Chapter 18: The Initiation
The memory arrived unbidden, sharp as a splinter, as Kerr leaned over the stone basin in his chambers and splashed icy water on his face. It was the scent on his hands—lingering flour, lye soap, and the ghost of cinnamon—that did it. Not the perfume of nobility, but the honest smell of the kitchens. Of her.
Two years ago. He’d been nineteen, all limbs and bravado, buzzing with a restless energy that had no proper outlet. Fergus was off with their father, learning the trade of diplomacy and war. Mother was deep in the accounts. Highever was quiet, and Kerr felt like a hound penned in a kennel.
He found his way below stairs not out of duty, but boredom.
The kitchens were a realm of ordered chaos even in the lull between meals. The great hearths banked, the flagstones scrubbed, the copper pots gleaming like defeated suns. And there, at the long central table, rolling out pastry with a soldier’s efficiency, was Elspeth.
She was in her sixties then, strong-armed and straight-backed, her hair a steely grey cap beneath a plain linen kerchief. Her face was a road map of smile lines and frowns, etched by decades of heat and command. Her husband, a guardsman, had been buried that spring. The castle’s grief for him had been formal, respectful. Hers was a quieter, deeper thing Kerr saw in the set of her shoulders when she thought no one was looking.
“Milord Kerr,” she’d said, not pausing in her rolling. “Lost, are we? The dining hall is up the stairs and to the left.”
Her tone was dry, unimpressed. He liked that.
“Smelled the pie,” he’d said, leaning against the table. “Couldn’t resist.”
“It’s for tomorrow. And you’ve a tongue smoother than this butter.” She flicked a glance at him. “Shouldn’t you be jousting with shadows or writing sonnets to some visiting lady’s eyebrow?”
He’d grinned, that mischievous glint fully ignited. “Shadows are poor conversationalists. And I’ve yet to meet an eyebrow that holds my interest.”
That earned a faint snort. She folded the pastry over, her hands confident. “Then make yourself useful instead of decorative. Fetch me that jar of cloves from the high shelf. My knees protest the climb.”
He did, his height making the task trivial. As he handed it down, their fingers brushed. Her hands were warm, rough, dusted with flour. She looked up at him, and for a second, he didn’t see the kitchen maid or the widow. He saw a woman, tired and lonely, and the weight of the quiet castle at night stretching before her.
“It’s loud when it’s empty, isn’t it?” he said, the words out before he’d thought them through.
Her eyes, a clear, sharp blue, studied him. The dismissive mask softened, just a fraction. “Aye,” she said quietly. “It is that.”
He came back the next night. And the next. He’d invent reasons—a craving for late-night honeycake, a question about the best use of summer apples. She’d humor him, putting him to work shelling peas or grinding coffee, their conversation meandering through castle gossip, old stories of her father’s service, the mundane textures of life.
One evening, the kitchens were truly deserted. The only light came from the dying fire in the great hearth. Elspeth was scrubbing the vast table, her movements slow with fatigue.
“Here,” he said, taking the brush from her hand. “You sit.”
She looked too tired to argue. She settled on a stool, watching as he took over the work. His muscles, built for swordplay, made quick work of it.
“You’ve good hands,” she observed after a while. “Strong. Not just for holding a lordship.”
He finished, sluicing water over the wood. “They’re alright.”
“More than alright.” Her voice was different. Softer. The space between them in the firelit gloom seemed to shrink, charged with a new understanding. This wasn’t about pastry or peas anymore.
She stood. “My chambers are just down the passage. I’ve… I’ve a bottle of blackberry wine that’s too bitter for my taste alone. Could use a opinion.”
He followed her.
Her room was small, neat, personal. Faded tapestries of ancient battles, a legacy from her father, covered the stone walls. A narrow bed, a sturdy desk, a humble hearth with a low fire. It smelled of lavender, parchment, and her.
She poured two cups of inky wine. They drank in silence, the bitterness a sharp comfort.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, not looking at him.
“I know,” he said.
