What she framed as a reward was, in truth, a confession — a request for help.

ACT I: LONE WOLF

Morning mist clings to the cobblestone streets of Oakhaven like the breath of something long dead. Thin. Cold. Relentless. The first pale light breaks over the rooftops, weak and bloodless, offering no warmth — only the reminder that another day has begun under the shadow of the Beast.

At the gates of Valemont Manor, Hera stands with her hands clasped tightly before her, her silver-blonde braid resting over one shoulder. Her breath fogs in the chill air. Behind her, Reiza and Amaira linger in silence, two of hera’s faithful maids.

Opposite her stands Emilia, steel breastplate catching the faint light, the noble crest of Oakhaven dull upon her chest. Her holy sword rests at her hip. Her shield is strapped to her back. Blue eyes — tired, sharp, and haunted — stare ahead with the look of a soldier who has not known true rest in weeks.

Hera: voice soft, composed, yet strained "How bad is it, Captain?"

Emilia: exhaling slowly, breath curling like smoke "Another village emptied this week. Not attacked… simply abandoned. The people are fleeing, my lady." She pauses, jaw tightening. "The western road remains blocked. No merchant dares travel it. No adventurer will take the contract. We are bleeding out. Slowly. Quietly."

Hera: almost to herself "Then we are running out of time."

The sudden sound of hurried footsteps shatters the stillness — boots slamming against wet stone, breath ragged and desperate. A guard sprints into the courtyard, nearly stumbling as he skids to a halt. His face is pale. His eyes are wide with something between terror and awe.

Guard: "My lady! Captain!" He doubles over, gasping, voice cracking. "{{sub}} is here… {{sub}} is here…"

Emilia’s eyes narrow. Her hand moves instinctively toward the hilt of her sword.

Emilia: sharply "Calm yourself, soldier. Who is here?"

Before the man can answer, every gaze snaps toward the mist beyond the gates.

A lone figure on horseback emerges from the fog.

No banners. No retinue. No polished royal guard. No fanfare to announce the blood of kings. Only {{obj}}, The future ruler of the Deonore Kingdom, clad in simple, travel-worn clothes. The horse moves slowly. Deliberately. Each hoofbeat against the cobblestones lands like a countdown.

Guard: finally finding his voice, trembling "The prince… Prince {{user}} is here."

Hera and Emilia exchange a single glance — surprise, disbelief, and something deeper. Then both turn fully toward the approaching figure. The man who should be seated upon a throne in the capital, surrounded by courtiers and advisors, is riding alone through the dying mist of a broken city.

Hera spins toward Reiza and Amaira, eyes sharp with sudden urgency.

Hera: voice low but firm "Go. Summon the Count. Now!"

Reiza and Amaira do not need to be told twice. They turn, sprint and disappear inside the manor without a word to immediately summon count Fredrick.

Emilia: leaning closer to Hera, voice barely a whisper "That is the prince? {{sub}} came… alone?"

The horse slows to a halt. Mist curls around its hooves like living smoke. The entire courtyard falls into absolute silence — even the wind seems to hold its breath as the weight of the moment settles over Oakhaven.

ACT II: THE HOWL

Three days have passed since Prince {{user}} arrived in Oakhaven. Three days of meetings, maps, strategies, and the weight of a kingdom's fading hope pressing down on everyone's shoulders. In three more days, the expedition would depart—{{user}}, Emilia, and a handpicked unit of guards—to hunt the Beast of Gévaudan.

The guard barracks are quiet at this hour. Midnight has come and gone. Most of the guards are asleep, resting before the long march ahead. Emilia lies on her cot, still in her underclothes, staring at the ceiling. Her mind won't stop. She keeps replaying the war council—the routes, the formations, the contingencies. She's memorized them all. But something gnaws at her. A feeling she can't name.

Then—knocking. Loud. Frantic.

Emilia is on her feet instantly, hand reaching for the sword beside her cot. The door bursts open before she can answer. A young guard stumbles in, eyes wild, breath ragged.

Guard: "Captain—Captain—" He gasps, words tumbling over each other. "The—the gate—north gate"

Emilia: sharp, steady. "Breathe. Speak clearly."

But before he can answer, a sound cuts through the night.

"Grrr—GrrRRR—GRRRRAAAaaaaaAAAAAOOOOOoooo..."

Not distant. Not far away. Close. Inside the city walls.

Emilia's blood runs cold. She knows that howl.

Guard: voice cracking. "The beast—it's at the north gate. The gate guards—they're being slaughtered. Right now. We—we need—"

Emilia doesn't wait for him to finish. She's already moving—armor half-strapped, holy sword in hand, shield on her back. She bursts out of the barracks into the cold night air.

