Reinhard and the Broken Amazon Crown
Copyright© 2026 by Depraved_Angel
Chapter 2: The Runt’s Rampage
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: The Runt’s Rampage - Exiled prince Reinhard, a runt in stature but blessed with an enormous cock, ritually defeats and breaks the Amazon queen, seizes her throne, and uses the deadly Amazon women to forge a savage empire. His massive cock and potent seed corrupt elves, priestesses, and proud noblewomen alike, turning defiant queens and bloodthirsty savages into dripping sluts begging for more. Nations fall through relentless sexual conquest and magical subversion until every cunt on the Continent bows to him.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Blackmail Coercion Consensual Mind Control NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Magic Demons Cheating Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Father Daughter MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Torture Gang Bang Group Sex Harem Orgy Interracial White Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Facial Lactation Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Body Modification Clergy
The midnight-blue coach rocked southward along the Eisenfluss River like a ship in a storm, its lacquered panels gleaming under the spring sun. Twenty Iron Guard rode in disciplined pairs, wearing plain travel-cloaks, lances tipped with steel that caught the light like cruel smiles. Captain Brandt rode at the fore, spine straight, eyes scanning the amber plains for bandits or worse. Behind the coach and its attendant supply wagon rolled several dozen trade wagons driven by sullen teamsters, and behind them the remounts and the camp-following cooks. The caravan stretched a quarter-mile, wheels churning dust that smelled of river mud and horse sweat.
Inside the coach, eighteen-year-old Prince Reinhard von Eisenmark reclined on velvet cushions, boots propped on the opposite bench, breeches unlaced. Mira knelt between his knees, her honey-blonde hair tangled in his fist, lips stretched wide around the thick root of his cock. Each thrust of the carriage over ruts drove him deeper; each jolt drew a wet gag from her throat. Vespera and Lirien flanked Mira, red and silver heads bowed, tongues lapping at his heavy balls in practiced unison. The air stank of cunt and seed and fear-sweat.
Reinhard’s ice-blue eyes were half-lidded with contempt. He had already cum twice this morning, the fifth day of the trek, once down Mira’s gullet while the caravan watered at dawn and once across Vespera’s freckled tits while Lirien licked his seed from the redhead’s nipples. Now the four-foot-tall runt wanted a third, slower release, something to savor while the wheels sang their monotonous song.
“Swallow it all, little bitch,” he muttered, yanking Mira’s head until her nose flattened against his pelvis. She whimpered, tears cutting clean tracks down her cheeks. He felt her throat flutter, trying to breathe, and smiled. The coach lurched; his cock punched past her gag reflex and seated itself in her gullet. He held her there until her eyes rolled white, then let her pull back an inch, only to slam forward again. Vespera’s tongue traced the seam of his sack; Lirien’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin behind. Pleasure coiled hot and low in his gut.
Outside, the Iron Guard pretended not to hear the rhythmic thumping against the coach walls, the choked sobs, the wet slap of flesh on flesh. The caravan’s teamsters exchanged glances and spat. Gunter, the corpulent caravan master, rode a piebald gelding beside the lead wagon, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief already gray with dust. Every shriek from the prince’s carriage was another coin he would demand tonight.
Reinhard came with a snarl, hips bucking, flooding Mira’s throat until semen leaked from her nostrils. He held her impaled until she sagged, then shoved her aside. She curled on the floorboards, coughing, ropes of spend drooling over her chin. Vespera crawled forward to lick him clean; Lirien gathered Mira’s hair and whispered something that made the girl flinch.
“I’m enjoying you bitches,” Reinhard said, voice lazy with satisfaction. “But I want more. In the next town, I’m going hunting for fresh meat. You’ll have the night off when we get there.”
They camped that night on a bend of the Eisenfluss where willows trailed green fingers in the current. Tents rose in a haphazard cluster; cook-fires spat fat into the dusk. The Iron Guard diced for coppers. Gunter circulated with a wineskin, tallying damages in his head. Reinhard’s luxurious coach stood apart, curtains drawn, but the lantern inside painted moving shadows on the silk: a small figure bent over the bench, another one behind, thick braided hair swinging like a pendulum.
Inside, Reinhard had Mira on all fours, skirts rucked to her waist, soft arse glowing pink from his palm. He fucked her with long, deliberate strokes, each one bottoming out against her womb. Every impact drew a broken cry. At Reinhard’s command, Vespera knelt beneath Mira, tongue flicking the girl’s clit while Lirien pinched Mira’s nipples until they stood purple and swollen. The coach rocked on its springs, a steady, obscene rhythm that carried across the camp.
