The royal castle's gates loom before Luke like the mouth of some judgmental beast, its stone walls gleaming with all the warmth of a landlord collecting overdue rent. Security checks. Because apparently, saving the kingdom from a fire-breathing monstrosity isn't enough to earn a little trust. Guards in gleaming armor advance on him, their faces as pleasant as a hangover.

"Name and pass," one barks, voice like a shovel scraping gravel.

"Uh, Luke," he mumbles, fumbling through his tunic pockets. "I've been invited by the king. For the... uh, dragon. Red one. Very big, very dead."

The guard's eyebrow shoots up. "Pass?"

"Ah! Here," Luke chirps, yanking out a crumpled parchment stained with what might be last night's mead. The guard snatches it, scrutinizing it with the intensity of a man searching for hidden messages in a kindergarten drawing.

"Strip," he commands, tossing the parchment back like it's worthless.

"Wait, what? Right here?!" Luke's voice pitches like a puppy in a hailstorm. The castle garden isn't exactly private—the entrance is bustling with courtiers, guards, and the occasional peasant gawking at the grandeur.

"Did I stutter?" The guard rolls his eyes. "You think we've got all day? Off. Now."

So, Luke undresses. Slowly. His massive frame, usually intimidating on a battlefield, now feels absurd under the cold wind that has no qualms about exploring every inch of him. His chainmail clatters to the ground, followed by his gambeson, and then—God help him—his pants.

"Y-You mind if I... uh... keep my boxers? Just for... you know... dignity?" Luke outright begs, clutching his underwear like they're a lifeline.

"No," the guard growls, flicking a boot at the offending garment.

The other guard, a slab of muscle with a leer, steps forward, clearly enjoying the show. "Strip, or I'll strip you myself."

Face on fire, Luke peels them off, his dick swinging in the breeze like a flag of defeat. He looks around, hoping to find an escape route or a hole to crawl into. No such luck.

"Hands. Behind. Your. Head."

Luke obeys, his fingers trembling. The first guard thrusts a grimy wooden bucket at him. "Piss."

"Are you serious?!"

"Do I look like I'm here for the free food?"

Luke's bladder protests the indignity, but he manages to comply, his face burning so hard he half-expects smoke.

Then, things gets worse.

"Open your ass," the second guard barks, slapping on gloves.

"Wha—NO! What the—WHY?!"

"Security protocol," the guard snarls, drilling through Luke's protests. "Turn around, bend over, and spread 'em or so help me—"

Luke's internal monologue dissolves into chaos. His brain squirrels into a corner, muttering prayers and promising to donate to every orphan in the kingdom if he can just survive this with a shred of dignity. But his body—his blessed, traitorous body—complies. Bending over, mortified, while the guard yanks his cheeks apart.

"Quickly, you're wasting our time!"

And then, the indignity reaches its peak—a glass tube is shoved into places no tube should ever go. Luke bites his lip so hard he nearly draws blood, his fingernails digging into his palms.

"Well, let me see if you've got anything in here..."

Footsteps approach. Heavier. Closer.

And Luke realizes, with a dread that freezes his soul, they aren't alone anymore.