarse, hooded cloak was thrown over Elaraion's shoulders, the hood pulled low to obscure his face. Kael, with a surprising delicacy, smeared a little soot across his cheeks, dulling the aristocratic lines of his jaw. He looked less like a noble, and more like a weary traveler or a common merchant.
Elaraion and Kael pushed through the heavy, velvet-draped doorway of the brothel. Inside, the air was thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap wine and heavy perfume, mingled with the earthy scent of bodies, both clean and unwashed.
Laughter, coarse and unrestrained, mingled with the mournful wail of a lute. Women, in various states of undress – some completely naked, their bodies displayed openly, others in diaphanous silks revealing more than they concealed – draped themselves over plush cushions, their eyes painted, their smiles practiced.
Some danced on a small, raised stage, their hips swaying to the sluggish rhythm of the music. Others sat on the laps of patrons, their giggles echoing through the haze of smoke. The sight of people openly fucking, their bodies grinding together, their moans echoing in the dimly lit corners, filled Elaraion with an almost unbearable craving. He felt a profound, aching emptiness in himself that he suddenly yearned to fill with this raw, primal connection.
Kael led Elaraion to a quieter corner, a dimly lit alcove draped in faded crimson. He gestured to two women, who immediately detached themselves from their companions and approached, their movements languid and practiced. One was a redhead with a cascade of fiery curls and a smattering of freckles across her generous bosom. The other, dark-haired and slender, moved with a feline grace.
"For the Master," Kael said simply, pressing a handful of silver coins into the redhead's hand.
The redhead smiled. "Anything for the gentleman."
Elaraion stood frozen for a moment, suddenly awkward, his body still unfamiliar with this new, powerful surge of desire. The women approached, their gazes assessing. He reached out hesitantly and touched the redhead's breast. It was soft, surprisingly yielding, a warmth spreading beneath his fingertips, sending shivers through his entire body. He had never touched a woman like this, never dared. The sensation was electrifying.
The dark-haired woman, without a word, knelt before him. Her skilled fingers fumbled with his breeches, releasing his hardened member. Then, her warm, wet mouth closed around him, a shock of exquisite pleasure rippling through his entire being.
He gasped, his eyes widening, the pleasure almost painful in its intensity. At the same time, the redhead pressed her soft, firm breast against his face, her hand gently guiding his head, her nipple brushing his lips. The combined sensations were overwhelming and intoxicating.
A fleeting thought, a whisper from his old life as Andreas, about disease, about infection, flickered through his mind. But this was a medieval world, a world where such concerns were a luxury he could not afford, a world where he was fighting for his very existence.
The wave of pure unadulterated sensation washed over him, drowning out all else. His hips bucked, a guttural moan escaping his lips. He climaxed, a torrent of hot, sticky release, his knees buckling.
It was a release so profound, so absolute, that for a fleeting moment, all his worries, all his shame, vanished. He understood, then, the raw, unbridled power of lust, and how easily it could consume. He truly felt as if he had been struck by his own golden arrow.
"You need a room, Master?" Kael asked.
Elaraion, still reeling, simply nodded, breathless. He was led towards a long, dimly lit hall. The sounds intensified here: gasps, moans, the rhythmic creak of bedsprings, laughter, whispered commands.
Through half-open doors, he caught glimpses of bodies entwined, limbs tangled, raw sexuality laid bare. The sight of naked bodies, men and women, writhing in the throes of pleasure, made his own awakened desires throb anew.
He wanted to join them, to immerse himself in this unrestrained sensuality, to shed all the inhibitions of his former life.
Just as they neared one of the rooms, a sudden, piercing blast of a trumpet echoed through the brothel, cutting through the symphony of lust and revelry. It was the King's Royal Trumpet. The games were officially over. The King and his princesses would be returning to the capital.
He had to act. He had to fire an arrow into one of the princesses now before they departed the city. He pushed the women away, abruptly, the lingering desire replaced by a fierce urgency. "I must go!"
Kael merely nodded. "Shall I follow, Master?"
"No," Elaraion said, already turning. "Stay here. I will come for you when the time is right." He didn't wait for a reply.
"Do you want to see the king, I know which route he will take," Kael said.
"Kael!" he snapped, turning to the dreadlocked leader who now stood obediently at his side. "You claim to know these lands. Tell me, do you know the precise route the King and his princesses will take to the capital?"
Kael nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Aye, Master. Every twisting alley, every hidden passage, every grand thoroughfare in Aethelgard, and every city I have ever set foot in. It is etched here," he tapped his temple, "clearer than any parchment map. The royal procession takes the Grand Imperial Road, Master. A predictable route, for all their pomp and circumstance."
A jolt of satisfaction ran through Elaraion. Kael was more than just a brute; he was a walking compendium of useful information, a resource he could exploit to navigate this new, dangerous world. Kael would be useful.
"Lead me then, Kael," Elaraion commanded. "To a vantage point. Somewhere high, where I might see them before they depart."
Kael wasted no time. He led Elaraion through a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets, past sleeping merchant stalls and the occasional huddle of street dwellers. The mob, loyal and silent, melted into the shadows, a protective vanguard that parted the path for their new Master.
Soon, they emerged before a dilapidated stone tower, its top shrouded in the pre-dawn gloom. It looked like an old watchtower, forgotten and crumbling.
"This, Master, offers a clear view of the Grand Imperial Road," Kael murmured, gesturing upwards. "The King's procession will pass directly below and you will be able to see them. Albeit, they won't."
Elaraion nodded. His eyes scanned the ascent. He climbed the crumbling stairs. Kael just behind him. Finally, they reached the top, a small, circular platform exposed to the biting wind.
From here, the city sprawled beneath them and in the distance, a growing line of torchlight snaked towards the Grand Imperial Road. The royal procession.
He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. This was it. The moment of truth. He reached behind him, his fingers closing around the smooth wood of the Bow of Affection.
"Stand back, Kael," he instructed, his voice low. Kael, though curious, obeyed without question, his gaze fixed on Elaraion, who now held the invisible weapon.
He looked to his loin and picked a grey arrow. Then he shook his head as though he was in a disagreement. He then let go and picked the golden arrow. "I don't just want the loyalty; I want her; I want the throne," he said and smiled.