Chapter 37 - The Lecher

  “Lust and greed are more gullible than innocence.”

  - Mason Cooley.

  Head held high, back straight as a lance, Seraphina was the very image of a captured noblewoman who still clung to her dignity like armor. Her expression, serene yet defiant, was that of one expecting ransom. Behind her, Desdemona mirrored the posture of her lady, but barely. The hunger in her eyes, that feral gleam, told another story—a beast caged only by willpower and the unspoken terror of disappointing the golden-haired aristocrat before her.

  They drew stares. Soldiers lined the path like gawking townsfolk at a gallows march—most were green peasant levies by the way they held their spears, their armor hanging off them like borrowed costumes. A few veterans loomed among them, silent and grim-eyed, but the newer-looking troops outnumbered them by a mile. Blacksmiths labored nearby at clanking mobile forges, their soot-smeared faces lit orange by flame. One of the younger craftsmen, too distracted by the girls, drove his hammer down onto his own thumb with a sickening crunch, howling and swearing as he dropped the twisted piece he had been working on.

  She had to give it credit; the Empire’s language was definitely suited for cursing.

  At the head of their escort strutted Sergeant Zhao Genshu—a creature who embodied the word "ratty" so perfectly it might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. His beady, narrow eyes glinted with opportunism, and his buck teeth jutted out like he was always halfway to gnawing something. However, he walked now with the swagger of a man who believed he had conquered a kingdom. Genshu grinned wide as he waved at his comrades in the camp, puffing his chest with the self-importance of one who had personally captured the Aranthian noblewomen for his general’s hareem or ransom.

  They marched on through the heart of the camp until they reached their destination: a crimson pavilion emblazoned with the coiled image of a dragon turtle. The heavy silk walls shimmered in the sun, ominous and regal. Before the entrance stood two guards—silent statues clad in lacquered black armor, their halberds cruel and archaic. The blades, etched with jagged runes and glimmering script, seemed to hum with latent menace. Even in rest, the weapons gave the impression of slicing through the very air around them.

  Their escorts dismounted, and Sir Frest and the brothers helped the girls down from the horses. Sir Gravens looked very worried, it took everything he had not to draw the sword at his waist. He was fearful, but not in fear for his life, but for his lady and his lady love.

  Sergeant Genshu conferred briefly with the guards, their unreadable gazes sweeping over Seraphina and Desdemona. No words were exchanged—just a pair of nods, curt and cold.

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  “I will summon the Great General Ma,” Genshu declared as though reciting from a holy text. With a theatrical sweep, he pulled back the silk flap and vanished into the tent’s shadow.

  They waited. Time stretched in the waiting, each second sharpening the tension like a knife across a whetstone. Seraphina sat astride her horse, a storm boiling beneath her calm exterior. The rope strained to constrain her. Patience thinned.

  Just as her temper reached a flashpoint, just as she considered bursting out of her bonds and carving a path through anyone foolish enough to stand in her way, the tent flap stirred.

  And as if summoned by her very dark thoughts, the general emerged.

  General Ma emerged from the pavilion like a lustful storm disguised in silk and lacquered steel. He was a rotund man clad in gleaming red lamellar armor, its lacquered plates like bloodied scales, and beneath it, a brocade tunic shimmered with black and gold patterns of clouds and waves. His face was round, eyes narrow and calculating, crowned by a meticulously oiled mustache that curled like the tails of a calligrapher’s brush—his chin otherwise clean-shaven. At his hip hung a curved saber in a lacquered scabbard adorned with an ornate dragon turtle motif, its jeweled eyes gleaming, its shell etched with exquisite detail—a weapon and proclamation both.

  He moved with deceptive grace for a man of his shape, and as he stepped forward, the soldiers around him straightened, instinctively bracing under the weight of his authority. The general’s gaze danced over the girls lasciviously, and he smiled, undressing them with his eyes.

  He leered at the girls, eyes glinting like oil-slick puddles, before sweeping into a florid bow toward Eloise. “Ah, I do not believe I have been graced with your introduction. A thousand humble apologies, for you have presented me with a gift fit for emperors.”

  “Heaven guides and wills,” she replied, voice smooth as water jade. “I am Lan Mingtian of Clan Onyx, at your service, Lord Ma. It is a singular pleasure to bask, at last, in the light of your greatness.”

  Ma’s head dipped a mere finger’s breadth—just enough to acknowledge without insult. “Yes, yes, a rare honor indeed for one of a Clan Minor.” His fleshy hands rubbed together greedily. “You have brought great face upon yourself and every ancestor scratching for recognition below the Heavens.” He savored the words, then asked, voice dirty enough to stain a stranger’s clothes, “Their names?”

  “A de Sariens and a de Savant,” Eloise answered, a picture of cultured serenity. “We caught them fleeing their estates—precisely as foreseen. Aranthians remain tragically predictable.” She offered a demure tilt of her head. “If it pleases Your Excellency, how shall you employ them for the Empire’s glory?”

  Ma’s laughter boomed like a war drum. His tongue darted across cracked lips. “Ah, a little cultural exchange, of course. The golden one will grace my harem; let the other lords gnash their teeth with envy. The darker rose I shall ransom—after allowing her to savor the Empire’s… Yang virtues.” His grin curdled into something reptilian. “Naturally, Lady Mingtian, you will receive a share of the spoils.”

  Seraphina, jaw clenched, whispered to Desdemona behind her, “Play along for now. When you’re alone, please tear him limb from swollen limb.”