The golden hour fell upon the Kingdom of the Caerwynne bathing the majestic castle with its warm orange glow, casting a long shadow over the mountain behind. Below the looming shadow of the citadel, the thin veil of Magia shimmered faintly in the air like a dust mote, catching the sunlight and scattering it across the cobblestones like glittering diamond.

The capital city was buzzing with life, carts of goods creaked under its loads as children darted away like sparrows between crowded stalls. Cloaks brushed shoulders, voices rose and fell, and coins passed from hand to hand with practiced ease. Musicians gathered near the fountain, their pipes and fiddles threading melody through the noise, while nearby a heated argument over price drew a small, eager crowd.

Above the crowd, Banners of Caerwynne's colours—deep forest green and burnished gold—hung from every window, every balcony, every crooked beam that could bear their weight. They snapped and fluttered in the Spring wind, a hundred fabric tongues praising the crown. Festive garlands stirred lazily between tall buildings, bearing the kingdom’s sigil, transforming the once dull streets into a riot of fluttering ribbons and wildflowers woven into every archway.

clang-clang-clang went the bells from the castle's highest tower, their bronze tongues announcing what every soul already knew; the Fair Queen Morrigan had birthed a fourth child, a healthy prince with strong lungs enough to rival the criers in the square. The Kingdom had an heir to spare, and by the Old Gods, they would celebrate until their legs gave out.

Flower petals rained from upper windows.

Confetti made of torn parchment.

The streets of Caerwynne had gone mad with joy.

"Long live the Prince! Long live the wee bairn!"

Cries rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat. Bodies pressed against bodies, a great breathing mass of humans and Faunkind alike, all surging toward the castle square where the King's herald had made the proclamation not an hour past. Children darted between legs, shrieking. Women and men shared booming laughter, and tankards clunked together. The smell of sweat and ale and the yeasty warmth of fresh bread from the baker's stalls mingled in the air. Roasted boar turning on spits, fat hissing and popping as it dripped into the coals below. Across the sea of people, a fiddler had struck up a reel, and the skree-dee-dee-dee of his bow cut through the general cacophony like a blade through silk.

The trumpets sang first. Their bright, melodious, brassy voices cut through the celebration. Heads turned. Conversation died mid-word. Everyone craning their necks toward the source of the summons.

The procession had begun.

Crowds parted away like a curtain opening. Bodies pressed against building walls, against market stalls, against each other—making way, making room for they were eager to witness the grand entrance of the ‘noble guests’. Children scrambled onto their fathers' shoulders. Young women clutched at each other's arms, rising on tiptoes.

"Make way! Make way fer the ale!"

A wagon groaned through the crowd, barrels stacked three high, sloshing with the promise of oblivion. Hands reached up immediately—grabby, eager things—and the wagon master swatted them away with good-natured curses.

"Ye'll get yer fill at the square, ye greedy bastards! King's orders—free drink fer all!"

Banners held high, it rippled and snapped in the spring breeze like living things—the crowned stag of Caerwynne, yes, but also the crimson tower of House Ashworth, the silver serpent of the Eastern Marches, the crossed keys of the Holy St. James. Each one represented a lord, a lady, a bishop, a dignitary who had traveled leagues to celebrate the birth of the King's fourth child.

It stretched back toward the castle's grand entrance gate like a glittering serpent, each segment more ornate than the last. Musicians walked between the carriages, their instruments adding melody to the trumpets' fanfare. Acrobats in the King's colors tumbled and cartwheeled alongside, drawing gasps and laughter from the children. It continued its slow, stately march into the entrance arc, where the feast awaited, where the nobles would drink and dance from dusk till dawn.

---

The air in the castle courtyard was thick with enough to chew on. Some highborns had spilled out of the hall, driven by the roar of cheering crowds and the slippery grip of too much mead. Words had traveled: Two faunus knights against each other. A rare sight for those who had never seen them, it was a splendid attraction too. Perhaps young nobles watched from the sidelines, perched on barrels and stone walls, flushed face turned towards the spectacle, a gaggle of noble youth giggled as two fully armored knights–all coiled muscles and raw power–collided together.

CRACK.

