Page 43 of The Kingdom of Flames

Everything about him was dominance incarnate, a challenge met and bested. His red eyes never left hers. His name circled among the dying of the battlefield, the cries of the wounded.

Celestine reached into her pocket that hung from her robe, letting the final ribbon fall from the battlement. She had never been this ready. She was his. As much as this fortification, as much as the land beneath it.

Encarmine looked up. He caught it gently, surveying it. His circlet was still horned, his form massive.

Celestine feared him as he marched up the stairs. She knew his touch would be unlike anything she could imagine.

Encarmine emerged at the top of the battlement. The flags and banners of Scarlet around them burned as he walked toward her. He was covered in blood. She knew he was the beating heart of the enemy, and she was his prize, his conquest. Hands that burned like hot metal carried her to the table that was now an altar. He held her ribbon in his hand.

“Your embrace,” Encarmine growled, towering over her. Celestine fell back, fearful, excited, elated. “is mine.”

Whatever remained of her dress was torn away. Encarmine looked upon his prize, upon his property. His armor fell in thick chunks from him, and he burned with the mist of war. His eyes were fiery red, hot with passion from battle, and she knew had she not even dropped this last token, he would have taken her. His lust was one of a conqueror, and her quim drenched in readiness.

Nude, scar-covered, and muscled, Encarmine growled and slapped her legs apart. She felt his thick cock upon her cunt, pressing against her gate. Encarmine had not snatched victory from the jaw of defeat. No, he had speared the dog of defeat through the eyes, pinning it there.

Now it would watch and howl while he took her.

Nothing could withstand him, and her eyes saw only the redness of his, the infernal clamor of war and battle as he entered her, fighting like someone found helpless by an enemy soldier in a field, and the pain and thickness of his demi-form was nearly too much until he broke her crest with his reaching need, something yielding inside of her, hidden and safe—no longer.

Encarmine sunk inch after merciless inch into her. She could not take him all. It would be impossible. But impossible lived here in this place where gods walked and time waited for them.

“Take all of me,” Encarmine growled and gripped her throat, choking her. She gasped her obedience, but he didn’t care to hear. His manhood was so rigid, so hard, he took her to the hilt. She felt herself being stretched beyond any possibility. He slid out and back, churning her, coaxing the blood of her crest. He would allow no portion of her innocence to remain, the burning flesh of his hips finally meeting her.

When he withdrew from her, allowing her breath, she felt her maidenhood drench his girth. Encarmine tied her final ribbon around his base, taking each of her soft legs in his clawed hands, standing so tall over her like a god of war visiting from some infernal plane. Her hips lifted far above her head, her chin pressed against her own chest, forced to look upon his tall and mighty form as he strode into her.

Encarmine roared and bucked into her. Celestine screamed. He was fucking her soul. She felt it. Felt him there, somehow. He let her down again, almost shrinking, returning to a normal size. He reached down and withdrew the final ribbon from his straining cock, drenched in her maidenhead.

“Taste your defeat, Final Bride.” His voice was a growl. A dark king on a throne of metal. The ribbon soaked in her crest’s blood pressed into her mouth, and when she tasted her own blood, she knew this was his world, and her as well, was his to consume.

Chapter 8

The Final Week of Red

There was no time of lamentation for the people of the Red Banner. A military culture was one of industry. The skilled hands that made spears and shields and armor built coffins.

They were well-versed.

Celestine learned that Dritha had perished to protect her. For two days, she felt nothing, and Encarmine did not treat with her flesh. The two of them were grim faces that stared at one another over the breaking of their fast. Grief fell upon Celestine like a dark blanket. She tended to Dritha’s body and then saw it burned, holding the torch herself while a lump in her throat choked her.

Many had died to save her in vain.

The people of the Red Banner looked upon her without blame. No one condemned her, but Celestine charged herself for the terrible blow landed upon them. When she tried to explain it to Encarmine or her comrades at Firekeep, they didn’t seem to understand. Warriors were meant for war, and in war, they died. To them, a hammer used for a nail served its purpose, and there was no remorse or shame in that.

Celestine finished her last week at Firekeep. Time continued, but she felt her courtship period ending at the same speed as her schola training. Nothing was delayed for the dead. The class was simply smaller. Her last test was a melee against a male team, and they fought to a draw. Thus, her class graduated and bore the mark of the Red realm, and little else came.

In those last weeks, Celestine went to the hills at night to visit a red glowing form. Encarmine waited for her there, in his magnificence, circlet upon his brow. She would serve him with her hands, her mouth, and her throat until he took her. She loved serving him. When Encarmine loved her, it was always with passion and fire. However slow and loving they may start, his seed was molten conquest poured into her.

Yet when he withdrew from her, she felt heavy grief. She had finally learned the full bearing of his world. In war, there was death and the torment of those left in its wake. His wake.

Their lovemaking began to mingle with the grief and shock she felt. Grief for friends lost, for innocence and war’s thievery. Shock at what she had seen. Even her brief time in battle left her troubled. She did not sleep some nights. When she did, she dreamed she was in the ambush again and again, always fighting to reach Dritha.

Always failing to save her.

Eventually, she moved back to Scalehall. Encarmine never sought to imprison or treat her as a prize among his walls. She was a bloodied soldier, as far as he was concerned, a free woman of his realm.

She became preoccupied. No longer did she practice sword or spear. Celestine moved among the medicae tents, tending to the wounded. The wounded became the maimed, the amputee.

Or they became the dead.

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