ebookslot Chapter 603 - 602 - Joining the Knight’s Campaign
Chapter 603 - 602 - Joining the Knight’s Campaign
The square was full.People milled about — soldiers, adventurers, mercenaries, cooks, supply carriers, the chaotic, organized mess of a hunting party being assembled by a noble house. Armor was being distributed from a cart, the metal pieces clanking, the leather straps creaking.
Viktor stood at the edge.
He stood out.
Not because of his clothes — his plain shirt and trousers were unremarkable. Because of his face. The pale skin, the violet eyes, the particular, fine-boned, too-pretty quality of a half-demon who had inherited his mother’s beauty and his father’s ambition. In a crowd of weather-beaten soldiers and scarred adventurers, he looked like a painting that had wandered into a barracks.
A man at the armor cart yelled.
"Here! Suits! Armor! Take one!"
He shoved a breastplate into Viktor’s hands — the casual, charity-distribution motion of a quartermaster who had been handing out gear for hours and had stopped caring who received it.
Viktor took it.
He put it on.
The metal was cheap, ill-fitting, the kind of mass-produced armor that was meant to stop a glancing blow and nothing else. He buckled the straps, adjusted the shoulders, and settled into the crowd.
He mixed in.
The face that had drawn gazes moments ago was now partially concealed by the armor’s high collar, his hair tucked under a helmet he had found on the cart. He became one of many — a slim, young, unremarkable soldier in a sea of bodies.
The horn sounded.
The deep, brassy note that signaled formation. Bodies moved, shuffled, organized into the rough, stumbling ranks of a party that was more mob than army.
"It seems I have to go in formation," a voice beside him said.
Viktor turned.
Dara stood there.
His eyes narrowed.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
She was wearing a brown dress — the plain, rough-spun, commoner’s dress of a woman who had nothing else. But the dress could not hide what had been done to her body. Her tits had been fucked and sucked and mauled so thoroughly that they had swollen — the full, heavy, round shape of them pressing against the fabric, the nipples visible and stiff, the cleavage deep and shadowed. Her ass, beneath the dress, had been claimed so many times that it had taken on a wider, fuller, more pronounced shape — the kind of body that made men look twice and think one thing.
She looked fuckable.
She looked like a woman who had been fucked so much that her body had reshaped itself around the experience.
She was laughing.
The light, easy, carefree laugh of a woman who had sucked a man’s cock while he pissed that very morning and was now standing in a crowd of soldiers as if nothing had happened.
"The officer said I have applied for a cook here, sir," she said, her voice bright, cheerful, the voice of a maid who had found a solution to a problem. "Since you joined the venture."
Viktor raised an eyebrow.
"I am just here to earn some money," he said.
Dara tilted her head.
"As a man, you can earn it. So as a woman, I can’t support?"
The question was pointed, playful, carrying the particular, cheeky challenge of a woman who had decided to follow her master and was not going to be sent away.
Viktor looked at her.
She leaned closer, her lips near his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Master," she murmured. "This way I would be close to you. I did not want to go with those women."
The ’those women’ carried the particular, jealous emphasis of a woman who had been grouped with Helviana and Naro and had resented every moment of it.
Viktor sighed.
He shook his head.
But he did not send her away.
The horn sounded again.
The formation began to move — the shuffling, clanking, disorganized march of a hundred bodies being herded toward a gate. Viktor fell into step, his cheap armor clanking, his eyes scanning the crowd with the lazy, patient, predatory awareness of a man who was always looking for the next opportunity.
He attracted gazes.
Even in armor, even with the helmet, his face drew eyes — the soldiers around him stealing glances, the women in the party looking twice, the officers frowning at the young, pretty soldier who did not carry himself like a recruit.
He ignored them all.
Then a voice called out.
"Hey! What’s your name?"
Viktor turned.
The woman standing before him was the first company’s captain.
She was tall — nearly his height, with broad shoulders and thick arms and the heavy, dense, powerful body of a woman who had been swinging a sword since childhood. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a tight braid, her face strong-jawed, her eyes a deep, warm amber.
Her body was the problem.
She wore the Ktorian family’s colors — a deep crimson sash across her chest — but the sash was the only thing that could be called clothing. Her massive, thick, heavy tits were bound only by a strip of cloth wrapped around them — the fabric straining, cutting into the soft flesh, the tops and bottoms of her breasts overflowing on either side, the dark skin visible between the wraps. Below, a hanging cloth covered her pussy — barely, the fabric swinging with each step, the heavy, muscular thighs on either side bare and gleaming with oil.
Armor plates hung from her shoulders and hips — decorative, ceremonial, the kind of protection that was meant to look impressive rather than stop a blade. Her stomach was bare, the defined, ridged muscle visible, the deep V of her hips pointing downward.
She was a bull.
The Ktorian family’s bloodline — the bull-kin, the thick-bodied, massively proportioned warriors who bred for strength and size and the kind of raw, physical presence that made other soldiers look like children.
Viktor looked at her.
At the overflowing tits. At the barely-covered pussy. At the armor that protected nothing and displayed everything.
His expression settled into the particular, tired resignation of a man who had just stolen one woman’s bloodline, impregnated another, and was now staring at a third who appeared to be wearing her underwear to a demon hunt.
"Ah, shit," he said.
The captain’s amber eyes narrowed.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Nothing," Viktor said. "I’m Viktor. New recruit."
The captain looked him up and down.
The slow, assessing, military once-over of a woman who was used to sizing up soldiers and was finding this one confusing.
"You don’t look like a recruit," she said.
"I get that a lot," Viktor said.
The captain’s eyes moved past him.
To Dara.
Who was standing behind him, her brown dress stretched tight, her swollen tits and widened hips on full display, her face carrying the satisfied, fucked-out glow of a woman who had swallowed cum that morning and was now standing in a military formation.
"Who’s that?" the captain asked.
"My cook," Viktor said.
The captain’s eyebrow rose.
"You brought a cook to a demon hunt?"
"She insisted," Viktor said.
The captain stared at him.
At the violet eyes. At the pretty face. At the cheap, ill-fitting armor. At the cook behind him with the body of a woman who had been ridden hard and put away wet.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"You know what," she said. "I don’t want to know. Fall in, recruit. We move in ten."
She turned.
Her thick, bare ass — the massive, muscular, barely-covered cheeks of a bull-kin woman — swayed as she walked, the hanging cloth swinging between her thighs, the armor plates clanking.
Viktor watched her go.
His cock — the incubus bloodline, ever hungry, ever ready — stirred in his trousers.
He closed his eyes.
He breathed.
’Is she just dense,’ he thought, ’or is she an idiot?’