App herunterladen
27.27% Game of Thrones and Seduction / Chapter 3: The Dragon Ascendant (2)

Kapitel 3: The Dragon Ascendant (2)

Large, muscular arms with a burnished hue rested gracefully along the rim of the ornate bathing pool. His head was tilted back comfortably against the edge, eyes closed, exuding a serene repose. From her angle, Freya could discern the strong, chiseled profile of his face. His thick, wavy hair tumbled down to his shoulders in dark, glossy strands that seemed almost sculpted to frame his visage perfectly. 

His nose bore a subtle, dignified bump along its bridge, and a prominent jaw was discernible even beneath the shadow of a well-kept beard.

He lifted a hand, still without opening his eyes, and made a beckoning gesture. Freya paused, uncertain if the invitation was meant for her, but a quick glance around confirmed that none of the attendants moved—it was indeed intended for her.

Tentatively, she approached, the aromatic blend of the bath's oils growing more potent with each step. She stopped a few feet away, hesitating to encroach upon his space.

"Don't be shy," His voice broke the silence, rough yet inviting. "Come closer."

With a cautious step, Freya moved within a foot of the pool's edge. At this proximity, he opened his eyes—two deep pools of amber that seemed to capture and reflect the dim light shimmering off the water. 

His expression shifted subtly, a hint of surprise mingling with curiosity as his gaze met hers. He was undeniably handsome, his rugged features softened slightly by the steamy warmth.

"So, you are the healer?" he inquired, his eyes sweeping over her in a measured appraisal that left her wondering exactly what it was he was assessing.

"Yes," she responded.

A slight curve touched his lips, forming a reserved smile. "And what is this healer's name?"

"Freya," she replied, her tone clear and confident.

"Freya," he repeated, accentuating the 'r' a bit more firmly. "Just Freya?"

"Freya Lorne. Healer of Navea, servant of Scythe, and gift of the Lorne," she elaborated.

"Very impressive," he remarked, though his expression remained unreadably neutral. "I assume you already know who I am."

"I would appreciate a formal introduction and to know how you prefer to be addressed," she countered diplomatically.

He seemed amused by her formality, a flicker of interest passing through his eyes. "Just Roarke," he responded casually. "My father, recently passed. That is why you are here."

"I am sorry for your loss," she offered softly.

"Would you like to join the bath?" he suggested, gesturing towards the expansive water surface that enveloped him. Was this a test? It was she who was supposed to be evaluating, not the other way around.

"Thank you, but I have just recently bathed," she replied tactfully.

"Well then, I should probably get out," he announced, rising from the water suddenly and without any prior indication.

Startled, Freya instinctively turned away, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. She caught sight of one of the attendants hurrying forward with a large towel. Behind her, Roarke's chuckle filled the air, a rich, deep sound that suggested he found her reaction amusing.

"Freya, Healer of Navea," he called out, his voice closer now. He came to stand before her, this time with the towel securely wrapped around his waist. 

Water cascading down his well-defined physique. Droplets glistened on his broad chest and muscular arms, each contour and ripple pronounced and highlighted by the moisture. His presence was undeniably imposing—magnificent even, in a way that was both awe-inspiring and intimidating.

"Should you, as the healer, not take a very close look?" he asked. "Isn't that why you are here? To scrutinize every part of me, including my ability to produce an heir."

Freya's face flushed deeper. She had braced herself for hostility or skepticism from the ascendants, but this overt testing of boundaries was unexpected.

"I am certain that scrutinizing you...naked, won't reveal much about your ability to produce an heir," she retorted quickly. 

He smirked, stepping closer. Freya resisted the urge to retreat; his proximity overwhelming, his large frame practically eclipsing her view of the room. 

She forced herself to meet his gaze, determined not to let her eyes wander to his bare chest. He towered over her, his presence domineering. Droplets from his damp hair occasionally fell onto her face. She blinked, surprised by the sudden coolness on her skin.

Roarke lifted a large hand, gently wiping away a droplet of water from her cheek with a touch that was unexpectedly gentle. "Then...do you want to test my ability in a different way?" he said, his tone suggestive.

Heat surged to her neck at the implication. Surely, he couldn't be serious.

She chuckled nervously, a habitual response when under stress, and he arched an eyebrow in response.

"Do I amuse you?" he inquired, a slight edge to his question.

"A little," she admitted, finally taking a small step back to regain some space. "Since you are so eager to prove yourself, I'm sure you would pass that test," she added.

He scoffed, a flash of irritation crossing his features. "Eager?"

Freya realized she had offended him. 

"I am not eager, female," he stated, his tone sharp and his gaze piercing as he looked her up and down with a sidelong glance that was more assessing than appreciative. "You would break beneath me."

