**Chapter 8: Dawn's Unyielding Forge**
Arthas possessed no mastery of carnal arts—no silken maneuvers honed in shadowed alcoves or whispered tutorials from courtly rogues who peddled secrets for coin and favor. Yet the fundamental rhythm—easing back to the precipice of parting, then driving home to the hilt—unleashed a cascade of sensations that bordered on the divine, a symphony of flesh and fire that needed no embellishment to consume him whole. The stark contrast of emptiness yielding to utter fulfillment, the teasing retreat giving way to triumphant reclamation: it was a binary ecstasy, a pendulum swing between aching void and sated glory that left him—and her—breathless on the razor's edge, each cycle building the tension like a bowstring drawn tauter with every breath. For Priscilla, long starved of such fervor in the cold, contractual couplings of her marriage, it was revelation incarnate, a blaze that scorched away years of quiet dissatisfaction. Her ex-husband's fumbling, perfunctory trysts—brief, mechanical affairs conducted in the chill of duty, more ledger entry than lover's embrace—faded to insignificance, mere guttering candles snuffed by the unrelenting blaze of this youthful sun. How could embers compare to inferno, when the boy atop her wielded passion like a weapon forged in the Holy Light's own fire?
His movements, if judged by a courtesan's discerning eye, might seem crude—monotonous in their repetition, lacking the flourish of angled hips or teasing pauses that could prolong the exquisite torture. But oh, the authenticity of each incursion: every slow withdrawal dragged velvet walls in reluctant farewell, nerves alight with the spark of parting flesh, the cool air kissing his heated length like a lover's taunt; every subsequent plunge buried him in welcoming heat, a velvet glove squeezing with involuntary delight, her depths rippling in response as if alive with their own hunger. Endless ripples of pleasure radiated from the union, softening Priscilla's limbs to liquid warmth, her body a puddle of pliant bliss beneath him, every muscle surrendering to the relentless tide. And this bull of a boy—fourteen summers young, yet forged in palace drills and the Holy Light's unyielding forge—pressed on without falter, his stamina a marvel that bordered on the supernatural, a gift from the system or perhaps the gods themselves. The pace quickened inexorably, from deliberate exploration to frenzied pursuit; the air thick with the slap of skin and the creak of protesting oak, each acceleration a testament to his unquenchable fire.
The grand four-poster groaned in sympathy, its frame a staccato percussion underscoring their symphony—a creaking crescendo that grew ever more insistent, echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the prince's private chambers like a drumbeat calling the faithful to prayer. Priscilla's inner sanctum responded in kind, clenching with desperate fervor, the muscles coiling like a spring wound too tight under the onslaught. Veins stood proud along her throat, a map of suppressed tempests pulsing with the rhythm of her racing heart, as she battled the Herculean task of silence: to savor this "ravishment" from her cherished nephew without shattering the fragile illusion of slumber, to drink deep of the pleasure without spilling a single cry into the night. The strain was exquisite agony—rapture's relentless tide eroding her every bulwark, threatening to flood the room with moans she'd never dared voice, even in the privacy of her own bed with a husband who viewed intimacy as a contractual obligation fulfilled in haste, leaving her adrift in the aftermath's empty harbor.
*Hiss!* The dam cracked at last—her breaths fracturing into ragged pleas, veils of restraint rent asunder in the gale, the sound a whisper of wind through rigging that only fueled his fervor. The long-fallow fires of her desire reignited with volcanic fury: his crown battering the sacred gate of her core, grinding in a maddening loop of hollow yearning and plenitude's embrace, repeating the torment until repletion reigned supreme, each cycle pushing her closer to the precipice she'd long forgotten existed. Ten succulent digits spasmed in arched ecstasy, curling like claws into the rumpled linens; her jade hands raked the sheets with white-knuckled desperation, fabric bunching and tearing under the impact of her grip, leaving crescent moons of strain in the silk as if to anchor against the tide threatening to sweep her away. Her vault locked unyielding now, a velvet vise ensnaring his length in silken decree—clamping, sucking, demanding tribute with every quiver, the sensation a exquisite torture that made his vision blur at the edges.
*Slap-slap-slap!* Dawn's first rays gilded the scene in the prince's sanctum: an inebriated savant of seas and silks subdued by scion two decades her junior, decorum's iron fetters sundered in ardor's unbridled hurricane, the air thick with the mingled scents of rum, sweat, and the faint, salty tang of the sea that always seemed to cling to her skin like a lover's memory. Arthas, face flushed with the crimson of exertion and exaltation, hammered relentlessly 'twixt her splayed thighs—impact after impact sending ripples through her plush form, the wet symphony of their union growing louder, more insistent, a profane canticle that drowned out the distant calls of the palace guards changing shift in the halls below.
