Chapter 3: The Necromancer Queen's Private Reckoning
The tent flaps closed behind Piet with a whisper of oiled canvas, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
Leliana watched him from her throne of bones, her fingers tracing the jagged edge of a rib that jutted from the armrest like a broken finger pointing at nothing. The lantern beside her guttered, sputtered, sent shadows dancing across the walls in shapes that almost looked human. Almost.
The corpses overhead swayed gently in some unfelt breeze, their ropes creaking against the tent's central pole. Drip. Drip. Drip. The necrotic blood had formed a small, dark pool at the base of the pole, and Piet's boots—new boots, she noted, good leather, Xander had done well—stopped just short of stepping in it.
He was clean. She could smell the soap on him, something harsh and alkaline that couldn't quite mask the underlying stink of fear. His hair was still damp, plastered to his forehead in dark curls. His nose was swollen, purple-black bruising spreading beneath both eyes like war paint.
He'd broken it falling. Or maybe Cutter had broken it. She couldn't remember.
"Closer," she said.
He took two steps forward. Stopped. His hands were clasped in front of him, knuckles white, and she could see the fine tremor running through his fingers.
"Look at me."
He looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, still puffy from crying, but there was something else there now. Something harder. Something that hadn't been there before.
"You stayed," she said. "Why?"
He swallowed. She watched his throat work, watched the Adam's apple bob up and down like a cork in water.
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"I know." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I just—I didn't have anywhere else to go. And you—" He stopped. Started again. "You let me live. You didn't have to."
"No. I didn't."
The lantern flickered. One of the corpses moaned—a low, wet sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Piet flinched.
"They do that," Leliana said. "You'll get used to it."
"I don't think I will."
"No. Probably not."
She rose from the throne. The bones shifted beneath her, settling with a sound like dice in a cup. She was taller than him by half a head, and she used that height now, stepping close enough that he had to tilt his chin up to meet her eyes.
"You watched Cutter die," she said. "You tried to kill him yourself."
"I—"
"You failed. But you tried." She reached out, traced the line of his jaw with one finger. He shivered. "That counts for something."
His breath caught. She could feel the heat coming off him, could smell the soap and the fear and something else underneath. Something that smelled like want.
"You're afraid of me," she said.
"Yes."
"Good." She let her finger trail down his throat, over his collarbone, stopping just above his heart. She could feel it pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. "You should be."
She stepped back. Circled him. Her boots made no sound on the packed earth floor, but he tracked her with his eyes, his head turning to follow her like a sunflower following the sun.
"The men who took me," she said. "The ones who tied me to that post. Do you know how many there were?"
He shook his head.
"Twelve. Twelve men. They passed me around like a pipe. And when they were done, they left me for dead." She completed her circuit, stopped in front of him again. "Cutter was one of them. The others are dead now. Some by my hand. Some by time. But I remember every single one of their faces."
Piet's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm not like them."
"No. You're not." She tilted her head, studying him. "But you're still a man. And men—" She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Men are all the same underneath."
She reached for the ties of his tunic. He flinched again, but didn't pull away. Good.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Testing you." She pulled the tunic over his head, tossed it aside. His chest was pale, unmarked, the muscles still soft with youth. She ran her palms over him, feeling the goosebumps rise under her touch. "I need to know if you're loyal. Really loyal. Not just the kind of loyal that says yes and nods and then runs the first chance it gets."
"I won't run."
"We'll see."
She pushed him backward. He stumbled, caught himself on the tent's central pole, and she was on him before he could recover, pressing him against the rough wood, her body flush against his.
His hands came up automatically, reaching for her waist, and she caught his wrists, pinned them above his head.
"No," she said. "You don't touch me. Not unless I say so."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize. Just do what I tell you."
She held both his wrists with one hand—he was strong, but he was young and scared and she had years of training and rage on her side—and used the other to unbuckle his belt. The leather was stiff, new, and it took her a moment to work it loose. When she did, she yanked his trousers down to his knees.
He was already hard. She could see it, the way his cock stood up against his belly, flushed and straining. Not bad, either. Not bad at all. Piet was so long, so thick—that most women wouldn’t be able to fit him inside. But she wasn’t most women. She had handled a Troll King.
"You want this," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I—" He swallowed. "Yes."
"Say it."
"I want this."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I want this." His voice cracked. "Please."
She let go of his wrists. He kept them where they were, pressed flat against the pole above his head. Smart boy.
She knelt.
His breath hitched as she took him in her hand, stroked him once, twice, feeling the heat and the weight of him. He was trembling. His thighs were shaking. She could smell him now—soap and sweat and the musky scent of arousal—and it made something dark and hungry uncoil in her chest.
"Do you know what Cutter did to me?" she asked.
He shook his head. His eyes were wide, pupils blown.
"He made me kneel. Just like this." She leaned in, let her breath ghost over the head of his cock. He made a sound—half groan, half whimper. "He made me take him in my mouth while his friends watched. And then he came on my face. Said it was the only thing I was good for."
