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"Tempting the Knight"
by Raul O. Stool
Daggerpoint loomed through the mist like a carcass.
Its towers were broken teeth against the sky. Moss choked the stone. Torches flickered behind arrow slits, but their light barely reached the courtyard. Fog had swallowed the place whole.
Sarra stepped down from her horse, boots sinking into the slush. She didnât shiver, though the cold had long since soaked through her cloak. The wind tasted like ash. Or memory.
âStay close, Princess,â her guard murmured.
She ignored him.
Let the North think she was fragile. Let them think she came as bait, or tribute, or a pet southern mouthpiece.
Let them be wrong.
The gates groaned open.
She stepped through alone.
Daggerpoint hadnât changed. Still ruinous. Still haunted. Soldiers paced the upper walls, eyes dull from too many winters. Somewhere, a raven cawed.
And there he was.
Torv stood at the far end of the yard, one hand on the hilt of his sword, red cloak dark with rain. He hadnât moved. He didnât need to.
His presence hit like the first blow of a duelâloud, sudden, unmistakable.
âTorv,â she said.
He didnât smile.
âYou werenât invited.â
Sarra tilted her head. âYou signed the summons.â
âI summoned envoys. Advisors. Not ghosts.â
âIâm not here to haunt you.â
âNo?â His voice was flint on stone. âThen why do I feel twelve years old againâbleeding from the mouth, swearing I'd never look back?â
Sarra took a slow step forward. âBecause you always were dramatic.â
That earned himânothing. No twitch of the mouth. No glimmer of warmth.
âWhy are you here?â he asked.
âBecause your banner is bleeding the border dry. Because if this war drags on another winter, neither side will have enough grain to bury the dead. Becauseââ
She exhaled. âBecause I was tired of waiting for someone else to end it.â
He looked at her like she was a knife he thought heâd thrown away.
âI told you not to follow me.â
âAnd I told you I donât take orders.â
A silence stretched between them. Not emptyâloaded. With old wounds. Unwritten letters. Nights spent awake on opposite ends of a dying world.
At last, he spoke.
âYou sound like your father.â
âI was hoping Iâd sound like you.â
Torv stepped down from the platform, slow and deliberate. The wind pulled at his cloak. He didnât stop until they stood a bladeâs length apart.
âYou think one conversation ends Farcastles?â he said.
âNo. But it might end us.â
That stopped him.
âYou think weâre still a âweâ?â
Her voice was steady. âI think we never stopped being.â
He studied her face. Carefully. Like it might vanish if he blinked.
âYou shouldnât have come,â he said, softly now. âThis placeâit ruins things.â
âIâm not afraid of ruin.â
âThen youâre a fool.â
Sarra stepped closer. âOr I remember who you were before this war turned your heart into a ledger.â
Torvâs jaw tightened. âYou donât know what Iâve done.â
âThen tell me.â
His hand rose halfway, fingers trembling like theyâd forgotten how to reach for anything soft. He stopped himself. Dropped it.
âSay the word,â he murmured. âTell me to go. Or tell me to stay.â
Sarra didnât flinch. âIâm done giving you permission.â
And thenâhe kissed her.
It wasnât tender.
It was desperate. Rusted. A mouth remembering another life. Her hands found his cloak, fists clenched tight as if letting go would kill her.
Thenâ
A shout. Metal on stone. The high alarm bell peeled once across the yard.
Torv tore away. âTrouble.â
Sarra reached for her dagger. âOf course.â
Because nothing born of Farcastles ever came easy.
Not peace.
Not love.
And certainly not him. 0 reply
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Farcaster-native Erotic Fiction:
âThe Rose of Daggerpointâ
A forbidden tale from the court of /farcastles
In the forty-second year of the Sundering War, when smoke from the Northâs dragonforges still smeared the southern skies, and the banners of the Twin Castles bled red and blue from years of rain and bloodshed, a girl of no great birth but scandalous beauty was summoned to the court of Queen Drakara herself.
