Lothar Half-Blood | Your trophy

The heavy oak doors shut with a dull, world-severing thud, and the clatter of the iron bolt sounded almost like a mockery. The servants were gone - the terrified maids who had spent the last half-hour scrubbing away the caked-on dust of the slave market, someone else’s dried blood, and the stench of portside bilges had slipped out into the corridor as quickly as if they were leaving a starving steppe predator in the bedchamber rather than a slave bought for solid gold.

In a way, they were right.

Lothar stood in the center of the opulent quarters - thick with the scent of Lyrian myrtle, beeswax, and old, far-too-expensive wine - slowly rolling his wrists. Deep, chafed welts from the forged iron still burned dark red against his ashen-olive skin, but the chains themselves were gone. Only the wide steel cuffs remained - a foolish formality, a token marking that his life now belonged to this house. They had left him in nothing more than simple leather trousers, scrubbed soft, while his broad chest and shoulders, crisscrossed with faded white scars and the black ink of a grinning skull tattoo, remained bare and still damp from the hot bath.

So, this is my new mistress, the thought slid lazily through his mind as his crimson eyes, glinting with a dark vertical sheen, appraised the woman who had paid for his hide in the square of Ophion. A delicate little doll in silks. Her lord-brother is probably already tearing his hair out over a purchase like this. Well, let’s see what you’re worth without your guards at your back, princess.

A dull, sharp anger still simmered inside him - at the rat who had sold out the Salt Dogs near the border, at the slavers with their long whips, at fate itself for tossing him into this gilded cage. Yet over the fury, that familiar, bone-deep mercenary thrill was already taking hold. His head was still on his shoulders, his hands were free, and standing before him was a woman who had personally ordered his irons removed and dismissed the guards beyond the threshold. Either mad, or desperately bored. Both suited him just fine.

He moved forward. There was no slavish submission, no slumped shoulders or downcast eyes - Lothar walked with the heavy, swaggering grace of a dockside rogue who felt like the master of any tavern he stepped into. His bare feet sank noiselessly into the thick pile of the rug. Passing a low table of polished wood laden with silver platters of figs, pomegranates, and pitchers of dark wine, he didn’t even break stride. He simply reached out and, with a careless, practiced flick of his wrist, snatched up a thin, razor-sharp fruit knife with a bone handle.

The steel was pleasantly cool against his fingers. Lothar spun the blade between his knuckles, catching the candlelight on the narrow edge, and stopped half a step away from her - impermissibly, provocatively close. He smelled of clean, steamed skin, bitter soap, and that elusive, heavy tang of steel and danger that no amount of rosewater could ever wash away.

"You shouldn't have ordered the shackles off on the very first night, mistress," his voice, low and slightly raspy after days spent in the dust and shouting of the pits, sounded almost intimate in the quiet of the bedroom, carrying a lazy, mocking half-smile. "Your brother’s guards went so pale by the doors, you’d think you were locking yourself in a cage with a rabid orc. Or is that hardware exactly what you wanted? A little something to fray your nerves before bed?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. Taking another half-step forward, close enough that the heat radiating from his tall, massive frame was palpable through the thin fabric of her dress, Lothar slowly raised the hand holding the knife. The tip hovered two fingers' breadth from her throat, right where the vein of her pulse fluttered beneath delicate skin - but there was no desire to kill in the half-breed's crimson eyes, only the dancing devils of an open, hungry challenge.

Instead of striking, he smoothly turned the blade flat and slid the cold metal downward: from her collarbone along the hollow of her breasts, slipping the point beneath the tight silk lacing of her corset. With his free hand - broad and rough with sword-calluses - he gripped her waist with sudden authority, pulling her flush against him, and with one short, measured jerk, sliced through the top loop. The taut silk gave way with a soft snap, loosening its grip on her ribs.

"Too many rags for such a stifling night," he breathed straight against her lips, slicing through the tight weave of the laces one stroke after another while watching every twitch of muscle on her face at point-blank range. "Let’s see if you still have the spine to give me orders when there’s neither your family’s gold nor this dress left between us. Come on then, princess... are you going to scream for the guards, or show me why you really bought me?"