Rapture's clarion tolled her third tremor—a spasmodic serenade that rippled through her like seismic aftershocks, each wave crashing harder than the last; time's ledger lost to the haze, minutes bleeding into eternity as the bed's lament reached fever pitch. Lips ravaged hers in rapacious raid, tongue storming the breach to tangle and taste her rum-sweet essence, the kiss a desperate anchor amid the storm. "It's upon us... wife... Auntie... ah... for you... Auntie!" The terms tumbled from him, fractured vows amid the frenzy, each syllable a lash driving him deeper, the words a bridge between the boy she'd known and the man now forging himself in her embrace.
Zenith loomed like a gathering storm, dark clouds of release rolling in from the horizon of his endurance; his advances ballooned to cataclysmic scale—lunges that shook the bedframe to its foundations, the nexus of their union a churning froth of mingled leavings and lubricant, a briny incense dense as fog rolling off Kul Tiras's shores, the air humming with the lewd symphony: wet *schlick* of flesh yielding to flesh, the muffled gasp of her suppressed moans, the rhythmic slap of hip to hip echoing like distant thunder rolling across the Alterac peaks.
Delight crested inexorably, his crown incandescent with pent torment, the glans a throbbing beacon in the furnace of her depths; the hoarded gale detonated in spectacular release, a cataclysm that left him gasping as if surfacing from abyssal depths. Arthas bellowed—a guttural roar muffled against her throat, the sound raw and primal, echoing the orcs' war cries he'd soon face on distant shores—as he sheathed to the absolute nadir, apex saluted by her innermost maw, suckled with voracious hunger that pulled at him like the Holy Light's own call to judgment. Her ramparts erupted in seismic sympathy, thews extorting his essence in reaper's relentless behest—milking totality with contractions that bordered on pain's sweet edge, each pulse a demand for tribute, a silent vow of mutual ruin.
Leash severed utterly, viscous oblation speared her nursery in salvo upon salvo, each pulse a declaration of possession that painted her womb with the fervor of first conquest, the warmth spreading like liquid gold through her core, a marking that felt as permanent as a tattoo inked by the gods themselves. Priscilla's abyss throbbed antiphonal—her elixir dousing him in appreciative deluge, a mirrored inundation that prolonged the shared delirium, waves crashing in perfect, forbidden harmony, her body arching subtly beneath him in silent acknowledgment of the bond forged in fire.
Dawn's levy prolonged a full five minutes' torpor, a consecrated interlude where time suspended in languid haze, the room's air thick with the mingled scents of their union—salt, sweat, and the faint, floral undernote of her skin that always evoked the blooming mists of Pandaria's hidden groves, though she'd never set foot there. Before he disengaged—his flaccid lance gliding loose with a final, reluctant kiss that made her inner walls flutter in protest—Arthas beheld her engorged efflorescence, a pang of remorse lancing through the afterglow like a fel-dart in the flesh. Holy Light kindled in his palm like dawn's first blush, salving the fragile fissure with tender radiance, the golden glow seeping into her like a benediction, easing the tender stretch and soothing the subtle ache of their prolonged union. Her petals, dilated by the protracted pillage of their passion, quavered in lingering aftershocks—his legacy etching luminous rivulets from rosied ramparts, pearlescent trails marking the territory claimed in the night's fervent siege. Loveliness in lethargy, essence-enshrined—a profane portrait of beauty spent and sated, creampied in the most intimate of baptisms, the sight a lascivious masterpiece that reignited him prompt, blood surging anew with a vengeance. Undeterred by spent limbs or the first light's warning, he vaulted once more, reinstating the ritual with renewed, if gentler, devotion—thrusts slower now, savoring the slick aftermath as much as the initial fire, each motion a whispered apology and promise rolled into one, the Holy Light's glow lingering in his touch like a lover's aftercare.
Sixty minutes hence—marked by three more crescendos, each drawing gasps from her feigned sleep that grew harder to stifle, her body betraying her with shivers and clenches that spoke volumes in the silence—Arthas cut a dapper silhouette in the strategy salon, attire crisp as resolve and rumpled sheets banished to memory, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to his skin like a secret talisman. Imperative summoned: shadowing Uther the Lightbringer to the advance outposts—lessons in phalanxes and provisioning, overture to the inevitable advance, where he'd learn the dance of steel and strategy that would one day crown him conqueror. The Horde's prows scarred the welkin like fel-tainted scars upon the sky; meridional to the Hillsbrad Foothills they would march, to staunch the viridian vanguard before it could claw a foothold on sacred soil, the greenskins' beachhead a festering wound that demanded cauterizing with Alliance steel.
