The Kingdom of Flames (Courted by the Seasons #1)

7. The First Embrace of Summer

Chapter 7

The First Embrace of Summer

T hey dined in his hall each night, surrounded by soldiers and his bannermen. To be a warrior of great renown brought honor, but Lord Encarmine was the patron of men who marched to war, and the farmer, the fieldman, and the mother earned his greatest respect. All people in his realm knew their way around weaponry, but more than that, they knew how to work together. The field filled the belly. The trees made the wagons of war.

Time moved differently in his realm. Her own body’s ministrations proved that to her. Each morning, she woke in his arms, and Encarmine’s lust was ravenous. His hands on her body, his mouth as her saddle; her anvil of torment. His manhood was so hard and throbbing that she felt drunk with it at times, loving to see his rigid flesh coated in the slop of her throat by the fireside. He fed his seed to her constantly.

To taste his essence was to know strength. It was like drinking power. He was too tall, too large for them both to serve one another simultaneously, but when she was laying on top of him, her legs on either side of his chest and sucking and worshipping him, she felt divine.

Celestine caught herself looking at him often. In desire. In need. Her crest throbbed within her, crying out to be broken by his furious devastation. She had tried that night prior when his massive tip had slid across her quim. She had eased upon him for a moment, but he steadied her and denied her.

It wasn’t earned.

Dritha had become her closest friend in the land of the Red Banner. In the mornings, after lying with Encarmine until her body trembled and her jaw ached from his girth, she left the Lord to tend to his men. There were always campaigns, always trainings, and plans. His lands were always on the defense from men who lived in his realm and sought supremacy.

After they broke fast with Encarmine’s soldiers, he would always rise and kiss her brow.

“I will see you this evening.”

Celestine loved to see him ride out with his men, some fifty soldiers and veterans, to patrol. Encarmine always led from the front, holding his own banner, as was his way. Men fell to their knees in deference as he passed, but he always bade them rise as equals.

His dominion was the heart of his people, in their discipline and stoic ways. After he left, Celestine would dress in her linen and leather, and Dritha would meet her in the courtyard, wild-eyed and grinning. They rode together down to Firekeep where the smaller town’s primary task was guarding the supplies that entered their realm.

Firekeep was where the youth of the Red Banner spent their adolescence. Men and women lived in barracks, separate, but often training together.

Dritha spoke as they entered one of the armories, “A woman cannot best a man in strength, and it is a fool’s errand to think training and quickness can wear down the brawn of a beast.”

“Then why train women?” Celestine asked as they donned training padding.

“Two or three skilled spears can down the fiercest boar,” Dritha answered, tossing her a training stave. “And an errant arrow has downed many men who would seek their own crown. It is the breaking of a line that wins battles, not the butchery of men. Sickness, wounds, disease, these are the killers of warriors. A soldier’s job is to make the introduction with the point of his spear.”

Celestine nodded, not really understanding it. “I suppose, that makes sense.”

Dritha laughed in the armory's darkness. The heat of the day was already beginning, and Celestine was still a foreigner to such warmth.

“You’ll see today.”

Their drills came that day in spear and stave. Celestine moved in unison with thirty other girls and women. Their endurance was formidable and impressive. During most exercises, Celestine had trouble keeping up, often stopping and gasping for breath.

Dritha shook her head. “Your wind needs work, Final Bride.”

Other women laughed without cruelty. Celestine grinned. Her stomach and throat tasted of the acid of exertion.

“Especially if you seek to have Lord Encarmine take your crest. We are not vanquished enemies in the bedroom, playing dead for sport.”

“We take the fight to them!” another woman laughed.

After that, Celestine’s mornings in the Firekeep schola became more hellish. They would run the hills together. Always together. The strength was in others. She saw the other training groups doing something similar in the hills, but her team pushed harder and harder up the hills. Celestine shamed herself by vomiting on the first afternoon, apologizing to Dritha.

Dritha patted her on the back and hoisted her up. “Never apologize for the body’s ways. The brave mother doesn’t apologize for the blood and shit of birth, it is the battle of bringing life into this world. Though if this continues, we best not waste breakfast on you.”

The runs continued. The second day, she sent a note to Encarmine that she would sleep in the women’s barracks and again on the third. It felt right.

Celestine’s world became the march, the drill, the bruise, and rattled brow. She felt her body become leaner, stronger. There was blade and stave work, but it was mostly learning to move together everywhere in tight formation. They ran together. They marched together. They locked shields for hours, poised and flanking an invisible enemy.

In the evenings, exhausted, she would walk to the mess tent and join the indistinct murmur of the exhausted soldiers eating. She felt a closeness with the women of her company, and in that plain wood table among dozens of other smiling faces, she learned the feel of camaraderie. She missed Encarmine and his touch, and the mornings in his keep. This was his way, and living as his people did was learning him too.

Other women and men often remarked about Encarmine with a loyalty she had never seen. They would, and did, follow him to war and death. There was no blind fanaticism, simply their way of life. There was no embroidery except the stitching of flesh. There was no softness save for the embrace of her bunk in the evenings. Her body became strong. Hard. A storm began to rise in her when exhaustion strangled her muscles, and her throat burned. The defiance of death.

Among the company of her squadmates, she was the worst spear, but she shined when they were locked together in formations and sparring bouts of groups. Celestine learned the quick call for help, for praise, and for challenging others to push harder. For the first time in her life, the challenge of competition interested her.

A note came for her at the end of the week.