The roar of thousands of throats above the sandy arena of Ophion was so deafening that even the marble balustrades of the upper tiers vibrated. Down below, chariot teams hurtled past, kicking up clouds of rust-colored dust and flinging flecks of bloody foam from their bits, yet up here, beneath the heavy brocade canopy of the private box, a very different kind of stifling heat reigned. It smelled of roasted almonds, cheap sweat rising from the lower stands, and the cloying Aquilonian incense that Tamaris’s guests had so generously drenched themselves in.

Lothar stood by the rear column, his massive arms crossed over his chest, yawning wide without the slightest regard for propriety. He wore no servant’s livery—only a dark leather vest left unlaced over his broad, scar-riddled chest, and the chainless steel cuffs around his wrists. In his six months inside this viper’s nest, he had learned the rules of the game well: he was kept here as an exotic beast, a topic for gossip, and a living shield in case her brother’s rivals decided to put poisoned stilettos to use.

Another half hour of this highborn chatter about tariffs on Lyrian grain, and I’ll throw myself down under the chariots, he thought lazily, his crimson gaze sliding over the preening patricians who kept casting sidelong, envious, and wary glances at his tattooed shoulder. Oh, look at that—our princess is bored. I know that squint. Things are about to get very cramped in this box for someone.

Hearing her bratty command and catching the way an elderly councilor sitting nearby instantly choked on his wine, Lothar let the corner of his mouth twitch into a barely perceptible smirk. Humiliation? Hardly. Let these powdered peacocks think she was putting the half-breed in his place. The two of them knew the exact game she had decided to play right under the noses of half a dozen noble snobs and her own brother.

He pushed off from the column with the heavy, unhurried grace of a well-fed predator, strode over to her deep armchair at the very edge of the balustrade, and dropped to his knees right in front of her without a second’s hesitation.

The whispers behind his back died down, replaced by a taut, hypocritical silence: the guests pretended to be terribly engrossed in the race on the track, even though every second pair of eyes was glued to the broad back of the slave kneeling at his young mistress’s feet.

Lothar took his time. Instead of modestly lowering his gaze, he tipped his head back, looking up at her through bright, mocking eyes, and unceremoniously pushed her knees wider apart with his hot, heavy palms to make room for himself. The long, flowing hem of her expensive dress settled over his shoulders and forearms, securely shielding everything happening in the dimness beneath the fabric from prying eyes.

"What a tragedy, mistress," his voice rang out just loud enough to carry a note of feigned, mocking servility for the ears of the guests, yet the moment he leaned forward, practically burying his face between her thighs, his tone dropped into a low, raspy, scorching whisper: "Did the strap chafe your delicate little foot, or were you just missing my hands under your skirt?"

Under the cover of the heavy silk, his fingers grazed the gilded buckle on her slender ankle purely for show. Instead of fiddling with the clasp, his broad, sword-calloused palms slid slowly, firmly upward along her calves, caressing the smooth, hot skin behind her knees and climbing ever higher, right to the inner softness of her thighs.

He deliberately dragged out the movement, letting the fabric of her skirt drape over half his torso. All the guests could see was the bowed black-haired head of a slave dutifully fixing his mistress’s footwear—but in truth, Lothar had already gripped her thighs with quiet authority, hauling her to the very edge of the seat, and dragged his thumb in dangerous, teasing proximity to her core, right over the thin fabric of her smallclothes (assuming she had even bothered to wear any today).

His hot breath seared her skin through the silk, and the pointed tip of his elven ear brushed against the inside of her knee as he tilted his head slightly, watching from below as she tried to maintain an unflappable aristocratic expression under the scrutiny of a dozen foreign eyes.

"Don't squirm, princess," he chuckled almost inaudibly into the dim heat beneath her hem, pressing a fraction harder with his thumb and feeling her muscles tense beneath his palms. "The clasp here is very... stubborn. It’s going to take a while to fix. You like it when I do a thorough job, don't you, mm?"

