**Chapter 5: Light's Silken Yield**
A voluptuous mature woman kneading his shoulders and back mid-bath? What prince in his right mind would refuse? Arthas certainly didn't—leaning into the touch with a contented sigh, the steam-laden air thick with lavender and the subtle salt of her skin. Priscilla Ashvane's hands worked with the assured grace of a woman accustomed to commanding crews and coffers alike, her fingers strong yet tender, tracing the knots of tension from his day like a captain charting safe harbor. "Auntie, I fear the Alliance of Lordaeron underestimates this orcish scourge. The Horde's sails darken the horizon, yet the lords bicker like gulls over scraps."
"Those green-skinned brutes? Let the Kingdom of Stormwind test their mettle first—if they buckle, the full weight of the Alliance stands ready to crush them." Priscilla huffed dismissively, her voice a rich contralto laced with the briny tang of Kul Tiras winds. With a firm tug, she hauled him upright, water cascading from his frame in shimmering sheets. "Enough lollygagging, nephew. My turn—fetch a towel, if you please."
"Shall I... assist you?" Arthas rose, draping a linen sheet about his hips, his arousal unashamed in the chamber's humid embrace. Fourteen years of pent-up fire—rebirth's memories a double-edged sword—had etched a hunger no adolescent restraint could fully quench. Women weren't idle fancies in this world; they were vital as breath, conquests as essential as the throne he one day claimed. Who could blame him? A transmigrator's soul trapped in a boy's body, burdened with a man's recollection of earthly indulgences—how could he feign the innocence of untouched youth when visions of silken limbs and heated whispers haunted his dreams?
*Slap!* Priscilla's palm met his rear with a resonant crack that echoed off the tiled walls, her laugh bubbling forth like champagne uncorked. "Out with you, you cheeky rogue! Scheming to steal a glimpse of your auntie's treasures, are we? Off—before I make you scrub the decks like one of my deckhands."
She disrobed with unhurried confidence, the gown pooling at her feet like surrendered sails, unveiling a form of plush abundance that stole the breath from his lungs. Not excess, but inviting fullness—a body sculpted by years of commanding the waves, soft where it invited surrender, firm where it promised endurance. Curves that evoked harvest moons and rolling hills: hips broad as a galleon's beam, a belly plush yet taut with latent strength, thighs thick with the promise of unyielding grip. In the marriage bed, she'd cradle like a featherbed of the finest down; beneath her, a lover would feel wrapped in warm velvet, safe from the world's tempests. Post-passion, to nestle in such an embrace—her heartbeat a lullaby against his ear—would be sweeter than any rum-soaked slumber in a Tiras port.
Not long after, Arthas reclined on his canopied bed, the sheets cool silk against his bare skin, the room's air still heavy with bath's mist. Priscilla emerged from the adjoining chamber, swathed in a towel that strained heroically against her ample bosom—snowy peaks threatening breach at the slightest provocation, the fabric's hem teasing the apex of her thighs like a siren's veil. A single bend, a casual shift, and her rounded posterior would spill free, unadorned and unapologetic. The sight transfixed him, a masterpiece of maturity's allure: the towel's white a stark canvas for the faint flush creeping her cleavage, the way it clung to damp curves like a second skin.
No surprise, then, that Arthas stirred once more—his length rigid and insistent, a testament to blood's betrayal. Kin or no, aunt's mantle or not, restraint crumbled before her magnetic pull; the taboo only fanned the flames higher, turning forbidden into fervent.
"Auntie, you're treading scandal's edge—tempting the court's wagging tongues with such familiarity."
Priscilla hummed a sailor's shanty, low and lilting like waves lapping hulls, her mood buoyant as a fair wind. She perched on the bed's edge, pouring a goblet of rum with the casual authority of one who bartered in casks and coin alike. "Enough fretting over whispers, little prince. What secrets summon your aunt to these chambers under cover of night? Speak—before the rum loosens my patience."
Gazing upon her—reclined, towel-clad, wine-flushed in the candle's golden glow—Arthas's mind ignited with audacity's spark. Why not claim her fully, aunt or no? Her marriage to Lord Poole Ashvane was parchment and politics, frayed by his endless voyages and her sharper, solitary ambitions. Nobles strayed as tides turned; facades preserved with discreet dalliances, passions pursued in separate harbors. With Priscilla, discord had long simmered—ripe for redirection, if handled with the cunning of a prince reborn.
"The Holy Light... it preserves youth eternal, Auntie. A gift beyond gold or galleons."
*Pfft!* Wine misted her lips as she coughed, amusement warring with worldly skepticism in her sea-storm eyes. "Spare me the sermon, boy. Archbishop Alonsus Faol's Light burns brighter than a lighthouse in fog, yet wrinkles crease his brow like old charts weathered by salt and time. He's no elixir of ages—wrinkled and wise, but no fountain of youth."
Humanity revered the Holy Light as bread to the starving soul: healer of plagues that felled kingdoms, soother of tempests that raged in heart and hearth alike, scourge to shadows that gnawed at the world's edges. Simpler than the arcane's labyrinthine tomes, cheaper than reagents harvested from perilous wilds—accessible to the lowborn as the high, steadfast as a dwarf's oath. It mended flesh rent by blade or beast, calmed minds fractured by loss or lunacy, and armed the faithful against fel's corrupting whisper. Yet longevity's lure, immortality's siren song? That was charlatan's chaff, peddled by hedge-priests in back-alley chapels, dismissed by true devotees as heresy or hubris.
"Auntie, allow me—a massage, infused with its grace. Let the Holy Light ease your burdens, if not banish years."
