The desert was endless. Sand stretched in every direction, rolling dunes shaped by the wind. The air was dry, carrying dust and the distant scent of animals. The sky above was clear, no shade to be found in the sun. The only break in the emptiness was an oasis where a desert caravan had stopped. The camp sprawled across the sand, a temporary home for men who lived on the move. Dozens of tents stood in uneven rows, their fabric shifting slightly with the desert wind. The largest tents, belonging to the highest-ranking men, sat closest to the water, their entrances open to let in the cool air. Closer to the outskirts, the lesser tents were packed tightly, where the lower-ranked warriors and servants stayed.
Fires flickered as men cooked food and boiled water. Around them, men sat cross-legged, eating from wooden bowls, speaking in low voices. Others moved between the tents, checking weapons, adjusting saddles, tending to the animals. Camels, tied off in groups, grunted occasionally, their long necks swaying as they chewed. Horses stood alert, ears flicking at every noise, their breaths visible in the chill of the desert night.
The sun was high, casting harsh shadows over the camp as the raiders lounged, surrounded by the spoils of their latest raid. Gold and trinkets were strewn about, but their real interest lay with the women they'd taken from the captured caravan, now scattered among the tents. Juma, his face a map of scars, drank heavily from a bottle, his eyes roaming over the chaos with a predatory glint. "Look at these whores," he barked. "They'll serve us well or be sold off."
Kofi had a woman pinned to the ground, her clothes in tatters, her body exposed to the brutal sunlight. He was already on her, his rough hands squeezing her breasts, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Think you're too good for this?" he growled, his breath hot on her face. "You're just meat to us."
She screamed, "My husband—"
"Will be dead by now," Kofi interrupted, his hand forcing its way between her legs, his fingers pushing inside her brutally. She screamed louder, but he only laughed, "Your screams mean nothing here."
From another tent, a woman's cries were cut off by a harsh command, "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll make you choke on it," followed by the sound of gagging.
In another corner, a group had cornered a woman, her eyes wide with terror. Tamba pulled her head back by her hair, his grip harsh. "Look at her shake," he said, his voice thick with cruelty. "Let's see how much she can take."
Her clothes were ripped away, leaving her naked and vulnerable. Hands were all over her, squeezing, probing. "No, stop!" she pleaded, but it was ignored. Tamba forced his fingers into her mouth, gagging her while others held her down, their hands roaming over her body, touching and violating every part of her.
Another woman was dragged into the open, her attempts to cover herself futile. Bako grabbed her, forcing her arms above her head, spreading her legs wide. "Check this one out," he sneered, his fingers digging into her, making her cry out in pain. "She's been waiting for me."
She struggled, her body twisting, but it only seemed to encourage them. "Fight all you want," Bako growled, his actions brutal, his fingers and then his entire hand forcing its way inside her, causing her to scream in agony.
Men moved from woman to woman, some taking turns, others claiming one for themselves. The gold was ignored as they focused on their bodily pleasures.
Juma's laughter rang out, mingling with the cries of pain. "This is how we celebrate," he roared, his voice full of dark glee.
In another part of the camp, a woman was held down by multiple men, her cries for mercy ignored. One raider, named Farai, knelt between her legs, his actions ruthless as he entered her violently, her screams only spurring him on. "You'll learn to like it," he hissed, his movements hard and painful. Another raider, Zuberi, had a woman bent over, his hand around her throat, pulling her head back as he took her from behind, his thrusts harsh and without mercy. "Feel that?" he taunted, his voice full of malice. "That's a real man, I doubt you've ever felt one before."
This was the Banu Khalid, a feared nomadic tribe that moved across the deserts of the Sahel, known for their raids on trade routes. They thrived on the wealth of others, striking hard and vanishing before retribution could come. They respected strength and power but only followed those who could keep power. Their leader, Malik ibn Umar, was such a man.
Malik sat inside his tent, reclining against plush cushions, a cup of wine in his hand. He was a man in his forties, broad-shouldered, thick-bearded, his skin darkened from years beneath the sun. His features were sharp, his dark eyes set deep beneath a heavy brow. His robes were loose but finely made, the deep red fabric trimmed with gold. A heavy belt sat at his waist, a curved sword resting within easy reach. He had killed hundreds if not thousands of men, women and children in his life and he would do so all again for even 1% of what he had now.
Malik lounged against a pile of cushions, a golden cup in one hand, swirling the deep red liquid lazily. He had eaten well, his stomach full of roasted lamb and dates, and the satisfaction of a successful raid left him in a rare, indulgent mood. The spoils had been rich—gold, fine silks, strong camels—but his most prized acquisition sat before him, bound at the wrists.
Zahara bint Yusuf was on her knees on the thick carpets, her wrists tied with rough ropes that bit into her skin. She kept her back straight, her chin up, her defiance clear. Her dark skin was radiant under the harsh light, highlighting her full tits and wide hips. Her lips, full and lush, were tight with anger. Her thick braids, adorned with gold rings, hung down her back, but the jewelry did little to distract from her new clothing - a sheer, thin fabric that barely covered her. It left her large breasts almost entirely on display, her dark nipples poking through the material, sensitive to the cold air. The cloth draped over her hips, revealing her thick soft thighs and the curve of her ass. A thin belt around her waist accentuated her curves, highlighting her flat stomach and the slight bulge of her pubic area, a thick forest of hair was visible between her legs, her clothing doing nothing to hide it.
Her eyes were fierce, filled with hatred, her gaze unyielding despite the men looking at her. Her eyes were large, lined with kohl, making them stand out against her dark skin. Her nose was sharp, her cheekbones high, giving her an aristocratic look that the humiliating outfit couldn't erase.
Hadi ibn Jafar sat beside Malik, plucking dates from a tray, chewing slowly. He watched Zahara with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "She has not spoken a word since we brought her," he mused. "Perhaps she is waiting for her father's men to come for her."
Malik chuckled. "If she believes that, she is a fool. There is no one coming." He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Your home is far from here, Zahara. Your father will never find you. You belong to me now."
Still, she said nothing.
Malik smirked. "Proud. I admire it, truly." He leaned back, taking another date between his fingers. "She will break, though. They always do."
Malik reached out, his rough, calloused fingers seizing her jaw, forcing her head up. Her skin was warm and soft against his hand, contrasting starkly with his harsh grip. He traced his thumb over her cheek, then pressed it against her full lips, parting them. "You should be grateful," he growled. "Soon, you'll be my wife. My third, but you'll be well taken care of."
Zahara's eyes burned with defiance, meeting his gaze head-on. "I would sooner die," she hissed, her voice unwavering.
Malik's grin was predatory, his amusement clear at her resistance. "I love hearing that."