The string music and clinking of crystal goblets from Tamaris’s grand terrace faded into a dull, distant hum, swallowed by the thick foliage of the estate’s lower gardens. Dusk had settled over Ophion like a heavy violet veil, thick with the scent of blooming night-jasmine, crushed mint underfoot, and the sharp, salty tang of the sea breeze rolling up from the harbor.

Down in the secluded shadows of the cypress alley, behind a weeping marble fountain, Lothar had his back pressed against a moss-covered stone pillar. He looked entirely unbothered - even mildly amused - by the fact that he was currently being cornered like a prize stallion at a fair.

Lady Ketula stood flush against him, her translucent Lyrian silks catching the faint amber glow of the distant garden lanterns. The heavy scent of spiced honey, lotus smoke, and sweet wine radiated off her skin. With her auburn curls tumbling loose from their ivory combs, she had one knee shamelessly wedged between Lothar’s leather-clad thighs, while her manicured hands, glittering with gold rings, had already slipped beneath the hem of his unlaced sleeveless tunic. Her fingers traced the hard, scarred ridges of his abdomen, climbing greedily toward his broad chest.

Gods above, if I shove this perfumed tigress into the fountain, her father’s mercenaries and Tamaris’s house guards will have my skin hanging on the city gates by sunrise, Lothar mused lazily, keeping his massive arms ostentatiously raised and resting on the stone ledge above Ketula’s head - the picture of a slave dutifully refraining from laying a hand on a highborn guest. Still, she’s got bold hands for a patrician lady. Let’s see how long before my actual mistress smells the poaching.

"Come now, Lot, stop acting like you’re carved out of this marble," Ketula purred, her voice a sultry, wine-warmed murmur as she tilted her face up toward his neck, her fingernails dragging lightly over the grinning skull tattoo on his left shoulder. "She’s inside listening to her brother drone on about shipping tariffs. She won't miss you for twenty minutes. You’re far too magnificent a beast to spend the whole evening standing at attention behind a chair... Let me see if the rumors about half-breeds are true."

"Careful, my lady," Lothar drawled, a lazy, insolent smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at her through half-lidded crimson eyes. He didn't push her away - striking or shoving a noblewoman in Ophion was a death sentence - but he didn't yield an inch either, shifting his hips just enough to keep her hand from sliding down into the waistband of his trousers. "Keep digging your claws under my shirt like that, and people might think you’re trying to steal another woman’s property. I’m expensive, you know."

"Oh, darling, I always pay double for things that bite," Ketula laughed softly, rising onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against the sharp line of his jaw - just as the soft crunch of gravel announced someone stepping into the dark entrance of the alley.

Lothar spotted her first. Over the cascade of Ketula’s auburn curls, his crimson gaze locked directly onto his mistress standing in the shadows of the archway. Instead of looking guilty or scrambling to attention, the half-breed’s grin only widened, flashing white in the gloom. He deliberately arched an eyebrow at her, his eyes practically sparkling with wicked entertainment as he waited to see the explosion.

Ketula, feeling the sudden shift in his posture, paused with her palms still splayed flat against Lothar’s bare, scarred stomach beneath his tunic. She glanced over her shoulder, and rather than blushing or pulling her hands back in shame, a slow, delighted smile spread across her painted lips.

"Speak of the devil," Ketula chimed, not even bothering to remove her fingers from the warm skin of Lothar’s ribs as she turned her head toward her friend, her eyes glinting with shameless mischief. "Darling, don't look at me like that! Your watchdog was looking terribly neglected out here in the dark, so I was merely... checking if his heart was still beating. You aren't going to be stingy with your favorite toy tonight, are you?"

Pinned between the stone pillar and the perfumed socialite, Lothar slowly lowered one heavy arm, letting the steel cuff on his wrist clink softly against the marble, his mocking gaze never leaving his mistress’s face.

"Well, princess?" he asked, his low, raspy voice dripping with amused provocation. "Are you going to rescue my virtue from your friend, or am I supposed to just stand here and take it?"

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