Lord of the realm

Chapter 211: Sin of lust

Jaenor’s merged power was depleted to dangerous levels. His companions were injured, exhausted, and barely standing. Pushing forward now would be stupid.

"We rest," he agreed.

"Find a secure position, establish watches, and recover our strength. Then we hunt Maude and finish this properly."

They moved away from the main battlefield, finding a defensible position among the ruins. Ba’narussa positioned herself protectively, her seven heads maintaining constant surveillance.

As Morgana worked on healing the wounded, as Rena distributed what food they had remaining, and as his companions settled into exhausted rest, Jaenor stood watch and thought about what came next.

*

Lilinathara didn’t truly leave.

Jaenor realized this the moment his companions settled into rest. The pressure hadn’t fully dissipated; it had simply... shifted. Become more subtle, less obvious, but still present. Still watching.

She was waiting for something. For him to be alone, perhaps. For his guard to drop.

He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

"Aunt Morgana," he said quietly, not wanting to alarm the others who were finally getting desperately needed rest.

"She’s still here."

His aunt looked up from tending Raelana’s exhaustion-induced collapse, her senses immediately extending outward. After a moment, her face paled.

"You’re right. How is she hiding her presence so effectively? A Sin shouldn’t be able to—"

"It’s her nature," Jaenor interrupted.

"Lust isn’t about overwhelming force. It’s about seduction, manipulation, and making you want to let your guard down. She’s not hiding; she’s making us want to not look for her."

He stood, his merged power cycling through his body in preparation.

"I’m going to engage her. Away from here, away from all of you. If the fight goes badly—"

"It won’t," Morgana said firmly.

"You’re stronger than her, Jaenor. I’ve felt your power. Whatever she throws at you, you can handle it."

"I hope you’re right," Jaenor said.

He walked away from their makeshift camp, past Ba’narussa’s protective perimeter, into the forest where shadows gathered thick between the trees. His enhanced senses could feel her now, that presence that had been lurking, that subtle wrongness that marked a Sin’s existence.

"I know you’re here," he called out.

"If you want me, come and get me. But leave my companions out of it."

For several moments, nothing happened.

Just forest sounds and distant echoes of the recent battle.

Then reality folded.

It wasn’t a sudden shift; it was gradual, almost gentle. Like falling asleep, where you don’t notice the exact moment consciousness gives way to dreaming. The forest around him began to change, trees becoming less distinct, shadows deepening into liquid darkness.

And Lilinathara manifested before him, her violet eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"How noble," she purred.

"Offering yourself to protect your friends. That kind of self-sacrifice is so rare these days. So... delicious."

She moved closer, and with each step, reality warped more dramatically. The ground beneath Jaenor’s feet became uncertain, not solid or liquid, but something in between, shifting with each breath.

"You think you’re strong enough to face me alone," Lilinathara continued.

"And you might be right. Your power is impressive, truly remarkable for someone so young. But strength isn’t everything, beautiful boy. Sometimes, the mind is more fragile than the body."

Her hand gestured, and the world shattered.

*

Jaenor found himself standing in Frostvale’s central square.

But it was wrong. Horribly, devastatingly wrong.

The village was burning. Bodies littered the ground, people he recognized.

Rosaine, her throat torn open, eyes staring sightlessly at the smoke-filled sky. Valara, crushed beneath a collapsed building. Children who’d waved at him during his visit now lay in pieces.

And standing in the center of the carnage was himself.

An alternate Jaenor, eyes blazing with corrupted power, six wings spread wide but twisted into something wrong. Blood dripped from his hands, and his expression showed only cold satisfaction.

"This is what you are," the alternate version said.

"This is what the Arkwright bloodline always becomes. A destroyer. A monster. You tried to fight it, tried to be better, but in the end, the curse wins. It always wins."

The alternate Jaenor gestured to the devastation.

"You did this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. Everyone you care about, dead by your hand. Because power like yours can’t be controlled forever. Eventually, you’ll slip. Eventually, you’ll lose yourself to the rage and the hunger and the absolute certainty that you know better than everyone else."

Lilinathara’s voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.