His hand slid down, fingers digging into her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his touch as they settled at her collarbone. She tensed under his touch, her body rigid, muscles ready to recoil. His grin widened; he savored her resistance, knowing it would make her submission all the sweeter.
"You have no choice," he continued, his voice a dark whisper, his breath hot against her skin. "You'll see reason. The sooner, the better for you."
Zahara's nostrils flared, her breath slow and deliberate, refusing to show any sign of fear or submission.
Malik's lust was evident, his eyes raking over her barely-covered body. He moved closer, his body pressing against hers, making her feel his arousal through his trousers. His hand moved from her throat, trailing down her chest, fingers roughly tracing the outline of her breasts through the thin fabric. He pinched her nipple, twisting it, watching her face for any sign of breaking.
"You'll learn to like this," he muttered, his voice thick with desire as he continued to grope her. His other hand gripped her hips, pulling her closer, his grip bruising. He forced her legs apart with his knee, pressing it against her, feeling her body's heat even through the sheer material of her garment.
Zahara's jaw clenched, her body fighting against his touch, but she was bound, and her movements only served to press her more against him. Malik laughed, a harsh, mocking sound, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "You feel that?" he whispered, grinding against her. "That's what you do to me. That's what you'll take every night."
He pulled back, his eyes dark with lust, and without warning, he shoved her down onto the carpets, his body immediately covering hers. His hands were everywhere, one gripping her hair to keep her head in place while the other roamed over her body. He ripped at the already scant fabric, tearing it further to expose more of her skin, his fingers digging into her flesh, leaving marks.
"I'll break you," he snarled, his hand moving between her legs, forcing them apart further. His fingers pressed against her, feeling her through the thin cloth, the pressure hard and unyielding. "I'll make you scream my name."
Zahara's breath was ragged, her body under his control, yet her eyes still held defiance. Malik's mouth found her neck, biting her. His hands were rough, one now at her breast, squeezing hard, the other between her legs, fingers probing, trying to force a reaction from her.
"You'll scream for me, in pleasure," he promised, his voice a mix of threat and lust. He ground himself against her, letting her feel every inch of his desire, his movements crude and demanding.
Zahara fought against the ropes, against him, but each movement only seemed to excite him more. Malik's hand moved to undo his trousers, his erection evident, pressing against her. He leaned down, his lips close to hers, his breath hot. "You'll be mine, in every way," he growled, his hand guiding himself towards her, the tip of his cock brushing against her, teasing, threatening.
Hadi shifted beside him. "Perhaps it would be wise to be gentler, Malik. She is of noble blood. If you break her too quickly, you will lose the pleasure of the game."
Malik considered it for a moment, his eyes still dark with lust but now tempered by thought. He chuckled. "You always were one to savor things." He turned back to Zahara, running a finger along the curve of her shoulder, tracing the embroidered patterns of her torn robe. "Perhaps I should take my time with you."
She did not move. Did not blink. Her silence was not submission, but defiance. It only excited him more.
Malik leaned in closer, his lips near her ear. "Perhaps today, I will—"
The horn sounded.
A sharp, urgent blast that cut through the day like thunder.
Malik's head snapped up, his fingers dropping from Zahara. Hadi was already on his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The tent flap burst open, and a breathless warrior stumbled inside.
"Raiders!" the man gasped. "An army!"
Malik shoved past him, stepping outside into the bright daylight. The ground trembled beneath his feet. His ears caught the distant sound of hooves, of voices rising in a chorus of war cries.
He turned toward the dunes, his breath catching at the sight. The sand shifted wildly, and over the dunes came the enemy. Hundreds, dark against the sky, some on horseback with swords glinting, others on foot, moving fast. Their banners flapped, the symbols foreign.
Malik's grip on his sword tightened.
"To arms!" he roared.
Men scrambled, grabbing weapons, throwing on armor. Malik barked orders, pushing his raiders forward, no formation, just chaos. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and steel.
Malik lifted up his sword, his eyes on the approaching horde. "Charge!" he bellowed, leading the reckless rush. Malik braced himself as he charged the enemy warriors that came crashing down the dunes, kicking up sand as they roared, their weapons raised high. His own men, hardened raiders who had spilled blood across countless villages and trade routes, answered with their own war cries, surging forward to meet them. The clash was brutal and filled with the sounds of metal clashing and flesh being torn part.
Swords hacked into flesh. Spears drove through stomachs and ripped back out, trailing loops of intestine. Shields splintered under the force of heavy blows, sending jagged wood flying. Malik saw a man to his left take an axe to the neck, his head half-severed, still attached by a strip of muscle. Blood sprayed in a wide arc as he collapsed, gurgling as his body convulsed on the ground. He surged forward, his sword carving a path through flesh. Blood sprayed across his face, the thick, metallic scent filling his nose. He barely noticed. The screams, the clash of steel, the wet crunch of bone splitting under heavy blows drowned everything else out.
The first enemy came at him fast, swinging a curved blade at his ribs. Malik pivoted, stepping inside the arc, his own sword slashing across the man's throat. The blade bit deep, severing muscle and windpipe, his breath escaping in a wet, gurgling rasp as he dropped his weapon and clutched at his ruined neck. Malik shoved him aside and moved to the next. A hulking raider swung an axe at his head. Malik ducked, feeling the rush of air as the blade passed over him. He lunged forward, ramming his sword into the man's gut. The raider grunted, spitting blood onto Malik's shoulder. With a growl, Malik twisted the sword and dragged it upward, splitting open the man's stomach. Intestines spilled onto the sand, steaming in the cold night air. The raider fell to his knees, hands feebly trying to push his guts back in before he collapsed face-first into the blood-soaked ground.
Another enemy was already coming. Malik tore his sword free and met the charge, parrying a wild strike before driving his boot into the attacker's knee. There was a sharp snap, and the raider howled, falling sideways. Malik ended him with a downward thrust, the tip of his sword bursting from the back of his skull.
The battlefield was chaos. Bodies piled atop one another, twitching, groaning, dying. The sand, once golden beneath the sun, was dark with blood. Men screamed as they were gutted, hacked apart, trampled by their own panicked allies. To his left, Malik saw Ghazi, his massive form swinging a hammer that caved in skulls with each brutal strike. He turned, bashing a raider's chest, ribs shattering, organs bursting under the impact. But before he could raise his weapon again, a blade sank deep into his back. Ghazi roared, swinging wildly, but two more attackers descended upon him. One took his arm clean off at the elbow. Another plunged a spear into his exposed side. Blood poured from his mouth as he staggered, still trying to fight, but his body gave out, crashing to the ground. The raiders didn't stop. They hacked at his corpse until there was little left but meat and shattered bone.
