Helbian County, outer border of the Mehan Kingdom.
The wind rolled in slow and dry, brushing against the coarse grass and crumbling edges of old stone walls, long since abandoned. A figure stood at the ridge—tall, commanding, and still.
The woman at the front wore nothing like the plain armor or robes of the locals. Her outfit was sharp, form-fitting black, cut low enough to frame her full, mature bust with bold confidence.
Wide hips hugged tight by flexible fabric, a body that looked both dangerous and indulgent—like something sculpted from heat and battle.
She carried herself like a queen who had turned assassin, and her mere posture was enough to silence the four other figures flanking her—all masked in the same black assassin garb.
Her hair was a cascade of raven-black silk, tied loosely at the back, strands blowing across her sharp, pale cheekbones.
Her crimson eyes glinted as they narrowed, a cold, gleaming calculation in every glance. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was terrifyingly precise.
Her hand stretched outward, palm open toward the breeze.
"...She’s here," she murmured, her voice smooth like velvet over a dagger’s edge. "I can sense her. Royal blood."
One of the masked men tensed. "Princess Asperia?"
A smile curled across the woman’s lips—slow, tight, almost amused. But her gaze remained locked on the distant county below.
"How unexpected," she whispered. "To think she survived something that even left the head of Gromwold’s family torn apart. That fleet was turned to ash. Yet she lives."
Her smile twisted.
"Lucky little bitch."
There was heat in her voice now. Not rage. Not quite. Something colder. Something older. Like the crack of a fire still burning beneath old bones and older scars.
Her name was Velmira Calrowe.
Once the second daughter of House Calrowe—a noble lineage wiped from existence during the Blood Scourge War ten years ago when the empire she now served had leveled her family estate under the guise of rebellion.
They had called it justice.
She had called it betrayal.
And in the years that followed, Velmira had clawed her way up through ash and blood, building her own intelligence web from the underbelly of this kingdom, infiltrating its nobles, roping in assassins and spies, buying out networks with her abilities and mind both—until she became the silent Holder of Intelligence in Excovian, one of the Three Great Empires.
And they never even knew she was Mehan-born.
She had operated from here for years. Watching. Listening. Waiting. Her gift of bloodsense—a rare psychic link to royal-blooded beings—had never once reacted.
Until today.
She lowered her hand.
"I had the reports verified. The fleet was decimated. Not a single soul should have survived. Yet here she is," Velmira said, her voice low. "The scent doesn’t lie. She’s hiding in this land, likely wounded. Alone."
The wind stirred again.
Velmira turned to her agents, red eyes flashing.
"Mobilize the shadows. Send word to our contacts. Do not let anyone enter Helbian County until I order so."
She paused. Her fingers flexed.
"I want to look into her eyes when I cut off her head and send it as a gift to the Emperor of the Excovian Empire."
None of the assassins questioned her.
The four of them vanished into shadow. Velmira did not follow them.
She moved alone.
Her body shifted—power pulsing under every tight curve as her boots left the stone ridge in a silent bound. The fabric of her black bodysuit stretched as she launched into the early dawn, thick hips flaring with each graceful step.
Her breasts bounced softly beneath the snug armor, untethered, steady only in the rhythm of her breath and velocity.
She didn’t need a map. The scent of the royal bloodline was enough.
It was raw, wild—like a scream hiding under the skin. Untrained. Wounded. Fresh.
And it pulled her forward through the still-sleeping lands of Helbian County.
The sky slowly brightened, slashes of orange peeling the darkness from the horizon as Velmira blurred past trees and rooftops.
She didn’t pause. Not for birdsong. Not for the scattered farmers who might have glanced at the streak of black darting through the fields.
She was a storm in flesh, moving on pure instinct, guided by the tightening heat of her bloodsense.
Her thighs tensed, ass bouncing with controlled impact, the jiggle sharp yet silent each time her boots met stone, then roof, then rail.
Finally—she stopped.
Perched like a black panther on a narrow balcony railing, body crouched low, eyes sharp.
The house was plain. Civilian, modest. A chipped two-floor home on the edge of the district, the curtain drawn over a thin glass window. But her blood roared.
She’s in there.
Velmira’s crimson eyes narrowed, tongue touching her upper lip with anticipation.
Then came the sound.
A man’s voice—hoarse, ragged, cracking under weight she could practically taste.
> "I AM SORRY FOR LYING, ASPERIA!!!!! AARRGHHHHHG!"
’!?!’
Velmira’s breath hitched.
That voice—
That name.
Her eyes widened as the world inside the room unfolded before her in a single, soul-jarring instant.
She saw it—through the sliver between curtains not fully drawn. The sunlight piercing just enough to paint the edge of the bed in a pale gold.
And on that bed—was sin.
A blonde woman. Kneeling.
Her back arched in the golden light, bare shoulders flexing, hips pressed to the mattress as her head bowed over a naked man’s groin. Her hair, long and wild, draped over his thighs like satin threads while her lips stretched wide around the engorged head of his cock.
Her cheeks hollowed slightly as she sucked in—and teeth biting near the crown with a soft click of teeth that made the man groan and buck.
Velmira’s hand slapped over her mouth before she could gasp aloud.
Eyes wide.
What—?
The man was gasping, legs splayed in abandon, hips twitching under her rhythm. His fists clenched the sheets. A flush climbed up his chest as he wailed again, eyes wide open and face twisted in guilt and release—
> "I—I lied! I LIED TO YOU, ASPERIA—!"
Velmira’s mind froze.
Asperia?
That was Princess Asperia?
The lost royal?
The sole survivor of a nuclear-purged fleet?
The woman now naked, sweating, lips wrapped tightly around a cock with her cheeks flushed and wet from effort, her golden hair swaying in time with each bob of her head?
Velmira reeled back.
Her foot twisted silently off the balcony railing as she crouched lower, eyes shaking. A heat had risen in her cheeks—a foreign, furious red that didn’t belong in the cold elegance of an assassin.
"Indecent...!" she hissed under her breath, her voice a whisper, nearly cracking.
She turned her face away, crimson eyes wide in disbelief as her mind screamed.
> ’HOW INDECENT!’
For the first time in years, Velmira Calrowe felt her heart race from something other than violence. A scandalous burn tickled up her neck to her ears. Her breath came fast.
She risked a glance back—just one more. She had to confirm it.
The blonde had paused, her mouth slowly letting the cock slip free, coated in spit.
Her lips were wet, eyes lifted in a strange, intimate fury as she looked up at the man on the bed.
Asperia.
Her face—exactly as the records once described her in youth. Yet now, older. Wilder. More carnal.
Velmira whipped her gaze away again, fingers twitching against the edge of the balcony.
And from that woman, Velmira heard.
> "Lie to me again and this time I will cut off two balls you have...."
Thump thump.
"Waaahh!" Velmira, with her face flushed, suddenly fell into emotional deviation—a unique trait of her race—and tuned into a black cat.