Inside the tent—calm, but not silence.
The air is heavy; breathing is hard. As if a storm has just been born here, one that hasn't erupted yet.
Revena sits on the cushions. Her posture is open, legs slightly parted, back straight, hands relaxed yet ready.
Lamplight slides over her body, tracing the curve of her hips, the gleam of red skin, and the slits in her clothing that reveal more than they conceal.
Naira bursts in.
—"You crossed the line!" — her breasts lift heavily beneath the armor. The voice—straight from the throat.
—"How dare you call yourself Kano's concubine?!"
Revena doesn't even flinch. She only smiles slyly and slowly licks her lower lip.
—"And why not? You weren't the first to say it."
And anyway… — she rises, slowly, drawing out every movement, — "...maybe I just filled the emptiness?"
Naira comes closer—her hands trembling.
She grabs Revena by the front of her cloak, yanks, and the mantle slips to the floor.
Revena is left in a tight, sheer black bodysuit that traces every contour of her figure.
—"You're just a horny demoness!"
—"And you—wild." — Revena lays her palm on Naira's chest, feeling the frantic heartbeat under her fingers. — "Wild and ripe."
"If I were Kano—I wouldn't last three seconds looking at your breasts,
which are begging to be grabbed…"
Naira freezes. In her eyes, anger, but… something else.
Revena whispers right into her lips:
—"The problem is, you're ashamed of it. What you should do is—show it. Take. Attack."
Selina steps into the tent, a little flustered. Behind her—Lianel.
And both—stunned.
Revena doesn't turn.
—"At last we're all here. Perfect. Lesson time."
She turns to Selina, walks past her,
letting her nails trail along her neck,
and the girl shivers.
—"You are innocence.
Pure as a spring.
That is your strength.
Be soft. Touch gently. Look up at him.
Show him he is your protector. That you want to be… under him. And only under him."
Selina blushes scarlet and lowers her eyes.
Revena moves to Lianel, embraces her from behind,
breasts pressing to her back, hands sliding along her sides.
—"And you…
You are grace.
When you move, a man can lose his head.
Your fluidity is a weapon.
Approach him slowly. Glide. Arch, breathe in unison.
Don't ask—take.
But do it so he doesn't even realize you're already in his bed."
Naira snaps, irritated:
—"And what about… you? You're a demoness. You don't know love. You only seduce."
Revena turns to all of them. Her breathing has gone a little uneven.
Her eyes—shining differently. For the first time—without superiority.
—"Perhaps.
All my life I've used my body as a weapon.
I manipulated, seduced, played…
But now… for some reason… I don't want to compete. I…"
She lays a hand to her chest. Breathes deeper.
—"I'm telling you this—and it feels… good.
As if for the first time in my life I'm doing something not for myself.
Not to win. But…"
"Simply… because I want him to be happy. Whoever he's with."
Pause.
—"I don't feel threatened. You are… different.
But I want to help.
Even though I don't understand—why."
Naira steps closer.
—"Are you… serious?"
—"For the first time—yes."
Revena looks at them—three utterly different women.
And says:
—"You each have a weapon.
I only showed you where it's hidden."
She heads for the exit, but turns on the threshold:
—"If you want him to be only yours—stop being friends. And become rivals."
She disappears into the night.
Silence.
Hearts beat loud.
Naira looks at Selina and Lianel.
—"Well…"
—"Shall we start this war?"
A chuckle. And… a tremor.
The tent breathes. Inside—warmth, hush, expectation.
Lamplight glides over skin, over fabric, over eyes.
Three women stand close to one another. Very close. But not as rivals. Not yet. Something in them is changing.
Naira holds leather and fur strips in her hands. Her fingers bite into them—not from anger. From the weight of a decision.
—"This outfit…" — her voice is low, almost husky. — "…should have been mine to wear."
—"But it will suit you better, Lianel."
The elf freezes. A gentle blush floods her cheeks. Her gaze trembles.
—"I… I don't know how to tie them properly," she whispered.
Naira steps closer. Her body is massive, muscular, taller than the others. But now, in her gaze—not strength. Care.
—"I'll help."
Lianel slowly undresses. Every movement is a dance, though she doesn't notice it herself.
Cloth falls, and the body appears: supple, refined, yet with such curves that every glance inevitably slides downward.
Her breasts—springy, perfectly shaped. A narrow waist, hips—smooth, harmonious.
"This is not just a body. It's an instrument for breaking will.
I could watch for hours. But now… I will create."
Naira sinks to her knees. Carefully begins to bind the strips.
One after another—around breasts, waist, hips.
Her fingers glide softly, as if feeling every yielding of flesh, every inch of elven skin.
"Her touch… warm. Too warm.
I must focus, but my body is no longer mine."
When the last strip falls into place—Lianel looks like sin.
Thin bands of leather crisscross the body. They don't conceal, they lead.
They lead eyes, thoughts, desire—down.
Selina stands, swallowing a breath. And then Lianel turns to her.
Her gaze is gentle, warm, yet full of passion.
—"You… are almost perfect.
Only one last detail."
Lianel takes a sheer dress. Selina slips out of her nightshirt. She stands completely bare.
Her body—soft, natural, without needless brazenness. And that is its magic.
She slips into silk. Like fog, it only accents what ought to be hidden.
Nipples show clearly through the fabric. The shadow between her legs—too. And yet the image isn't lewd. It is… pure.
"They are sin.
And I…
I am an invitation."
Naira rises slowly. She embraces them both, settling to her knees.
Her breasts—huge, soft, heavy. Her hands—warm, mighty.
"She holds us as if we were two fragile things. But we are not fragile.
It's just… beside her we feel we want to surrender."
"Her scent. Her strength.
I would dissolve in her without a single word."
But then Lianel leans in, takes a small jar of paint. Lifts out a thick golden liquid.
—"Our queen… has a ritual.
Her body is adorned with silver paint.
It's a symbol of maturity. Of strength. Of seduction."
She looks up at Naira, smiling slowly.
—"But you are not silver.
You are gold.
And I want to paint you. As a sign of gratitude. As a sign of temptation."
Naira agrees without a word. She sits on the cushions. Spreads her legs. Her arms are open. Her breasts—lifted, massive. Her belly—taut. Her thighs—perfectly rounded.
"I have never painted with a body.
But now—I cannot stop."
The first stroke—between the breasts, down to the belly.
The paint gleams on the dark skin. Next—tracing the breasts, lines along the thighs, curls across the stomach.
Everything leads to the center. Everything points to what is hidden… but wants to be found.
"I never thought a body could be such… fire.
But she is not merely big. She is shameless beauty."
Lianel finishes the pattern, skirting the neck, the shoulders, and completes it with a line running from the chin to the center of the chest.
Now Naira is no woman. She is an artifact.
They all stand. Three figures.
Lianel—in bands of leather, the aesthetic of a predator.
Selina—in sheer silk, pure and vulnerable.
Naira—nude, painted in gold, like a temple of bodily power.
They do not speak.
They are no longer preparing.
They are ready.
And then… a footstep.
Kano. His shadow appears on the tent's cloth. He hasn't entered yet.
But the breathing of the three women has already become a single breath.
Bodies—close. Gazes—not on him. On one another.
Hands reach again. Not for him. For themselves.
For this is no longer a trio.
This is temptation.
Temptation born of touch, desire, and ritual.
And when he enters…
He will have no choice.