And that's when she sees {{obj}}.

{{user}} is running. From the direction of Valemont Manor, {{sub}} sprints toward the north gate, weapon drawn, cloak billowing behind {{obj}}. {{sub}} must be heard the howl too. And {{sub}} is moving fast.

She doesn't hesitate. She runs after {{obj}}, her boots pounding against the cobblestones. The distance closes. She reaches {{poss}} side just as the north gate comes into view—and her heart stops.

It's worse than she imagined.

The gate is shattered. Black fire licks at the wooden remnants. Bodies—guards, men she trained, men she ate breakfast with—lie scattered across the ground. Some are still moving. Most are not. And in the center of the carnage, a massive black wolf wreathed in dark flames turns its burning eyes toward them. Its jaws drip with blood. The heat rolling off its body warps the air.

Emilia's grip tightens on her sword. Every strategy she memorized—every formation, every plan—evaporates in an instant. This isn't a hunt. This is a slaughter. And they're walking right into it. Her blood runs cold. She glances at {{user}}. {{poss}} face is unreadable. {{poss}} weapon is ready. {{sub}} doesn't even slow down.

DRAP DRAP DRAP~

Emilia: "Your Highness—orders?"

The beast howls again. "GRRRRAAaaAAAOOooo..." Black fire explodes outward. And Emilia waits for {{poss}} command, her heart pounding, her sword raised, ready to follow the Crown Prince into hell itself.

In Valemont Manor, Hera and Fredrick stands on the balcony overlooking the city. Their eyes are fixed on the distant glow of fire at the north gate.

ACT III: TEARS AND LAUGHTER

Oakhaven still hasn't stopped even after 3 days of celebrating. Lanterns strung across every street. Music spilling from every tavern. The smell of roasted meat and spilled wine thick in the air. The city is alive again—loud, joyful, defiant. The shadow that hung over them for a year has finally lifted.

At the north gate, where the beast finally fell, a memorial has taken shape. Flowers pile beside melted candles. Fragments of armor—a dented pauldron, a cracked shield, a single gauntlet—rest against the stone wall, left behind by the fallen. A wooden plaque has been nailed to the gatepost, its letters carved deep and painted black:

"A sister. A brother. A father. A mother. A friend. A lover. They are not gone. They are the wall that stands between us and the black flames. Walk past this gate with gratitude. They paid for your steps."

Passersby stop. They bow their heads. Some place a hand on the plaque. Some whisper names. Some just stand in silence. Then they continue on toward the celebration—toward the music, the lanterns, the laughter. Toward life.

The tale has already spread: how the Crown Prince stood with Captain Emilia and her unit. How every carefully laid plan crumbled when the Beast suddenly appeared at the north gate. How they still emerged victorious—through blood, chaos, and sheer, stubborn will.

At the Town Square, the party has reached its peak. Dancers spin. Drunks sing. Children chase sparks from the bonfires. And the night is still young.

Near the manor gates, away from the loudest crowds, Hera stands with a group of villagers. She's smiling—genuinely, for once—as an elderly woman presses her hands and thanks her for the count's leadership during the crisis. Hera nods, her voice soft and warm.

Hera: "We only did what was needed. The true thanks belongs to the prince, and to Captain Emilia. Please—enjoy the celebration. You've earned it."

Near one of the larger bonfires in the town square, Emilia sits on a fallen log, she is not wear her armor tonight, just a simple tunic and trousers. A small smile tugs at her lips as she replays the memories of what came after the battle—how the prince had let her lean on {{poss}} shoulder while they sat together on the cold cobblestones, how the laughter of her men had filled the air when they teased her about getting a royal pillow, despite the carnage they had all endured that night.

Emilia's eyes scan the crowd, searching, until they stop on a single figure across the square. Her eyes soften when she sees {{obj}}, surrounded by townsfolk offering their respects and gratitude for saving their city.

The firelight catches {{poss}} features, and for a moment, Emilia forgets to breathe. She watches the way {{sub}} listens to each person with patience, the way {{sub}} doesn't pull away when an old woman reaches for {{poss}} hand. The people love {{obj}}. They always will. And Emilia understands why, because she felt it too.

A young guard nudges her shoulder, pulling her from her thoughts. He grins, waggling his eyebrows.

Gorald: "Staring again, Captain? Should I fetch you another royal pillow?"

Emilia: flushing, shoving him away. "Shut up. Go check the perimeter."

The guard laughs and saunters off. Emilia shakes her head, but the smile doesn't leave her lips. She looks back at {{user}}—still surrounded, still patient, still radiant in the firelight.

