Three weeks had passed since Valeria's first night with the King. Three weeks of living a double life—dutiful wife by day, the King's property by night. Three weeks of watching Aelindor's confusion grow as she became someone he didn't recognize.
And three weeks of Círdan watching it all happen.
Círdan had been Aelindor's closest friend for over three centuries. They'd trained together as young guards, fought side by side in the border skirmishes, stood as witnesses at each other's weddings. In all that time, Círdan had never lied to him.
Until now.
"She's different lately," Aelindor said over wine in the barracks common room. His hands trembled slightly as he poured. "Distant. Like her mind is always somewhere else."
Círdan studied his friend's face—the forced smile, the worry lines that hadn't been there a month ago. "Perhaps she's just stressed from her duties as Captain."
"Maybe." Aelindor didn't sound convinced. "But it's more than that. She used to look at me with such warmth. Now it's like... like she's performing."
The observation cut too close to truth. Círdan had noticed it too—the way Valeria's smiles never reached her eyes anymore, the mechanical way she touched her husband.
"Have you talked to her about it?"
"I've tried." Aelindor's voice cracked. "She says everything is fine. That I'm imagining things. But I know my wife, Círdan. Something has changed."
*Everything has changed*, Círdan thought. *But you can't see it yet.*
Because Círdan had seen what Aelindor hadn't. The marks Valeria tried to hide. The way she walked differently after certain nights. The knowing looks between her and that human squire, Ethan.
And most damningly—her midnight visits to the King's private wing.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Círdan lied, the words ash in his mouth. "Give her time."
After Aelindor left, Círdan sat alone with his wine and his guilt. He should tell his friend. Should expose whatever was happening before it destroyed him completely.
But a darker part of Círdan—a part he'd suppressed for centuries—whispered something different.
*If she's straying anyway, why should it only be the King who benefits?*
He'd wanted Valeria since before her wedding. Had stood beside Aelindor at the ceremony, watching her pledge eternal devotion, and hated himself for the jealousy burning in his chest. Had spent three hundred years watching his best friend touch the woman he'd secretly desired.
Now she was corrupting herself. Throwing away her marriage vows.
If she was already damned, what difference would one more make?
The thought disgusted him. But that night, when Valeria slipped from the barracks toward the palace, Círdan followed.
---
The corridors were dark and silent. Valeria moved with purpose—no hesitation, no furtive glances. This was routine for her now.
She entered the King's private wing without knocking.
Círdan waited in the shadows, his heart pounding. He should leave. Should go back to his quarters and forget what he'd seen.
Instead, he crept closer.
The study door stood slightly ajar. Through the gap, candlelight flickered across an image that would be burned into Círdan's memory forever.
Valeria knelt before the throne in her Guard Captain armor. The King sat above her, fingers tangled possessively in her silver hair.
"You're late." The King's voice carried casual authority.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. Aelindor wanted—"
"I don't care what your husband wanted." The King tightened his grip, forcing her head back. "When I summon you, you come immediately."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Show me you understand."
Valeria's hands moved to the King's breeches. No hesitation. No shame. Just practiced efficiency.
Círdan's breath caught. He should look away. Should leave. Should do anything except stand frozen, watching his best friend's wife service their King.
When she freed His Majesty's cock, Círdan felt his own harden traitorously. The wrongness of it—the betrayal, the corruption—only made his arousal more shameful.
"All the way down," the King commanded, guiding her head forward. "Think about this tomorrow when your husband kisses you goodnight."
She took him deep, throat working. The King held her there, watching her struggle with detached amusement.
"Does he know?" the King asked conversationally. "Does Aelindor know his devoted wife spends her nights choking on my cock?"
Valeria couldn't answer with her mouth full, but her body responded—a shudder that might have been shame or arousal.
Círdan's hand moved to his own erection before he could stop himself. This was wrong. This was the deepest betrayal. This was—
*This was everything he'd secretly wanted to see.*
Not her with the King specifically. But Valeria brought low. Made common. Stripped of the pedestal Aelindor had placed her on.
He stroked himself slowly through his breeches, hating every moment of pleasure it brought.
"Good girl," the King murmured, releasing her. "Now leave. I have work to do."
Valeria pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I thought—"
"You thought I'd fuck you properly? Not tonight. Go home to your husband. Let him taste me when he kisses you."
She rose smoothly and left without protest.
Círdan barely managed to hide before she passed, close enough to smell the sex on her. She walked away with steady steps—no guilt, no hesitation.
Just routine.
He waited until silence returned, then fled to his own quarters where he finished himself with shaking hands, Aelindor's trusting face haunting every stroke.
The next day, watching his friend smile at his wife over breakfast, Círdan made his decision.
He would confront her. Would discover the truth.
And then... then he would decide what to do with it.
---
He cornered her late afternoon in the empty training hall—the same room where he and Aelindor had practiced together for centuries.
"Captain Valeria." He locked the door behind him. "We need to talk."
She turned from the weapon rack, wariness flickering across her face. "Círdan. I wasn't expecting—"
"I know what you are."
The color drained from her face. Her hand moved instinctively toward her sword, then fell away when she recognized him.
"I don't know what you—"
"Last night. The King's study." He moved closer, watching her eyes widen. "I saw everything."
For a long moment, she stood frozen. Then her shoulders sagged in defeat.
"Please." Her voice cracked. "Please don't tell Aelindor."
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't." His voice came out harsher than intended, edged with three centuries of suppressed jealousy. "He's my best friend. He deserves to know his wife is the King's whore."
She flinched at the word. "I know. I know what I am. But telling him would destroy him. He loves me."
"You should have thought of that before you got on your knees."
"I know!" Tears filled her violet eyes. "I know I'm terrible. I'm everything awful you think I am. But please, Círdan—for his sake, not mine—don't tell him."
He studied her face, seeing the cracks in her composure. She wasn't begging for herself. She genuinely feared what this would do to Aelindor.
It almost made him pity her. Almost.
"What you're doing is treason," he said softly, backing her against the wall. "Adultery. Corruption of everything you swore to uphold."
"I know."
"He's in agony trying to understand why you're distant. Blaming himself for your coldness. And all the while you're—"
"I *know*." Her voice broke completely. "What do you want from me? Tell me what you want and I'll do it. Anything. Just don't destroy him."
The word hung between them.
*Anything.*
Círdan knew what he should want. Confession. Repentance. Protection for his friend.
But standing this close to her, smelling the faint musk of sex still clinging to her skin, feeling three hundred years of want burning in his chest—
His hand moved to her waist.
"Prove it," he heard himself say.
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Círdan, no—"
"You said anything." His other hand pressed against the wall beside her head, caging her. "I watched the King use you like a common whore. Now I want to understand what's worth destroying Aelindor for."
"This is wrong."
A harsh laugh escaped him. "Is it more wrong than what you're already doing? Than betraying your husband with the King? Than whatever you've done with that human boy everyone whispers about?"
She trembled—not entirely from fear.
"I've wanted you for so long," he admitted, the confession tasting like poison and honey. "Since before you married him. I used to fantasize about you back when I thought you were untouchable. Pure. Now I'm going to live that fantasy while my best friend suffers."
His lips nearly touched her ear. "And I don't care."
Her breathing quickened. For a heartbeat, he thought she'd refuse. Thought she'd find some last shred of dignity.
Then she reached past him and turned the lock with a decisive click.