The lands of Aterion were vast. Deep ravines and steep cliffs ensured that intruders would find it incredibly difficult to cross the borders. There was a strict separation of status, clearly visible in how the kingdom was divided. In the lower regions, throughout the valleys and outskirts, lay villages where people worked and lived like any other race. Further up sat the military quarter, which shared space with the prisons where the breeders for the high-ranking Winged were kept. And, at the very highest, most treacherous peak, stood King Zarhek’s fortress—as imposing as the ruler of Aterion himself.

Taavi lived in Arkros’s hold.

As he passed through the archway of the dwelling carved into the mountain’s rocky frame, he found Arkros seated on a massive, carved stone chair in the wide entrance hall. He had been waiting for him, and the look on his face was one Taavi could read instantly.

He dropped to his knees on the floor between his master’s spread legs.

Arkros caught him by the hair and pulled him to his feet, capturing his mouth in a demanding kiss. The roughness of his touch gradually gave way to something warmer as his hands moved over Taavi’s body, tracing the freckles scattered across his pale shoulders like a map he already knew by heart.

Taavi surrendered to him without a word.

Arkros stripped away the remaining barriers between them, and the distance between master and slave disappeared beneath the heat of their bodies. For the rest of the night, there was nothing beyond whispered commands, ragged breaths, and the familiar submission Taavi had learned to give him.

***

The morning light came in lukewarm, seeping through the narrow slits high in the general's nesting chamber.

Taavi woke surrounded by the scent of cedar and leather that emanated from Arkros. The stillness around them was broken only by his deep, steady breathing.

He lay in Arkros’s nest, a hollow carved directly into the bedrock of the chamber, creating a space meant solely for them. No other slave, servant, or warrior in Aterion was permitted to set foot in Arkros's dwelling, let alone enter his intimate sanctuary.

Slowly, Taavi stirred. His Elven gift had already mended the rawness born from their fierce moments together, but the lingering memory of the general’s brutal size remained.

Arkros was asleep. As he lay on his stomach, his broad grey back was bare, his wings retracted beneath his skin, leaving only dark ridges visible along his shoulder blades. His long, tattooed tail curled around the edge of the nest.

Even without his wings unfurled, the towering, seven-foot-tall Winged warrior dominated the nest. His right arm, heavily muscled and marked by a black tribal tattoo creeping up his neck, wrapped around Taavi’s waist in a possessive hold. He used his own weight to pin the hybrid against the soft furs and fabrics layering the thick horsehair bedding.

Carefully, holding his breath, Taavi closed his fingers around Arkros's thick wrist and eased himself free from that warm grip. He made sure the furs stayed draped over the general's shoulders so the loss of warmth would not wake him. Arkros let out a low, rough grunt, his tail twitching faintly against the sheets, but he did not wake.

Standing up, Taavi looked overhead, basking in the gentle light that poured into the nesting chamber.

The chamber’s main floor was vast—a wide expanse of solid stone beneath a high, vaulted ceiling built to accommodate creatures of Arkros’s imposing stature. The general could spread his great wings fully inside and move freely without striking a thing.

Most of the comforts scattered about were indulgences brought by the Winged as gifts for Taavi: rustic wooden chests for his garments, a sideboard holding a silver ewer and basin, woven tapestries, and a cushioned chair Taavi had never once sat in.

Barefoot and still naked, he made his way to the far corner of the chamber. Kneeling on the stone hearth, Taavi stoked the fire, maintaining the chamber’s warmth just the way Arkros liked it.

Casting one last glance at Arkros, he hurried toward the bathing area, where a sunken stone pool gave off a soft veil of steam. The water was constantly fresh and steaming hot, fed directly from the hot springs near the stronghold. Taavi didn't linger, but he made sure to meticulously scrub every inch of his skin, letting the scalding water sluice the night's sweat and slickness away. To most, this was just a basic act of hygiene; to him, it was a luxury he never took for granted.

Slipping into a fresh tunic, he hurried off to prepare a thick meat and vegetable stew, wanting it ready for whenever the general finally decided to rise from the nest.

He froze mid-step. A voice echoed inside his head, violently yanking him from his peaceful routine. He snapped his head back, searching for the source, even though he knew she couldn't possibly be there. Taavi hated when this happened—especially with Arkros so close. It was like a premonition, only significantly more potent, morphing into a psychic pull too strong to ignore.

With the morning fully underway, he abandoned the warmth of his home and his morning chores, sprinting straight toward the dungeons.

It was far too early, and the guards sneered at him with open disdain. For a second, he thought they'd deny him entry outright. But the invisible weight of Arkros's protection—his absolute permission—worked in his favor once again, forcing the guards to step aside.

Escorted by a sentry, he walked past a long row of locked cells. The moment they reached the right one, he slipped into the cramped space, listening to the heavy door thud shut behind him.

His blue eyes locked onto the Elven woman. Mirna was sitting on the cot, staring at him as if she'd been expecting him all along. Taavi stepped closer, taking in the sheen of sweat coating her feverish skin, plastering her dark bangs to her pale face. Mirna was struggling to breathe, taking ragged, shallow gasps.

“It's time, Taavi,” she whispered, her voice terribly tight.

The reality of what was happening slammed into him, quickly followed by a frantic urge to get her help. “I'll go get the midwives.”

But before he could pull away, Mirna's hand clamped around his wrist with a bruising grip that defied her frail state. “You're not calling anyone.”

“You're in labor, Mirna.” He tried to tug his arm back. “Your baby is coming—”

“This thing is not my child,” she hissed venomously, choking back a pained moan as her free hand clutched the fabric tight over her bulging stomach. “Please, Taavi. Help me.”

Her harsh words stung, but Taavi couldn't wrap his head around what she was planning. Did she want to die giving birth to Raskin's child?

“The only way I can help you is by getting the—”

“Are you blind?” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The moment they get their hands on this aberration, they'll take it away. I wouldn't stand a chance.”

“A chance to do what?”

A sharp, dangerous smile stretched across the Elf's cracked lips. “To get my revenge.” Stripped of all her usual pride, she resorted to begging. “I know I have no right to ask this of you, Taavi, but please... please, help me.”

Taavi just stared at her, completely frozen.

There was a very thin line that dictated his survival in Aterion. There was his deep, lingering fondness for that fiercely proud Elf. And there was a baby about to be brought into the world. Three lives were resting in his hands—the child's, Mirna's, and, inevitably, his own.

Depending on what he chose next, none of them would survive.