"He’s right, you know. Look at your family’s history. Every powerful Arkwright eventually turned. Your great-grandfather slaughtered entire kingdoms. Your grandfather went mad and had to be put down like a rabid animal. Your mother fled in terror of what you might become."

The illusion was perfect.

The smells of smoke, blood, and death. The sounds: crackling flames and distant screams. The weight of it pressing down on Jaenor’s soul, making him question everything he believed about himself.

For a moment—just a single, terrible moment—doubt crept in.

What if she was right? What if all his efforts were just delaying the inevitable? What if protecting people now only meant hurting them worse later when he finally lost control?

Then his merged power surged, and the doubt burned away like morning fog.

"No," Jaenor said quietly.

His origin aura manifested, not as weapons or shields, but as pure presence. Golden-red light exploded outward from his core, and where it touched Lilinathara’s illusion, reality reasserted itself.

The burning village flickered.

The bodies faded.

The alternate Jaenor dissolved like smoke.

"This isn’t real," Jaenor continued, his voice growing stronger.

"It’s a lie. A possible future, maybe, but not inevitable. I choose my path. I choose what I become. And I choose to be better than my ancestors."

His six wings manifested, radiating power that pushed back against Lilinathara’s reality manipulation.

"You’ll have to do better than showing me my fears. I’ve already faced them. Already accepted that I might fail, might fall, might become what everyone warns about. But acceptance isn’t surrender. It’s the foundation of real strength."

The illusion shattered completely, and they were back in the forest. But Lilinathara was smiling.

"Impressive. Most people lose themselves in that one completely.

But you’re right—I’ll have to do better."

The forest dissolved, replaced by something else entirely.

Jaenor found himself in a grand hall, vast beyond reason, with pillars that rose into infinity and floors of polished obsidian that reflected impossible skies. It was beautiful in ways that mortal architecture couldn’t achieve, beautiful in ways that hurt to perceive because the human mind wasn’t designed to process such perfection.

And throughout the hall, figures moved.

Women, dozens of them, each one impossibly attractive. Not in identical ways, they represented every possible ideal of beauty, every preference and desire, and every fantasy given form.

They approached him with smiles and welcoming gestures, and Jaenor felt his body respond despite his mental resistance.

This wasn’t just visual; Lilinathara had crafted an assault on every sense.

The air was thick with scents that triggered deep bodily responses. Sounds harmonized in ways that bypassed conscious thought to stimulate pleasure centers directly.

"You’re young," Lilinathara’s voice whispered from all directions.

"Eighteen years old, full of power and potential, and you’ve spent your entire life running and fighting and barely surviving. When have you actually enjoyed being alive? When have you taken pleasure in your own existence?"

One of the figures, a woman with features that perfectly matched every attraction Jaenor had ever felt, reached out to touch his face.

"You deserve this," she said, her voice resonating with absolute sincerity.

"After everything you’ve suffered, everything you’ve sacrificed, don’t you deserve simple pleasure? Simple human connection?"

More women approached, surrounding him, each one offering something slightly different. Comfort.

Understanding.

Physical release.

Emotional validation.

Everything a young man might desperately want after months of constant danger and impossible responsibility.

"I’m not asking you to betray your friends," Lilinathara continued.

"Not asking you to abandon your principles. Just to take a moment for yourself. To accept that you’re human, that you have needs, and that denying those needs doesn’t make you noble; it just makes you miserable."

The temptation was real.

Visceral.

Jaenor felt his resolve weakening and felt the appeal of just... letting go.

Of accepting pleasure without complication, of experiencing simple physical joy after so much pain and fear.

His body was responding. He was nineteen, virile, and full of power that made every sensation more intense. The women were touching him now, gentle caresses that sent electricity through his nerves and that made rational thought increasingly difficult.

"You’re strong enough to leave whenever you want," one of them whispered.

"This isn’t a trap. It’s a gift. Take what you need, then return to your mission. No one has to know. No one would judge you."

For several heartbeats, Jaenor stood paralyzed between resistance and surrender.

Then he thought of Rena. Of Morgana. Of Emma. Of Rosaine.

Of his actual companions, people who’d stood beside him not because he was powerful, not because he could offer them pleasure, but because they genuinely cared about who he was.