It pleases me greatly that you are learning the lessons of my people. I miss your touch and seek your embrace, but feel great pride in the tales I am told of your prowess. I will seek your final ribbon soon when your tutelage ends.

Then mine will begin.

-Lord Encarmine

Celestine kept the note close, feeling the fierce pride at his words. It was a new feeling, wanting to please him. Not with her appearance or lust but with deeds. This land was his body, and these people were his blood supplying his veins. Encarmine’s armor was etched with the names of the valiant dead, and it shifted with the grim history of his people. Perhaps one day, she too would be etched there.

The thought did not trouble her as it once would have.

Word often came of battles, patrols, and outposts. There was always conflict among the borders with those who defied Encarmine. Beyond the martial, Celestine learned the philosophy of the people of the Red Banner. The group was everything. The family, the community, the town. The needs of the individual were weighed in terms of what they could do for the group. It fitted her. It was not so different from the urge she felt in her father’s lands to go forth and live for others.

In the deep evenings, when her body was bruised, and her hand crept to the greedy needs of her quim, she thought of him. What she wanted from him. She loved his people, his way of life. There was a deep satisfaction in the exhaustion she felt and the love of her sisters in formation together. But she needed Encarmine badly. His fiery touch, his immaculate body burned her with its absence.

Frantic hands woke her in the middle of the night. Armed sisters surrounded her.

“Come,” Dritha ordered.

Celestine wiped the sleep from her eyes. “What’s happening?”

Dritha pulled her from her cot, dragging her without explanation. Celestine stumbled to pull her leggings on, then her boots. All the women in her training group were readying themselves. Dritha led her away from the tent to the armory, throwing mail and armor at her.

“Don this,” Dritha ordered. Celestine looked at it. It was a guard’s uniform of the Red Banners.

“Dritha, what is going on?” Celestine shouted.

“Invasion. One of the Lords of Season seeks to steal Encarmine’s prize. He comes for your crest.”

Celestine stared at her, arms and armor held in her hand like morbid laundry. “That cannot be. Encarmine won my first touch. No Lord of Season would dare. This would be war!”

“It is always war in the Red Bannered Realm, Celestine.”

“Who is it?”

“We know not. It could be the Scarlet Lord, piss on his pale bones, or that thieving criminal of the Gold Banners,” Dritha said, then stepped forth and draped the mail coat over her. “We must get you to Scalehall, to his keep. Encarmine readies his banners for war. We are exposed here.”

Celestine dressed in a hurry. There were shouts outside, horses and weapons being readied.

Celestine entered the courtyard to find her entire training company already mounted and armed. Long gone were the training spears and staves. Each woman had a gnarled spear in their hand. Most wore leather and scale. Some had breastplates. Her stomach knotted in dread

“We ride for Scalehall. We must deliver our sister to Encarmine!” Dritha shouted.

Roars from her comrades came from all around. The gate opened on the east side, and two companies of the male barracks rode out in a sortie. Other men and women walked the spiked walls of Firekeep, torches lit and spears and bows readied in the night.

The flickering faces of her sisters and another company of men filled her with trepidation.

So much risk for one life…

“Come, Celestine!” some shouted.

She walked to her waiting mount.

My friends may die, for me.

Celestine was not a Red Banner, but she was of the schola now. Their courage would be hers. She mounted her horse. The flames lit the faces of her friends.

Then shouts broke out among the walls.

“Riders!”

“Infantry!”

“To arms!”

“Protect the Final Bride!”

Bows were loosed from the walls. This was no mighty keep or castle It was an outpost. A school of battle and war.

“To Scalehall!” Dritha shouted.

“Encarmine!” the riders shouted their Lord’s name and turned from the approaching assault to the southern gate.

The world became hooves and clinking metal. Celestine had never ridden his hard. With almost fifty others they thundered into the darkness. It was perilous riding. Many fell as they galloped towards the hills, the flames of their torches reaching back against the wind.

Celestine fought to ride with her mount, keeping her spear upright. Something was off with her sword sheathe. It slapped against her flank mercilessly, some strap she hadn’t tied down.

The moisture left her mouth, and she fought to stay upright, balancing herself and the spear. They rode and turned before the southern ravine. The night was dark, perilous even for a strong rider.

I’m going to fall.

Celestine tilted to the right as they turned too much. Far too much.

I’m going to fall.

Celestine felt the world slip under her. It was too much to keep up with the pack and stay upright. The ground beckoned with its unstoppable allure.

I'm going to fall

A rider went down to her left. Then, another ahead of her, the woman was trampled under the frantic hooves. Another rider crashed behind her as if struck by something.

“Ambush!”

We are being attacked.

Celestine looked up, and she heard Dritha cry out. The air snapped with a whipping sound. She saw the flash of an arrow’s fletching, then more. Horses downed, riders were crushed by their comrades.

An arrow deflected off of her breastplate, nearly knocking her off. Only the fear of the grip of her hand on the pommel of the saddle kept her upright.

The enemy came from the shadows, or maybe they discovered them in their frantic charge. They crashed upon one another, and Celestine learned about the churning crunch of cavalry. The brutality of inertia so mercilessly stopped. Riders flew from their saddles. A long spear impaled a comrade. Steel didn’t sing, it screamed with blades and shields.

This was far from the broken formations they practiced. There were cries for them to regroup. Celestine had her spear knocked out of her hand by another rider swinging a sword at her face. His pale flesh under his helm corpse-like, his face a sneer.

They fought with enemies in dark leather and scale in the melee's chaos. They looked almost like ghouls. But they were men. Celestine fought to keep her mount upright, spinning, wheeling in the onslaught.