When he kissed her, it wasn’t like the eager, fumbling kisses of girls his own age. It was slow, exploratory. She tasted of wine and winter spices. Her hands came up to cradle his face, her thumbs tracing his jawline. She was the one who led him to the bed, her movements sure, dispelling any lingering awkwardness.
In the dim light, her body was a revelation. Not the firm, unmarked lines of youth, but a landscape of life lived—soft curves, silver stretch marks, the gentle sag of years and childbirth. He found it beautiful in a way he couldn’t articulate. Real.
Her hands on him were a education. No giggling, no theatrical gasps. She was practical, assessing. When she undid his trousers and he sprang free, she did let out a low, genuine whistle of appreciation.
“Maker’s breath, lad,” she muttered, her work-roughened fingers wrapping around him. “They’ve been keeping that in the stable? That’s a warhorse, not a pony.”
He laughed, the tension breaking. “Think you can manage him?”
Her eyes glinted. “I’ve handled trickier dough.”
She taught him. Where to touch, how to touch, when to be gentle and when to be firm. She praised his attentiveness, his quickness to learn. “There, yes. Just like that. You’re a natural, Kerr. Feel that? That’s the spot.”
Her own pleasure was a deep, resonant thing. It built slowly, cresting not in shrieks but in profound, trembling sighs that seemed to rise from the very core of her. She clutched at him, not with desperate passion, but with a grateful, anchoring strength. When she came, it was with a long, low groan, her body bowing against his, a series of rolling quakes that went on and on.
Afterward, she lay beside him, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “My Davin was a good man,” she said, her voice thick with memory and satisfaction. “A kind man. But he never… Maker, he never made me feel like the only woman in all of Thedas. Not like that.”
Kerr had held her, a strange pride mixing with a tenderness that had nothing to do with duty or lineage. It was the pride of a student who had pleased his teacher, of giving a gift that was truly, deeply received.
It was the pride of a student who had pleased his teacher, of giving a gift that was truly, deeply received. He lay there, sated, the fire crackling low, her weight a comforting anchor on his arm. The quiet of her little chamber was a profound, blanket-deep silence.
Then, against the soft skin of her thigh, he felt it. A twitch, a slow, insistent refilling of blood and need. It wasn't a conscious decision. His body, still humming from her praise and the novelty of it all, had its own ideas. Less than a minute after he'd spent himself inside her, he was hardening again, a returning tide.
He shifted, his renewed erection pressing against her hip. Elspeth felt it and let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. “Oh, you cannot be serious,” she whispered, her voice husky with spent pleasure. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “Already? The young and their magical recovery.”
“Not magical,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “Just motivated.”
He moved over her again, his body covering hers with a familiarity that felt earned. She was slick, open, still trembling from the last wave. He positioned himself and began to push in, an even slower, more deliberate invasion than the first time. The sensation was almost too much, an exquisite, overwhelming fullness.
She gasped, her hands coming up to his shoulders. “Sweet Andraste, Kerr.” Her eyes were wide, but a slow smile spread across her face. He was serious. He sank deeper, a millimeter at a time, letting her feel every ridge, every inch of him. The groan that escaped her was one of deep, incredulous pleasure.
He began to move, a lazy, rolling rhythm that had no destination but this. “By the Maker, lad,” she breathed, her head falling back. “You’ve a natural affinity for navigating cunt. That’s it. Right there. Just like that.” Her guidance was both instruction and exaltation.
He watched her face, utterly captivated. Her blunt praise, so different from the coy flattery of court, drove him harder. He adjusted his angle, following her hissed directions. “Yes, there, oh, there!” Her back arched off the narrow bed, a flush spreading from her chest to her throat. The second peak took her suddenly, a sharp, clenching climax that ripped through her with a guttural cry.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He kept that same, relentless, slow pace, fucking her through the shuddering aftermath and straight into the next build-up. She was babbling now, a stream of filthy, grateful praise. “You feel that? You feel how you fit? Like you were made for it. Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”
Her third orgasm was longer, a series of rolling waves that had her thighs shaking against his ribs. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but she was laughing through them, a wild, joyous sound. “Again,” she demanded, her nails digging into his back. “Make it happen again.”
