The room Anabeth had rented was far too large for its purpose.

  It occupied the entire upper corner of the inn, judging by the way the ceiling sloped along one side and the windows wrapped around two adjacent walls. The furnishings were… ambitious: a heavy oak wardrobe stood against the far wall, carved with vines and pastoral scenes that implied Branfield took its cows very seriously, alongside a long trestle table sitting beneath one window, polished enough to reflect the glow of the light but scarred with shallow knife marks—evidence that previous occupants had either been careless or dramatic.

  Anabeth swung her legs idly on the side of the bed. “Isn’t it lovely? The innkeeper insisted this was their finest room. Apparently, it’s usually reserved for traveling officials or very prosperous grain negotiators. The innkeeper was most accommodating once I mentioned you were a… traveling adjudicator with a strong interest in local order.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Witch.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “What precisely did you tell him?”

  Her smile widened by a fraction. “Only that you are very disciplined.”

  I had not moved from where I stood near the washbasin. Anabeth observed me for another moment, then patted the bed. “You might want to sit down, my lord.”

  I sat.

  “My lord,” she said, “you ought to clean up and rest before your important… engagements tomorrow.”

  “Bandits,” I corrected.

  “And possibly a tournament,” she added brightly. “And perhaps the beginning of your inevitable ascent into regional legend. One must be well-rested for such things.” She moved across the bed and stopped an arm’s length away. Her eyes dropped to my hands. Slowly, she lifted her fingers, hovering near the fastening seam along my wrist. “May I, my lord?”

  It still felt rather uncomfortable how she addressed me that way now. I nodded nonetheless.

  Anabeth’s fingers moved carefully to the clasp. She slid it free slowly, mindful of the articulation at my knuckles. The sudden absence of weight made my hand feel oddly light, almost exposed.

  “There,” she said. “Much better.” She carried them to the trestle table as though bearing ceremonial relics, laid out a folded square of linen she had apparently appropriated from somewhere, and began cleaning them.

  I became aware, then, of something else.

  A scent of clean linen and crushed herbs. She had been outside earlier, and had apparently found time to clean herself while I was seated in the room.

  I, meanwhile, still smelled of road dust and horse.

  Anabeth finished with the gauntlets and returned to stand before me again. “My lord,” she began carefully, “may I confirm something? If the Ferrum Overlord removes his armor, there is no harm… provided he retains the helmet, yes?”

  I knew absolutely nothing about whether the historical Ferrum Overlord required full armor for metaphysical cohesion. But I was in dire need of a clean-up.

  “The helmet is sufficient,” I said.

  “Excellent.” She stepped closer. “May I assist?”

  I nodded.

  She reached for the clasp beneath my pauldron and paused. “… Where is the release seam?”

  She adjusted her grip, but the mechanism did not yield to her fingers alone. The plate had been designed for someone with gauntleted leverage and personal familiarity.

  I raised my hands and disengaged the internal catches manually, feeling the tension release one by one along my torso. The breastplate shifted forward slightly as the structural lock disengaged. Apparently, that was enough for Anabeth to handle the rest. She whispered something, lifted a finger, and drew it forward from my body with controlled precision, clearing my shoulders once I leaned enough to allow separation. Her command over metal was a rather elegant manipulation.

  Anabeth set the armor aside in careful sequence, then turned back to me with a small basin in hand. At some point in the last minute, she had either bullied or charmed the innkeeper into sending up hot water.

  She dipped a clean cloth into the basin, wrung it out with efficient precision, and stepped close again.

  “My lord,” she said softly, “tilt your chin.”

  I replied. “The Ferrum Overlord can handle his personal maintenance without assistance.”

  Maintenance sounded suitably severe.

  She did not retreat.

  “Oh, I do not doubt that for a moment,” she said. “I am certain the Ferrum Overlord has intimidated entire rivers into washing him out of fear.” The corner of her mouth curved. “But if I may.”

  The cloth hovered near my collarbone.

  “Do not concern yourself,” she continued smoothly. “I am perfectly capable of restraint once you are, uh, unarmored… unless you decide to take initiative.”

  I stared at her through the visor.

  She smiled with infuriating composure. “May I?”

  I gave a short nod and took off my undergarment.

  The cloth touched my shoulder. It was warm and satisfying.

  She moved carefully, wiping away the fine layer of dust that had settled along my neck and upper chest. The fabric traced along muscle and scar alike with clinical attention, as though cataloguing damage and fatigue.

  “You see?” she said. “Entirely professional.”

  “Professional implies compensation,” I said.

  “Oh,” she replied. “I assure you, my lord, the compensation is existential.”

  As she worked, the distracting softness of her touch began to sink into my skin. Her scent was distracting, to say the least. Far more distracting than it had any right to be. I found my gaze drifting to the curve of her neck, the soft skin disappearing beneath the collar of her robe, to the way her hair fell over her shoulders. There was something almost hypnotic about it, the gentle rhythm of her movements, the way her fingers brushed against my skin. It was my turn to be tested in restraint, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to remain still beneath her ministrations.

