A few days later, the Ashland mines roar with activity again. The clatter of picks and hammers echoes through the craggy slopes, mingling with the squeal of cart wheels as ore-laden hauls roll down into the loading bays. Glimmering veins of ore are being ripped from the stone by the ton. Iron, silver, even specks of rare crimsonite, and all of it piling high in the sorting yards like a dragon's hoard waiting to be spent.
Lucien leans over a large stone table set on a rocky outcrop overlooking the operation. The wooden surface is strewn with ledgers, notes, and fresh reports inked just that morning. Ignara stands beside him, arms folded, her expression firm.
"We're running at maybe fifteen percent of our actual export potential," she says flatly, flicking a finger across the calculations. "It's criminal. If we could move more of this ore, we could be swimming in gold. With better materials and imports, we could start producing advanced goods, maybe even weapons worthy of a demon army again."
Veyra, seated across from them with a quill behind her ear and her boots up on a barrel, nods enthusiastically. "It's a waste letting all of this just pile up in vaults. Give me a proper workshop, and I can turn this excess into something special. Blades, armor, machines, maybe even magitek. Real Ashland craft."
X'zelle, lounging in the shade behind them with a book, looks up and smiles faintly. "She's right. I've seen what Veyra can build when she's let loose. If we started manufacturing here, we could become an arms exporter the other kingdoms couldn't ignore."
Lucien grins. "Then I'll add it to the growing list of things we need, alongside better food, working plumbing, and a dragon escort."
Before anyone can say more, a sudden gust of air blows a flurry of papers off the table as two figures skid to a halt nearby, panting.
A cloud of dust puffs up from the path as Vex and Vile sprint toward them, arms overloaded with scrolls, tomes, and bundles of papers. Vile trips halfway up the rise but recovers expertly, handing the stack off with a proud flourish.
"All the intel we could find," adds Vile, beaming with pride.
"Got everything we could dig up on the territory outside the border," Vex pants, brushing her hair back. "Maps, old travel notes, adventurer logs, smuggler manifestos."
Lucien takes the documents eagerly, spreading a few of the larger maps out. "Give me the short version."
Vile sits down and bounces her foot, reciting from memory. "Not a kingdom, exactly. It's a collection of warring territories, city-states, tribes, warbands. No central rule except for a powerful war chief who holds them all in shaky truce."
Vex adds, "She's brutal. They say she once executed twenty mercenaries just for arriving late to a meeting. Keeps everything together through fear and insane strength."
Lucien snorts. "Sounds like a lovely introduction to diplomacy."
Vile raises a finger. "Most of the population's beastfolk. Warriors, mercenaries, adventurers. Tough, proud, aggressive, and they hate the Ashlands. Their region always got hit first whenever a demon army marched."
Lucien sighs, rubbing his temple. "Perfect. Just perfect."
He stares at the maps a moment longer, then rolls them up and hands them back. "Start prepping a travel kit for me. Nothing fancy. No obvious Ashland markings, no enchanted cloaks with fire runes stitched into them. I want to blend in."
The twins salute and scurry off, leaving a trail of fluttering parchment in their wake.
That night, the mine's administrative building is quiet, bathed in the soft flicker of mana-lamps. Outside, the work crews are off-duty, relaxing around campfires and telling crude jokes. But inside...
Lucien stands at the rear office desk behind Sila, the curvy, sharp-tongued head of the mining operation. Her hands grip the edge of the desk, legs parted and shaking as Lucien thrusts into her from behind with a deep, practiced rhythm, one hand splayed across the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair, tilting her head just enough to catch the desperate roll of her eyes. Her glasses hinge on the tip of her nose as she whimpers numbers and production quotas between moans.
"Sixteen... p-percent... ugh... i-if we reroute the west shaft... ohhhh gods—" she gasps.
"You're doing so well," Lucien murmurs into her ear while gripping her lower back tightly, rolling his hips in a slow grind that has her toes curling against the floorboards. "Keep going, darling. Let it all out."
"T-Twelve... point six percent yield increase... o-of mid-grade silver this w-week..."
Lucien chuckles, leaning over her, digging deeper, the desk creaking rhythmically beneath them, scattering a ledger and two quills onto the floor. "Good girl. Keep it up."
Her legs tremble. "C-can't concentrate if you... ahhhh... do that with your hips."
"I believe in you," he whispers, hands trailing up to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing over her nipples in time with each thrust. He shifts his angle, drawing a broken shriek out of her, and grins against the shell of her ear. "There it is. That's the spot that always throws off your math, isn't it?"
"H-how do you even remember that—" Sila's protest dissolves into a whine as he finds the rhythm again, deeper, slower, deliberately cruel in how thoroughly it unravels her train of thought. Her fingers scramble for grip on the desk's edge, knocking an inkwell clattering to the floor.
"Was I multiplying or... oh... ooooooh... too deep... too—"
Her body pulses, her eyes cross, and she slumps forward onto the desk with a long, guttural groan.
Then, suddenly, the air in front of them shimmers.
A swirling vortex of dark magic snaps into existence, hovering above the desk. Ash-magic surges in waves as a glowing, semi-transparent orb blooms open like an eye.
Lucien freezes.
Sila's moans cut off in a sharp gasp as she stares at the orb in horror.
"...Did you do that?" he asks, panting slightly.
She blinks. "I thought my orgasm made me hallucinate it."
The orb twists slightly. A faint outline appears within, then a wizened old face emerges, gnarled with age and glowing with faint violet markings. A pair of cloudy eyes blink.
"Is this thing on? Hello? Anybody there?" the woman's voice crackles.
Lucien, still deep inside Sila, hesitantly raises a hand. "Uh. Yeah. We hear you."
Her eyes focus on him. She gasps. "Ah! There you are! The Demon Lord himself. Tsk, tsk. You didn't even visit me first. I had to hear through rumors that you'd returned. And the things I've heard..."
She chuckles darkly. "Honestly, I didn't believe them. But now? Seeing you being balls-deep in your mine manager—"
Lucien clears his throat, trying to hold in a laugh. Sila turns crimson.
The orb pulses. "Well, now that I've seen your glorious return and your glorious ass, you best come visit me. Immediately. I don't care what else you're doing. Well, finish up first, of course, no need to rush that." She winks.
With a crackle and a pop, the orb disappears.
Lucien scratches his head.
Then he blinks. "Hmm. That was new."
Sila slowly turns her head, face pale as her knees buckle beneath her. "Lord Lucidius, t-that was the Void Mother."
"Yes?"
"The actual Void Mother."
"And?"
"She just saw us screwing!"
There's a long pause.
Then Lucien shrugs. "She didn't seem to mind."
And with a devilish grin, he grips the back of Sila's neck, slaps her butt firmly, and slides back into rhythm. "Now, where were we..."
She groans, eyes rolling as she melts forward onto the desk again. "Ooooohgods… we're in… ahh~ … so much trouble."