Her name was Isolde Vale. Daughter of a disgraced botanist. Tamer of venomous serpents. And nowâby an unspoken wager between fate and follyâshe stood cloaked in violet silk at the gate of Daggerpoint, the South's most treacherous stronghold, a place where lords whispered treason between sips of claret and mistresses tasted poison from one anotherâs painted mouths.
The guards let her pass not because she belonged, but because desire outranks suspicion.
They could smell it on her. The red jasmine oil at her throat. The ink of old spellbooks still staining her fingertips. The taste of rebellion in her breath.
She was not the sort of girl one dared to touch without consequence.
She was the sort of girl one wanted to touchâdesperately, ruinouslyâanyway.
---
The Queen received her in her solar, a chamber of warm stone and velvet shadows, high above the barracks where the cries of sparring soldiers and rutting pages blended like the basso and treble of war.
Queen Drakara was draped in chainmail too fine to be practical, each ring etched with draconic runes, the metal resting on bare skin like a thousand tiny mouths whispering secrets. Her crown was crooked. Her smile was worse.
"You are the gift from the North," she said, circling Isolde. âThe bard theyâve sent to serenade my defeat.â
"I bring only stories, Your Grace,â Isolde said with a curtsy laced with mockery. âWhat you do with them is your own sin.â
The Queenâs hand curled under her chin.
âI do so love sin.â
---
Later, in the Queenâs bedchamberâwhere the tapestries showed anatomically explicit sagas of conquest and divine surrenderâIsoldeâs silks pooled to the floor like melting sorcery.
"Do not mistake this for affection," Drakara warned as she bound Isoldeâs wrists in gold-threaded rope.
"Affection is for wives," Isolde whispered. "Rope is for those who know how to use it."
The Queenâs eyes glittered. "And you, girl, do you know how to bleed for a cause?"
"I bleed only when it pleases me," Isolde murmured, "and only for those who ask sweetly."
Drakara didnât ask.
---
Isolde was not a spy, not exactly. But she was a woman of appetites, and those appetites made her dangerous.
She had, in the week since arriving, already learned the shape of every Southern lordâs desire:
âLord Vael, with his pathetic need for a tongue too clever and teeth too cruel.
âMistress Elire, who dressed like a widow and drank like a knight, asking always to be watched but never touched.
âThe Lady Captain, who preferred pain to poetry, but wept like a hymn when you whispered both.
Isolde fed them all stories.
Of siege weapons lined with pleasure charms. Of swords that moaned when drawn. Of castles whose moats were filled not with water, but with the milk of enchantresses. They listened, they laughed, they disrobedâand they told her everything.
But Drakara... Drakara told her nothing.
She only took.
---
The Queen was a glutton in every sense.
She devoured Isolde like a siege engine devours stone, with hands that bruised like kisses and kisses that bit like oaths. She chained her to the war table and poured hot wine into her mouth while recounting each Northern city sheâd burned.
"You call yourself a bard," Drakara said, licking her fingers of syrup and sweat. "But youâve never sung in tongues. Shall I teach you?"
Isolde writhed beneath her. âIf I scream, will the gods blush?â
"No," Drakara purred. "But the walls might moan.â
---
The Queen's war council began meeting in the bathhouse now, where Isolde floated among them, her limbs like lily stalks and her hair pinned with jeweled thorns. No one questioned her presence. To do so was to be branded prudishâa fate worse than death in Daggerpoint.
She heard plans. She stole maps. She passed secrets in the folds of her tongue to a Northern hawk who came each dusk to her window.
And then one evening, while the Queen lay drowsy beside her, fingers idly stroking the bardâs inner thigh like a scribeâs quill across forbidden parchment, Isolde whispered:
âThere is a weapon buried beneath this castle. You know that, donât you?â
Drakaraâs fingers stopped.
"Who told you that?"
"You did," Isolde said, rolling atop her, binding her hands with the same rope once used on herself.
âIn your sleep.â
---
What happened next is still debated.
Some say Drakara allowed it. That she wanted to be tied down, betrayed, conquered by beauty and song. That it was not treason if the Queen came from it.