Piet's voice was strangled. "I'm not—I wouldn't—"
"I know." She took him in her mouth.
He cried out. His hips bucked, and she had to press a hand against his stomach to hold him still. He was hot and heavy on her tongue, and she could taste the salt of his skin, the faint bitterness of soap. She worked him slowly, deliberately, taking him deep and then pulling back, swirling her tongue around the head, listening to the sounds he made.
"Gods," he gasped. "Oh, gods, please—"
She pulled off him with a wet pop. "Please what?"
"Please—I don't know—please don't stop—"
She stood up. His face was flushed, his lips parted, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He looked wrecked. He looked desperate. He looked exactly how she wanted him.
"Turn around," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"Turn around. Face the pole. Hands on the wood."
He did. Slowly, clumsily, his trousers still around his ankles making him shuffle like a man in chains. When he was facing the pole, she stepped up behind him, pressed her body against his back, let her lips brush his ear.
"Do you know what else Cutter did?"
He shook his head. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.
"He tied me to the post. Spread my legs. And then he fucked me while his friends held me down." She bit his earlobe, hard enough to make him yelp. "And I screamed. I screamed until my throat was raw. But he didn't stop. He just laughed."
"I'm sorry," Piet whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be useful."
She reached down between them, worked her own trousers open, let them fall. She was wet already—she'd been wet since the moment he walked into the tent, since the moment she saw the fear in his eyes and the want underneath it. She'd been wet since she drove her knife into Cutter's throat and watched the light go out of his eyes.
That was the thing about vengeance. It left you hungry.
She turned Piet around so that his back was now against the pole. And then she guided his giant dick to her entrance. He was hot and hard and trembling, and when she pushed against him, he slid inside her in one slow, agonizing stroke.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yes," she said. "That's the idea."
She set the pace. Slow at first, then faster, her hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. He was moaning now, low and desperate, the back of his head pressed against the pole, his fingers clawing at the wood.
"Don't stop," he begged. "Please, don't stop—"
She had no intention of stopping.
The corpses overhead swayed with the rhythm of her thrusts, their ropes creaking, their dead mouths open as if they were trying to scream. The lantern flickered. The shadows danced. And Leliana rode him like she was riding a wave, like she was riding a storm, like she was riding every ghost that had ever haunted her and every memory that had ever made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
"Harder," she demanded.
He tried to obey, tried to push back against her, but he was too far gone, too lost in his own pleasure. She grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked his head back.
"I said harder."
He found some reserve of strength, some last desperate burst of energy, and he drove into her with a force that made her gasp. Again. Again. The pole creaked. The ropes moaned. Somewhere in the distance, she heard thunder—or maybe it was just her own heartbeat, loud and fierce in her ears.
"That's it," she panted. "That's it, you worthless little shit, that's—"
She came with a cry that was half snarl, her body convulsing around him, her nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. He followed a moment later, burying himself inside her with a broken sob, his whole body shuddering.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Leliana pulled away, and he slumped against the pole, spent and gasping.
"Don't move," she said.
She retrieved her knife from the arm of the throne. Walked back to him. He watched her approach with wide eyes, his chest still heaving, his cock still slick and half-hard.
"W-what are you—"
She pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek. Cold steel against flushed skin. He went very still.
"If you ever betray me," she said softly, "I will carve out your heart and feed it to the crows. Do you understand?"
He nodded. A tiny, jerky motion.
"Say it."
"I won't betray you. I swear."
"Good boy."
She pulled the knife away, sheathed it at her belt. Then she walked back to her throne and sat down, watching him.
He was still pressed against the pole, still trembling, still naked from the waist down. His back was bleeding from where she'd scratched him. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.
"You can go," she said. "Find a tent. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you work."
He nodded. Pulled up his trousers with shaking hands. Stumbled toward the tent flap.
"Piet."
He stopped. Turned.
"Don't tell anyone about this."
"No. I won't."
"Good."
He left.
She sat alone on her throne of bones, listening to the drip of necrotic blood and the creak of swinging corpses. Her body still hummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Through the tent walls, she heard footsteps. Someone walking away. Someone who had been standing close enough to hear everything.
She smiled.
---
Xander stood outside the tent with his fists clenched so tight his nails had drawn blood.
He'd heard. Every word. Every moan. Every broken plea.
He'd heard the way she'd talked to that boy, the way she'd used him, the way she'd cast him aside like a piece of meat she'd finished chewing. And he'd heard the way she'd climaxed. That cry. That fierce, wild sound that he'd imagined hearing for weeks now, ever since the first time they fucked on the boat.
He wanted to kill someone. He wanted to kill Piet. And he wanted desperately to be inside Leliana again.
He had followed her. He was the Necromancer Queen’s first loyal subject. Fox had left her. Arielle had abandoned her. But not him. Not Xander.
And yet, every night his bed was cold. Every night, he remained in his tent alone dreaming of Leliana. And she never rewarded his loyalty— not even with a kiss, let alone a fuck.
He wondered if he would ever feel her lips on him again or feel the warmth of her beautiful body. It was all that he wanted, needed.