Malik barely had time to react before another foe was on him. He caught the downward swing of a scimitar with his sword, steel ringing against steel. The enemy pushed forward, snarling through broken teeth, spittle flying from his lips. Malik locked his wrist and shoved back, forcing the raider off balance before driving his knee into his groin. The man gasped, doubling over, and Malik grabbed the back of his head, slamming his face into the pommel of his sword. Teeth snapped, blood splattered. Malik drove his blade through the bastard's eye, twisting as he yanked it free.
Screams filled the air, the scent of piss and gore thick. His warriors were dying around him. Some fought like demons, hacking and slashing in desperation, but the enemy kept coming, wave after wave of bodies. Malik watched as one of his men had his throat ripped open, blood spraying in an arc before he collapsed. Another was impaled on a spear, lifted into the air like a gutted animal before being tossed aside.
A spear came at Malik from the side. He twisted, barely dodging as the tip cut a thin line across his ribs. The wielder lunged again. Malik caught the shaft, yanking the man forward before slamming his forehead into his nose. The raider stumbled, dazed. Malik capitalized, plunging his sword into his stomach and dragging it through his ribs. The raider gurgled, spitting blood as he crumpled.
Everywhere he looked, there was only death. Bodies piled on top of one another, limbs severed, eyes wide in terror, mouths frozen in silent screams. The ground was slick, sucking at his boots as he moved. A dying man clawed at his ankle, his face twisted in agony. Malik didn't hesitate. He slammed his blade through the man's skull, putting him out of his misery.
To his right, Hadi fought like a demon, his dagger flashing as he slit throats and gutted men. He grabbed a raider by the jaw, forcing his head back before driving his knife up through his chin, the tip punching through the top of his skull. He turned, blocking a strike with his forearm before driving his blade into another man's chest. He tore it free, blood spraying across his face, and moved to the next.
The fight wasn't over yet. Malik moved fast, his sword carving through another warrior's side, ribs splitting open as he shoved the corpse away. He barely had time to breathe before the next one lunged. He ducked under the wild swing, his own blade flashing upward, splitting the man's face from chin to brow. Blood and bone sprayed out as the body crumpled. Malik stepped over it, pressing forward, carving through flesh, shoving bodies aside.
And then he saw him.
The one who had taken his man's head.
The stranger moved differently from the others. Faster. His strikes were fast and his sword was not curved like most of the ones he saw, but straight and covered in strange runes. His blade cut through throats, slashed across chests, carved into bellies. He didn't hesitate. He dodged, weaved, leaned just enough to let blades miss him by inches, his movements smooth and his counters were never far behind.
A man lunged from behind, and the stranger pivoted sharply, his sword twisting in his grip as he reversed the blade and plunged it into the attacker's gut. He yanked it free, spun, and slammed the pommel into the next raider's temple, shattering bone. The man dropped instantly. Another came from the side, swinging an axe, but the stranger stepped inside the arc of the swing, slammed his elbow into the attacker's jaw, then drove his sword into his ribs. The blade pushed clean through, tip bursting from the man's back.
Malik bared his teeth and surged forward, cutting down anyone in his way. His blade carved into muscle, split tendons, cleaved through bone as he closed the distance.
The stranger saw him.
Malik saw him.
They both moved at the same time.
The stranger rushed forward, cutting down a man at the knee, twisting his grip and slicing upward, taking another's throat. Malik did the same, pushing through the bodies, his sword carving through flesh, blood splattering his arms.
A man tried to grab the stranger. He dropped low, rolling under a wild swing before driving his blade upward into the man's jaw, the tip punching through the top of his skull. He tore the sword free, spun, kicked another in the stomach, sending him sprawling, then slashed downward as another enemy tried to rush him. The blade bit deep into the collarbone, nearly severing the arm. He jerked the blade out, flipped his grip again, and drove it straight into another's heart.
Malik roared, cutting his way through, his sword carving through a raider's stomach, spilling his guts onto the sand. He pressed forward, stepping over the dying, the bleeding, the twitching.
The stranger's movements never slowed. He cut down another, then used the falling body as cover, shifting to the side before slashing out, his blade slicing through an arm. A man swung a club at his head, but the stranger leaned back just enough to avoid it before driving his boot into the attacker's chest, sending him crashing into another. Without missing a beat, he stepped forward, switched his grip, and drove his sword through the man's chest. The blade punched clean through, ribs cracking, blood spilling.
Malik kept pushing. The distance between them closed.
The stranger flicked blood from his sword, rolled his shoulders, and met Malik's charge.
Their swords clashed.
Malik growled at the hooded man, though it seemed to not phase him. In fact the man pushed back and kicked him in the center of his chest clearing the distance between them, though Malik was able to slash at him before so, though the stranger ducked and only his hood was ripped off.
Malik tightened his grip on his sword, sand shifting beneath his feet as he took a step forward. The stranger stood before him, weapon steady, body relaxed but coiled like a predator waiting to strike. He was unlike any warrior Malik had ever faced. His face was sharp, striking in a way that didn't seem natural. Skin pale as bleached bone, hair white as fresh snowfall, eyes cold and unreadable. He looked like something pulled from the afterlife, not a man of flesh and blood.
Malik rushed him first, blade cutting through the air in a downward arc. The stranger moved fast, shifting to the side just enough for the sword to miss its mark, twisting his grip before slashing up in a counterstrike. Malik threw his weight back, barely avoiding the tip of the blade, then stepped into the stranger's guard with a heavy swing aimed at his ribs. The stranger pivoted, catching the strike with his sword at an angle that sent sparks flying before rolling his wrist and shoving Malik's blade away.
Malik roared, his sword slashing through the air as he pushed forward, boots digging into the blood-soaked sand. The stranger met him head-on, blade flashing in the dim light, cutting through a man's throat on the way to meet Malik's swing. The two swords met with a loud clang, the force of the strike sending a jolt through Malik's arms, but the stranger was already moving, pivoting with the force and lashing out with a brutal kick to his ribs.
Malik stumbled back, breath forced from his lungs, but he didn't hesitate, twisting his sword in his grip and charging forward again. The stranger ducked under the first strike, leaned out of the way of the second, then lashed out with a quick thrust. Malik barely managed to move in time, the blade cutting across his forearm, deep enough that blood ran freely down his arm. He gritted his teeth, pain flaring, but ignored it, feinting a thrust before stepping in close and slamming his elbow into the stranger's jaw.
The pale warrior staggered, spitting blood onto the ground, but instead of reeling back, he pressed forward, bringing his sword up in a fast, brutal arc. Malik barely caught it in time, the impact forcing him to take another step back. The stranger followed, relentless, slashing again and again, each strike faster than the last. Malik blocked, dodged, countered when he could, but the pale warrior moved like nothing he had ever seen before—fluid, fast, adaptive.
Another strike came, this one low. Malik jumped back, avoiding the tip of the blade, but before he could steady himself, the stranger moved again. He pivoted, switching grips mid-motion, and slammed the pommel of his sword into Malik's temple.
