Lianisa. The former queen.
Her face was pale, her eyes—empty. She clutched a scrap of cloth to cover herself, as if it could be armor. Her hands were bound with rope. Her chest barely rose with breath. She didn't cry. Her tears had long since dried.
Beside her, in a cage—a giant. A werewolf. His skin was blood-caked, his wounds still unhealed. He growled, snarled, hurled himself at the bars, but they glowed blue—magical restraint. He gasped, collapsed, rose again. His eyes gleamed… and they looked only at her.
The slaver, riding ahead, surveyed the caravan. His gaze stopped on the covered wagon. He smiled.
—"Set up my tent," he tossed toward the guards. —"We're stopping."
One of the guards objected: —"Sir, this part of the forest isn't cleared. Night could be… dangerous."
The slaver snapped around, his eyes flaring: —"I said—we're stopping. I'm tired. And I have… an evening planned."
His laugh was low, heavy, vulgar.
The guards made camp. They didn't light bonfires—afraid of predators. Only lamps with mage-light, dim but enough.
They halted the wagon with Lianisa apart, closer to the tent. A guard came up and, not exactly rough but firm, said:
—"Get her ready. The master wants to see his 'little star'."
Lianisa didn't answer. She already knew. She had been waiting for this moment. Her fingers clenched around the cloth like the last shard of dignity.
A wolf howled deep in the forest. The caravan froze for a heartbeat. Then everyone went back to their tasks. The night would be long yet.
And dark.
The lantern in the tent flickered dimly. The air was stale. The slaver sat, licking his lips.
His eyes burned with a wicked fire. A bottle lay by the chair; his hand gripped a knife hilt.
—"Come in. Close it behind you."
Lianisa stepped inside, drawing the flap shut.
Her blouse, cut for a peasant girl, was far too tight. Her breasts strained the fabric; every button held on by a promise.
She stood, silent, straight. Her eyes did not tremble.
—"So who are you, girl? Your voice is noble. But your clothes—fit for a pig."
—"I am a maid at the court of Verenia," she answered softly. —"To the queen."
The slaver cocked his head.
—"To the queen?.. And what, did your king… service all of you there with her? How many like you did he have?"
Lianisa lowered her lashes for a moment. In her mind rose an image—a man holding her hand in the rain. In full armor. Hair soaked. Smiling.
She smiled to herself. Bitter, but true.
"He never… even looked in the direction of betrayal. Not even as a joke. He was the ideal. For everyone."
—"He was faithful. He loved only one—his queen."
—"He never touched another woman. Never."
The slaver snorted:
—"Fool!"
—"He had ones like you and just… didn't fuck them? You're a bunch of storytellers over in your precious Verenia."
He stepped closer—and suddenly pressed himself against her from behind.
His belly dug into her back, and something hard—between her buttocks.
Lianisa held her breath. She felt every inch of that disgust. But… she had to.
"He won't sell me to a brothel. Not if I… give him a reason to want me for himself. If I become not a slave… but a reward."
She turned slowly.
—"If you want me…"
—"You'll get everything you desire."
—"But… let me do it beautifully."
Enflamed, he stepped back without taking his eyes off her.
—"Ooooh, I already love you, bitch. Show me how they do it at the royal court."
She slipped off the cloak. It fell heavy to the ground.
She began to unfasten the buttons, slowly. One… then another. The fabric stretched tighter. Her breasts swayed—as if begging to be free.
At last the blouse slid from her shoulders. Beneath it—a cheap, tight bra of worn cloth that looked ready to snap any second.
She sank to her knees to take off her boots—and in that moment…
Her breasts burst free of the bra.
They hung heavy, completely bare. Nipples hard, large. Skin like poured marble.
The slaver froze, mouth open.
—"Holy fuck…"
—"Go on. Go on, whore. I'm already…"
And in that instant:
A BEAST HOWLED. A SNARL. PANIC.
—"PANTHERS!"
—"PANTHERS ON THE CARAVAN!"
The slaver jerked, grabbed his knife, and flung the flap open:
—"NO ONE TOUCHES HER! SHE'S MINE! I'LL DEAL WITH HER MYSELF!" — and vanished into the darkness.
Lianisa sank to the ground, clutching the shirt to her chest.
Her breath came hard. Her heart pounded in her throat.
She was saved.
But… at what price?
She trembled.
Sat crouched in the corner of the tent, wrapped in the thin shirt.
Her arms hugging her shoulders, her hair a tangled mess, lips parched.
Her eyes—glassy, yet not dead. A flame still smoldered within.
In her mind—flashes. Not thoughts. Memories, striking like blows.
People in the square. Standing. Staring. Silent. No one dared look away.
A naked body. My breasts. My belly. Between my legs—emptiness. And shame.
A monster who forced me. Who took me. Brutal. Harsh. In front of everyone.
And I could do nothing. Then—not then.
But I'm alive.
I survived.
Her fingers touched the shirt. The fabric—foreign. Gray. Cheap.
Stretched over a body it wasn't made for. Too tight.
Especially over her breasts, barely held by the poor old bra.
She cinched the belt. Tied up her hair. Rose to her feet.
Her knees wavered—the night had not left her untouched.
But she stood.
I will do anything. Pretend. Endure. Yield.
But inside me something new was born. Cold. Dangerous.
And one day… this world will pay. And he—first of all.
She stepped out of the tent.
The morning was gray. Mist drifted between the trees. The guards packed their things.
The slaver, already dressed, stood by his horse, barking orders:
—"Move. All of you. Quickly. I don't like this forest. And I want to reach the outpost today."
He turned, spotted her—and ducked back into the tent.
—"Well, princess. Have you decided? Do you want to be my bitch?
Or should I toss you in a brothel? They'll make you obedient fast enough.
Or… sell you to whoever pays most. With your body—there'll be plenty."
Lianisa was silent a few seconds. Then she raised her gaze to him.
Cold. Steel.
She stepped closer. Her breasts rose and fell with the breath she forced herself to restrain.
Her shirt pulled tight, the bra barely holding anything at all.
But she no longer felt shame. She had chosen.
—"I will be yours."
The slaver smiled.
But she had already turned away.
And as she stepped out of the tent, she whispered—barely audible, but clear:
—"Until the day you die. Or I escape."
She returned to the caravan. Sat on her wagon.
In her head, only one thought: survive. To return. To punish.
And the former queen was gone.
What remained ahead—was only the she-wolf.