The ride had ceased. Now they were fighting. Her compatriots fell, and the enemy fell. Some wounded, some knocked asunder, some crawled on the dead only to be trampled to death in the spinning dash of hooves.

“Celestine!” Dritha called to her as she freed her sword to prepare to defend herself.

Dritha was fighting two men. She steered her mount with her legs. Her eyes were ablaze. She stabbed under the helm and ripped her blade loose with a long spray of blood. A halberd slammed into her side, but her friend stayed upright, grabbing the weapon with one hand and trying to stab with the other.

“Dritha!” Celestine called and urged her mount towards her friend. Battle was fear. It was the fear of failure. It was the fear of losing Dritha and more of her sisters and brothers.

The enemy rider pulled his halberd back, swinging wide to end Dritha with its final momentum. Celestine crashed her mount into his, frantic with the need to disrupt his swing. It worked. His blade went too low, the flat of it smacking into Dritha’s horse.

“She’s here!” a voice called behind her.

Celestine didn’t turn. She swung with one hand, the days in the schola coming back to her, and delivered the edge of her blade into the rider’s helm. Steel hammered on steel, and the man fell from the force of the blow.

“Dritha!” Celestine shouted to her friend.

The woman smiled at her, a moment of strange calmness and connection in the insanity of this ambush. At that moment, they were sisters. They were comrades.

“Ride!” Dritha shouted to her. “Ride to Scalehall! We will hold them!”

Celestine did not want to leave. She turned, seeing the fierce clench of her comrades fighting these darkly clothed riders. The hiss and screech of conflict rang out in the night air. She felt so cold. The shock of it all, the dreamlike state of this.

“Run!”

Celestine turned then, fleeing from the battle. She spurred her horse as fast as she could, cutting across the ravine, water sloshing up her legs. It was a terrible slowness, and when she looked back she saw two enemy riders break from the melee to follow her.

Come on, come on.

Celestine sloshed through the water. She heard them enter the ravine in pursuit.

“Go!” she shouted to her mount. “Go!”

The horse trudged the ravine; she heard the splash of the two riders getting closer. Closer.

The edge of the ravine was close. So close. She spurred her mount on, trying to keep it straight. The riders came ever closer.

“Seize her!” a thickly accented voice said behind her. “The Scarlet Lord wants her alive!”

Vermilion. Celestine’s mind shuddered with fear. The pale Lord of the Scarlet Banner. The Creature of Spring, with his long face and fanged mouth.

Celestine broke from the ravine, urging her mount on, and surged into a gallop. She would not let Encarmine’s final ribbon fall to another. It was as fast as she had ever ridden. She didn’t look back. Her eyes fixed on the darkness in front of her, the dry fields and dirt.

The riders gained on her, hooves slamming faster and faster. She heard the chatter of their strange accent, their voices like a hissing whisper. She could not be taken to Vermilion.

My crest is Encarmine’s. I will die before he takes me.

Something struck her mount from behind, a blade or a spear. The horse screamed, its pace slowing.

No. No, I won’t be taken by him.

The riders gained on her, closing the distance. She turned, eyes frightful, as their hands reached out. She saw a glowing flash of gold and black in the corner of her eye.

Then, the sound of death.

One rider was headless, the other—his throat missing, slashed apart. A blur of gold and black circled her on a mount so fast it was like a shooting star. It turned like a burning streak and barreled alongside her. Celestine tried to leap away, but her horse was falling, and she tumbled to the ground.

Absurdly quick hands snatched her before the ground broke her bones. The momentum was so fierce as she was ripped onto the saddle of a black steed. The glow above her was bright in the darkness that it took her a moment to see a face that wore it.

A cunning grin and dark eyes looked down at her as they rode faster than any horse had a right to. She recognized him. The Lord of Autumn on his throne of plundered gold, who had stolen the necklace of Lord Vermilion.

“Good evening, Lady Celestine.” The wry smile of Lord Silas looked down on her. The The Lord of the Gold Banners. His circlet was gold dipped bones and black metal. His chest was not broad like Encarmine's but slim and lithe, like a jaguar. He handled her, keeping her close as they rode and guiding his mount with expert reins. As if he had stolen a thousand people from horseback before. He smelled of a sea city and of oils and leather. His hand dropped to her leg, sliding up her dress.

“What are you doing?” Celestine shouted.

The rogue winked at her. “Stealing you.”

They rode for nearly half an hour. She couldn’t even fight Lord Silas. After a spell she stopped trying to escape his grip.

“Looks like we’re early.” Silas slowed his horse. Ahead of them a great and ruined tower glowed with a strange crimson light. He removed his circlet, transforming from the lithe Lord of Autumn to the swaggering highwayman. They pulled into a rock formation.

Her hands were bound with silken ropes, and Lord Silas pulled her from the horse like prized booty. When she stood in front of him, bound and furious, Silas smiled at her.

Are they all this lovely?

Lord Silas’s face was youthful, handsome, and darkly featured. He was like a walking grin. A smile and a wink that could lift any dress.

“What do you want?” Celestine asked. “Are you hiding here to ambush more innocent people?”

Silas laughed, his circlet on a hanging ring at his waist and he plopped down, boots and dark pants, his chest a leather mess of straps, buckles and tools. Items seemed to flicker in and out of his hands with deft precision.

“Not my style, my lady. You can thank Lord Vermilion for that ambush and invasion. He seeks your crest…” Silas whirled a dagger between his fingers and then picked at his nails with it. “And he is going to be furious, the pale cunt, when he finds I’ve stolen you.”

