Chapter 543: Chapter 543 - Princess Realization
She could feel it in her throat. In her temples. In the swollen, wet flesh between her legs that had not stopped throbbing even while her eyes burned.
She looked down at herself.
The indigo silk dress. The heavy, royal, dark blue fabric embroidered with silver thread. The high collar. The long sleeves. The skirt that pooled around her on the floor.
There was a dampness.
A dark, visible, undeniable patch of wetness on the front of her skirt, between her thighs. The fabric was darker there, clinging to the shape of her mound. The outline of her pussy was visible through the wet silk — the swollen lips, the parted cleft, the erect nub of her clit pressing against the fabric like a small, desperate finger.
She stared at it.
Her hand — the hand that had been rubbing her eyes, that was wet with her tears and the mercury water — moved downward. She pressed her palm against the damp patch.
The heat of her own body radiated through the silk.
She was soaked.
The fabric was heavy with her arousal. The clear, slick, warm evidence of what watching him do those things had done to her. It had soaked through her smallclothes. It had saturated the royal silk. It had made a dark, shameful map of her desire on the dress that her mother had commissioned for her coronation.
"What—" Her breath came out as a whimper. "What is happening?"
Her body trembled.
She was Princess Libia. The heir to the Obsidian Throne. The woman who had executed traitors from this very room without ever leaving her seat. The woman who had never taken a suitor because no man in the central kingdoms could meet her gaze without flinching.
She was not supposed to be trembling on the floor with her hand between her legs and her dress soaked with the need to be fucked.
But her pussy didn’t care.
Her pussy was hot. It was empty. It was clutching at nothing, the walls of her cunt contracting in slow, rhythmic, completely involuntary pulses that she could feel deep in her belly. Her clit was erect — a stiff, throbbing, sensitive point of pure demand that wanted to be touched. That wanted to be pinched. That wanted to be ground against something hard and warm and relentless.
She had watched him fuck six women.
She had watched him break the dragon slayer.
She had watched him come in their wombs and their mouths and their asses until their bellies rounded and their minds broke.
And her body had responded.
She thought of the Ancestor.
The ancient being that slept beneath the citadel. The power that had built the kingdom. The entity that had once reached out to test her and had been unable to find her exact location.
She had been proud of that.
She had built her entire sense of self around it. She was untouchable. She was unseen. She was the ghost in the tower.
And he had found her.
He had reached through her spell and burned her eyes and named her and laughed.
"He said dragon," she whispered.
The word hung in the empty throne room.
Dragon.
She had not believed it. When she first sensed the power level at the waterfall, she had assumed it was Edda. The old woman was strong. The signature had been massive, warm, heavy — like a furnace in the dark.
But then she had watched him.
She had watched him take the women. She had watched his cock grow from nine inches to twelve. She had watched him adjust his size for the old woman. She had heard him speak. And when he said ’I have a dragon dick’, she had thought it was a vulgar boast. A metaphor.
But he had pinpointed her.
The Ancestor couldn’t. But he could.
"Who is considered as the potent of power throughout the continent."
She looked at the cracked basin.
The water was still leaking. The fracture was spreading. The magic that had sustained the artifact for three centuries was unraveling because something on the other end of the connection had reached back and crushed it.
She was a monster.
The thought arrived suddenly.
She had always known she was powerful. She had always known her bloodline was different — the royal line of the Northern Citadel carried the blood of the Old Sight, the cursed clairvoyance that drove lesser mages mad. She had survived it. She had mastered it. She had become something that other people feared.
But she had never felt like a monster until now.
Not because of her power.
Because of her weakness.
She was sitting on the floor of her throne room with her royal dress soaked between her legs, her eyes burning, her basin broken, her hands shaking — and all she could think about was the shape of his cock. The way he had pinned the old woman. The way the women had helped him. The way the seed had rounded their bellies. The way he had fucked them all night while the old woman’s grandson watched.
She wanted it.
The realization was a physical blow.
She wanted to be one of them.
She wanted to be held down. She wanted to be fucked until she couldn’t speak. She wanted to be marked and filled and claimed by something that didn’t care about her lineage or her title or her precious, untouchable power.
She wanted to be fucked by a dragon.
Her hand pressed harder against the wet silk of her dress.
The pressure sent a shock through her clit. Her hips jerked upward. She gasped — a high, breathy sound that echoed in the empty throne room.
"What—" She whispered again. "What is happening?"
But she knew.
She knew exactly what was happening.
Her body had seen something it wanted. Something that didn’t ask permission. Something that took what it wanted and broke what it didn’t need. And her body, despite every lesson she had learned about power and control and royalty, had decided to want it back.
She looked at the sky through the high windows.
The sun was rising.
In the dead zone, at the waterfall, the morning was already bright. The women were unconscious. The old dragon slayer was bent over a rock with cum leaking from her ass. The demon was standing naked by the water, looking up at the empty sky.
Looking at her.
Even now, with the connection broken, she could feel his attention. Like a hand on the back of her neck. Like a thumb pressing against her throat. Like twelve inches of cock waiting to be buried inside her.
She trembled.
Her hand slipped under the waistband of her dress.
Her fingers found her clit.
She gasped.
And in the northern palace, with the throne room door locked and the guards dismissed, Princess Libia — the Cold-Eyed, the Untouchable, the Heir to the Obsidian Throne — began to rub herself to the memory of a man who had called her out through a scrying basin and made her realize she was nothing but a woman who wanted to be fucked.
She came in minutes.
The orgasm was small and pathetic and completely unsatisfying. It left her whimpering on the floor, her dress soaked further, her eyes still burning, her basin broken, and her understanding of the world permanently rearranged.
She stared at the ceiling.
"He is coming," she whispered.
