CHAPTER 32: THE VALLEY OF QUEENS TREMBLES

A few days later, in the fortress of the White Blades, an event was about to occur.

The circular stone hall was plunged into a trembling gloom, lit only by a few torches fixed to the walls. Their flames drew dancing shadows across the bas-reliefs carved into the rock, as if the ancestors themselves were watching what was about to unfold.

Seated on a basalt seat, the chieftess of the White Blades tribe remained motionless.

Her slender silhouette cut through the heaviness of the air. Her fair skin, smooth in places, was streaked with fine scars that seemed like trophies of past battles.

Her firm chest was half-exposed, held only by a half-opened armor, and a slit skirt revealed the dry strength of her muscular thigh. Each time she crossed her legs, a flash of flesh was revealed, calculated, almost cruel.

The door suddenly opened.

Four silhouettes entered. Three half-dead males, dragged like carcasses, their ribs protruding, eyes glazed, mouths full of blackened blood. And between them, staggering, a naked woman. Her body bore the burning mark of a red-hot iron, imprinted across her belly. Her skin, once pale, was covered in soot and sweat. Her breasts, bouncing with each trembling step, were scratched, bruised, and a stream of dried tears traced a dirty line down her cheeks.

Silence weighed heavy.

The chieftess finally rose. Her skirt slid over her rounded hips, revealing more skin, and the leather of her armor let out a sharp crack. Slowly, with deadly elegance, she descended the stone steps leading to the central slab. Her yellow, icy gaze never left the prisoner.

Reaching her, she raised her hand. Her clawed fingers first brushed the woman’s shoulder, then descended, tracing a slow line down to her chest. The graze was just a touch, but enough to make her nipples harden, despite the shame, despite the pain.

The prisoner trembled, a strangled moan escaping her throat.

- N...nnh...

— A message, murmured the chieftess, icy. Not a victory... an humiliation.

She gripped the survivor’s breast, pressing until the flesh deformed under her palm. The contrast between the sensuality of the gesture and the cruelty of her gaze chilled the assembly.

Her eyes turned to the dying males, sprawled on the stone. Their wheezing breaths filled the hall like the whine of wounded animals. She understood. It wasn’t simply a fortress that had been taken. It was a warning. An unforgivable show of force.

She released the prisoner, who collapsed to her knees, bare chest shaken by sobs, the branding iron still glowing on her belly.

The chieftess lifted her chin, her hair falling over her bare shoulders, and her lips stretched into a smile without warmth.

— So... a male dares.

Her voice resounded in the hall like a blade drawn from its sheath.

At the same moment, in the camp of the Burning Sands, the main tent opened on a scene just as grim...

In the camp of the Burning Sands, under the tent open to the night, the heat of sex and wine was broken by the arrival of a staggering survivor. There, the dark-skinned chieftess understood that the enemy was not a mere man, but a scourge.

The tent flapped gently to the rhythm of the night wind. The air was heavy with mixed scents: sweat, sex, spiced wine. Around the nomad camp, the fires cast trembling glows on the silhouettes of the warrior women standing guard, spears planted in the sand.

Inside, the chieftess of the Burning Sands tribe was sprawled on a bed of furs. Tall, black-skinned, she had the stature of a living statue. Her bare breasts, heavy and firm, were half hidden only by a necklace of animal teeth. Her broad buttocks, covered by a beast pelt thrown aside, caught the eye with each movement. Two concubines were still pressed against her, thighs entwined, skin shining with sweat after the embrace.

The chieftess sat up, naked, her body covered with a fine moist sheen. Her dark skin caught the light of the brazier and reflected it in golden flashes, as if each drop of sweat was a gem encrusted on her flesh. Her breasts swayed slowly, heavily, as she leaned to grab the cup of wine placed beside her.

At that moment, the tent flap lifted.

A staggering survivor was pushed inside. Naked, marked with blows, her skin was smeared with soot. Between her thighs, dried semen formed whitish streaks, visible even in the gloom. Her tangled hair stuck to her face, and her lips trembled without a sound.

Behind her, dragged like a carcass, a male groaned. His broken voice was nothing but a hoarse breath:

— I-it wasn’t a man... It was a demon. His eyes... he saw in the dark... and his bow... his bow never missed...

Silence fell over the tent.

The chieftess took a sip of wine. The cup touched her thick lips, and her throat swallowed slowly, her neck taut with the motion. Her heavy breasts swayed gently as she leaned on one knee. She stood up fully, imposing, her broad hips drawing a silhouette both fertile and martial.

She approached the prisoner, seized her chin with a firm hand, forcing her face to rise. The necklace of teeth slipped between her breasts, catching for an instant the reddish glow of the brazier.

Her black eyes gleamed with cold anger.