“Is that so?”

Lord Silas smiled. “Indeed. I have a proposition for you, Final Bride of Calendar. This land will break into a war for your crest in a matter of hours. Vermilion is at the tower yonder.” Silas motioned with the blade behind them. “It’ll be the ultimate affront, taking your crest on Encarmine’s lands. He might even succeed. Foolish, but I applaud the affront.”

Celestine scowled. “I don’t hear you clapping.”

Silas nodded, his eyes burning with laughter and amusement. “Some Lords are not a fan of this journey among the banners you mean to have. The Painted Realm has turned from a rich lordling, ripe for the plucking, to a beggar from whom they want to take the last coins. The Seasons war, though I care little. I’m going to take you to Lord Vermilion, and he’s going to ravage you until you’re half dead atop the battlements, ruining you for Encarmine. Maybe he’ll leave you, split and bleeding, fed upon. Perhaps he’ll take you with him to his realm.”

Celestine shuddered. “Why would you take me to him?”

Lord Silas spread his hands. “No one pays higher for a prize than the thief can’t steal it.”

“Your proposition?”

Silas looked up into her eyes. He was too handsome. Encarmine was like a god walking among men. But this one was like a rogue in a dream. “Let me steal your crest.”

She blinked. Lord Silas still stared at her. Celestine felt the confidence, the swagger of a thousand boastful boys in her youth looking back at her. “Let’s steal it from him together. No rage will set upon him any higher than paying for you to find that which he seeks is already gone.” Silas cackled where he sat.

“You’re insane,” Celestine said. “This is madness.”

“Mmm,” Lord Silas hummed and looked her up and down. “Come, Lady Celestine. I am a lover like no other. No one loves like a thief in the night. You may stop a war, and all you need to do is lift that dress and allow me to break that sweet crest that sleeps between your thighs.”

I would never.

“Let me go, Lord Silas. Take me to Encarmine. He’ll reward you for saving me.”

Silas laughed at that. “Have you not met the man? Have you not seen his wrath? I think not. I will keep my head on my shoulders. Now come,” Silas patted his thigh. “Be a good girl. My lap is the greatest throne you’ll chance to sit upon.”

Celestine leaned low so they were face to face. “No.”

Silas sighed and stood. “The greatest locks must be picked many times to open.”

Celestine waited.

Silas kept smiling.

“Are you taking me to Lord Vermilion?”

“That’s up to you.”

“What do you mean?” Celestine asked.

Lord Silas stepped forward now, taller than her. Swaggering, bravado.

There is such a dangerous allure to this man. This demigod.

"Men scream Encarmine’s name in the clash of battle,” Silas whispered and stepped even closer to her. “But women whisper mine when a honeyed tongue makes them shudder. When an heirloom worth a kingdom is stolen. When the beggar boy feasts on bread stolen from the drunk baker.”

The Lord of the Gold Banners came closer. She looked up at him.

“Vermilion is a monster and a fiend. I’d see his prize denied him. I thought of taking you to my ship. Showing you all I have stolen, all I possess. I’d show you such things, Celestine. You’d never want to leave except to take more."

“No,” Celestine whispered.

Lord Silas touched her cheek. “I’d not make a prize of you, Final Bride. You have never felt the freedom of breaking laws instead of abiding by them. Encarmine rides now. He rides for Vermilion in his keep. He will marry you regardless of what happens, whomever takes your crest, because that stony heart of his does beat for you.”

Silas leaned down, his body coming close and touching hers, his voice whispered in her ear. “I’ll delay selling you to Vermilion, so Encarmine may contest.”

“For a kiss.”

Celestine shut her eyes.

It shames me to lust for this one so.

"No.”

Silas regarded her, eyes sparkling with surprised amusement. “I see why he covets you so. I was sure he would have paid a kingdom for you, but he denied me. He said you will come to him.”

“Encarmine will come for me.”

“That is not of whom I speak. I was interested in what he would pay, but I’m not sure I could give you to him. I wouldn’t subject anyone to his realm. He shapes it for you. I think he always has.”

“Of whom do you speak?” Celestine asked. Her mind wandered to that dark throne in Calendar.

Silas leaned forward, so close to her now. “Surely your lips should touch another before they are wed forever?”

Celestine looked aside at him, to the tower now flying with Vermilion’s banners. An effrontery, a sick invasive species in this beautiful and proud land.

“Encarmine needs time,” Silas reminded her.

“I said no.”

The rogue smiled down at her. “Did you?”

Stop staring at me with those eyes. You’re like every stranger coming to town, grinning in a tavern, making women forget their vows and slip their keys into their hands. She had heard and seen some men like this. They simply had it . That thing that would make you forget how much you loved your husband. Your children. For a single evening. Temptation on two lean legs, smiling at you.

“Let us delay him,” Lord Silas leaned forward, smiling, his lips close to hers.

Oh hells.

Celestine pulled away, but Silas didn’t let her. He stole the space between them. He stole her restraint, her strength. Her formation broke. His lips were the whisper that no one would have to know. The deep yearning to be needed, the taboo call to ruin yourself.

When Lord Silas kissed her, it was a kiss he stole and did not earn. Yet she found she did not resist as she thought she would. Not as much. His lips, his breath, his tongue upon hers were so illicit, so delicious and forbidden that she pushed him away, but he came closer, knowing her betrayed desire.

Their kiss broke.

Celestine stared at Lord Silas. Such impudence. Such audacity to come to Encarmine’s realm, to steal her away.