Pain exploded in Malik's head, the world spinning as he fell to one knee. He barely had time to recover before the stranger was on him again, kicking him square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto his back.
Malik rolled, sand and blood sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. His vision swam, but he forced himself to stand, barely blocking the next strike in time. The stranger's blade sliced through the air, cutting deep into Malik's side, just below his ribs. Blood poured down his waist, staining his tunic, but he ignored it, gritting his teeth and throwing a wild slash.
The stranger stepped back, dodging easily, then came in low. Malik saw it, tried to counter, but the stranger was faster. His sword cut deep into Malik's thigh, slicing muscle. Malik roared, falling to one knee again. He forced himself up, gripping his sword tighter, swinging in a desperate attempt to drive the warrior back.
It was useless.
The stranger ducked under the strike, spun to Malik's blind side, and drove his knee into his wounded ribs. Malik gasped, his body jerking from the impact, blood spraying from his mouth. His vision blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to keep his grip on his sword.
Then the stranger moved in for the kill.
A feint high. Malik raised his sword to block.
Too late did he realize it was a trick.
The real strike came from below.
The stranger's blade flicked up, slicing through Malik's fingers. His grip failed. His sword fell.
Malik barely had time to process it before the stranger pivoted, his blade flashing in the firelight.
Iron met flesh.
Malik's head left his shoulders, blood spraying in an arc as his body collapsed onto the battlefield.
Thorfinn looked down at Malik's corpse, flicking the blood from his sword. He had been skilled, fast, strong. It hadn't mattered.
He stepped over the body, scanning the battlefield. The sand was thick with bodies, men stumbling over the dead and dying as the battle raged on. The sounds of steel clashing and screams filled the air. There was more blood to spill.
His eyes caught movement ahead—Arwyn, carving through the enemy like a beast let loose. A man charged at her, sword raised. She moved fast, too fast for him to react. Her blade cut through his midsection, splitting him in half before his scream could even escape. Blood sprayed across the sand. Another came from behind. She turned, caught his wrist, and twisted until the bones snapped. He screamed, barely a sound before she drove her blade through his chest and kicked him off.
A man swung wildly. She ducked low, shot forward, and punched him in the jaw. Bone cracked. He staggered, blood pouring from his mouth. She grabbed him by the throat and squeezed, his struggling hands clawing at her wrist before she crushed his windpipe and let him drop.
Another came. She caught him by the shoulder and slammed her knee into his stomach, ribs caving in. He fell to his knees, wheezing, barely alive before she kicked his head clean off his shoulders. It rolled through the sand, his body slumping forward.
Two more rushed her at once. She twisted to the side, slashed her sword through the first one's throat, sending blood spraying in a wide arc. The other lunged, but she caught him by the arm, wrenched it back, and tore it from the socket. He howled, collapsing to the ground, but she wasn't done. She grabbed him by the legs, lifted him, and hurled him into a group of fighters, sending them all sprawling into the sand.
Thorfinn snickered.
A group came at him next—four of them, their eyes wild, thinking they could overwhelm him. He didn't give them the chance. He lunged forward, ducked under a spear, and slashed through the wielder's knee. The man crumpled, screaming. Thorfinn spun, his sword carving through the throat of the next. He yanked the blade free, shifted his grip, and drove the pommel into the nose of the third, shattering it. The man stumbled back, blood gushing down his face. Thorfinn stepped in, stabbed him through the chest, and pulled free just as the fourth attacker struck.
He twisted away from the strike, stepped in close, and slammed his elbow into the man's temple. His legs buckled. Thorfinn grabbed him by the hair, dragged his blade across his throat, and let him fall.
He turned, meeting Arwyn in the chaos.
"Ahmed said Zarah would be in the leader's tent," he said, cutting down another man as he spoke.
"Then let us go and finish this," Arwyn replied. "I am tired of this desert."
They fought their way through the camp, cutting down anyone in their path. A man lunged at Thorfinn with a spear. He sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and yanked the man forward, his sword punching through his ribs. He pushed the corpse aside, parried a blade coming at his side, and kicked the attacker away.
Arwyn caught a man trying to run, grabbing him by the back of his head and slamming him face-first into the sand. He tried to crawl away, but she stomped on his head, caving in the skull. Another came at her with an axe. She caught his wrist, twisted hard, and forced the weapon from his grip. He barely had time to react before she drove the blade through his gut and kicked him off.
They reached the leader's tent.
Inside, Hadi stood with a curved knife, gripping Zarah's hair, dragging her close. Her face was bruised, but her eyes burned with defiance.
Thorfinn didn't hesitate. He pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it.
The blade struck Hadi's wrist, sinking deep. He let out a choked scream, the knife clattering to the floor as blood poured from the wound.
Before he could move, Arwyn was on him. She grabbed him by the back of the neck, yanked him off his feet, and slammed him into the ground. His body bounced from the impact, the air leaving his lungs in a gasping wheeze.
Thorfinn stepped over him, looking at the woman.
"Are you Zarah bint Yusef?"
She didn't answer right away, eyes darting between him and Arwyn.
Arwyn, her Arabic rough but understandable, clarified, "Your father sent us."
Zarah's lips parted slightly. "I am."
Thorfinn nodded. "Good." He turned to Arwyn. "Keep her safe. I'll finish this."
Arwyn pulled Zarah up, standing between her and Hadi. "Fine," she said, kicking Hadi's body aside.
Thorfinn stepped out of the tent. The battlefield was still thick with the last remnants of fighting. The enemy was breaking, but not fast enough. He moved through the camp, cutting down the ones who still resisted. A man tried to flee—Thorfinn caught him, driving his sword through his back. Another came at him, blade high, but Thorfinn was faster. He ducked under the swing, stepped in, and ran his sword through the man's throat. More of them were running now. The camp was collapsing. He saw groups scattering into the desert, their will shattered.
A cheer erupted from the warriors still standing.
The battle was over.
...
It had been nearly six months since Thorfinn and Arwyn had left the ruins of the second city.
Even now, the memory of what happened there still lingered. Hakon. Dyabe. The blood and horror of that place. Thorfinn had seen things that defied understanding. The underground city buried beneath the desert. The metal constructs that moved like living things. The ancient monster that had awoken from its slumber. He could still remember Dyabe's face, the excitement in his eyes as he spoke of finding Enoch, of touching the divine. And then the fear when he realized what he had truly unleashed. Thorfinn had fought to survive, fought to escape, and in the end, Dyabe had given his life for him. He had watched his friend die, powerless to stop it. And though he had made it out, though he had returned to the surface and left that cursed place behind, he knew Hakon was still down there. Waiting.