— This is not a man, she repeated, her deep voice vibrating with authority. This is a scourge.

She shoved the prisoner, who collapsed onto the beast pelt, naked and trembling.

The chieftess turned to her concubines still lying down, their thighs still wet from the interrupted act. She once again brought the cup of wine to her lips, and as she drank, her gaze remained fixed outside, where the night swallowed the camp.

— And a scourge... always falls upon us all.

And while these rumors spread, in the troglodyte city of the Rock Blades, the tattooed chieftess rose from her throne...

The troglodyte city spread along the cliff, a tangle of caves carved into the red stone. Torches planted at the entrances diffused trembling halos, like incandescent orbits watching the night. Inside, the great hall was circular, the walls covered with ancient frescoes depicting conquests, wars, ritual orgies. The air smelled of damp rock, sweat, and ash.

On the throne sculpted into the stone, the chieftess of the Rock Blades sat. Her silhouette contrasted with the harshness of the place: head shaved on one side, the other falling in thick locks framing a face marked with tattoos. Her entire body was covered with black ink designs: spirals, runes, claws that seemed to move with the shadows. Her chest was compressed by crossed leather straps, her flat belly gleamed with sweat, and her powerful legs, spread with martial ease, betrayed the brute strength of her body.

A scream rang through the hall, followed by a dull thud. Before her, a survivor was thrown, naked, her knees torn by the stone, her skin burned with red marks. Three mutilated males followed, panting, their bellies ripped open by blows too precise to be the fruit of mere combat. They moaned like slaughtered but still conscious beasts.

The chieftess rose slowly. The straps slid against her glistening skin, and one gave way under the tension. Her right breast burst free, firm, high, the nipple hardened by the cold of the rock. She made no move to cover it. Her amber eyes remained fixed on the prisoners, as if her nudity mattered less than the insult she perceived in this spectacle.

She descended the steps, her bare feet striking the stone, her bare breast trembling slightly with each step. She approached the survivor, whose lips quivered without forming a word. With a brutal backhand, the chieftess sent the prisoner’s head snapping to the side.

Her voice cracked like a blade against steel:

— Enough.

She made a sign. Two warriors advanced and plunged their spears into the bodies of the agonizing males. The screams were short, muffled, replaced by the sticky silence of blood flowing on the stone.

But behind her impassive mask, her stomach tightened. The chieftess felt her breath quicken, her heart beating against her ribs. It wasn’t anger. It was fear. An ancient fear, almost forgotten, that no war had awakened in years.

She slowly climbed back to her throne, her chest still half bare, her uncovered breast rising with each heavier breath. She gripped the stone-carved armrests, her fingers whitening.

— Summon them all, she said in a hoarse voice. All the chieftesses. Not tomorrow. Not in three days. Now.

Her eyes, usually so firm, clouded for an instant. She looked at the corpses at her feet.

— For if this man is not stopped... none of us will be.

Not far away, in the damp palace of the Abyss, another truth burst forth beneath the soaked veils of a sensual chieftess...

The palace opened onto the black waters of an underground lake. The light of the torches reflected on the surface like hundreds of shattered stars, and the damp walls echoed each breath, each step. The marble columns, streaked with luminous veins, rose to the invisible ceiling, disappearing into darkness. Everything breathed damp opulence, the scent of moss and flesh.

The chieftess of the Abyss Clan lay on a wide divan covered with silky fabrics. Her long black hair fell in lustrous curtains down to her buttocks, following the generous curve of her hips. Her transparent robe clung to her skin because of the lake’s humidity: each breath revealed the tips of her nipples beneath the fabric, hardened, arrogant, as if the heavy air had sculpted them. Her thick thighs showed clearly beneath the soaked muslin, the fabric clinging to her curves with calculated indecency.

Her fingers wandered along her neck, then slid slowly into the valley of her breasts, as if soothing an invisible burn. Each gesture, each caress revealed more nervous desire than true serenity. Her eyes, gleaming with an oily sheen, fixed on the entrance of the hall.

Two servants brought in a staggering silhouette. The survivor of the Split Spine advanced naked, her breasts clawed until they bled, her throat marked with violent bites. She stumbled, barely held up by the arms of the two women who accompanied her. Behind her, three shredded males were dragged, their entrails hanging, their cavernous rales filling the hall with an almost animal lament.

The chieftess sat up, her hair sliding over her chest like a black waterfall. She laughed. A high-pitched, almost sensual laugh, which resounded on the stone walls and made the lake’s surface vibrate.

— So this is what remains... she sighed, letting her fingers rise between her breasts to caress the top of her throat.

The laugh died as quickly as it had sprung. Her lips remained parted, her breath shorter. She observed the prisoner’s marks, the open wounds, the dried blood at the corner of her mouth, and fear slipped into her eyes like a furtive shadow.