“Thief,” Celestine sneered.

Silas held her. She worried he would kiss her again. She worried she wanted him to.

“He hungers for you.” Silas’s silver eyes regarded her.

“Who?”

The rogue Lord smiled. “Silence is a friend that never betrays.”

“Unlike you.”

“Unlike me,” Lord Silas agreed. “Whomever you choose, Final Bride, know this. The thief knows better than anyone that nothing truly belongs to anyone. You may live in a grand castle or a battlement, bred and mounted or fed upon by any Lord in any Season. But allow me to creep into your window some evenings when you’re alone, like the moonlight on your body. Know that I will. All you ever have to do is unlock your window.”

Celestine straightened her dress and looked away. Their embrace breaking.

“I’d hold you to your word, Lord Silas. Of delay.”

“Oh, I am sure you will, Lady Celestine. In more ways than one.”

They waited, and Silas watched her for a long time as if debating something only to himself.

“I could take her from you.” Lord Vermilion stared down at Silas from his battlement.

“Perhaps,” Lord Silas smiled, the knife was to Celestine’s throat as she sat on his lap on horseback. “But could you keep her, Scarlet Lord? It takes a long, long time to catch me.”

Vermilion’s pale and haunted face regarded them. He wore his bone circlet, his brow dripping with blood. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“Good,” Silas smiled, but his tone grew sterner. “If I can take a ring from your finger as you sleep, blood drinker, I can snatch your life away. Gamble on tumbling dice and weather, but never gamble with me. Lest the next time I’m in your chamber while you and that lover of yours are sleeping, I steal a heartbeat instead of a trinket.”

“Give her to me,” Vermilion stared hungrily down at Celestine. Celestine saw him glance at the horizon.

“He’s close.” Silassmiled. “Do you want to waste time wagering, or are we at an accord?”

Vermilion huffed. Then nodded. His men all around her were pale-faced, gaunt, poised for violence with barbed weapons. Lord Silas did not seem to care.

I saw how fast he moved. He is the epitome of a thief in the night.

“I’d hear you say it, for my sake.” Silas pointed to the Scarlet Lord with the blade.

“We have an accord. That which you ask will be paid.”

Silas made a mock bow, twirling the dagger in his fingers.Then he whispered in Celestine’s ears, “Bide your time, Final Bride. Encarmine approaches.”

They took Celestine from Lord Silas' horse and bound her hands. One of the Scarlet Lord’s gaunt men spat upon the ground at Lord Silas’s feet.

There was a terrible wet sound behind her, and Celestine turned along with the two men who brought her into the castle. The guard who had spat was on his knees, holding a slashed throat. Lord Silas still sat atop his mount and cleaned a blade lazily, eyes fixed on Vermilion.

“Some gamblers lose, Lord Vermilion. Some should not even brave the table.”

Vermilion stared down from the battlement. “Pay him.”

Whatever the Scarlet Lord threw down to his men to give Silas, Celestine did not see.

“Good luck, Final Bride,” Silas called after her.

Being pulled into the ruined fortress was akin to the feeling of drowning. Celestine was reminded of when she had been caught in a current, pulled deep under in a river, spinning, turning, unable to know which way led to life and which was the embrace of death.

The sky was strangely grey, and she knew it shouldn’t have been. Vermilion brought darkness with him wherever he went. The thick, jagged stones emanated such a stark coldness, so different than the seat of Encarmine’s estate.

I go to my ruin, bartered by these demigods. I wish I could see Encarmine’s face one last time.

Encarmine had been here. She knew it. It may have been centuries ago, but she felt his fury here in the devastation of this fortress. They marched Celestine up winding steps, some little more than rubble until the battlements and the grey sky greeted her.

As did Lord Vermilion.

His scarlet banners flapped in a wind she was too numb to feel. Over the edge of the broken wall, Celestine saw his host. A chittering part of two or three hundred armored men, their pale skin so unwelcome in this land of summer.

“Final Bride,” Vermilion’s voice was a dagger across a throat. Even here, there was a coldness in being so close to him. His skin was the faded touch of a corpse, his eyes black in a pointed face. With his circlet donned, his majesty was profane, a thing of decay, like the cadaver of someone beautiful behind glass.

My fate will not end quickly.

“Vermilion.” Celestine would not address any formalities to this thing. His beauty was jagged. Tall, taller even than Encarmine, but lean and long-limbed. Like a monster. He wore no armor, just the rich trappings of scarlet and silver, but thread-thin.

The guards shoved Celestine forward, and she tripped on a loose stone, but Vermilion caught her in his grip, pulling her wrists high and bringing her face into his curled sneer.

“A prize won is not a prize kept,” Vermilion hissed the sacrilege of the Red Banners’ words. His grip tightened around her wrists until she felt her bones bend.

Celestine gritted her teeth, refusing to kneel. The pain was extraordinary.

“The only thing you’ve earned is what Encarmine does to you when he comes.”

Vermilion's eyes were depthless pits of cruelty. There was such hatred there, hatred for her, for everything he opened his eyes to. What could cause such a thing?

He spun her, arms twisted behind, and marched to the edge of the battlements. Vermilion inhaled the scent of her hair, and she shuddered. His claw-like hand snaked across her bodice. Helping himself to what Encarmine had courted.

“Do you think he’ll still want you? Once I’ve taken it? Hmm?”

Celestine stared at the horizon. The empty horizon.

She was helpless in his grip. Vermilion was an intrusion, an abomination on her skin.

“Do you think he’ll weep when he finds you here? Or will his shame mark him forever? Your ravaged corpse. The echoes of your agony echoing upon the wind of his realm?”

