Warning: This is a very dark story containing many disturbing themes such as noncon, humiliation, degradation, corruption, sexual slavery, misogyny, sadomasochism and more. Do not read this story unless you are okay with extreme content relating to the listed themes.
I do not condone or endorse any of the activities described in this story. Sexual fantasies can be a fun and safe way to explore fetishes but always treat real people with respect. Fantasize responsibly. ^^
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With Aelodi broken, Dread turned his predatory gaze outside of the Silken City. He hunted Myla, the half-fairy princess. The youngest daughter of King Anthony was hidden away at a stagecraft school in the Painted Vale, and so the mage king prepared to travel.
Wreven, the Barbarian King, eagerly agreed to keep Aelodi as a pleasure slave for his men while Dread journeyed abroad. The Wild Lands army would prevent Anthony from taking the princess back by force. The princess would come crawling back to Dread if the king ever freed her, but he didn't want to allow Anthony even the mirage of a victory.
Before they left, Elaxia applied an illusion to Vice Criminal Goren, granting the thug Dread's appearance and voice. Goren would pose as Dread while the mage king hunted for Myla. This deceit obscured his true intentions. While Dread stalked Myla in the Painted Vale, his enemies would think him back in the Golden Lands. Only Goren and Wreven knew that Dread was leaving.
Dread snuck past the city walls and found a wild patch of forest. A secluded place to open a portal. As his palms drew apart, the portal tore a hole in reality and sliced clean through vegetation. He gave the impressive towers of the Silken City one last glance as he stepped through. After closing the portal, he found himself on a beach just outside the Painted Vale. Sand crunched beneath his feet as he set out towards his prey.
A few days' carriage ride from the Silken City, built near the delta of a sea, the Painted Vale stood for centuries as a shining example of an artist republic. The city had no royals, instead electing painters, singers, musicians, dancers, and, in some aberrant cases, even lowly writers, by polling votes from the people. Famous for a rich and innovative art scene, the city held a well-earned reputation as a hub of imagination and beauty.
The atmosphere of the 'city of a thousand colors' hit Dread like a slap to the face. Vibrant to the point of saturation, the streets were painted by amateur and professional hands alike, artwork adding splashes of character to even the most mundane features. Ruddy brick walls served as canvas, and tiled ground hosted murals of varying quality and complexity. Paint splattered every surface like vomit. Flowering trees grew on every corner and sprouted up in the tight gaps between tall, narrow brick houses. A foul temper festered inside of the mage king, and the bright, beautiful nature of the Painted Vale rapidly worsened his mood.
Citizens laughed and spoke loudly among themselves with a happy, free-spirited air. They lived in a world without evil and were driven to create. Bustling, excited energy permeated every action and word. These were an industrious people, and they were pleased to keep their hands busy. Folks worked looms under the blazing sun, weaving masterwork cloth from loose, colorful thread. A man whistled as he swept dirt from vividly painted streets.
Even the lowest street wretches embraced the hive-like atmosphere and busied themselves crafting trinkets. Drifters in the Painted Vale were better fed and better clothed than those that haunted the streets of the Silken City. Dread observed with narrowed eyes as a well-dressed woman gifted several loaves of fresh bread to the enterprising beggars. The Painted Vale seemed a very nice place to live, even for the most base among the people.
Everything about the city disgusted Dread. The people lived a convenient lie propped up by impossible promises of equality, neurotic self-expression, and supposed communal love. The entire city dripped with saccharine sweetness, so cloying that it made Dread's stomach ache. The veneer of beauty didn't fool him. Humans lived in the Vale, and humans were tribal, petty creatures, despite their attempts at an elevated existence.
"This city is lovely," Elaxia said, beaming. "I've always wanted to visit."
Dread grunted in response. He found the city repugnant but felt no need to dispel his pet's pleasure.
"Good day to you, fine sir," a voice said from behind him.
Turning, he discovered a pretty young man with dark red hair tied back in a bun and bright blue eyes. His eyes twinkled with amusement as Dread faced him. An expression of joy contaminated his freckle-dusted face, and his body was thin and waifish, like a flat-chested girl. Artwork invaded even his clothing. Cutesy hand-painted images marred the shirt he wore. Small patterns of flowers, birds, and little critters spoiled an otherwise fine piece of plain white fabric.
"You're new in the Vale," the boy said.
Not a question. Suspicion prickled Dread.
"Yes," he said. "Who are you?"
"Mantlin, poet and artist extraordinaire, at your service," he said. The spry young lad bent in a deep bow.
Elaxia gave the young man, who was bent so low that his forehead almost kissed the street, an amused look.
A painter's palette and brush hung from a belt tightened around the lad's narrow waist, along with a notebook and a short sword. Dread scoffed at the small blade, especially because it shared space with creative implements. Did the boy plan on fighting his creations? Surely, such a pitiful blade had no utility in a true fight.
"So, this is what passes for a man in the Vale," Dread said.
"A man I am, and I wear my heart on my sleeve," Mantlin said, straightening.
Everything about the boy, from his voice to his manner, gave him a pronounced feminine air.
"Your name, sire?" Mantlin asked.
"Dread," he said.
"Dread?" he said, eyes gleaming. "An odd name."
"So you claim," Dread said.
Mantlin wasted Dread's valuable time. He looked past the inconsequential artist and around the thriving city square. Where could he find the stagecraft academy that hid Myla?
"You're from the Dark Lands," Mantlin said. He tilted his head, studying Dread like a fascinating specimen.
The accurate declaration captured Dread's attention. The boy knew too much. He wrestled down an instinct to kill.
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"Oh, it's fairly easy to tell," Mantlin said. "You're dark, proud, and prickly as a cactus. I sense immense power from you. You wear all black. I'd recognize a Dark Lands mage anywhere."
Dread studied him with more than a pinch of distrust. "How do you know of the Dark Lands?"
"I've read about it," he said, airily. "If your name is Dread, and I guess correct that you're from the Dark Lands, that would make you King Dreadhex, wouldn't it?"
Dread glanced around with gritted teeth. He didn't want anyone to know he was in the Painted Vale, and this nosy pretty boy spoke his identity freely.
"It's okay," Mantlin said, moving in closer, voice low. "I can keep a secret." He held a finger to his puffy lips to signify silence.
"How do you know the name of the monarch of the Dark Lands?" Dread demanded. "Or do you expect me to believe you read that in a book as well?"