He did. He lost count. He was a vessel for her pleasure, each of her cries a fuel that burned away his own fatigue. He fucked her until she was a wrung-out, trembling mess, her verbal praises dissolving into helpless, vowel-heavy sounds. The grey light of dawn was fingering the narrow window when he finally stilled, collapsing onto her, utterly spent in a way he’d never known. She wrapped her arms around him, her breath hot against his neck. “A natural,” she sighed one last time, her voice full of wonder, before sleep took them both.
She woke to the grey, honest light of morning slanting across the stone floor. Her body was a map of pleasant aches, a deep, humming soreness in places she’d forgotten could feel. Then memory crashed in, cold and clear as the water in the basin.
She bolted upright, the wool blanket pooling at her waist. “Maker’s mercy,” she breathed, her voice raspy with sleep and shock. Her wide eyes scanned the room, as if expecting the Teryn himself to be standing in the corner.
Kerr stirred beside her, a mountain of warm muscle and contentment. He cracked one eye open, smiling at the sight of her panicked profile. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice thick.
“Kerr, you—we—” She clutched the blanket to her chest, her knuckles white. “If anyone finds out—my position, your father’s name—they’ll string me from the gates!”
He laughed then, a low, easy rumble from deep in his chest. He propped himself up on an elbow, completely unbothered. “No one’s finding out,” he said, his tone dismissive, confident. “No one can keep track of me. And no one will know.”
“You’re a foolish boy,” she hissed, though the ‘boy’ tasted like a lie on her tongue now. She swung her legs out of the narrow bed, her body protesting the movement. “This was… a mistake. A kindness, but a mistake.”
She stood, turning her back to him, and reached for her shift from the floor. The cool air raised gooseflesh on her skin. “It cannot happen again. Do you understand? Not ever.”
He watched her, the sheet tenting over his hips. Her fear was a real thing, a sharp scent in the room, but his own certainty was thicker. As she bent to pull the shift over her head, he moved.
In one fluid motion he was out of the bed. His arms circled her waist from behind, pulling her back against the solid, heated wall of his body. She gasped, struggling for a half-second. “Kerr, no—!”
He was already hard, insistent. The worn linen of her shift was no barrier. He slid into her with a single, smooth thrust, a reclaiming of territory. She cried out, a sound of pure shock that choked off into a shuddering moan. Her hands flew back, gripping his thighs.
“You were saying?” he murmured into the curve of her neck, his voice all dark amusement. He didn’t move, just held himself there, buried deep.
He didn’t move, just held himself there, buried deep.
“We… can’t,” she managed to whisper, the protest sounding feeble even to her own ears.
“We can’t what?” he asked, his lips brushing her ear.
She shuddered, her body betraying her completely. It pulsed around him, drawing him deeper without her consent. She pushed back weakly against his chest, but her hips rocked forward, seeking more pressure. “Someone will… it’s too dangerous. Stop.”
He chuckled, the vibration traveling straight through her core. He finally moved, a single, excruciatingly slow drag that made her see bursts of light. “All you have to do,” he said, each word punctuated by another relentless thrust, “is tell me you don’t want it.”
She moaned, her knees buckling. He held her up easily, his grip like iron. Her nails bit into his thighs. She wanted to say it. The words were a cold lump in her throat. “I… can’t,” she choked out, the admission a sob of surrender.
He rewarded her honesty with a harder, faster rhythm, pounding the last shred of her resistance into dust against the mattress. She came almost immediately, a silent, violent seizure that stole her breath and her sight.
He rode her through it, his own release a hot, brutal flood inside her a moment later. He slumped against her, both of them panting in the dawn light, slick and joined and utterly compromised.
He pulled out, and the sudden emptiness was a visceral shock. Kerr turned her gently to face him, his expression serious now, the playful arrogance gone. He cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.
“No one will know,” he repeated, his voice low and steady, a vow. “This stays in this room. Your position is safe. Safer, maybe. You have my word.”
She searched his face, looking for the lie. She saw only the same earnest, magnetic certainty that had drawn her in last night. He believed it. And in that moment, drained and awestruck, she believed him, too.