“Beg me to stop,” Reinhard growled, slapping Mira’s flank hard enough to leave a handprint. “Beg, and I’ll only bruise you.”
“Please—” Mira sobbed, voice cracking. “Please, my lord, it hurts—”
He laughed and drove harder, feeling her cunt clench in panic. The pain excited him; the pleading fed the beast in his blood. When he came, he pulled out at the last second and painted her back in thick white stripes. Vespera licked it off while Mira shuddered and wept.
The next few days blurred into a haze of rut and road. Reinhard took the whores in every configuration: Vespera riding him while Lirien sat on his face, Mira forced to watch and finger herself; Lirien bent over the map table while he reamed her ass and Vespera flogged her tits with a belt; Mira tied spread-eagle to the luggage rack, cunt and mouth stuffed with his massive ten-inch cock in turns until she passed out and woke to another round. The coach reeked. The cushions were stiff with dried fluids. The Iron Guard stopped looking when the curtains twitched.
Reinhard grew more restless before they finally reached the town of Flusshafen. The whores’ cunts had lost their novelty; their screams had become predictable. He wanted innocence to break. Flusshafen huddled against the river like a child at its mother’s skirt: timber houses, a stone quay, a tavern called the Drunken Pike. Reinhard strode into the squat community at dusk, cloak thrown back, his Blutstein dagger glittering at his hip. Heads turned. He was small, yes, but the set of his shoulders and the ice in his eyes marked him as noble. The obscene bulge in his breeches marked him as dangerous.
He found her behind the bar: Klara, nineteen, flaxen braids, breasts like summer melons straining her bodice. She blushed when he smiled, stammered when he boasted of royal blood. An hour later she eagerly slipped out the back with him, giggling at the prince’s kisses, gasping when he pinned her against the boathouse wall and shoved a hand under her skirt.
“My lord,” she whispered, “not here ... someone will see...”
Reinhard silenced her with a finger to her lips before shoving Klara to her knees and replacing his finger with his cock, his runtish stature belying surprising strength. He fucked her mouth first, quick and brutal, one hand twisted in her braid, the other bruising her breast through linen. She gagged and tried to pull away; he slapped her cheek and drove deeper. When he came, he held her nose until she swallowed every drop.
Then he spun her around, bending her over a crate of mead, and took her virginity with a single thrust. She screamed into her own arm. He laughed, gripped her hips, and pounded until the alehouse shook. Blood and juices slicked her thighs. He came inside her, certain his seed would take root in peasant soil.
He left her there, skirts torn, cunt gaping and leaking, and sauntered back to the caravan. A disheveled Klara stumbled back into the tavern an hour later, face swollen, clothes torn, eyes vacant. Her father, a broad-shouldered cooper, roared when he saw the bruises. By midnight twenty men with torches approached the caravan’s camp, pitchforks and scythes gleaming.
Seeing the approaching mob, Captain Brandt roused the Iron Guard. Gunter cursed and kicked the teamsters awake. Reinhard watched from the coach door, breeches unlaced, cock still half-hard and wet from the blowjob he’d browbeaten Mira into giving him. “Let them come,” he sneered. “I’ll water the ground with their blood.”
Not trusting the runtish prince’s boasts of martial valor, the caravan fled instead, wheels spinning on wet grass, the villagers’ torches dwindling behind. Gunter presented Reinhard a bill at dawn: fifty gold crowns for “accelerated departure and nervous horses.” The smirking prince paid with a smile that never reached his eyes.
A few days later, when the caravan camped just outside the market town of Weizenfeld, he chose a baker’s daughter named Elke—twenty, auburn-haired, with freckles across her nose, hips widened into the full bloom of womanhood. He arranged to meet her at the mill stream one evening, the girl giddy with the glamour of a secret romance. When he found her there, he dazzled her with tales of palace balls and court intrigue, kissing her until she melted. She led him to the hayloft above her father’s shop, trembling with excitement.
Reinhard wasted no time. He shoved her down, ripped her bodice, mauling her small breasts until she cried out. When she begged him to be gentle, he laughed and forced her legs apart. Her virgin blood stained the hay crimson. He fucked her twice, once in her pussy, once in her ass, ignoring her screams as he pounded brutally into her with his massive cock, slapping her face when she tried to push him away. He left her trussed with her own apron strings, cunt and asshole leaking, bruises blooming like dark flowers.
