Hello everyone. Nothing sexual happens in this chapter, but it dives a bit more into Arathorn's mind. He finally meets Azura. After this chapter more erotic scenes happen more frequently. I'm open to feedback.
Chapter 3
Arathorn's eyes slowly opened as the rays of the sun crept into his room like an unwelcome visitor, he stared at the ceiling for a moment until he could recall where he was. His body and mind felt more rejuvenated than they had in years, and for a fleeting moment, he remained still, afraid that the feeling would vanish.
As consciousness took hold, his hand slowly reached out. Seeking the warmth of Lyria's body. To his dismay his fingers found only the cold, empty bed beside him. A surprising wave of disappointment welled within him, the intensity of the feeling catching him off guard. He sat up, scanning the room, hoping--perhaps foolishly--that she might be sitting at the small table, waiting for him to wake. But he was alone. The only trace of her was the lingering scent of jasmine.
Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled slowly. Despite her absence, he couldn't help but smile. Memories of the night before flooded back, the taste of her lips, the sounds she made. It felt like a dream. For the first time he could ever remember, he found himself longing to wake beside another. Only now did he recognize the void he had never known existed.
But he knew what was to come, and perhaps it was for the best that she had left. She would be a beautiful memory--one he would carry for the rest of his life, however long that might be.
Arathorn rose from the bed, the cool air biting at his bare skin as he walked to the window. His gaze swept over the village, where the first stirrings of life were beginning to show. Beyond it, the cloud-veiled mountains loomed in the distance, shrouding the path to Azura's mansion. A shiver ran down his spine as he absently ran a hand over his chest.
With a grunt, he turned from the window, forcing his resolve back into place. His eyes landed on his armor, sitting neatly by the door. He didn't recall bringing it up--perhaps the barkeep had? It didn't really matter.
He began the familiar ritual of donning his battle-worn armor, piece by piece. Yet with every buckle fastened, every strap secured, Lyria's scent still clung to the air, teasing his senses. With every stray whiff, flashes of their night together invaded his thoughts, the feel of her against him, the warmth of her touch.
Clenching his jaw, he pushed the memories aside. But for better or worse, something in him had changed.
Arathorn purposefully strode through the village his armor clanging, his boots scraping as he walked. The streets for the most part was quiet, save the distant bark of a dog or the crowing of a rooster. It was usually his favorite part of the day, but not on that day. He stood outside the stable, he had thought of leaving Tempest there, he didn't like the idea of his faithful steed becoming prey to whatever demonic forces lurked there. Unfortunately, he needed to preserve his strength for the battle.
After paying the stable boy he saddled Tempest and headed in the direction that had been burned into his mind.
As he ventured deeper into the forest, Arathorn braced himself for the corruption he expected to find. Human bodies hanging from rotten trees, half eaten, streams poisoned by demonic filth.
But the closer he got to Azura's manor he only found himself surrounded by a landscape that made no sense. The forest was more alive and more vibrant than any he had ever been in. A plethora of colors and sounds assaulted his senses. Towering ancient oak trees reached high into the sky, their branches heavy and lush with bright green leaves. Wildflowers in every color carpeted the forest floor, their sweet fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of moss.
The song of many different birds filled the air, the cacophony of trills and whistles seemed to follow Arathorn as Tempest made his way up the path. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, creating dancing pinpoints of light as the tree swayed. Despite the peacefulness of the journey Arathorn's freehand continued to rest on the hilt of his sword.
As daylight was dwindling Arathorn crested a ridge in a clearing. Arathorn could see a structure in the distance. Though it was to far away, and obstructed by trees to see any detail, he knew it was Azura's.
As he neared the mansion and despite the calmness surrounding him, Arathorn's muscles were tight as he led Tempest into the thinning woodland. His stomach clenched as the trees abruptly and smoothly opened into a vast garden. He was in the middle of the wild one moment, then surrounded by something constructed the next.
He didn't expect it.
He had prepared for a place corrupted by evil magic, one of ruin and rot. Rather, the rich, strange smell of blossoming flowers filled the air. Too smooth, too bright, deep crimson flowers surged up gleaming black trellises.
The stone walkway was bordered by silver-leafed trees, their branches rustling with a sound too faint and far away for his ears to detect, as if it were coming from somewhere deeper, in his bones.