She almost scoffed. Did he think she was a twig? Yes, she was certainly smaller compared to the imposing stature of the dragons, but fragile she was not. And why were they even discussing the possibility of her beneath him? The conversation had taken a wild turn, and the steamy atmosphere of the bath chamber did little to cool the rising heat in her cheeks.

"Luckily, I won't find myself beneath you," she countered, intent on asserting her purpose here. She wouldn't be swayed by such tactics.

But Roarke, embodying the typical male bravado, seemed to take her words as a challenge. She should have known. 

He tilted his head slightly, arms crossed over his robust chest. "I see. Confident because of your gift from Scythe? I wonder how your Goddess would react to having her little servant lose her chastity."

"Oh, I'm not worried. The Goddess's gift is holding up quite well so far. It seems your charm isn't as irresistible as you think," she shot back.

"The test isn't how well you can stand temptation, but how long," he retorted smoothly. "Don't be too confident yet."

Good comeback, she had to admit. But how long did he intend to keep up this act? Would she have to deal with this for the upcoming weeks?

At that moment, another woman approached from behind Roarke, assisting him into a robe. His demeanor shifted slightly as he addressed Freya again. "Am I the first one you are meeting?"

"Yes."

"And what is your test for me today?"

"Today, I am simply here to meet you," she replied smoothly. "Getting acquainted."

He eyed her skeptically for a moment, likely pondering whether she was concealing her true intentions. "If you don't have a test for me, then I have one for you," he proposed.

"I am not here to be tested."

"Yet you will be," he countered authoritatively. "You must know how to wield Scythe's weapon. I would like to see you in action."

"The scythe can kill with a touch. I don't wield it unless I have to," she explained, her tone serious.

"A touch might be hard for you to achieve here, Freya the chaste," he said. 


Kapitel 4: Fighting Dragons

Freya stood poised on the field, her nerves taut, as she prepared for the imminent confrontation. She would face an opponent chosen by Roarke, and inevitably, it would be a dragon, and dragons are known for their physical strength. Her training had been rigorous, but she had never engaged in combat with any of the mythical creatures from the Lore, and the thought of battling a dragon stirred fear and worry within her. 

Glancing toward Ivan and Alvar, she found them standing motionless, watching from the sidelines. Their roles were clear. They were here only to intervene if mortal danger arose; otherwise, she was on her own, as was dictated by her role.

With a heavy sigh, she pondered Roarke's motives. What was he trying to achieve with all of this?

As she waited, a few more people continued to trickle into the arena, and then Roarke finally made his appearance, positioning himself prominently where he could oversee the entire space. 

Freya caught his gaze briefly and felt a surge of defiance. She was not here to entertain him or anyone else. Her plan was simple: to lose as quickly and unremarkably as possible and thus make the ordeal boring for him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ivan moving; Roarke had gestured for him and Alvar to join him where he sat. He leaned in and told them something that elicited a chuckle from both. 

Perhaps she should kill one of their own, she thought. Then they wouldn't be laughing for long, but then she calmed herself down. They probably intended to agitate her. 

"Chastity?" Roarke's voice sliced through the tense air, his tone mocking.

She looked up sharply at him. "I know your weapon can kill, but make sure to use it well, or you might find yourself on your deathbed."

So, he was comfortable with this because she was a healer capable of recovering from fatal injuries. But healing didn't negate pain or the potential for suffering, a fact he didn't seem to care about. 

A wave of dread washed over her, the sun's heat penetrating her silken garment, prompting beads of sweat to form on her brow.

"So I get to kill one of your men?" she called out.

Roarke's chuckled. "If you can."

Resigned, she began to untie her silken robe. Aware of the many eyes on her, she reminded herself that modesty held no value here among the dragons. Besides, the silk was too constrictive for what lay ahead. 

Discarding the robe, she was now clad only in her white linen undergarment, which offered more freedom of movement.

She placed the robe aside and turned back to face the arena. Her opponent was entering now—a towering figure with wild, dark brown hair that tumbled to his broad shoulders. His skin was sun-kissed and gleaming as if anointed with oil. He wielded a sword so large that a single swing from it promised to send her staggering back, if not outright flying across the arena.

Taking a deep breath, she walked back to the center of the arena to meet him. As they stood facing each other, despite his intimidating build, his eyes seemed calmer than she expected. 

"Are you ready for the fight?" he asked, his voice even.

"Do you know my weapon can kill you?" Freya countered.

"Let's hope that happens before you find yourself bleeding on the ground," he replied grimly.

Her heart skipped a beat. She had no desire to kill this man, which meant she was likely to get hurt herself.

She cast a glance at Roarke, questioning his motives silently again. Was this a test to see if she was an assassin sent to kill him?

