Lord of the realm

Chapter 198: Back to her embrace

The captain’s expression grew grim.

"Bad and getting worse. We’ve been holding them at the forest edge, but they probe our defenses daily. The Brotherhood forces are skilled fighters, I’ll grant them that—we’d have been overrun without them. But a demon commander is coordinating the attacks. Smart, patient, waiting for us to make mistakes."

"How many demons?" Baren asked, his tactical mind engaging despite the emotional reunion with his wife.

"Best estimate? Perhaps five hundred within striking distance, with more arriving constantly. They’re building up for a major assault, we think. Trying to break through our lines and reach the settlements beyond."

"And you have?" Darian asked.

"Two hundred militia, three hundred Brotherhood soldiers. Outnumbered, but holding defensive positions helps."

Not great odds, but not hopeless either. Jaenor considered their options.

"We’ll help," he said. "My companions and I, and Ba’narussa. We were heading north to engage other demon forces, but this is more immediate. We’ll stay until the threat is neutralized."

Relief flooded the captain’s face.

"Thank you, my lord. Your reputation... well, the stories of you driving off Pride himself have already spread. The troops will fight harder knowing you’re with us."

As the captain departed to spread the word, Jaenor’s companions clustered around him.

"You’re committing us to another battle," Morgana observed. "When you’re still depleted from fighting Draelusa. When we should be pushing north."

"I know," Jaenor admitted. "But these are our people. Frostvale, the surrounding villages—I can’t just leave them to fight alone when I can make a difference."

"Wasn’t criticizing," Morgana said. "Just making sure you’re aware of the choice you’re making."

Valara approached, Rena still at her side.

"Jaenor Arkwright," the chieftess said formally.

"On behalf of Frostvale, thank you. For driving off the demon legion, for standing up to the Brotherhood, for returning when you didn’t have to."

"This is home," Jaenor said simply.

"Of course I returned."

Valara’s stern expression softened slightly.

"You’ve changed. When you left, you were a frightened boy fleeing assassins. Now..."

She gestured to Ba’narussa, to his aunt, and to the power still radiating from him. "Now you’re something else entirely. Something that frightens me, if I’m being honest. But also something that gives me hope."

She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We are all proud of you."

She looked at all four of them, and she said it again.

They went and became something, part of the history of the realm, and became strong warriors.

"Thank you," he said, giving her his usual lustful glance.

He had forgotten the time he spent with her and the alluring woman she was, hidden beneath the fierce demeanor.

Rosaine caught Jaenor’s hand and led him to their house.

Jaenor called out to Morgana to rest in the village hall, and he will come meet her.

"We can’t stay long," Jaenor warned.

"The demons won’t wait, and there are other battles—"

"Then rest while you can," Rosaine interrupted gently.

"Even warriors need to eat and sleep. The demons will still be there in a few hours."

She was right, and Jaenor’s body was reminding him of that fact with increasing insistence. The fight with Draelusa had depleted him significantly, and flying here on Ba’narussa and the confrontation with Katujit—all of it—had prevented proper recovery.

"A few hours," he agreed.

"Then we need to coordinate with the military forces and plan our response to the demon threat."

As they were led toward the village meeting hall—the largest building, where they could rest and plan.

Jaenor simply allowed her to lead him while holding his hand, just as he had followed her around when he was younger. He missed her touch, really. No matter how many he had been with, no one could come close to her.

She was special to him.

She had always been there, a warrior’s fire in a wife’s hearth. As a devoted hearth-keeper, her strength poured into home and him. Tall and fierce, with sun-bleached blonde braids that fell to her waist, freckled skin weathered by years of toil and passion, and eyes blue as glacial waters. Full-breasted and strong-hipped, built for battle and bearing, she had loved him as a mother until the lines blurred into something primal.

He could still remember their first time, and it was like yesterday that he had been with her. Since then, they had fucked like beasts in endless rut, all day every day, her cunt his sanctuary, his cock her salvation. He had never been away from her this long.

The absence gnawed at him, a hollow in his chest.

The cottage came into view at the village’s edge, a sturdy timber longhouse with a turf roof, blooming wildflowers, and smoke curling lazily from the chimney.

Rosaine, in a simple woolen kirtle cinched at her waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her body radiating that raw, earthy vitality. Her face lit with joy and hunger, tears streaking her cheeks.

As she lost sight of people, she turned to him.

"Jaenor! My boy—my man!" Her arms locked around his neck, pulling him down into her embrace, her body molding to his, soft breasts crushing against his chest, hips grinding instinctively.

She kissed his face everywhere: forehead, cheeks, jaw, eyelids, and the corner of his mouth. Wet, fervent presses, tasting of salt and longing.

"Months, love. Months without you inside me. I waited, every day staring at the road. The village whispered of your deeds, demons slain, but I only wanted this. You home. You mine."

He wrapped her in his arms, inhaling her scent, smoke, ground, and the faint musk of her arousal already blooming. His hands roamed her back, squeezing her ass through the fabric, feeling the muscle beneath.

"Mother. I missed you more than breath. Fucked others to dull it, but none like you. Your cunt calls me always."

Jaenor scooped Rosaine up, her legs wrapping his waist like vines, and carried her through the threshold. The door slammed shut behind them, the cottage enveloping them in warmth.

Inside, it was her domain: a wide hearth crackling, furs piled on the low bed frame, herbs drying from the rafters, and a table strewn with half-eaten bread and cheese from her solitary vigil.