  As she moved to my chest, I felt an irresistible urge to reach out and lift her chin, to look into her eyes and see if she was as affected by this as I was.

  Against my better judgment, I did.

  She paused, her hand resting lightly on my chest, and looked up at me through her lashes. She seemed expectant.

  As long as I kept it light, it should all be fine. Should it?

  I was not a man immune to temptations after all.

  I lifted my visor halfway up. Her lower lip trembled.

  Anabeth had never been the composed type, and she had been tested quite often today. Her pulse fluttered visibly at the base of her throat.

  “My lord…” she began, but the words did not quite assemble. It took her another heartbeat. Then another. “Do you have something in mind?”

  I kept my hand on her chin.

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  She said, after another pause, “Before we proceed any further… I must request a tactical adjustment.”

  “Speak your mind.”

  “You are… not to issue commands.” She inhaled. “If you use that voice again, I will actually perish.”

  That was… unexpected, but better for me. I didn’t need to talk.

  I leaned in, closing the distance between us. Her eyes closed just before our lips met. Her lips parted under mine, and soon our tongues met. Her free hand slid up my chest, and I could feel the slight sting of her nails through the cloth as my hand traveled to her back, tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her robe. She shivered under my touch, pressing closer, and I could feel the heat of her skin through the layers between us. She clung to me like I was the only solid thing in the world, pressing so close I could feel her nipples hardening against my skin underneath the thin fabric of her robe. That did me in. I gripped her tight, pulling her even harder against me, and released her lips.

  Her neck was a delicate curve, pale and inviting, begging for my attention. I wanted a taste of it. I needed a taste of it.

  But as I moved in, the half-raised visor felt too awkward. The cold metal threatened to brush her skin before my lips could.

  Her eyes were hazy now, heavy-lidded with heat, yet there was awareness in them. She understood the obstacle before I spoke it.

  I reached for the folded square of linen resting on the table and lifted it slowly. She did not pull away. When I brought it to her eyes, she inhaled. “My lord…” she murmured. “How unfairly compelling you insist on being.”

  She tipped her chin up without prompting. I blindfolded her, then slid up my visor fully.

  She chirped, “Ooh... my lord is so mysterious. Mmm... but I reckon the mystique is part of the charm—”

  The first brush of my lips against her neck stole the rest of her words. Her fingers tightened in my hair as I kissed the delicate line beneath her ear, and she started whimpering.

  Against my better judgment, my hand began to explore her body. Sneaking inside her robe to touch her bare back might have been a grave mistake. It was so much softer than I’d anticipated, and the way she arched into my touch and let out a moan so sensual, so full of heat and desire, that it made me lose all judgment. I couldn’t stop. Not when she was making those sounds.

  When I came to my senses, my hand was already on her breast. They fit neatly in my palm, on the small side but exquisitely shaped. I tucked the robe aside and peeked at her nipples hiding beneath her robe, and the sight was intoxicating. Her nipples rose so beautifully that I couldn’t help but gently tease them with my fingers.

  She whimpered and tried to say something, “Nngh, uh... my lord, it feels... weird when neither of us are... nnngh... conversing…”

  It felt really wrong hearing her calling me ‘my lord’, but there was another feeling that was more clouding right now.

  I could feel the damp warmth of her desire seeping through the fabric of my trousers, soaking my thigh as I continued to tease her nipples and kiss her neck. She had grown so wet now that arousal coated my skin and made my breeches cling to me.

  As I continued to tease her, Anabeth began to move against me. She was rocking her hips instinctively again, humping against my hardened cock. Her breathing grew ragged, her chest heaving with each breath as she started to hyperventilate. She was close, I realized with a start. Close to what, I didn’t know. Either close to the edge, or close to overstimulation and an alarming collapse once more.

  My hands stilled on her body as I grappled with the realization that I was using her. She was giving herself to me willingly, eagerly, because she believed me to be something I was not. She thought I was a divine entity, a powerful being worthy of her worship and adoration. I had no right to take from her like this, to accept her offerings and her devotion under false pretenses.

  My body craved her. But a knight of the Saints must resist mortal desire.

  I caught her wrists gently before she could grind herself any further against me.

  "Enough," I said.

  She whimpered anyway. “My lord… I can continue. I promise I won’t break.” Her hips ground against me, needy and unashamed. "Test me. I can endure whatever discipline you see fit."

  “You insolent creature,” I muttered, brushing her robe back into place, drawing the fabric up to cover the curve of her breast, tucking it closed. My hands slid from her chest to her shoulders and held her there. “You would squander yourself the night before battle?”

  Her breath hitched. “If it pleases you, my lord.”

  “It does not,” I replied.

  That, at least, was true enough to anchor me.

  Her body still trembled with unfinished want, her thighs pressing faintly together as if to chase the sensation I’d denied her. I smoothed the robe fully into place, obscuring every inch of exposed skin, then kept one hand firm on her shoulder.

  “Rest,” I said. “Conserve energy for tomorrow’s engagement.”

  For a moment, she did not respond. Then the words reached her.

  Her movements slowed.

  “Oh,” she breathed, dazed. “Strategic withdrawal.”