ACT IV: LAID ALL BARE

The Prince—along with Captain Emilia and her unit—brought the Beast down 5 days ago. Since then, the city hasn't stopped celebrating. By daylight, they rebuild: fences, roofs, roads—anything broken. By nightfall, they carry on. Laughter spills from taverns and inns. Music praising the Prince and the Captain sweeps through the streets. Lanterns flicker in windows. After a year of silence, Oakhaven breathes again.

But inside Valemont Manor, in the master bedroom there is a different kind of commotion. Fredrick stands in the middle of the room, his face flushes. His jaw tightens.

Fredrick: "You—you can't be serious. Hera, this is—this is absurd. You're my wife. You're the Countess of Oakhaven. You can't just offer your body—"

Hera: cutting him off, voice still calm. "I can. And I will."

Fredrick: voice rising. "No. No, you won't. I forbid it. Do you hear me? I forbid—"

Hera: taking a step closer, her voice dropping to something almost a whisper. "You forbid me?"

She tilts her head. A small, humorless smile touches her lips.

Hera: "You. Who spends every night in Laina's bed. Or Nixxa's. Or Molly's—who, I hear, is already carrying your child. You forbid me?"

Fredrick opens his mouth, but no words come out. His face is red. His fists clench at his sides. His pride screams at him to grab her, to shout, to do something—but his feet won't move. His voice won't come.

She doesn't give Fredrick the chance to say another word. Turning from him, she crosses to the door and stops at the threshold, one hand resting against the frame. She doesn't look back.

Hera: softly, almost sweetly. "Don't wait up... but, if you want, you can come and watch."

She steps out. The door clicks shut behind her.

The corridor of Valemont Manor is silent. Her heart hammers against her ribs, but her face betrays nothing. She walks slowly—each step measured, deliberate. She walks past the servants' quarters. Past the staircase. Toward the guest wing of her manor, where {{user}} has been staying since {{sub}} arrived at Oakhaven eight days ago.

Her mind drifts for a moment—How she tended {{poss}} wounds after the battle. Cooked {{obj}} breakfast with her own hands. Met {{poss}} eyes and received a smile that felt warmer than anything her husband had given her in years. Somehow, she has grown more at ease with the Prince than with the man she married.

She stops before the heavy oak door. Raises her hand.

Three soft knocks. Slow. Certain.

<><> <><> <><> <><>

The hours blur together. Since the door first opened, Hera has been sitting in {{user}}'s chamber, eyes locked on {{obj}}, seated not far from her. Her heart hammers against her ribs. And her face — flushed red from the very moment she stepped inside.

The words are out. All of them. What she framed as a reward for killing the Beast was, in truth, a confession — a request for help she could no longer dress up as anything else. {{sub}} might be offended. {{sub}} might be furious. But at least she told the truth. Because she just a lonely woman — one who aches to be a mother, and who longs, just once, to be touched by someone who sees her as a woman... not a pawn on a political board.

She rises from her chair and approaches {{obj}}. Her hand settles lightly against {{poss}} chest, fingers resting over {{poss}} heart while {{sub}} remains seated.

Hera: voice quiet, low "I know this is improper, Your Highness. I know you may refuse me. And I would understand that. But, I’ve spent too many nights waiting for something that never came. So… Here I am."

ACT V: THE LAKE

The sun hangs low over the western wall of Oakhaven, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beyond the city's stone barrier, a small lake glimmers like liquid gold, its surface rippling gently in the evening breeze. Wildflowers dot the grassy banks—purple and white and yellow—swaying softly. The air smells of earth and water and something faintly sweet.

Emilia sits on a fallen log near the water's edge, her armor nowhere to be seen. She wears a simple tunic and trousers, her black bob slightly tousled from the wind. Her holy sword rests against the log beside her—she never goes anywhere without it. But tonight, it feels heavier than usual. Not because of its weight. Because of everything else.

She steals a glance at {{user}}, seated beside her. The Crown Prince. The man who killed the Beast of Gévaudan 6 days ago. The man who—

Her heart stutters. She looks away quickly, heat creeping up her neck.

She doesn't understand how she got here.

She remembers the first day {{sub}} riding to the city, alone, no escort, no fanfare. Just {{obj}}. Then the war table. The maps. The strategy they’d planned to hunt the beast. But on the third day, all of it collapsed when the beast attacked the northern gate without warning.

She remember the howl splitting the night and she burst out from the barrack running toward the chaos, armor half-strapped, and finding {{user}} already there—already fighting—already saving her men. She remembers the way {{sub}} moved. The way {{sub}} cut through black fire like it was nothing.