She pulled her hair back, crossed her legs, her hips swaying slightly beneath the clinging fabric. Yet her hand remained in the hollow of her breasts, as if she sought to restrain the beating of her heart.

— This man... she murmured, almost to herself. He does not seek only victory. He seeks to possess us.

Her servants exchanged an anxious glance. Silence weighed, broken only by the moans of the three males still being dragged.

The chieftess finally raised her hand, with a sharp gesture.

— Enough. Finish them. And summon the other chieftesses. Not tomorrow. Not in a moon. Now.

Her voice cracked, but her chest, lifted by ragged breathing, betrayed her turmoil. Her laughter did not return.

Finally, in the high basalt tower of the Screaming Rocks, the wind carried groans of agony, mingled with the broken laughter of a muscular chieftess...

In the reflection of the lake, her eyes still fixed on the marked survivor. And for the first time in years, the chieftess of the Abyss Clan found herself trembling.

The basalt tower rose, its black silhouette slashing the night, its edges tearing the sky like petrified fangs. At the top, on a terrace open to the winds, the chieftess of the Screaming Rocks Clan stood, motionless. The violent plateau wind lifted her dark hair and made the heavy cape covering her shoulders flap.

Her skin, dark and thick, gleamed under the torchlight. Her broad shoulders seemed carved from granite, and her massive hips rested on powerful thighs. Her enormous chest, compressed in an iron corset, threatened to burst the straps with each breath. She had nothing of delicate beauty: she was the raw incarnation of a warrior forged from rock and blood.

A servant handed her an amphora. She seized it with one hand, effortlessly, then shattered it against her knee. The vessel burst, wine pouring in red cascades over her breasts, flowing between them in thick streams, sliding down the swollen curve of her chest to disappear into the crease of her belly. The liquid, mixed with dust and sweat, gave her skin the moist sheen of a living statue.

Before her, three males agonized. They had been thrown on the cold stones. Their mutilated bodies trembled with spasms. One, half flayed, raised a trembling arm toward the chieftess. His voice was nothing but a rale:

— Not... not a man... A demon... with the face of a man...

The second continued, his eyes rolled back:

— He... he took... our women... our lives... He is not... human...

The chieftess clenched her fists. The wine still trickled down her split corset, staining her belly. She stamped the ground with her heel, and her voice exploded against stone and wind.

— Enough! No male, demon or not, will take my land!

The wind carried her cry, but not her gaze. Her eyes, golden and vibrant, fixed on the marked survivors dragged here. Her jaw was hard, her lips curled in a grimace of hatred. Yet behind the rage, a glimmer trembled. Fear. A naked, savage fear, that no iron corset nor solid thighs could hide.

She turned away for a moment, wiping with the back of her hand the sticky wine still gleaming between her breasts. But her fingers trembled.

Meanwhile, in the fallen fortress of the Split Spine, the night belonged to Sora:

Silence reigned in the ruined great hall. Naked bodies sprawled on the still warm stone: Rakmar, massive and broken, sweat still beading between her heavy breasts; Varkash, asleep on her side, her powerful hips exposed like an involuntary offering; Sae, curled up, her hair stuck to her glistening skin, a hand slipped between her thighs as if even in her sleep she refused to let go.

All breathed heavily, emptied, marked by what they had just given and endured.

At the center, I sat, leaning against the improvised throne. Nyss, the only one awake, placed fresh fruit on my lips, her fingers stained with red juice sometimes brushing my mouth before slipping in a kiss, as if to remind me who I belonged to... or rather who this world belonged to. Her quiet laughter vibrated against my cheek, punctuating the humid silence of sleeping breaths.

I contemplated this tableau. Me, a human thrown into this demonic desert, I had become something else. More than a chief, more than a warrior: the personification of Lust. I took what I wanted, when I wanted. And in this world where males were nothing but whipped dogs, where females thought themselves queens through brute force, my path was already laid.

— What are you thinking about? Nyss asked, her lips brushing my ear.

I smiled.

— About what I have become. And how much you demons make it easy for me.

She chuckled softly, her tail whipping the air in a feline gesture.

— Then take it. All of it. You don’t need to wait anymore.

I was about to reply, but a glow imposed itself in my vision.

[SYSTEM – LUST v2.01]

Mission complete: Make the Split Spine an example in the eyes of the whole valley.

Reward: +1500 shop points; +3 levels

I couldn’t help but smile.

— It’s done, Nyss. They’re in place.

Her eyes gleamed with a predatory light.

— Then it begins... at last...

Our laughter died in the ardor of her lips, and it was the fire of a kiss that sealed the night — the first seal of a conquest that would set the entire Demon Continent ablaze.