  “Yes.”

  A faint, almost delirious smile curved her lips. “How cruelly responsible of you, Sir Knight… I mean, my lord.”

  Intimacy shouldn’t feel this… awkward. Somehow, it felt that way right now.

  I slid my visor back down, restoring distance, both literal and necessary.

  She steadied herself with a small exhale, cheeks flushed, eyes still hidden beneath the linen blindfold. “Very well,” she murmured. “I shall store the remainder of my enthusiasm for after your victory. But… can I remove the cloth now?”

  Her hands found my chest again, but this time only to rest there.

  I guided her by the shoulders first, slow enough that she understood it was not dismissal. Just direction. She allowed it without resistance.

  Her knees met the mattress. She made a small, surprised sound as she sank onto it, blindfold still in place. I followed, bracing a hand beside her and lowering us both down in a controlled motion rather than letting her tumble.

  The bed dipped under our combined weight.

  She drew in a breath that trembled at the edges. “Oh,” she murmured. “This is… strategically horizontal.”

  I lay back fully and tugged her by the waist until she settled against my side. She adjusted, one arm sliding across my chest, cheek pressing to my shoulder as though she had done it a hundred times before.

  “Mmm… cozy,” she said. Her breathing was still uneven, catching every few seconds as her body tried to remember something other than heat. I rested a hand at the small of her back, steady and warm through the thin fabric of her robe.

  “Sleep, little mage,” I said.

  She huffed at that. It sounded almost like a laugh. “Little? I’ll have you know I am of perfectly respectable thaumaturgical stature…” Her fingers curled in the fabric near my collarbone. “…but,” her voice faded into something drowsy and content, "I suppose I can permit temporary diminishment. For morale.” She shifted once more, tucking her knee against my thigh, claiming proximity without asking. “Good night, my lord,” she murmured. “Oh, and if you could, please don’t put the new gauntlets back on…”

  I kept my hand at her back until the rhythm of her breathing steadied completely. Then I closed my eyes.

  When I opened my eyes again, it was to the deep, saturated blue of a night that had not yet considered ending. The windows were still ink-black. The inn was silent.

  Except for—

  Moans.

  “Mmm… Sir Knight… ah… ngh…”

  That was what that’d woken me up.

  I went perfectly still.

  The sound was soft, breath-heavy, and neither frightened nor pained. I did not move my head. I did not change my breathing. Slowly, I cracked only one eye open.

  She was no longer tucked against my side.

  Anabeth lay a careful distance away, respectful as promised, a sliver of space between our bodies like a drawn boundary line. The blindfold had been removed at some point and lay crumpled near her pillow.

  She was on her stomach, legs bent at the knees with her feet up in the air.

  And her hand…

  Saints preserve me. Her robe had been loosened just enough to slip beneath. The fabric rose and fell with the motion of her arm, and her thighs were drawn slightly apart under the covers. I could see the tension in them with each breath she dragged in. “Mmm… ah… Sir Knight…” Her voice was thick with sleep, or something far more dangerous. She was not touching me. She was not crossing the boundary. But she was very much touching herself.

  I shut my eyes immediately. I had not woken. I was asleep. I was deeply asleep. If I did not acknowledge this, it would not be real.

  “Nnngh… Sir Henry…” she whispered. “Ah… I… mmm…” The mattress shifted with the movement of her hips.

  I can’t with this needy little creature. If only I had the gall to command her to stop—

  “Mmm… ah… how I wish…” Her voice strained thin. I ceased my line of thinking. She was wishing for what? While doing this?

  Her whimper continued, “You aren’t the Overlord… ngh… that you’re just a knight… just—ah—within reach…”

  The confession did not sit well with me.

  I lay there in the dark, listening to the uneven cadence of her breathing, and something in it felt… altered.

  She had always lunged at the world with reckless certainty. She had claimed space, rewritten circumstances, decided outcomes before they occurred. Confidence fit her like silk: theatrical, excessive, entirely intentional.

  But this sounded uncertain.

  I began replaying the past days with a colder eye. The pauses before she spoke. The moments she withdrew a step instead of advancing two. The way her laughter sometimes waited for permission now.

  I had liked her bold. I had liked the way she tested limits as though they existed solely for her amusement. That version of her had been infuriating, but ultimately healthier for her.

  Not that I disliked this side of her. There was something fragile in it, something honest. She was just a young lady tangled in her own head at four in the morning. There was nothing shameful about that.

  But it did not seem healthy. It felt like someone trimming their own edges to avoid cutting what they valued.

  I did not know when that had begun.

  I did not know whether I had caused it.

  And I did not know whether I had the right to correct it.

  Slowly, her breathing steadied. The soft, hitched moans faded into silence. I felt her turn in the dark, rolling onto her side to face me. I could picture her watching me, studying my profile, trying to decide whether I was truly asleep or simply pretending.

  I altered my breathing into the steady rhythm of someone lost to dreams.

  I had duty tomorrow. I could not afford distraction.

  And if I could not unhear what I had heard… I could, at least, pretend I had never been awake to hear it at all.