Horns met horns, and the sound echoed of the stonewalls like a clap of thunder. They were in the centre of training ring made out of packed dirt, surrounded by a bunch of gawking spectators. Up on the stone gallery, cluster of eager nobles leaned over the railing, they whispered behind fans, eyes wide, tracking the sweat dripping down the knight’s chest.

"Come on then, Elgan! Stop behavin' like a scared ewe!" Garbhán roared, spitting blood into the dirt. He snorted, steam rising from his broad shoulders.

Elgan, smaller but quick, flashed a smile that promised something much filthier than a simple fight. He wiped sweat from his chin and narrowed his eyes.

"Ye've always had a thick skull, brother. Let's see if ye can take what ye give."

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.

Three rapid impacts and now it was Elgan who was staggering. Garbhán pressed his advantage, hooves thudding against stone as he drove his brother backward toward the circle's edge. Sweat dripped down his bare chest, catching firelight. The fur mantle he'd worn earlier lay discarded somewhere—too hot, too cumbersome for proper sparring. The collision was sickeningly wet. Garbhán slammed his forehead into Elgan's, connecting horn on horn with the force of a falling boulder.

CRUNCH.

The sound silenced the nearby drunkards for a heartbeat before they erupted in screams. A group of squires shouted, clapping metal cups against the stone railing.

Garbhán did not let go. He grit his teeth, his jaw muscles popping as he ground his head sideways, twisting their locked horns. The friction sent sparks.

Scrape. Grind.

Elgan groaned, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the mossy stones. He gripped Garbhán's thick biceps, digging his nails in to create bright red crescents. With a grunt of exertion, he dipped low and used his brother's momentum to heave. But Garbhán was far too strong, his powerful neck strained forward. And then with a surge of adrenaline, he lifted his head, forcefully pulling Elgan’s with him. And with a final vicious force, he slammed him down until his back hit the ground.

Elgan went down with a loud thud.

And the crowd erupted.

"CATURIX!" someone bellowed from the crowd. "CATURIX OF CAERWYNNE!"

More voices joined. A chant built, swelling and crashing like waves against cliffs: "CAT-U-RIX! CAT-U-RIX!"

Garbhán threw his arms wide, soaking it in. The roar washed over him, better than any hot bath. He felt ten feet tall. Invincible. His head was ringing like a church bell, but who cares?

A noble leaned over the railing near Elgan, offering a silk handkerchief that smelled of soft wildflowers. They asked, eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination, whether Elgan was alright. Elgan looked up, groaning in pain while shaking his head to clear the fuzz. He took the handkerchief with a tremored hand, nodding gratefully, dabbing the nasty cut on his cheeks and brows. The blood was bright red against the white silk.

"Just a love tap, Your Grace," Elgan rasped, forcing a crooked smile. "We're Fauns. Hard heads, soft hearts."

Across the ring, Garbhán was already grabbing a pitcher of ale from a passing servant, chugging it down while three different people tried to touch his biceps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a belch.

Burrrp.

"Right!" Garbhán shouted, slamming the empty pitcher down. "Who's next? Any takers? You there, Lord Percy? Fancy a go?"

The terrified-looking lord in question shrank back into his velvet doublet.

Garbhán laughed—a deep, booming sound that startled a passing dog—and turned back to the crowd. The night was young. The wine was free. And his head hurt beautifully.

After a long day of traveling through the muddy roads, the knights finally settled in a wayward inn for the night. It was a cold night–the wind’s howled like a banshee through the eaves along with a torrent of early spring rain lashing down in great sheets. They marched inside the only lodging in that town; as in the only one with decent bedding and warm meals to fill a man’s belly. They looked rough, tired, and irritated like a soaked wet mutt. Amongst them, Garbhan and Elgan stood out. Soaked from horn to hoof like a wet, drowned stag, their armour felt heavier from all the water seeping between the plates, pooling in their greaves, squelching with every miserable step.

Garbhán's mood was foul—the rest of the men could sense the thunderstorm looming over his great horned head, darker than the one pissing down outside. He padded into one of the benches, and the old wood groaned beneath his heavy weight. Sensing their second-in-command had settled–peace at last–the others followed suit.

Elgan gave a curt nod to the innkeeper, poor thing must be expecting a bunch of full-armoured men marching into their lodging. “Evenin’,” the faun leaned slightly onto the wooden oak counter, wet auburn hair hung in ropes across his scarred face, dripping onto the wood, "we'll be takin' all the rooms ye have. Wi' full meals and drink fer every man.”