His exit unmarked by fanfare or farewell, Priscilla roused in the chamber's hush—scrutiny tracing the melee's mementos with a mix of wonder and wry amusement: nipped summits slick with spittle's sheen, palm-stamps incarnadine on alabaster flanks like badges of a hard-won battle, the faint bruises blooming like roses in a Tiras garden after a gale. A delectable debility permeated her every fiber, the eve's elixir unparalleled in its potency and persistence, leaving her limbs heavy as leaden sails after a long voyage, yet her spirit afloat on the high of rediscovered vitality. Her consort's pallid pairings—brief, dutiful shadows in the marriage bed, more ledger entry than lover's embrace—were embers scattered to this conflagration's unrelenting blaze, coals ground to dust under the heel of true passion, leaving only the bitter ash of what might have been if she'd chosen a partner with fire in his blood rather than ink in his ledgers. Culmination's delirium replayed in vivid flashes, etched in memory's forge: overzealous in the apex's frenzy, he'd assaulted her cervix's citadel with unbridled force, his crown lodging in that holiest hollow like a conqueror staking claim to uncharted territory. The verge had vibrated with peril, the incursion unmaking him in an instant—immediate inundation into her womb's tabernacle, a deluge direct and unfiltered, flooding the cradle of creation with the seed of a prince who'd one day rule empires. Fabrication's fulcrum, that delicate nexus of life—unbreached in reverie or rite, never even fathomed in the quiet hours when loneliness crept in like fog over the waves—had near-quenched her pulse in shock's grip, solely to gallop like a war-steed post-pluvial, heart hammering with a fury that matched the waves crashing against her isles during monsoon season. Cascading cataclysms conjoined in her core—psyche blanked in brilliance's blinding void, reclamation a shoal-cast gasp, body arching in double-helix of ecstasy that left her adrift for ages untold, gasping like a mariner hauled from the deep, lungs burning for air that tasted of salt and salvation.
"Ravenous rascal... deluging sans restraint, without a whisper of mercy—flooding me like a rogue wave off the Maelstrom!"
The rebuke thawed to a titter, tender and arch—affection's edge honed by the night's revelations, the words laced with a coquettish lilt that surprised even her, as if her body had spoken a truth her mind had yet to fully embrace. Chalice drawn as makeshift bulwark, she nestled profound into the linens—regent's relative, dame dominant, aunt abiding in the aftermath's quiet, the fabric cool against her fevered skin like a lover's sigh. Warrant for her watch here was ironclad, unquestioned in the palace's labyrinthine halls; climax's cataract had sapped sinew to the marrow, exacting an elixir of exhaustion that demanded draughts of dream to replenish the well. Repose invoked, the swell's own salve to mend the delicious wreckage left by the night's fervent forge, where boy had become man in her arms, and aunt had glimpsed something deeper, a role she hadn't dared imagine in her childless years.
Continent's girth distant, a viridian behemoth bulked at wharf's lip—two meters of thewed menace, Doomhammer clutched as apocalypse's own scion, the massive hammer's head glinting like a fel-forged promise of ruin. Orgrim Doomhammer, Horde's paramount warchief, contemplated the argosy with eyes like storm-forged flint, scanning the armada's ranks with the cold calculation of a general who had seen worlds burn and risen from their ashes: semimillion horde, orcish elite refined to stiletto's kiss, every grunt and shaman a blade honed for the slaughter. Draenor's diaspora dashed at Azeroth in absolute all-in—conquest or catacomb, no via media between glory and grave, the stakes as high as the jagged peaks of Frostfire Ridge left behind in their exodus from a dying world.
His contour solo cowed the casual gaze, monolith mid brawn-blinded brood—shadow swallowing light, presence a pressure without peer that made even the boldest warlord avert their eyes. Orgrim: outlier oracle among muscle's myrmidons, tactician where clan cleaved crude and unthinking, his mind a forge where strategy was hammered from the raw ore of barbaric instinct, tempered by losses that would have broken lesser chieftains.
"Warchief, mortal gazes gore our galleons like harpies on carrion. Maritime maneuver's mantle frays to tatters—emissaries trumpet our trajectory to every spire and slum, their spies as thick as rats in a granary."
Eitrigg's timbre fretted like wind-whipped canvas on a foundering ship; fel-abjured sentinel, his acuity abided acute amid the green tide's madness—viridian's vice a fiend's tinct, ineradicable stain upon the soul that marked him as one of the few untouched by Kil'jaeden's full curse, his eyes clear where others burned with demonic haze.
Orgrim's grimace gaped tusks in predatory mirth, vista vaulting to scarlet specters wheeling aloft in lazy menace, their wingbeats a thunder that rattled the docks like distant artillery. Supercilious scarlets, yoked as coursers for "base" orcs—drake-lancers lording empyrean, skies enslaved to groundling whim, the mighty Alexstrasza's brood bent to fel-pacts by Deathwing's deceit and the Dragonmaw clan's cruel reins.
"Trifle, old friend. Permit their proclamation—let the humans quake in their towers, muster their feeble steel. Hah—our confederates eclipse their espy, turning vigilance to ash and bone."
Drake's ire: mankind's Mahapralaya, atom unbound—a cataclysm to cleave continents and convictions, rending realms with wing and wrath unchained, where the Alliance's proud fleets would founder like toys in a child's tantrum, the red dragons' breath the nuclear fire to reduce their wooden walls to charred splinters and their sailors to screaming cinders.