100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 723: Chapter 722- Merchant Guild Vs Ktorian

Viktor gestured. Berenga and Lucia moved. They opened the tent flaps. The evening air, cool and fresh, flooded in. The square, empty now, was dark. Lanterns, lit along the main road, cast pools of yellow light.

Myra tried to stand. Her legs, fucked for six hours, gave out. She stumbled. Her hands, reaching for the desk, missed. She would have fallen.

He caught her.

His arms, under her back and knees, scooped her up. Princess carry. Her body, limp and trembling, was cradled against his chest. Her skirt, riding up, exposed her thighs. Her panties, ruined and displaced, were visible. The cum, still leaking, ran down her leg and onto his arm. Her bra, askew, let one breast spill free. The nipple, stiff and leaking milk, was exposed.

He looked down at her. At the priestess, the holy woman, the vessel of divine power, in his arms. At her naked hip, the skirt bunched at her waist. At her exposed breast, the milk beading on the nipple.

"I wasn’t able to suck these," he said, his voice carrying through the quiet square. The words were loud enough for the knights stationed outside to hear. The knights, armored and disciplined, stood at attention. Their eyes, forward, deliberately did not look at the half-naked priestess in their lord’s arms. "Due to those people."

Myra cried. The tears fell. The ’he-is-saying-this-in-front-of-everyone’ shame that was somehow worse than the act itself. Her face, buried in his chest, was hidden. Her body, trembling, was visible. Her breast, exposed, was visible. Her cum-leaking thigh was visible.

He carried her to the carriage. The Catorian carriage, large and ornate, bore the family crest on its doors. The knights, seeing their lord carrying a half-naked woman, lowered their heads. Evriana’s glare, directed at the soldiers, ensured their silence.

The carriage door opened. Viktor stepped inside. The interior, lit by small lanterns, was spacious. Upholstered benches lined the walls. Cushions, silk and velvet, were piled in the corners.

He sat. Myra, still in his arms, was placed on his lap. Her breast, still exposed, was at his mouth level. He leaned. His lips found the nipple. He sucked. The milk, warm and sweet, flowed into his mouth. Myra’s back arched. The moan, soft and defeated, escaped.

The other three women entered. Berenga. Evriana. Lucia. They sat on the opposite bench. The door closed. The carriage moved.

The knights, outside, walked alongside. Their eyes, fixed forward, saw nothing. Heard nothing. The sound of the carriage wheels on cobblestone was the only noise.

Then the moaning started.

Three miles away, in the merchant district, a different gathering was underway.

The warehouse, belonging to the merchant guild’s local Chapter, was filled with people. Not nobles. Not soldiers. Merchants. Tradesmen. Guild representatives. The middle class of the town, the economic backbone, the people who made the goods and moved the goods and sold the goods.

The mood was tense. The atmosphere was thick with uncertainty and barely suppressed anger. The gathering, called by the guild’s district manager, was an emergency meeting. The subject: evacuation.

"This is absurd," a textile merchant said, his voice echoing off the warehouse’s stone walls. "We have received orders from the central guild to evacuate. To pull out. To leave this town."

"Evacuate?" a spice trader repeated. "Why? The town is peaceful. The people are fine. The Catorian family is—"

"The Catorian family," the district manager interrupted, "has alienated every noble and merchant lord in the region. The Royal Factories have cut supply lines. The trade routes are being blocked. If we stay, we will be caught in the middle of a political war that we cannot win."

"But the Holy Church," a woman’s voice cut through the murmur. "They have been providing free healing. For two days. The priestess has been healing people in the square. Since when does the Holy Church, which charges for every blessing, which demands tithes for every prayer, suddenly offer free services?"

The merchants looked at each other. The confusion was genuine. The Holy Church, the institution that should have had the most ego, the most pride, the most resistance to the Catorian family’s power play, was surrendering. Offering free healings. Acting as if nothing was wrong. Acting as if the political situation did not exist.

"It makes no sense," the spice trader said. "The Holy Church should be opposing the Catorians. They should be declaring anathema. They should be—"

"They are providing free healing," the district manager said. "That is all we know. The Paladin, who arrived two days ago with declarations of heresy, has not been seen since. The priestess is healing. The commoners are grateful. The Holy Church is winning hearts while we are losing them."

"Should we follow the guild order?" a young merchant asked. "What if the Holy Church intervenes further? What if we leave and other merchants take our place? What if—"

"Enough."

The voice silenced the room. All eyes turned.

Baroness Veilera stood at the head of the warehouse. Her red dress, expensive and formal, caught the lantern light. The fur around her neck, dark and luxurious, framed her pale face. Her fan, the ivory piece with painted flowers, was open. It covered her mouth. Her amber eyes, the only visible feature, swept the room.

She had been standing there throughout the discussion. Silent. Watching. The amber eyes, sharp and calculating, had tracked every speaker. Every argument. Every doubt.

She closed the fan. The snap was sharp. Final.

"I will contact the Holy Church," she said. Her voice was controlled. The ’I-am-in-charge’ tone that came from decades of authority. "Directly. I will speak with whoever is in charge. And I will determine whether the situation warrants evacuation."

The merchants nodded. The relief was visible. The Baroness, the most influential person in the room, the woman with connections to the capital and the guild and the noble houses, would handle it.

"After the final decision is made," she continued, "then you will evacuate. Not before. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Baroness," the chorus came. The merchants, her subordinates in all but name, accepted.

She moved. Toward the warehouse door. Her heels clicked on the stone floor. Her fan, reopened, covered her mouth. Her amber eyes, forward, did not waver.

The warehouse door opened. The evening air, cool and carrying the scent of hay from the nearby stables, hit her face.

She stopped.

Her eye twitched.

In front of her, arranged in a formation that blocked the entire street, were knights. Not merchant guards. Not town watch. Catorian family knights. The crest, the crossed swords beneath a crown, was on every breastplate. Every shield. Every banner.

The carriage behind them was large. Ornate. The Catorian crest on the door. The horses, four of them, were warhorses. Bred for combat. The knights, twelve of them, were armed. Armored. Disciplined.

Veilera’s hand, holding the fan, tightened. The ivory creaked.

"What is the meaning of this?" she said. Her voice was controlled. Barely. The ’I-am-a-Baroness-and-you-will-explain’ tone that she deployed when confronted with authority she did not recognize. "Are the merchant guild members going to be forced to follow orders? Are we being intimidated? Are we—"

"No, you are not." The knight commander’s voice was steady. Professional. "This is a request from the Holy Church. The priestess is within the carriage. You can meet her there."