Vermilion spun her around, his eyes wild. A predator with a helpless prey in its grasp. His hand crept down, eyes locked onto hers, long nails raking up her thigh, tracing along to her mound.

I’ll die defiant. I won’t go meekly. Celestine spat in his eye.

Vermilion grinned, but there was no humor. He had never known it.

A stone table was in the center of the battlement, chipped and fractured from battles long ago. The Scarlet Lord backhanded her. Celestine’s head rang and whipped to the right at the power of his blow. He slapped her again, the bones of his hand catching her jawline, and her vision teetered with falling stars.

“Proud lady of the painted realm. Final offering…” Vermilion shoved her to the ground. “I have such cruelties to show you. To drink of my blood is to become a fiend for nothing else. All my legions, my servants, they sing for it. To take my seed is to curse your womb to ache for nothing else as it decays.”

Celestine shuffled back, trying to stand, but the world dipped in front of her. The cruel visage of Vermilion was a monster in a dream.

I wish I would wake.

Vermilion slid forth, faster than a whisper, and gripped her hair. He bent low to her face, his long tongue flicking spittle. “In my lands, you would clamor the walls of the dungeon, a bruise who used to be a woman, feeding on rats for the merest memory of me.”

She was wrenched upwards by her hair.

His fist slammed into her stomach. Celestine tried to gasp, to wretch, but nothing came from her but a silent groan as she doubled over.

“My love is knives and split skin. I am the draining. I can take you to where life and death circle one another. You’ll see them soon. But one must wait, and one always loses . ”

Celestine groaned. She pushed herself up off all fours. Vermilion stood over her, so strong, so tall and powerful.

“I will break you,” the voice of velvet taunted her. They were alone atop the castle. The guards gone. Celestine wavered, dizzy, looking around. For help. For anything. She saw the glint of a mirror, for a moment, as if Captain Aidric was here. When she blinked, there was nothing.

“You will cry for me, and then…” a long claw on his pale finger traced her cheek. “Then you will cry for me. ”

Celestine glared at Vermilion. He stood back, malevolence incarnate. Blood dripped from his crown of extinction. There was no sun here, only grayness. He wanted her to run; he wanted her to flee so he could hunt her down, feed upon her, and ravage her in a bloody frenzy.

She spun, using all her power, and ran towards the stairs. A slithering laugh cackled behind her until Celestine pivoted quickly.

I will not allow what is Encarmine’s to be taken…by anyone.

Celestine leapt from the battlement.

The world was the sky, the fields, the armored host below that yelled out when they saw her in the air, falling towards them. Such a terrible, slow moment.

Celestine fell towards her death.

A hand of ice gripped her ankle and a scream rose from her of such

Celestine whipped down towards the ground, but the grip of Vermilion had her. Her dress fell over her waist. The host below bellowed sickening cries.

“Let me go!” Celestine screamed.

Vermilion’s pale face was contorted with effort, the speed in which he had moved, even his long frame was taut with the control.

In a slow, heaving defeat, Celestine felt herself being pulled upwards. Vermilion growled, a creature that had caught his prey. A spider spinning his silk, drawing her forth. His army below called out his name.

“Come to me,” Vermilion hissed. “Come, little bride.”

He used to call me that.

The sharp stones of the ruined castle cut the back of her legs. Vermilion was not gentle. He did not care about damaging her. She was in his hands, fighting, struggling, until he dragged her atop the stone table.

Hands like claws, so incredibly strong and sharp, tore at her. Vermilion ripped her dress apart, rending her flesh, cutting her.

Celestine screamed, helpless, pinned atop the table as her bodice was shredded, then her gown. Vermilion cackled and raked a claw across her chest to her right breast, drawing blood in four deep lines.

He loves this. He loves my torment.

The Scarlet Lord held her struggling legs apart, driving his waist into her pelvis, pinning her as he licked and feasted on the blood seeping from her chest. Animalistic groans came from his feral mouth.

“Encarmine!” Celestine cried out. It was all she could do. Again she saw the glimmer of a mirror nearby, but it was just the blow to her head.

Vermilion rumbled a deep chortle as he fed upon her, drinking her blood, his long tongue slathering around her exposed chest.

Encarmine rose, tearing the rest of her clothes away, eyes fully black and staring at his captured prey. He held her skull and kissed her. She bit at him deeply, but his tongue slithered into her mouth, a foul and thickening protrusion. When she tasted his saliva, a terrible euphoric feeling pulsed in her body for the briefest of moments. Like sleeping in a beautiful meadow.

He withdrew his tongue, and it felt like the sun faded away. The meadow became one of rot. She saw flashes of decaying animals, of skulls screeching in silence. Celestine yelled and tried to escape his grip, but Vermilion was a Lord of Season. Nothing mortal could escape his domination.

Vermilion grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head down.

“Look upon your despoilment, Final Bride. Your cunt will quiver in scarlet.”

Vermilion freed his manhood. His flesh was pale, spidered with purple veins. Thick and ready, his prerelease glistening like the venom of a parasitic predator.

“No!” Celestine shouted.

This isn’t happening.

When his cock slid against the top of her quim, teasing her torment, it felt like ice. Like dying.

“I’m going to fuck you until you die.” Vermilion stroked himself, showing her the implement of her ruin.

Thus, I end, thus the seasons will ever be at war.

The coldness of his massive flesh, the depravity of her exposed, frozen, abused body, was too much. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Give me your crest,” Vermilion ordered, never letting her look away as he drew back.