Thorfinn and Arwyn had left with a large amount of supply and a generous amount of coin, Sira had lived up to her fathers promise and more and provided them a guide to take them to Constantinople, though they would not be joining them, they would go home. They had no reason to remain. Enoch had not been found. Only death had been waiting for them in that ancient ruin.
They had only traveled for a few weeks before raiders had fallen upon them in the night. The fight had been brief. Thorfinn and Arwyn had slaughtered them with ease, cutting them down like cattle, but their guide had not been so lucky. He had been struck down before they could intervene, his throat slit while he slept.
With his death, their journey had become aimless.
For a month, they wandered. The desert was an endless stretch of sand and rock, the heat relentless during the day, the cold biting at night. Water was scarce, food even more so. They hunted when they could, scavenged when they had no other choice. They found an oasis once, but it had been claimed by another band of warriors, and Thorfinn had been forced into another confrontation for the crime of wanting to drink. He was tired, as was Arwyn, but they still slaughtered them and moved on.
They had run-ins with traders, with nomads, with men who wanted to kill them and men who wanted to rob them. Every time, they survived. Arwyn's strength and Thorfinn's skill had kept them alive, but as the days stretched into weeks, the exhaustion grew. They needed a way out. They needed a path forward.
That was when they met Zarah's father.
His name was Emir Yusuf ibn Khalid, a man of wealth and influence, an Emir of the Abbasid Caliphate. They had come across his caravan in the fourth month of their wandering, just as they were beginning to lose hope. His men had been on edge, heavily armed, wary of strangers. It was only when Thorfinn approached without hostility, speaking in what little Arabic he had learned, that they were allowed to meet with him.
Yusuf had been on his way to Constantinople when he was attacked by raiders. He had fought them off, but not without losses. His daughter had been taken, dragged away before his men could stop them. He had been forced to flee, leaving her behind. It had been the greatest shame of his life.
Thorfinn and Arwyn had listened. And then they had made a deal.
They would help his men bring back his daughter, alive and unharmed. In return, he would take them to Constantinople. Yusuf had not hesitated. He agreed on the spot, swearing by God that if they returned her safely, he would see them delivered to the greatest city on earth.
Despite it being nearly two months of tracking them down, it was done.
Thorfinn stood in the blood-soaked battlefield, his sword still in hand, his body aching from wounds both fresh and old, as he watched Zarah run toward her father.
The reunion should have been something from a story, a father embracing his lost daughter, weeping with joy. But there was nothing romantic about this moment. Not with corpses strewn across the sand, the scent of death thick in the air, and the screams of the dying still echoing in the distance.
Zarah reached Yusuf, collapsing into his arms. He held her tightly, hands gripping her as though he feared she would vanish again.
"My daughter," Yusuf breathed, his voice raw. "You are safe."
"I am," she whispered, her face buried in his chest. "I am safe."
Yusuf pulled back, looking her over, checking for wounds, for harm. He cupped her face, murmuring soft words in Arabic, words of relief, of gratitude.
Then, he turned to Thorfinn.
The Emir stepped forward, his richly embroidered robes stained with dust and blood. His eyes were fierce, but there was something else there now—respect.
"You have done me a great service, Northman," Yusuf said, his voice strong. "I am in your debt."
Thorfinn nodded, his grip tightening slightly on his sword. He was exhausted. His muscles burned, his stomach was empty, and his wounds stung.
"I only kept my word," Thorfinn said.
Yusuf's lips curled into a small smile. "Nevertheless, I am grateful." He turned to the gathered men, raising his arms. "Tonight, we feast in honor of my daughter's return!"
A cheer rose from the soldiers.
"And then," Yusuf continued, looking back at Thorfinn, "we move on. To the greatest city on earth."
Thorfinn exhaled, rolling his shoulder. He was ready to leave this desert behind.
___________________________
The celebration was loud, full of life, the air thick with the scent of roasted lamb and spices. Fires burned in the center of the camp, their orange glow casting flickering shadows over the gathering. Men drank deeply from clay cups, toasting to their victory, to the return of Zarah, to the honor of their Emir. The sound of drums and stringed instruments filled the night, voices rising in song. Dancers moved in flowing silks, their bodies swaying with the rhythm, their golden jewelry glinting in the firelight.
Thorfinn sat near the edge of the camp, a bowl of food untouched in front of him. He had eaten, but not much. His body ached from battle, his muscles sore, his wounds barely tended to. He could feel the dried blood sticking to his skin, the faint sting of cuts across his arms and chest. He needed to clean himself.
He pushed himself up and made his way through the camp toward his tent. The warmth of the firelight faded as he moved deeper into the quiet.
Inside, the tent was dimly lit, a single lantern casting a soft glow. He stripped off his shirt, tossing it aside, and sat in front of a shallow metal bowl filled with water. His hands moved to the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists. As he began to unwrap them, his fingers trembled slightly. The blood had dried into the fabric, making it stick to his skin. He peeled it away slowly, hissing as fresh blood welled from reopened wounds.
His hands clenched into fists.
The sight of the blood sent a shiver down his spine, his mind flashing back to Hakon. The feeling of that creature's grip, the cold press of fangs against his neck. He could almost feel the sting again, the burn of his blood against that monster's skin. His heart pounded, his breath came in short bursts.
A single drop of blood fell into the water.
The surface rippled, distorting his reflection. For a moment, he swore he saw it—Hakon's twisted face staring back at him from the water.
His body tensed. He spun around with a roar, his fist shooting forward, ready to strike.
Arwyn.
She stood just inside the tent, her hand still lifting the fabric of the entrance. His knuckles hovered an inch from her face. Her eyes were wide, but she didn't move, didn't flinch.
Thorfinn pulled his fist back, exhaling sharply. His body was still shaking.
"Next time," he said, voice low, "announce yourself."
Arwyn let the entrance drop behind her, stepping closer. "Still getting bad dreams?" she asked.
He didn't answer. He turned back to the bowl, grabbing a cloth, dipping it in the water, and pressing it against his wounds. He wiped slowly, methodically, but his shoulders were still tight, his breath uneven. His hands struggled to reach the cuts along his back and sides, the places where blades had just barely missed vital points.
"Sit down," Arwyn said.
Thorfinn didn't respond, but she didn't wait for his permission. She grabbed his arm and led him to a seat, pushing him down before kneeling beside him.
She took the cloth from his grip and dipped it into the water again. As she started cleaning the blood and dirt from his skin, her eyes moved over him, tracing the lines of his body.
He had changed.
He was taller than before, standing close to Elijah's height now. His shoulders were broader, his body lean but built from constant battle. He had always been attractive, but where once there had been the soft handsomeness of youth, there was now a hardened sharpness, the kind that only time and hardship could carve into a man. The smoothness of his face had been replaced with a growing beard, one that had started filling in thickly over the past months.
She touched his face lightly with the cloth, dragging it across his jaw, feeling the roughness beneath her fingers.