Arthas summoned a glow in his palms, golden tendrils coiling like dawn's tentative fingers—warm, pulsating with the Holy Light's benevolent hum. Without awaiting assent, he bridged the gap, fingers pressing into her shoulders with reverent firmness. The radiance delved deep, threading through taut sinew and weary bone like sunlight piercing storm clouds—easing knots forged by gales of trade negotiations and gales of the open sea, coaxing cells to sigh in radiant reprieve. It was no mere touch; the Holy Light seeped into her very essence, a purifying balm that unraveled the invisible chains of fatigue, leaving her muscles pliant as sun-warmed rope.
Priscilla's tension melted like mist before morn, brows unfurling as unseen weights lifted from her spirit. "Mmm... potent brew, indeed. Youth's vanity? Auntie cares little for mirrors' lies. But tell me true, my dear—do I seem faded to you? Worn as an old mainsail?"
"Never, Auntie. Radiant as the dawn over your isles, beautiful as the sea at rest under starlight."
Seizing the moment's vulnerability, Arthas leaned in, claiming her lips in a bold, lingering kiss—soft at first, testing the waters of her response, then deepening with the hunger of one long denied. He craved this archetype: the lush, seasoned bloom that matched his youthful blaze with a maturity's knowing fire. Boy's hunger met woman's wildfire—a conflagration divine, perfect in its asymmetry. And her dominion over Kul Tiras's tides? Wealth incarnate, a harem's foundation in gold and galleons, fleets at her beck that could ferry his ambitions across oceans uncharted.
"I'd wed none but your like, Auntie—a queen of curves and command, sails and secrets."
"You scamp," she murmured against his mouth, eyes fluttering open to hold his—complexity swirling like eddies in a harbor: affection's warmth, surprise's spark, a merchant's calculation flickering beneath. In Kul Tiras, she reigned as ironclad slaver and shrewd trader, her word law over decks slick with sweat and decks laden with spice. Fear shadowed her underlings like bilge-water; only kin glimpsed the velvet beneath the steel, the soft harbor hidden from the world's gales.
"You and Jaina Proudmoore suit like helm and hauberk—fire and forge. Auntie? Faded vintage, weathered by waves and winters. Keep kneading—exhaustion claims me. A nap, perhaps, to dream of calmer seas."
It wasn't unprecedented: Priscilla had shared his bed in childhood's innocent haze, a doting aunt's lullaby of limbs and tales of tempests tamed. Even as he'd grown into adolescence's awkward grace, occasional nights persisted—nights of platonic comfort, his youth a natural barrier to deeper fires, his body yet too boyish to kindle hers. Lord Poole grumbled in distant ports, his complaints as fleeting as his visits, but elder to heir, prince to kin? Unassailable ground. Their union's chill absolved him of deeper suspicion; better her with family than fleeting fancies, if it chafed his pride like salt in a wound. "What harm in a harmless hug?" he'd mutter to his mirrors, though the annoyance lingered like barnacles on hull.
Arthas's hands worked deeper, from nape to nadir—trailing fire-kissed trails that mapped her like a treasure chart. Her lower belly yielded plush and resilient, a canvas of soft power that begged exploration, the subtle dip of navel a hidden cove inviting plunder. Downward, the Holy Light wove through thighs of sculpted fullness—no sagging excess, but toned allure honed by years of striding storm-lashed decks, calves tapering to elegant arches that evoked the graceful curve of a ship's prow. Jade pillars, forged for striding shipyards or straddling silks—visual poetry in motion, powerful yet profoundly feminine, the kind of legs that could crush a man's resolve or cradle it with equal ease.
A subtle shift upward froze him mid-motion: parted thighs framing the towel's precarious hem, ridden high by his wandering touch. Beneath? Naught but shadow and invitation—dense curls of midnight framing glistening folds of pink, a dew-kissed trace of her own stirring that betrayed the feigned slumber. The air hummed with unspoken tension, the room's candles flickering as if in conspiracy, casting golden highlights on the crystalline beads tracing her inner thigh.
Arthas's breath hitched, his length straining like a bowstring drawn to breaking—rigid, insistent, a testament to blood's unyielding betrayal. Pre-transmigration, life's relentless grind left scant room for indulgences; a wage-slave's fantasies, unquenched amid endless commutes and corner-office drudgery. Reborn amid maids and mirrors, the weight of studies and stature had blunted boyish urges—until now, the system's spark igniting a blaze that consumed all restraint. The hidden yearnings of two lifetimes erupted, unchecked and unapologetic: a harem's call, primal and profound, whispering of empires built not just of stone and steel, but of flesh and fealty.
Glancing to her face—flushed from wine's kiss, lashes fanned in feigned slumber, breaths soft with the cadence of snores—desire crested to cresting tide. The room's lamps dimmed at his whispered will, shadows pooling like conspirators as he shed his garb. Childhood drills in the palace yards had chiseled him: broad shoulders veined with purpose, corded arms that could wield hammer or hilt alike, a torso etched in youthful vigor that promised the warrior-king to come. Below, his arousal stood proud—sixteen centimeters of taut promise, girthy as resolve's own grip. Developmental dawn; what tempests might it summon fully wrought, when manhood's full measure bloomed under Azeroth's unforgiving sun?
A hand ventured bolder, tracing the towel's edge—silk whispering secrets of its own, the fabric parting like a veil lifted by fate's own breath. Priscilla stirred faintly, towel slipping a fraction more—her form an altar, offered unwitting to the storm brewing in his veins. Arthas's heart thundered, the Holy Light's glow a halo on his intent, turning taboo to sacrament. Tonight, secrets would bind more than whispers; aunt and nephew, merchant and prince, forging chains of flesh and fate that no courtly decree could sunder. A promise of pleasures yet unveiled, where power and passion intertwined like lovers in the dark.