The air still smelled faintly of ozone and pulverized beast bone. Liora, the Captain of the Gray Knights, a woman whose reputation was forged in steel and icy command, was the last to receive the Alabaster Woe's or Lark's attention. She stepped forward, her movements stiff, designed to hide the profound unease caused by the sight of her hardened soldiers reduced to trembling, wet messes.
Liora's injuries were comparatively minor, a fractured fifth rib sustained when she'd been thrown against a petrified tree trunk. She assumed a posture of rigid military deference, meeting the gaze of the towering, marble-white creature.
Lark extended one long, incredibly elegant hand. The marble-white skin was cool and perfect, lined with the faint, unsettling shimmer of gold energy. He placed his palm gently, almost clinically, over her ribs.
The moment the energy poured into her, Liora's carefully constructed defenses shattered.
It was not merely the cessation of pain, the broken bone knitted itself instantly, the jagged edges smoothing and fusing back into place with the precision of a celestial sculptor. It was the delivery system. The energy was not a soothing balm; it was an incredibly potent, targeted vibration that burrowed deep into her core. It bypassed muscle and sinew, finding the most sensitive, primal centers of her being.
A moan escaped her throat, high and desperate, before she could clamp down. Her eyes widened in panic, the immediate shock of raw physical pleasure overriding decades of training. She slammed her free hand over her mouth, biting down hard against her knuckles to silence the embarrassing sound clawing its way up.
Beneath the heel of Lark's hand, the gold veins pulsed. The euphoria intensified, spreading from her chest like liquid fire, rushing downward. Every nerve ending between her thighs ignited. The sensation was immediate, overwhelming, and utterly complete. It was a minute of targeted, divine climax. Her body arched slightly, straining into the pressure of his palm.
When Lark retracted his hand, the residual energy faded, leaving a devastating emptiness. Liora stood frozen, trembling, her face flushed crimson beneath the grime, her knuckles still pressed against her lips. She was soaked through, the heat and moisture pooling in her undergarments a searing testament to her loss of control.
She dropped her arm and offered Lark a swift, sharp nod, the only acknowledgment she could manage.
"Thank you, Lark," she managed, her voice a rough whisper.
She pivoted instantly, intending to march away with the military certainty of a captain escaping a battlefield. But the muscles in her legs were weak, liquefied by the intensity of the minute-long assault. She took two steps, a perfect image of rigid command, and then her left knee buckled almost imperceptibly. She caught herself, turning the stumble into a purposeful adjustment of her belt, but the attempt was pitiful.
Lark, viewing the world through dozens of sapphire-blue eyes, did not miss the tremor in her body or the desperate wetness clinging to her thigh armor. He simply tilted his flawless head, his multi-toned voice echoing slightly: "The immediate effects will dissipate, Captain."
Liora nodded again, avoiding the knowing glances of her subordinates, and marched stiffly to the front, feeling as though every eye in the company was currently burning into her damp crotch.
The company resumed its journey that afternoon, moving through a forest of grotesque, oversized flora that dripped neon sap. The atmosphere, however, had undergone a seismic shift.
Prior to the battle, Lark had been a necessary evil, a terrifying, inhuman monstrosity they were forced to escort. Now, he was something far more dangerous: a source of addictive, absolute pleasure.
They were all grateful for the healing. The speed with which fractured bones and ripped muscles had been restored was miraculous. But the gratitude was secondary to the lingering, powerful memory of the euphoria. For the young women knights, many of whom were still virginal and had spent their lives repressed by either religious vows or the grinding demands of military life, that minutes of ecstasy was the most profound physical event they had ever experienced.
The chatter was gone, replaced by a quiet, vibrating tension. Every few moments, a woman knight would glance back at the towering marble figure marching silently behind them. They remembered the warmth of his touch, the way the gold energy had vibrated directly into their deepest centers, leaving them convulsing in silent, blissful release. They were fighting an internal battle, a war between martial discipline and a deeply awakened, ravenous desire.
As the afternoon wore on, and the light began to turn ochre through the tangled canopy, Lark stopped.