"Want me to shave it for you?" she asked.
His ice-blue eyes met hers for a moment before he shook his head. "I'll do it later," he said.
He didn't mind the beard, but the heat of the desert made it uncomfortable. He would rid himself of it before they reached Constantinople.
She continued wiping the blood from his skin, her hands moving slowly over his chest, his shoulders. Her body was close to his, the scent of battle still clinging to both of them. As she cleaned him, she spoke, her voice quieter than before.
"Tomorrow, it will have been two years since we left Kattegat."
Thorfinn nodded. "It feels longer."
He thought of home. Of Rebekah. Of Freydis. His daughter would be in her second winter now, walking, talking. And yet she had never met him. The thought settled in his chest like a weight, one he couldn't shake.
Arwyn didn't say anything else. She continued working, her hands steady, wiping away the last of the blood. When she finished, she dropped the cloth back into the bowl and sat back.
Thorfinn held up the cloth. "Your turn," he said.
Arwyn exhaled, then stood. She untied her dress, letting it slip down her body. Her skin was illuminated by the firelight, revealing her changes over the two years. She was taller now, almost matching Thorfinn's height, and her body had filled out. Her shoulders were broader, her muscles more defined from their constant battles. Her breasts had grown, sitting fuller on her chest, the nipples hard from the cool air. Her waist was slender, leading to hips that had widened, giving her a more womanly shape. As she sat, her thick blonde pubic hair was visible, a contrast to her pale skin.
Thorfinn dipped the cloth into the water, bringing it to her shoulder. The warmth made her skin prickle. He moved the cloth down her arm, feeling the new strength there. Her back was next, the muscles defined, her spine a line of strength.
He washed her chest, his touch lingering on her breasts. They were larger, the nipples reacting to the cloth's touch. Arwyn felt a mix of sensations, her skin sensitive to his touch. She was aware of every movement, her mind swirling with conflicting thoughts. She didn't know how she could be so drawn to him, how his touch could make her body react while her mind was filled with resentment. She wanted to hate him, to perhaps even kill him for the life he had dragged her into, yet she couldn't imagine living without him.
Thorfinn continued down her stomach, the cloth tracing her toned abs. His hand moved to her hips, then paused at her crotch. The cloth brushed through her pubic hair, the sensation intimate. Arwyn felt her body tense, not from fear, but from the intensity of the moment.
He washed her legs, his hands feeling the muscle in her thighs, the power from their travels. Each stroke was careful, the water trailing down her skin. Arwyn's mind was caught between the physical sensation and her tumultuous feelings. She hated how much she needed him, how his presence could make her feel both alive and trapped.
As Thorfinn washed her feet, his touch was surprisingly tender, cleaning each toe, the arch of her foot. His hands moved back up her legs, the touch now more intimate as he cleaned her inner thighs.
He washed her face last, his thumb tracing her jaw, her cheeks, her lips, her eyes closed. She was beautiful, she always had been, but she had truly grown into her beauty and was looking a lot similar to Eowyn.
Thorfinn finished washing Arwyn, his hands rubbing her body as he cleaned the last traces of dirt from her skin. He set the cloth aside, watching as she stood up. Her body was still wet from the wash, water droplets clinging to her skin as she reached for her clothes. She pulled on a fresh tunic, the fabric sticking to her damp skin, accentuating her form. She then stepped into her dress, pulling them up over her hips, her movements fluid from the practice of dressing quickly.
Meanwhile, Thorfinn grabbed his own clothes. He removed his damp shirt, his muscles flexing as he did, and donned a clean one. His trousers were next, the leather worn but sturdy. He buckled his belt, the clink of the metal a familiar sound in the quiet tent.
As she adjusted her clothing, Arwyn spoke, her tone curious yet laced with doubt. "Do you think Geralt will be in Constantinople?"
Thorfinn nodded as he tied his boots. "Yes. If he went there, he'll still be there."
"It's been a year since we ended up in these lands. Why would he wait there for such a long time?" she questioned, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Thorfinn shrugged, his hands pausing over his gear. "He must've been bringing us there for a reason."
They both fell silent for a moment, thinking about the journey ahead. Constantinople had been their goal for so long, the end of their trek through harsh terrains and countless dangers.
"We'll finally be there soon," Thorfinn said, a hint of relief in his voice.
Arwyn, now fully dressed, looked at him, her expression thoughtful. "What do you expect to find there?"
Thorfinn allowed a small smile to touch his lips, a rare softness in his usually stern features. "Nothing," he said, then added with a slight lift of his eyebrow, "Everything."
The answer made Arwyn smile, the expression lighting up her face, making her beauty even more striking. She nodded, her smile lingering. "I'm going to get some sleep," she announced, moving towards the tent's exit.
But before she left, she paused in front of Thorfinn. They looked at each other, the air between them charged. Without a word, she leaned in, and their lips met. The kiss was brief, a mix of familiarity and tension, their lips pressing together with a quiet urgency before Arwyn pulled away. She turned and left the tent, leaving Thorfinn standing there, his gaze lingering on the spot where she had been.
Thorfinn stood there for a moment, staring at the entrance of the tent where Arwyn had left. His fingers brushed over his lips, feeling the lingering warmth of the brief kiss. It had been unexpected, but he didn't dwell on it. They were both tired, both restless. Maybe it had meant something, maybe not. Either way, he wasn't going to waste time trying to decipher it.
He exhaled through his nose before turning back toward his cot. The tent was quiet now, the sounds of the celebration still echoing outside but muffled by the fabric walls. He sat down, reaching for one of the books he had taken from the Second City. He had spent months trying to make sense of them, piecing together small fragments of meaning, but it was difficult. The writing was ancient, unlike any script he had ever seen.
The gold-plated book was the most intriguing. Its pages were heavy, lined with delicate engravings that shimmered under the dim lantern light. He ran his fingers over the symbols, trying to recognize any familiar structure, but it was useless. Even with his gift for languages, this was beyond him.
His brows furrowed as he traced one of the markings, eyes narrowing in frustration. He had learned so much since leaving Kattegat, but this still eluded him. He needed more time, more knowledge. Maybe someone in Constantinople would be able to help.
He sighed and leaned back, resting the book against his chest before setting it aside. His body ached, his mind was tired, and despite the noise outside, he knew he needed sleep. He shifted onto his cot, closing his eyes.
A few hours passed. The camp outside had begun to settle, the festivities dying down. His sleep was deep but light, his body still too wired from battle to fully relax.
Then he heard something.
The soft rustle of fabric.
His hand instinctively moved under his pillow, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dagger. His breathing remained even, his body still, waiting. The sound of quiet footsteps, hesitant but deliberate, grew closer.
In an instant, Thorfinn moved.