A sound like a thousand storms shook the air. So strong, even Vermilion looked up. Celestine turned, struggling against the grip of her hair in his massive hand.

The horizon glowed red. No. It burned . As if the sun was rising on the hottest day of summer. Horns blared by the dozens, and the ground shook with thunder.

“He comes,” Vermilion’s eyes were wild. Was it fear? Was it elation? He left her, a broken toy upon the altar of her anguish.

Celestine turned, her body a throbbing bruise.

From the battlement, she saw the host. She saw the forces of the Red Banner in mass. Hundreds of men and women at arms. Cavalry, infantry. Horns blared again. They raced from the horizon.

“Silas!” Vermilion cursed from the battlements.

Celestine stood. The sky split—clouds parting as if sliced by a blade of sunlight. Grey clouds burned apart from the onslaught of a scorching sun. A flash of red and black burned on the plain, moving so fast and sure, straight at Vermilion’s scarlet host.

Encarmine came.

Celestine’s mouth was open. She walked towards the edge of the battlement, mesmerized.

The Lord of the Red Banners had arrived. His steed was blood and armor, snarling its cry into the air. Encarmine’s circlet was ablaze, and crows or demons circled his brow. Gone was the stately soldier. His armor was warped, shining crimson. He was the visage of black and red, and where he rode, crows seemed to follow, carrion pickers for his onslaught.

Encarmine crashed into the Scarlet host. Vermilion’s fighters went flying in pieces. The Red Lord’s blade was practically burning, and his eyes blazed red.

“CELESTINE!” he roared, and she trembled at the sound of his voice. The Scarlet Lord was a monster, a fiend. But Encarmine, in his full rage, frightened her.

This is him. Truly him. He is the cry of widows and keeps torn asunder.

She smelled fields burning that were not there. The lord of war and battle, of challenge and conquest, was among the Scarlet host. He swung and split men in half. He reached down and ripped out throats. Eyes burst under the shove of his gauntleted fingers. His circlet was horned, almost like a helm. A demon of war.

“Encarmine!” Vermilion screamed to him.

Dozens of men swarmed her Red Lord. Celestine looked up to see his forces approaching, but the Red Lord had broken away and taken the battle on himself. Scarlet cavalry flew from the flanks of the ruined castle, and the Red Banners responded. There were war cries. There were threats and oaths shouted in the wind.

Encarmine was terrible to behold. Unnerving. It was as if the essence of every war, every battle, every siege stained the air. When he roared, it was the sound of a thousand men shouting. When he killed, it sounded like a battlefield instead of a single blow. Reality of this strange realm formed around him. Men died by the dozens until he was in a frenzy of spraying blood and cleaved bodies. His sword never ceased moving.

A mounted pikemen rode over his compatriots to stab at him, and Encarmine swung around and felled the horse with a brutal swipe of his hand. The rider fell to his knees, and Celestine saw him press an armored boot down on him, the weight of a castle crushing the man so slowly as Encarmine pressed him into bone and burst organ.

Vermilion leapt from the tower, a landing that would have killed any man or beast. But he landed like silk.

Red Bannered cavalry routed, seeing the Scarlet Lord, and broke for him. Celestine mouthed for them not to come close. He was too deadly, but the grim and determined faces of her comrades wouldn’t be put away even if they could have heard her. This was an insult. His existence, his presence, an affront to their realm and way of life.

Crows circled, and sunlight burned where Encarmine moved. She saw a man screech as her Lord gutted him, then backhanded another armored man in full plate, dashing his skull like a rotted melon in his helm.

Red cavalry slammed into Vermilion. He wore no armor. He was tall, monstrous, his circlet dripping blood. The air around him circled with flapping bats and creatures of the night, but nothing stopped the proud Red soldiers from assaulting him. Dozens of spears dipped. They broke against his clawed hands. Where Encarmine was wrath and war incarnate, Vermilion became something else. A predator in a nest. His hands snaked out faster than lightning, rending armor apart. Blinding horses. Snatching spears away and feeding them back to their owners in brutal thrusts that erupted through their bodies.

It was horrific. Dreadful. The sheer number of men made it impossible to move, turning killing into a chaotic frenzy. The Scarlet soldiers, pale and vicious, fought with brutality. But nothing could match the Red Banners, a life made for this onslaught. They killed two for every one of their own that fell. Dozens more died in the melee with Vermilion, but Encarmine’s feet were thick with a river of blood.

Celestine watched, her clothing hanging about her in tatters. The sound of it was enough to drive anyone mad. Steel, horses screaming, men spitting and dying and gurgling.

Encarmine and Vermilion came for one another. A circlet of bone and flesh meeting one of black iron and red mist. Vermilion threw himself upon Encarmine, the Scarlet Lord digging into his flanks and face so fast it was hard to see. Encarmine snarled, snapping a spiked fist into the fiend’s face. He moved like a god. This was his land, this enemy: beneath him. It wasn’t just hatred; it was contempt, and Encarmine slid his runed sword across Vermilion’s leg indifferently, as if he were dealing with a child.

Vermilion shrieked in rage. He flew at Encarmine, but Encarmine’s defense was impregnable, his onslaught unstoppable. The two of them were a blur of scarlet and blazing red.

The final blow came. Encarmine took a raking claw to his head so hard his circlet shifted, but he pushed through, bringing his sword up in two hands. Vermilion snapped the sword out of his hand, but Encarmine kept his hand moving, grabbing the Lord of Autumn’s throat and lifting him so high, rage bellowing, before impaling him on a scarlet banner protruding from the ground.