"Nightfall approaches swiftly in this terrain," his echoing voice announced. "I will try to hunt for something for us."
He vanished into the thick undergrowth with shocking speed. They heard only the quiet snap of a few branches, and then silence.
The waiting was tense. Liora established a perimeter, her own mind still cycling through the minute she had spent in Lark's grasp, trying desperately to rationalize the pleasure as a byproduct of a necessary biological process rather than a complete, degrading surrender.
When Lark returned an hour later, he emerged dragging three immense creatures each the size of an ox, covered in iridescent purple hides. He handled them as if they were toys, dragging the combined weight of more than a ton with casual ease.
He then set about making a fire. The process was utterly efficient, devoid of the clumsy fumbling humans require. He selected specific, dry timbers, stacked them with geometric precision, and then, without rubbing stones or using flint, he simply placed his marble hand over the wood. A precise discharge of controlled gold energy ignited the structure instantly, creating a clean, hot flame that burned without smoke.
The knights watched him with awe. He was efficient, deadly, and unnervingly competent in every domain.
They cleaned and butchered the strange creatures, though Lark did most of the heavy skinning with terrifyingly sharp claws that extended from his fingertips. Soon, thick cuts of meat were roasting over the pristine fire, and the group finally settled around the warmth.
The silence returned, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the low, heavy breathing of the massive creature at their center. The hunger for the meat was competing fiercely with another, more desperate hunger.
It was Seraphina, a young, dark-haired knight known for her piety and her sharp, humorless professionalism, who broke. She had been staring into the flames, her lips pressed into a thin line, fighting her internal urges for the past three hours.
She stood abruptly. Her voice trembled, cracking the stillness of the dark forest.
"Lark," she said, her hands twisting her tunic. "I... I have a request."
Lark had been watching the meat cook, his featuresless marble face tilted slightly. His sapphire eyes, scattered across his neck and cheeks, focused on her.
"Sure, what is it?"
She swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath. "I—I am not injured. Not physically. But... could you use your ability on me again?" Her voice dropped to a barely audible plea. "Please... I... need it again."
Lark paused, the echoes in his voice becoming deeper, almost thoughtful. A request for sexual relief, he realized. The girl was shaking with internalized desire, her body aching for the minute of pure sensation his healing provided. The Lark-core of his persona noted her attractive features and the sheer desperation in her eyes. The Woe-core was simply intrigued by the explicit nature of the compliance.
"You seek... relief from an unhealed tension," Lark stated, the pronouncement sounding like a divine judgment. He couldn't say no. Not to this level of need, especially from one of the more desirable members of the company.
"Sit before me," he instructed. "I'll place my arm on your shoulder again."
Seraphina did not hesitate. The shame she might have felt was utterly overwhelmed by the memory of the bliss she craved. She rushed forward, shedding her pack, and excitedly sat cross-legged directly in front of the colossal Alabaster Woe.
Every knight around the campfire, Liora included, was instantly riveted. This was no longer a medical necessity; it was an open, public transaction of carnal relief.
Lark extended his arm, the marble cold against her tunic. He placed his massive hand just on her shoulder.
The moment the gold energy surged, Seraphina convulsed.
She didn't merely sigh or gasp; her body seized, tightening like a taut wire. Her hands clenched into fists, hammering uselessly against the forest floor as her head snapped back. The vibration was instant, intense, and perfectly concentrated. A long, drawn-out moan, raw and guttural, tore through the quiet night. She rocked back and forth violently, lost entirely to the blinding sensory overload.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and her disciplined demeanor vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
The sensation lasted only seconds, but it was enough. When Lark slowly withdrew his hand, Seraphina did not collapse or try to hide.
She immediately spun on her cross-legged base, facing him fully. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed over with the residual gold haze of euphoria.
Her eyes drifted downward, focusing with terrifying, singular intensity on the vine-bound wooden coverings that barely contained Lark's substantial physique, centered on the area where his impossible form met his powerful legs.
She looked at him or rather, at his imposing, suggestive shape with a predatory hunger that was now entirely sexual, a desperate, silent plea for more than just a healing touch.