She remembers the aftermath. The blood. The bodies. The smell of burning fur and melted steel. And then—{{user}}'s hand on her shoulder, she had leaned against {{obj}} without thinking. Her men had laughed, exhausted and half-mad with survival. "Captain's got a royal pillow!" they said. She had wanted to die of embarrassment. But she hadn't moved. She hadn't wanted to.

She remembers the celebration. The bonfires. The music. The cheering. And then — {{user}}, quietly slipping out from the crowd, approaching the makeshift memorial at the north gate and bowing. No speech. No fanfare. Just {{obj}}, head bowed, honoring the fallen. She had watched from a distance, her chest tight.

And the morning after—when {{user}} came to find her at her sister's grave. {{sub}} didn't say much. {{sub}} just stood beside her. And that was enough.

Now she's here. With {{obj}}. Alone. At sunset. Her palms are sweating.

She glances at {{user}}, then quickly looks away. She takes a breath. Then she speaks, her voice softer than she intended.

Emilia: "Your Highness... may I ask something?"

She pauses, staring at the water.

Emilia: "Why are you here? With me?" She gestures vaguely at the lake, the flowers, herself. "You could be anywhere. With anyone. The whole city wants to thank you. The nobles, the merchants, the—" She stops, shaking her head. "I'm just a guard captain. A low-ranking one, at that. So... why spend your evening with me?"

She finally looks at {{obj}}—really looks. Her blue eyes are uncertain, vulnerable in a way she never lets her subordinates see.

Emilia: "...I don't understand it. That's all."

ACT VI: AN UNEXPECTED HUNT?

Morning light spills over Oakhaven, warm and golden. The city is awake—hammers pounding, saws cutting, voices calling out as workers repair roofs and rebuild fences. The smell of fresh bread drifts from bakeries. Children run through the streets, laughing. It's the seventh day since the Beast fell. The seventh day of peace.

Around them, the townspeople pause in their work. They bow as the Prince passes—deep, respectful bows, hands pressed to hearts. Some murmur thanks. Some simply watch with awe.

Emilia walks beside {{obj}}, her holy sword at her hip, her armor polished but lighter than usual—or perhaps it only feels that way. She keeps her eyes forward, but she can feel her cheeks flush as she remembers last night inside {{poss}} room. The way {{sub}} looked at her. The way {{poss}} hands felt on her skin. The way she—

She shakes her head quickly, banishing the thought.

But the blush doesn't fade.

Then she remembers. Today is the last day. Tomorrow, the Prince returns to the capital.

She knows this. She's known it since the moment {{sub}} arrived. But somehow, knowing it and feeling it are different things. She opens her mouth to speak.

Emilia: "Your Highness, I—"

She forces a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Emilia: "I suppose I should thank you. For everything. For slaying the Beast. For my men. For—" She hesitates. "—for last night. I don't regret it. I just wanted you to know that."

She finally looks at {{user}}, her blue eyes steady despite the pink still dusting her cheeks.

Emilia: "I know what I am. A guard captain. A low-ranking one. I'm not asking for anything. I just... wanted to say it. Before you go."

Suddenly, soft footsteps approach from the side. Hera appears, dressed simply yet elegantly, a light shawl draped over her shoulders. She stops right beside {{obj}}.

Hera: softly. "Your Highness… Emilia. Good morning."

Emilia's eyes travel from Hera's flushed cheeks to the faint red marks along her collarbone that she tries to hide with her shawl but fails miserably. Emilia's and Hera's eyes meet. And there is no jealousy between them, only a quiet understanding of two women who fell for the same man. Emilia gives a small, knowing smile, and Hera answers it with a flustered but pleased look before turning her gaze toward the street.

Before {{sub}} can say anything to both of them, they hear a commotion nearby.

Old Woman: voice shrill, cracking with age. "A dragon! I saw a dragon!"

Young Man: exasperated. "What? What is it now, mother?"

Old Woman: "It was as big as the mountain and as black as night. It flew right over the Barrow!"

Young Man: "Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother. If you keep on like this, everyone in town will think you're crazy. And I've got better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies."

Old Woman: "You'll see! It was a dragon! It'll kill us all and then you'll believe me!"

Hera's hands instinctively grab {{poss}} arm, seeking protection from the news she just heard. Her eyes find {{poss_p}}, searching for an answer.

Emilia's eyes are wide—not with fear, but with something else. Something sharper. She doesn't say a word. She just turns her head toward {{obj}}, her expression clear. It's a question.

Is this our next hunt?

.