The clouds broke above Celestine, and the agonizing howl of Vermilion echoed across the battlefield. She held her hands to her ears. Those too close to the Lords of Season fell to their knees, eardrums bursting.

“Welcome to the Red Realm,” Encarmine growled, sliding the Scarlet Lord’s body lower, impaling him further onto the spear. The point erupted through his collarbone, his haunting pale form becoming a cruciform nightmare. “You feed on blood, little fiend, but I am the storm. It is shed in my name.”

Vermilion howled and struggled against the long banner.

Encarmine impaled his hands above him before dragging him from the field like a long-spitted hog behind him. Celestine watched in terror as the Scarlet Lord put to such abject butchery. Encarmine found his mount and rode, towing the screaming Scarlet Lord behind his horse. Back and forth, even as the Scarlet forces fled and ran for the river where their boats waited.

Somehow, Celestine could hear Encarmine even from so far away. His voice and words carried by magic.

“I hear you heal better than any other, Vermilion. Let’s see the touch of summer welcome you as it should.”

Just then, the sky parted, and the sun beamed down. It shone on the two of them.

Vermilion let fly a scream that Celestine knew would haunt her dreams forever. Dragged into sunlight, impaled, his pale flesh began to turn red, then black with acrid smoke. The sun above their two figures intensified, roasting him.

Encarmine turned from his vanquished foe. A message to all who entered his realm. His armies were doing the same. Their fury and hatred let loose. They ran among the wounded, silencing them with spears or drawing their cries out before hoisting their screaming bodies high on displays of their macabre warning.

Celestine felt the red eyes of her lord upon her. Her body no longer hurt. Her heart was hammering. Conquest, victory, the close kiss of defeat—all washed over her, and even though she had no part in this battle, she felt a part of its victory. The pinpoint leverage that the onslaught, that hundreds had slain and maimed.

Encarmine marched towards the tower. His tower . Celestine’s eyes locked onto his, his body covered in blood. His armor dented and ruined, but his back was straight, unbroken, marching from the destroyed Lord behind him, insignificant—not even worth a backward glance.

Men chanted his name on the battlefield. As they had for a thousand years. As they would for another thousand. His name wasn’t Encarmine. It wasn’t any word. It was the grunt a warrior made when battling another. It was the sound of a hundred boots marching. It was the lament of the widow, the orphan. The impaled and mutilated opponent.

Everything about him was dominance incarnate, a challenge met and bested. His red eyes never left hers. His name circled among the dying of the battlefield, the cries of the wounded.

Celestine reached into her pocket that hung from her robe, letting the final ribbon fall from the battlement. She had never been this ready. She was his . As much as this fortification, as much as the land beneath it.

Encarmine looked up. He caught it gently, surveying it. His circlet was still horned, his form massive.

Celestine feared him as he marched up the stairs. She knew his touch would be unlike anything she could imagine.

Encarmine emerged at the top of the battlement. The flags and banners of Scarlet around them burned as he walked toward her. He was covered in blood. She knew he was the beating heart of the enemy, and she was his prize, his conquest. Hands that burned like hot metal carried her to the table that was now an altar. He held her ribbon in his hand.

“Your embrace,” Encarmine growled, towering over her. Celestine fell back, fearful, excited, elated. “is mine.”

Whatever remained of her dress was torn away. Encarmine looked upon his prize, upon his property. His armor fell in thick chunks from him, and he burned with the mist of war. His eyes were fiery red, hot with passion from battle, and she knew had she not even dropped this last token, he would have taken her. His lust was one of a conqueror, and her quim drenched in readiness.

Nude, scar-covered, and muscled, Encarmine growled and slapped her legs apart. She felt his thick cock upon her cunt, pressing against her gate. Encarmine had not snatched victory from the jaw of defeat. No, he had speared the dog of defeat through the eyes, pinning it there.

Now it would watch and howl while he took her.

Nothing could withstand him, and her eyes saw only the redness of his, the infernal clamor of war and battle as he entered her, fighting like someone found helpless by an enemy soldier in a field, and the pain and thickness of his demi-form was nearly too much until he broke her crest with his reaching need, something yielding inside of her, hidden and safe—no longer.

Encarmine sunk inch after merciless inch into her. She could not take him all. It would be impossible. But impossible lived here in this place where gods walked and time waited for them.

“Take all of me,” Encarmine growled and gripped her throat, choking her. She gasped her obedience, but he didn’t care to hear. His manhood was so rigid, so hard, he took her to the hilt. She felt herself being stretched beyond any possibility. He slid out and back, churning her, coaxing the blood of her crest. He would allow no portion of her innocence to remain, the burning flesh of his hips finally meeting her.

When he withdrew from her, allowing her breath, she felt her maidenhood drench his girth. Encarmine tied her final ribbon around his base, taking each of her soft legs in his clawed hands, standing so tall over her like a god of war visiting from some infernal plane. Her hips lifted far above her head, her chin pressed against her own chest, forced to look upon his tall and mighty form as he strode into her.

Encarmine roared and bucked into her. Celestine screamed. He was fucking her soul. She felt it. Felt him there, somehow. He let her down again, almost shrinking, returning to a normal size. He reached down and withdrew the final ribbon from his straining cock, drenched in her maidenhead.

“Taste your defeat, Final Bride.” His voice was a growl. A dark king on a throne of metal. The ribbon soaked in her crest’s blood pressed into her mouth, and when she tasted her own blood, she knew this was his world, and her as well, was his to consume.