As Fluffy padded steadily through the thinning forest toward the south-west, Elias unrolled the crisp parchment with a soft crackle of vellum, the faint scent of fresh ink and sealing wax rising to mingle with the earthy tang of moss and sun-warmed pine needles drifting on the breeze.
His eyes scanned the elegant script, and he read the details aloud in a low, steady voice that carried over the rhythmic thud of the tiger's massive paws and the whispering rush of wind through the leaves.
"The Miller's Ford Blood Feud.
"Two families have been slaughtering each other for forty-seven years over the water rights to the only mill in the valley. Current tally: thirty-one dead, one stolen bride (later reciprocated), three wells poisoned with nightshade, eleven barns burned to ash, thirty-four head of cattle hamstrung, and a grim collection of severed fingers, ears, and noses no one bothers to count anymore.
"Location: the village of Miller's Ford—thirty-seven squat, rain-stained houses hunched along the sluggish, mud-brown ribbon of the River Murk, three days south-west of High Crag Keep. The air there hangs thick with the perpetual damp smell of river silt, wet thatch, and the sweet, yeasty perfume of fresh-ground flour that clings to everything like a ghost.
"The prize: a single black-stone overshot watermill, its great wheel creaking day and night with the low, constant groan of ancient timber and the steady, hypnotic splash of water into the sluice. Whoever controls the mill controls the valley's bread, its coin, its life.
"The families:
"The Blackwaters—millers for nine generations, pale and flour-dusted as wraiths, their clothes perpetually streaked white no matter how often they wash. Led by Old Marta Blackwater, seventy-three winters old, three fingers missing from her left hand (taken by a Greyson hatchet in '83), yet her remaining grip is still iron-strong and her tongue sharper than any flaying knife.
"The Greysons—broad-shouldered farmers who swear the mill sits on land deeded to their bloodline by a duke whose bones have been dust for centuries. Led by 'Red' Willem Greyson, forty-two, built like a prize ox, the left side of his face a livid map of old burn scars from the great barn fire of '69 that still pulls his mouth into a permanent half-snarl.
"The travelling priest's latest tally, scratched in faded ink on sheepskin:
"Blackwaters fallen: seventeen.
"Greysons fallen: fourteen.
"Bystanders, dogs, and one very unlucky royal tax collector: nine.
"Stolen brides: two—one each way—both now fiercely loyal to their captors and expecting children.
"Wells poisoned: five.
"Barns burned: eleven.
"Cattle hamstrung: thirty-four.
"Trophies of flesh: too many to count."
Elias let the parchment roll itself shut with a soft snap, the lingering scent of nightshade and old blood seeming to cling to the words even out here in the clean forest air. Aurelia's arms tightened briefly around his waist, her warm breath brushing his ear; Lyria glanced back from the front, raven hair whipping in the wind, her expression a mix of amusement and steel.
Fluffy huffed—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through all three riders—as if even the legendary tiger could already smell the flour, smoke, and bad blood waiting ahead
Hidden deep in a thicket of secret bushes on the outskirts of Miller's Ford—where the air hung heavy with the damp, loamy scent of river mud, crushed ferns, and the faint, acrid tang of nightshade still lingering from poisoned wells—Father Harlan Thorne, the travelling priest of eighty-one winters, had Old Marta Blackwater pinned beneath him in the soft, yielding earth.
His weathered robes were rucked up around his waist, her flour-dusted skirts shoved high over her hips, exposing the pale, strong thighs of a woman who had spent decades hauling grain sacks. Harlan's bony hips drove forward in steady, relentless thrusts, the wet, rhythmic slap of sweat-slick skin against skin echoing softly in the secluded grove. Marta's legs—thick and powerful—were hooked over his narrow back, heels digging into his flanks, urging him deeper with every roll of her hips.
The priest's gnarled hands gripped her wide hips hard enough to leave faint white marks on her flesh, fingers sinking into the soft give of decades-earned curves. Marta's breath came in rough, guttural moans that rasped against his ear—raw, hungry sounds from a throat that had cursed Greysons for forty-seven years. Her remaining fingers clawed at his back, nails scraping through thin fabric to score the skin beneath, while her stump pressed firmly against his shoulder blade, a reminder of old vendettas even in the heat of lust.
Harlan buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating mix of fresh-ground wheat, woodsmoke, and the sharp, musky scent of her arousal. Each deep thrust dragged the head of his rigid cock along her inner walls, slick and clenching, drawing guttural gasps from her lips. Marta's full breasts—still heavy and pendulous despite her age—bounced with every impact, nipples dark and hardened, brushing against the rough wool of his robe. She arched up to meet him, grinding her clit against his pelvis on every downstroke, the wet friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her core until her thighs trembled.
"Harder, you old bastard," she growled, voice gravel-rough, teeth nipping at his earlobe. Harlan obliged, hips snapping faster, the obscene squelch of her soaked cunt swallowing him whole growing louder, more desperate. Her inner muscles fluttered and gripped him in rhythmic pulses, milking him as she climbed higher. When she came, it was with a choked snarl—back bowing off the earth, thighs locking around him, walls spasming in fierce, wet contractions that dragged him over the edge with her. He groaned low, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside her in thick, hot pulses, the sensation prolonged by the tight clutch of her body.
They stayed locked together for long moments, panting harshly, sweat cooling on their skin in the shaded air, the scent of sex thick and heady around them.
A few minutes later, clothes were hastily rearranged—Marta smoothing her skirts down over thighs still sticky with their combined release, Harlan tucking himself away and pulling his robes straight, both breathing still uneven.
As they stepped out from the bushes onto separate paths, Marta wiped a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and asked, voice steady once more, "So… did you send word of this mess to House Valerian?"
Father Harlan nodded, adjusting the leather cord of his travelling satchel. "The parchment was delivered. The prodigies are already on their way."
Marta's lips curved in a grim, satisfied smile. "Then the transaction is complete."
Without another word, they turned and walked in opposite directions—she toward the creaking black-stone mill, he toward the muddy road north—leaving only the faint, lingering scent of flour, sweat, and spent passion drifting among the bushes.