Before they could even stammer a reply, Elgan dumped his silver coin purse in front of him with a loud thunk. “Go, now.” He grunted. The innkeeper slightly jolted in surprise before turning on their heel, hastily running into the kitchen. He finally let out a long, weary sigh. The tension gradually melted away from his shoulders. By the Old Gods, let him have a belly full of ale and a warm meal. He'd give his left horn to collapse onto a hay mattress right now and call it a blessed night. No more marchin'. No more rain. No more—

“Aye, brother. Ya didn’t want some o’ the wenches and lads?” Garbhan’s voice bellowed from behind the corner table. Elgan turned his head slowly towards him.

Of course.

That brute had already brought someone, a wee little thing tucked against his side, all blushing and wide-eyed in the arm of a giant. The lass—or was it a lad? Hard to tell from this distance—looked half-terrified and half-delighted.

"Garbhán." Elgan refused the offer, focusing his attention back on a tankard of ale in his own hand. “I'm no' in the mood fer it.”

"Ach, ye sure?" His brother's voice carried that teasing edge, the one that always made Elgan want to headbutt him into next week. "We've got fine lasses and lads about. Just toss 'em a few coins, brother. They'll make ye forget yer troubles right quick."

“No.”

“Suit yerself.”

Suit yerself. Aye, fine. Let the brute enjoy himself.

Elgan might be dreaming of sinking his length into something warm and velvety. He tried to not think about it, even when he hadn’t had a proper bedding for two months straight. The pent-up need was there, coiled tight in his belly, trying to break free in a passing moment.

Frustrated, he shoved the warm potato into his mouth–it was fucking delicious. He ate till bellyful, washing it down with warm spiced ale, then more ale, then a third tankard for good measure. When he finally glanced around the room, the other knights had dispersed. Gone into their own rooms—some with wenches, some with lads, others excusing themselves somewhere else entirely. Leaving Elgan alone near the dying hearth.

After finishing his meal, he entered his room, finding a wooden tub had been filled with warm water. Bless the innkeeper. His armour went off piece by piece–pauldrons first, then vambraces, then the heavy cuirass that had been digging into his ribs for the better part of three days. The tunic followed, peeled away from skin gone pruny and pale. Then the trousers, kicked into a corner.

He sank into the warm water, hissing slightly before finally relaxing. What a fine day...

---

Hours passed. Elgan now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He'd been tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity, tangling himself in rough-spun sheets.

He couldn’t sleep, no, not when his fucking cock was this hard.

“Bloody hell...” He turned to his side, squeezing his eyes shut. But his body kept demanding the carnal desire, blood pulsing hot and insistent between his thighs. He gave up. There was no point closing his eyes when every brush of the rough linen against his bare skin made him ache

Elgan swung his cloven hooves over the side of the bed, padding towards the door and exiting the room. Just a few strolls outside the tavern. Take a deep breath, because his fucking cock only going to get harder if he lay there thinking about it.

He looked around to make sure none of the knights were up and about—he wouldn’t wish for that conversation to be brought up later over breakfast. "Oi, Elgan, saw ye wanderin' the halls with a tent in yer trousers last night, everything alright?" No. Absolutely not.

He carefully, so carefully, made his way along the small hallway, passing rows of rooms. Some occupied—he could hear snoring, murmured conversation, the occasional moan—and the rest empty.

Except one room.

It was ajar.

Elgan’s pointed ears perked up at the faint sound escaping within. A low muffling sound of delicious wanton moan, followed by something wet, filthy squelching sound, and occasional slurping sound. It made his cock twitch, straining harder against the fabric of his trousers.

By the Old Gods, I willnae peek.

No, he wouldnae even approach the room. 'Twas indecent! A knight wouldnae have done such an act! He had honor, he had dignity, he had—

Whatever the bewitched sound did to him, he felt his body moving towards it, nay, he couldn’t deny it; from the musky smell escaping the room and the filthy sound, it was irresistible. Garbhán's voice rumbling through the opening.

His hooves carried him closer.

Elgan's hand found the doorframe.

His breath came shallow now, quiet, as he leaned toward the gap.

Just a glimpse. Just one wee glimpse, and then—