He shot up from the cot, grabbing the intruder by the wrist and pulling them down, switching their positions as he pinned them beneath him on the bed. His knee pressed against their thigh, one hand gripping their wrist above their head while the other held the dagger to their throat.
The lantern flickered, his vision adjusting.
Zarah.
She lay beneath him, her wide, dark eyes staring up at him, startled but not afraid.
Thorfinn exhaled sharply and pulled the dagger away, pushing himself off her. "What are you doing here?"
Zarah sat up, her hands smoothing down the fabric of her robe. "I mean you no harm," she said quickly. "I only came to offer my thanks."
Thorfinn narrowed his eyes, still gripping his dagger. "You could have done that in the morning."
She hesitated, then her fingers moved to the ties of her robe. Before he could stop her, she pulled it open slightly, the firelight illuminating the smooth, dark skin of her collarbone and the curves beneath.
Thorfinn sighed, already knowing where this was going. He sheathed his dagger, rubbing his temple. "Close your robe and leave."
She didn't.
Instead, she shifted closer. "I am not here just to say thank you," she admitted, voice softer. "You saved my life. I wish to give you something in return."
"I don't need anything," Thorfinn said, his voice firm.
Zarah's lips curved into a slight smile. "My father would give you gold, horses, weapons. But I have nothing of my own to give except myself."
Thorfinn looked away, jaw tightening. "Your father wouldn't want this."
"My father doesn't control me," she said, inching closer, her robe slipping further from her shoulders. "He is grateful to you. I am grateful."
Thorfinn exhaled sharply through his nose. "Put your clothes back on and leave."
Zarah tilted her head, watching him. "Do you find me unattractive?"
Thorfinn glanced at her, eyes lingering for a moment. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her skin was smooth, her body soft where it should be, strong where it needed to be. Her lips were full, her dark eyes intense. He had spent months in the desert, in battle, constantly on edge, never stopping long enough to even think about such things.
But this was dangerous.
"I'm not a fool," he said finally. "Your father will punish you for this if he finds out."
Zarah smirked. "Then I should be the one afraid, not you."
"A dead man can't be afraid," he retorted.
She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing over the scars on his knuckles. "You are unlike any man I have ever met," she murmured, her touch slow, exploring. "You fight like a demon, yet you refuse the spoils of war. Are all Northmen like you?"
Thorfinn let out a dry laugh. "No."
Zarah's hand slid up Thorfinn's arm, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscle. "Then perhaps you are the exception," she said, her voice low and inviting.
Thorfinn clenched his jaw, his breathing steady, his mind battling his body's response. He could still send her away, could end this moment of temptation. But her touch was warm, her body close, and the weariness from battle clung to him like a second skin. It had been months since he'd allowed himself any pleasure outside the chaos of war.
She leaned closer, her breath hot against his neck.
"Stay," she whispered, her lips almost brushing his ear.
Thorfinn exhaled, closing his eyes briefly, feeling the tension in his body give way to desire. Then he gave in.
He turned his head, his lips finding hers, the kiss aggressive, his tongue pushing into her mouth, tasting her. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her against him, feeling the softness of her body against his hard frame. He could feel her breasts pressing into his chest, her nipples hard through the thin fabric of her robe.
Zarah responded eagerly, her hands moving to his shoulders, then down his back, feeling the scars from old battles under her fingertips. She pressed herself closer, her hips grinding against his, making his arousal evident.
Thorfinn's hands roamed, one going to her backside, squeezing the roundness of her buttocks, pulling her even tighter against his growing erection. His other hand moved up, cupping one of her breasts, his thumb brushing over her nipple, feeling it stiffen further under his touch.
He broke the kiss, his lips moving down her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin, leaving small red marks. His hand slipped inside her robe, pushing it off her shoulder to expose more of her. Her skin was smooth, her body firm yet yielding under his rough hands. He kissed down to her collarbone, then lower, his mouth finding her breast, his tongue circling her nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.
Zarah's breath hitched, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer. Her other hand moved to his trousers, fumbling with the laces, desperate to free him. Thorfinn helped her, pulling his shirt off over his head, revealing his battle-scarred torso, then undoing his trousers.
He pushed her robe off completely, letting it fall to the ground. Her body was now fully revealed - her breasts full and round, her waist slender, hips wide and inviting, her skin glowing in the dim light. Her pubic area was covered with dark curls, untouched and virginal, waiting for him.
Thorfinn kissed her again, his hands exploring every inch of her. He moved one hand between her legs, feeling her heat, the dampness of her arousal. His fingers traced her slit, spreading her open gently, feeling how tight she was, how she shivered at his touch.
Zarah moaned, her legs parting further, inviting him in. Thorfinn's fingers dipped inside her, testing her readiness, feeling her body react to him. He spread her wetness around, lubricating her, preparing her.
He broke the kiss to look at her, his eyes dark with lust. He guided her back, laying her down on the bed of furs, her body splayed out for him. His gaze roamed over her, taking in her beauty, her vulnerability, her desire.
Thorfinn positioned himself between her legs, his cock now free, hard and ready. He rubbed the tip against her, feeling her entrance, the tightness there. He pressed forward slightly, the head of his cock meeting her virgin hole, the pressure building as he prepared to enter her. However Thorfinn's cock was large, and as he pressed forward, he met resistance. Her tightness was overwhelming, the fit almost too snug. He pushed gently, guiding just the tip inside her, but Zarah's moan was loud, "Ahhh," echoing through the tent, a mix of pleasure and the sharp pain of her hymen stretching.
Immediately, Thorfinn's hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her cries as he continued to work his way inside. He could feel her body tensing around him, her muscles gripping him in a vice-like hold. The sensation was intense; her warmth enveloped him, but the tightness was like nothing he had experienced before, each inch gained feeling like pushing through a narrow passage.
Zarah's body trembled under him, her muffled moans, "Mmmph," "Ahhh," vibrating against his palm as he slowly, methodically, pushed deeper. He could feel the barrier of her virginity give way, a subtle pop that made her body shudder, her moans turning into whimpers of pain mixed with burgeoning pleasure, "Ohhh."
The feeling for Thorfinn was intoxicating - her tightness around his cock was like a glove, every movement sending waves of sensation through him, the pressure building at the base of his spine. He had not released in so long, and this union was pushing him towards the edge far quicker than he anticipated.
Finally, he bottomed out, his entire length buried within her. The realization hit him; he was in trouble. The tight, pulsating grip of her virgin hole was milking him, and with a groan, he felt himself losing control, his seed spilling inside her without warning.
Zarah moaned, "Ahhh," this time from the sensation of his release, feeling him pulsing inside her. There was a small, awkward silence as Thorfinn's hand slowly moved from her mouth, his breathing heavy, his body still joined with hers.
"Is it always this quick?" Zarah asked.
Thorfinn let out a small laugh. "Not usually," he admitted.