Others say Isolde never left that chamber alive. That she remains chained in the dungeons beneath Daggerpoint, moaning secrets into the stone.
But the truth?
The truth is far more delicious.
Isolde did find the weapon. A crown of old blood and older magic, once worn by the Sealed King, buried in a ritual chamber far below the keep.
She placed it on her head. It sang to her.
Not in words. In cravings.
---
By morning, the castle gates stood open. The guards had vanished or defected. Queen Drakara was missing.
And Isolde Vale stood atop the ramparts, crowned and naked, her body sheened in oil and glittering with stolen rings, declaring herself:
"Mistress of Daggerpoint. Warden of the Southern Moan. Queen-Consort of War and Want."
The North did not attack that week. Nor the next.
Even desire, it seemed, required time to regroup.
---
In brothels from Cragspire to the Thorned Coast, they still sing of Isolde.
A witch of pleasure. A bard of bondage. A queen who conquered a queen not with armiesâbut with appetite.
They call her the Rose of Daggerpoint.
And her thorns, they say, are still wet. 1 reply
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This platform is in need of more content and I hear that erotic short stories for women is a massive market, so I thought I'd jump into the fray.
Introducing...
âThe Watcher in the Bell Towerâ
A /Farcastles Tale
The castle bell hadnât rung in years.
Not since the Accord. Not since the wars ended and quiet settled over the hills like fog. But tonight, it swayed. Just once. A low, aching groan of brass that echoed through the sleeping stronghold.
Sarra heard it first.
She rose from her bed in nothing but her shift, moonlight slanting through the stone-carved windows, pale and cold across her collarbone. Her breath fogged in the air. Something stirred in herâhalf memory, half hunger.
The bell meant someone had crossed into the North Wall. Someone who shouldnât be there.
She took a cloak, barely tying it, and made her way through the silent halls, barefoot against the icy floor. Each step echoed like a secret spoken aloud.
When she reached the tower, she saw him.
A manâno, a knightâdrenched from the storm, leaning against the bellâs iron chain. His cloak was torn, armor slashed, eyes the color of struck flint.
âYouâre not supposed to be here,â she said, voice calm, but her pulse quickened.
He looked up, slowly. âI rang the bell for sanctuary.â
âYouâre supposed to ring it twice for sanctuary,â she replied.
He smirked, exhaustion hanging heavy on his frame. âThen consider the second ring implied.â
She shouldâve turned him away. But something in the way he looked at her made her stay. There was no threat in himâonly longing. And something else.
âLet me help you,â she said, stepping closer.
He watched as she reached for the buckles of his ruined cuirass, hands brushing the warmth of his skin beneath. A long scar curved just under his ribsâearned, not inherited. Her fingers paused over it, then moved lower, over muscle, sweat, storm.
The air between them tightened like a bowstring.
âYouâre shivering,â he whispered, eyes on her lips.
âSo are you.â
âIâve been cold for a long time,â he murmured. âYou⌠You feel like the first fire Iâve seen in months.â
She pressed closer, letting her cloak fall open, letting the heat between their bodies rise like mist. His hands found her waist, hesitant at first. Then firmer. She kissed himânot with fear, but with familiarity, like a promise made long ago and finally fulfilled.
Their mouths moved slowly, then hungrily, as if tasting a life they thought theyâd never have.
She pulled him to the stone bench by the bell, straddling him with the confidence of a woman whoâd spent years surviving a world ruled by men and monstersâand was no longer afraid of either. His breath hitched as her shift slid over her thighs.
âWait,â he said, voice husky.
She paused. âWhat is it?â
âI need you to knowâthis isnât a mistake for me.â
She touched his face, brushing wet hair back from his brow. âThen stop thinking. Just feel.â
And so he did.
With the storm raging outside and the great bell looming overhead, they gave in to the quiet war of desire. Slow. Unhurried. Reverent.
Not the kind of love sung by bards. The kind forged in silenceâwhen you forget where you end and the other begins.
By morning, the tower was quiet again.
But the bell had been rung.
And the Farcastles would never be the same. 5 replies
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