The first thing he felt was weight.
Not physical pain—not at first—but pressure. Thick and suffocating, like the air itself was leaning down on his chest, forcing breath to come slower than his instincts demanded.
When his eyes opened, the world was wrong.
Stone walls loomed above him, uneven and dark, lit by the unsteady flicker of firelight. Shadows stretched and crawled across the ceiling like living things, reshaping themselves with every shift of flame. The smell hit him next—smoke, oil, sweat, and something sharper beneath it. Metal. Blood long dried.
His head pounded.
He tried to move.
Chains rattled.
The sound snapped the fog in his mind like a blade.
His wrists were bound above his head, secured to a thick wooden frame planted into the stone floor. His ankles were chained too—spread just far enough apart to keep him balanced but exposed. The metal was cold against his skin.
Bare skin.
That realization came last.
He looked down slowly, heart hammering harder with each inch of movement. His body was unfamiliar—leaner, stronger, unmistakably adult, with the marks of someone who had grown fully, not halfway into anything.
Not a child.
Not unfinished.
His breath shuddered despite himself.
"I told you he would wake soon."
The voice came from the left.
Low. Calm. Amused.
He turned his head.
Women stood around him.
Not a few.
Many.
They formed a loose semicircle at the edge of the chamber, illuminated by torches set into the rock walls. Tall women. Broad-shouldered women. Scarred women with weapons slung casually at their hips. Their clothing was minimal—leather, cloth, metal—functional and unapologetic.
Their eyes moved freely over him.
Not hiding.
Not whispering.
Watching.
Evaluating.
Claiming.
"He's quiet," another voice observed.
"Most scream."
A ripple of soft laughter passed through the group.
His pulse spiked.
"What—" His throat was dry. The word barely formed. "Where am I?"
A woman stepped forward.
She was taller than the others, her presence heavy enough that the murmurs behind her died without command. Dark hair was braided tightly along her scalp, gold rings threaded through it in a pattern that looked ritualistic rather than decorative. Her arms were marked with scars and symbols burned into flesh long ago.
Leader.
Without question.
She stopped directly in front of him.
"You're alive," she said. "That's the important part."
Her eyes traced his face, slow and precise, then drifted lower without hesitation. He felt the shift immediately—heat blooming under his skin, instinctive and humiliating in how easily it came.
A few of the women noticed.
Smiles curved.
Interesting.
He clenched his jaw and forced his breathing steady.
"I didn't ask to be here," he said.
The woman tilted her head. "No one ever does."
She reached out and grasped his chin between her fingers, tilting his face up. Her touch was firm, not cruel, but utterly unquestioning.
"You died," she continued calmly. "And woke again. This makes you fortunate."
Her thumb brushed lightly along his jawline.
His body reacted instantly, nerves flaring in response to contact. He hated that she could feel it.
Her lips curved.
"Yes," she murmured. "You'll do."
The words sent a ripple through the watching women—some amused, some annoyed, some sharply attentive now.
"Do for what?" he asked, voice tight.
She released his chin and took a half step back. "For surviving."
She turned to the others. "He's grown. Fully. No frailty."
A few nods followed.
"He belongs to the Dawn Clan now," she continued. "Male. Adult. Unclaimed."
Unclaimed.
The word struck something deep and cold inside him.
"You don't own people," he said before he could stop himself.
The chamber went quiet.
Not angry.
Amused.
The braided woman studied him for a long moment, then smiled.
"Not where you're from," she said. "But you aren't there anymore."
She gestured, and another woman stepped forward—this one younger, curiosity shining too brightly in her eyes. She circled him once, slow, fingertips skimming close enough to stir the air but never quite touching.
"He's awake enough to argue," the younger one said. "Confidence or stupidity?"
"Both often survive longer," the braided woman replied.
The younger woman stopped in front of him and leaned in. Too close. Her presence pressed into him, heat radiating off her skin.
"You feel it, don't you?" she whispered, eyes flicking to the tension in his body. "Being watched."
He swallowed.
"Yes."
Her smile widened. "Good."
Something flickered in his vision.
Text.
Impossible. Unreal.
REINCARNATION COMPLETE
HOST STATUS: MALE (ADULT)
WORLD CLASSIFICATION: MATRIARCHAL / LAWLESS
ANOMALOUS BLOODLINE DETECTED…
His heart raced.
The text stuttered—flickering like a flame in wind—before stabilizing.
BLOODLINE AWAKENED: WITHHELD DESIRE
EFFECT:
Desire directed toward host → Power accumulation
Fulfillment → Power decay
STATUS: UNSTABLE
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: LOW
The words vanished.
His breath shook.
The younger woman pulled back suddenly, frowning. "He froze."
"No," the braided woman said softly. "He realized something."
She stepped closer again. "You understand now."
"Understand what?" he asked hoarsely.
"That this world doesn't take you by force," she said. "It takes you by want."
Her gaze sharpened. "And you're already being wanted."
As if summoned by the statement, the attention around him intensified. He felt it press inward, tightening like unseen hands closing around his awareness. Thoughts. Impressions. Imaginations that were not his own.
His blood pulsed.
Something deep inside him responded—not with need, but with containment. Like a weight settling into place, heavy and patient.
The braided woman watched his reaction closely.
"Chain him lower," she ordered. "Feed him. Let him rest."
One of the warriors hesitated. "You're not testing him further?"
"There will be time," she said calmly. "Let them think about him first."
They moved then—unlocking, lowering, steadying him as the chains were adjusted. Hands brushed skin incidentally, deliberately, each contact lingering half a second too long.
Not enough.
Never enough.
They laid him onto thick furs near the wall. His restraints were loosened but not removed completely—freedom close enough to feel and not close enough to take.
As they stepped away, he lay there breathing hard, heart racing, every nerve lit.
Above him, firelight flickered.
Around him, women whispered.
And beneath it all, something unseen gathered, growing heavier with every unfulfilled glance.
He didn't know the rules yet.
But his body already understood one thing:
In this world, desire was a weapon.
And somehow—
It was feeding him.