Before she could respond, he thrust again, his cock still hard despite his release. Zarah gasped, "Ohhh," her body arching, the pain now replaced by pure pleasure as he began to move within her. His thrusts were slow at first, allowing her to adjust to the rhythm, to the sensation of fullness.
Each movement sent waves of pleasure through her, her moans growing louder, "Ahhh," "Mmm," no longer needing to be silenced. Thorfinn felt her body respond to him, her tightness now welcoming his thrusts, her hips moving to meet his. He could feel her building towards her climax, her moans becoming higher, "Ahhh," "Ohhh," her breath coming in short gasps.
Thorfinn quickened his pace, the feel of her around him like nothing he had known. Her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust.
Then, with a cry that filled the tent, "Ahhhhh," Zarah reached her peak, her body clenching around him in rhythmic spasms, her orgasm washing over her in waves. Thorfinn felt her convulse, the sensation pushing him towards another climax, but he held back, wanting to prolong this moment.
As her moans subsided into soft whimpers, "Mmm," Thorfinn continued to move, his thrusts now gentle. Thorfinn slowly withdrew his cock from Zarah, the sensation of leaving her warmth causing a shiver to run through him. Her body felt empty without him, but not for long. With a swift motion, he flipped her over onto her stomach, guiding her onto her hands and knees. Her breasts hung down, swaying with each movement, her nipples brushing against the furs beneath her, adding to her arousal.
Her backside was now presented to him, the roundness of her buttocks jiggling slightly as she adjusted her position, the flesh rippling with each small shift. Thorfinn's hands gripped her hips, pulling her back towards him, his cock already hard again, eager for more.
He positioned himself at her entrance, feeling the heat and wetness still there from their previous union. With one firm thrust, he entered her again, this time from behind. Zarah gasped, "Ohh," the angle allowing him to go even deeper, her body tightening around him in response. Her breasts swayed forward and back with each thrust, the motion hypnotic, her moans filling the air, "Ahhh, mmm."
"That's it," Thorfinn growled, his pace increasing, the sight of her body moving under him driving him wild. Her buttocks rippled with each impact, the sound of skin against skin adding to the primal rhythm of their coupling.
Zarah's voice was thick with pleasure, "Gods, it's so good," she moaned out, her words punctuated by her cries, "Ahhh, ohhh." The sensation of being filled so completely, of him hitting that perfect spot inside her, was overwhelming.
Thorfinn could feel his climax building again, the tight grip of her around him urging him on. With a few more hard thrusts, he spilled his seed inside her once more, his release hot and deep, "Mmm," Zarah moaned, feeling him fill her.
Without giving her time to recover, Thorfinn pulled out, turned her over onto her back, and lifted her legs, folding them back towards her head. This new position allowed him an even deeper penetration. Her breasts were now on full display, bouncing with each of his movements, her body open and vulnerable to him.
He entered her again, his thrusts now hard and relentless, each one driving deeper. Zarah's moans turned into screams of pleasure, "Ahhh! Ohhh! Yes!" but Thorfinn leaned down, capturing her mouth with his to muffle her cries, the sounds of the celebration outside masking any noise that might escape.
"Keep quiet, or the whole camp will know," he murmured against her lips, his words a mix of command and lust, his movements never ceasing. Zarah nodded, her agreement lost in another moan, "Mmm," as she bit her lip to stifle her screams.
The intensity was too much for her; the angle, the depth, the sheer force of his thrusts were pushing her towards another climax. Her body tensed, her legs trembling as she was folded under him, her breasts bouncing wildly. "I'm... I'm going to..." she panted out, her words breaking off into a scream of ecstasy, "Ahhhhhhh!" as her orgasm crashed over her, her body milking him, drawing out his own release.
Thorfinn, feeling her convulse around him, couldn't hold back. With one last deep thrust, he came again, his seed flooding deep inside her, their bodies shuddering together in the throes of pleasure.
Hours later, after countless rounds of passion, Thorfinn lay back, his body spent but still aroused. Zarah, her energy seemingly boundless, moved between his legs, her eyes locked on his as she took his cock into her mouth. She was eager, not afraid to push her limits. She wrapped her lips around him, her tongue swirling around the head before she took him deeper, her mouth stretching to accommodate him.
The room was filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of her sucking, "Gluk, gluk," as she bobbed her head, her saliva coating his length, making it slick. She wasn't shy about gagging, the sound of her choking on him only seemed to fuel her desire, "Glrk, glrk," her throat constricting around him, her eyes watering but filled with lust.
She pulled back for air, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, then plunged back down, taking him even deeper, her nose brushing against his pubic hair. Thorfinn groaned, his hands in her hair. Her technique was raw, unexperienced but she more than made up for that with enthusiasm, the sounds of her oral ministrations echoing in the tent, "Gluk, gluk, glrk."
After a moment, Zarah transitioned, her mouth sliding off with a loud, "Pop," as she moved her attention to her breasts. She pressed them together around his cock, her soft, full flesh enveloping him. She moved up and down, her breasts sliding against his shaft, the sensation different but just as intense. Her nipples were hard, brushing against his skin. Thorfinn watched, mesmerized by the sight of her breasts working his cock, the wet sounds of her saliva still lubricating the motion. "Mmm," Zarah moaned, enjoying the feeling of his hardness between her breasts, the friction sending shivers through her.
The combination of her warm mouth, then her soft breasts, was too much. Thorfinn felt his climax building, his body tensing. With a deep groan, he released, his seed erupting in thick, hot spurts. Zarah tried to catch it all, her mouth open, but there was too much; it spilled over her lips, down her chin, onto her breasts, covering her in his essence.
She gasped, "Ahhh," her face and chest glistening with his cum, a look of satisfaction mingling with the mess. She licked her lips, tasting him, then smiled up at him, still holding her breasts around his softening cock.
Thorfinn was exhausted, his body feeling the weight of their night's activities. He lay back, his breathing heavy, his eyes closing as the afterglow of his release washed over him. "You should make your way back," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, trusting that she could find her way back to her own tent.
Zarah nodded, wiping some of the cum from her face with her fingers, then licking them clean. She gave his cock one last, gentle kiss before standing up, her body still humming with the remnants of their shared pleasure. She dressed quietly, her movements slow and deliberate, her skin still warm and flushed. As she left the tent, she looked back once, seeing Thorfinn already succumbing to sleep, his chest rising and falling in deep, rhythmic breaths. The night was silent now, the camp quiet after the earlier festivities. She stepped out into the cool air, feeling the night's chill against her skin. With a small, satisfied smile, she made her way back to her tent, her body still tingling, her mind replaying the night's events as she navigated the dark, the memory of Thorfinn's touch lingering on her skin.
(AN: Same deal boys. This chapter is 30k words so I'm splitting it into 3)