"Weild your weapon!" her opponent commanded, snapping her attention back to the imminent duel. He lifted his sword, poised and ready.

"Scythe!" Freya called out, extending her hand. The weapon materialized into her grasp, emerging from the ether with its sinister aura.

The scythe was a formidable weapon, its long, curving blade gleaming with a deadly luster that seemed to absorb the light around it. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, aged yet sturdy, culminating in an ornate design that suggested both elegance and lethality. The blade itself was crafted to look almost like an elongated tear, sharp and menacing, an embodiment of death's inevitability.

As Freya gripped the scythe, a surge of power coursed through her, imbuing her with the dual essence of her goddess—the ability to heal and to harm. 

The weapon seemed to pulse with a chilling energy, its presence alone enough to instill a sense of dread. It was as if the air around it thickened, the scent of death mingling with the cold bite of fear.

Her opponent eyed the scythe warily, clearly unnerved by the ominous energy it radiated.

With resolve, Freya raised the weapon, prepared to defend herself. Her adversary charged, his sword raised high. She met his strike with the handle of her scythe, but the force sent a jarring pain up her wrists. 

She groaned as her feet slid back, and a shove from him sent her tumbling to the ground.

"This is a waste of time," he scoffed, his voice echoing slightly in the open field.

"I agree. Tell that to your king," she retorted, frustration lining her words.

He stepped back, giving her space to rise. Ignoring the ache in her wrists, Freya stood, her expression set in determination. She gripped her scythe tightly, readying herself as he approached again.

He struck repeatedly, each attack a test of her endurance. She parried and dodged, the impact of each block resonating through her arms, pain flaring with every collision. 

Immensely strong as he was, Freya's advantage lay in her speed. However, the dilemma remained: she could end this by striking him with her deadly weapon, but she was adamant against killing. So, she was forced into a grueling dance of defense. Eventually, she recognized the futility of prolonging the inevitable pain and decided to let his next attack land, hoping to end the ordeal swiftly.

When his sword clashed against her scythe once more, the force was so great that it sent the weapon flying from her grip, scattering a searing pain through her hands and arms like wildfire. She tumbled to the ground with a stifled groan, bracing herself for the final, fatal blow she expected to follow. But instead of pain, the sound of metal clashing against metal rang through the air. 

Blinking against the dust, she looked up to see Ivan, having stepped in, his sword intercepting her opponent's fatal strike. "It should be enough now," he declared firmly, and her opponent stepped back.

Putting his weapon back into its sheath, Ivan then leaned down and scooped her up effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing more than a leaf.

"Woah! What are you doing?" She exclaimed.

"My duty," he responded calmly, continuing to carry her away from the arena.

"If so, could you not have come earlier, while my wrists were still intact?" she retorted.

"I step in when I deem necessary," Ivan replied, his voice steady and unfazed.

Freya sighed and silently commanded her scythe to disappear.

"That wasn't necessary," came a sudden voice, stopping them in their tracks.

Turning her head, Freya saw Roarke blocking their path, his expression grave.

"You have tested her enough now," Ivan stated.

"That is for me to decide," Roarke countered sharply. "You should not meddle so much. I'll take her," he added, reaching out to take Freya from Ivan's arms.

"Wait! I hurt my wrists, not my ankles. I can walk. Put me down!" Freya demanded.


Load failed, please RETRY

Geschenke

Geschenk -- Geschenk erhalten

    Wöchentlicher Energiestatus

    Stapelfreischaltung von Kapiteln

    Inhaltsverzeichnis

    Anzeigeoptionen

    Hintergrund

    Schriftart

    Größe

    Kapitel-Kommentare

    Schreiben Sie eine Rezension Lese-Status: C3
    Fehler beim Posten. Bitte versuchen Sie es erneut
    • Qualität des Schreibens
    • Veröffentlichungsstabilität
    • Geschichtenentwicklung
    • Charakter-Design
    • Welthintergrund

    Die Gesamtpunktzahl 0.0

    Rezension erfolgreich gepostet! Lesen Sie mehr Rezensionen
    Stimmen Sie mit Powerstein ab
    Rank 200+ Macht-Rangliste
    Stone 9 Power-Stein
    Unangemessene Inhalte melden
    error Tipp

    Missbrauch melden

    Kommentare zu Absätzen

    Einloggen

    tip Kommentar absatzweise anzeigen

    Die Absatzkommentarfunktion ist jetzt im Web! Bewegen Sie den Mauszeiger über einen beliebigen Absatz und klicken Sie auf das Symbol, um Ihren Kommentar hinzuzufügen.

    Außerdem können Sie es jederzeit in den Einstellungen aus- und einschalten.

    ICH HAB ES