In the midst of it all was a fountain, its water a strange violet color that glistened even as the sky's brightness dimmed. The statue at its heart was a woman, wings spread, palms open, her stone face caught between sorrow and serenity. Water cascaded from her hands, trickling down into the pool where strange, luminescent fish swam in slow, hypnotic circles.
It was... beautiful.
Arathorn's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword; his knuckles white. This isn't right. Azura was a demon, a creature of destruction. He was here to kill her. But this place...
It wasn't what he'd imagined. There was power here, something unnatural, something beyond mortal hands. Yet, it didn't feel malicious.
His whole life had been defined by battles fought against clear enemies. Things that needed to be put down. However, this? There was something that made his stomach turn in ways he couldn't explain.
He looked up at the manor on the other side of the garden. Something that wouldn't look out of place among the estates of nobles, it stood towering and majestic. Smooth stone, arching balconies, high, polished windows. And yet... the longer he looked, the more he noticed the details that didn't fit. Shadows pooled too deeply beneath the eaves. The glass of the windows reflected not the present sky, but one forever caught in twilight.
It was like looking at a world that had stopped moving.
And still, it didn't feel wrong. His breath came slow and measured as he reined Tempest to a stop. The stallion stood steady beneath him, ears flicking, nostrils flaring slightly as he took in the strange air. Arathorn let out a slow breath and dismounted, his boots landing with a solid thunk against the stone path.
For a long moment, he just stood there, his hand resting on Tempest's neck, fingers feeling the steady warmth beneath his palm. He had no illusions about what came next. He would either walk out of this place with Azura's blood on his blade, or he wouldn't walk out at all. Either way, he wasn't going to leave his horse burdened with a saddle he might never need again.
His hands moved through the familiar motions--unbuckling the straps, loosening the girth, sliding the saddle off and setting it gently beside a tree. He pulled off the bridle next, letting Tempest shake out his mane.
"If I don't come back," he murmured, running a hand along the stallion's muscular neck,
Tempest let out a slow breath, ears tilting forward, as if he understood. Arathorn gave him one final pat, then turned toward the manor. And without another word, he walked forward.
The doors opened with barely a sound. No creaking hinges, no heavy groan--just a smooth, effortless glide, like they'd been expecting him.
Arathorn hesitated. The air inside was cool, untouched by the warmth of the fading day. Not cold, not hostile--just
still
. The kind of stillness that wasn't normal. That pressed against his skin in a way he couldn't quite explain.
He stepped inside.
In front of him loomed the enormous, terrifyingly perfect entry hall. The black marble floors under his feet glinted in the soft golden light of the candelabras that adorned the walls. But there weren't any fires. No flickering of the light. All that was present was a strange, unchanging white light.
He turned his attention to the elegantly adorned walls, which initially seemed almost floral. But as he went, his eyes lingered, and the patterns seemed to shift. The vines twisted slightly, curled into something sharper, and then suddenly they were flowers again.
A slow exhale left him. Illusions. Or something worse.
His footfall were muted by the long scarlet carpeting, but it didn't stop the mental storm from raging. The deep, incense like aroma that permeated the air and clung to his senses was something he couldn't quite identify. It wasn't too strong. Not that it was unpleasant. It was simply... different.
His instincts urged him to be alert, but something else made his stomach turn.
Suspicion. Unease. Frustration. This wasn't what he had expected. This was supposed to be a demon's lair, a place of rot and ruin, of suffocating darkness. He had braced himself for something grotesque, walls of slick with blood, black stone carved from the depths of hell, the air thick with the stench of death, the very ground seething with malevolence. Instead, it was beautiful.
Then, he saw the portraits. Lining the walls, framed in gold, they stared down at him with faces too sharp, too flawless. The men were striking, the women breathtaking, their expressions unreadable, locked in something between knowing amusement and quiet contemplation. They weren't just paintings. They watched. Their eyes were too sharp, too aware, too present. Not human. Not quite.
A slow breath hissed through his teeth. His jaw locked, his pulse steady but heavy. He forced himself forward. The space narrowed, the towering grandeur of the hall giving way to something quieter. The walls were draped in tapestries of deep reds and blues, their fabric shifting in an unseen breeze. They weren't just decorative flourishes or meaningless patterns. They told stories.