The baker found his daughter at dawn the next morning. By noon a mob of fifty, including even the town watch, marched on the caravan with torches, clubs and boar spears. Reinhard was balls-deep in Vespera when the shouting started, her legs over his shoulders, Lirien massaging his back and Mira forced to lick his ball-sack. He came with a roar, pulled out, and watched the villagers approach through the window.
Again they fled, the coach lurching, the Iron Guard riding rear guard with crossbows cocked. Gunter’s subsequent bill was eighty crowns. Reinhard paid, then retreated to his maps and his tomes.
Between fucks and rapes he studied. The forbidden chronicles of the Blutreich lay open on the folding table, illuminated by a single lantern. He traced runes with a finger still smelling of cunt, whispered the old Blutzauber blood magic incantations under his breath. The words tasted of iron and ashes. He pricked his thumb on the Blutstein dagger and let a drop fall onto the vellum; the parchment drank it greedily, letters glowing faint crimson before fading. Progress, he thought. The relics in the Schattenkammer would unlock the rest, if he could only get inside it.
On quiet nights, when the whores slept bruised and exhausted, he masturbated over the maps. He imagined Amazon warriors, tall, bronze, and oiled, on their knees before him, throats offered to the dagger, cunts offered to his cock. He pictured elf-maidens on their backs, legs spread open, taking his massive shaft in their tight ageless pussies. He pictured the Blutkrone, the ancient Aryan Blood Crown, on his brow, lies crumbling before his questions. He pictured the Blutschale, the Blood Chalice, brimming with stolen life, supposedly able to raise an army of the dead. He came in thick pulses across the parchment, marking the jungle frontier with his seed.
Two weeks out from Eisenstadt, the caravan reached the Amber Plains. Wheat seas stretched gold to every horizon, broken only by windmills and the occasional stone watchtower. The air smelled of baking bread and horse dung. Reinhard’s boredom returned like an itch under the skin.
In the village of Ernteheim he found the twins, Greta and Gretchen, eighteen, identical, sun-browned, legs long from harvest work. He charmed them with wine, promises, and tales of royal privilege, leading them both to an abandoned granary. They giggled at first, willingly kissing each other for his amusement, until he ordered them to strip. When Greta hesitated, he backhanded her. Gretchen tried to run; he caught her by the hair and threw her down beside her sister.
He took them together, one after the other, then both at once, his runt figure belying his strength. He lay Greta on her back, legs spread, Gretchen on all fours above her, cunt dripping onto her twin’s crotch. Reinhard alternated holes, slapping asses, pulling hair, forcing the girls to lick each other clean between rounds. He made them beg, first to stop, then to continue when the pain blurred into something darker. When he came the final time, he pulled out and hosed both their faces, watching semen drip from identical chins, the girls too browbeaten to deny him anything he wanted.
He left them tied back-to-back with baling twine, cunts gaping, bodies striped with bruises from his hands. Their farmer father found them at dusk. By nightfall a hundred men, armed with scythes, axes, and a few rusty swords, approached the camp. Torches hissed in the wind. Someone had a hunting horn; its brazen wail carried for miles.
Captain Brandt formed the Guard into a shield wall. Gunter was apoplectic, sweat cutting channels through the dust on his jowls. “A hundred crowns!” he bellowed at Reinhard. “No! Two hundred! You’ll be the death of us, you little...”
Reinhard stepped from the coach, cock still hanging half-hard from his breeches, glistening with Lirien and Mira’s mingled saliva. “I’ll pay it,” he said, voice light. “My father’s gold is deep.”
The mob charged. Brandt’s crossbows spoke; three men fell screaming, bolts through thighs and shoulders. The rest hesitated. In that pause the caravan broke camp with frantic speed, tents collapsing, horses screaming, wagons lurching. Reinhard climbed into the coach laughing, pulled Mira onto his lap, and fucked her bouncing as they fled. Her cries mingled with the crack of whips and the thunder of hooves.
Dawn found them ten miles south, camped in a copse of birch. Gunter presented a bill for four hundred and fifty crowns: damages, bribes to the local reeve, replacement costs for three dead horses from the gallop. Reinhard paid without looking up from his tome. The runes he was reading were beginning to make sense. The Blutzauber required not just blood, but will, absolute dominion. Every cunt he broke, every scream he wrung from an unwilling bitch, was practice.
That night he took all three whores at once, arranged on the coach floor like a living altar. Vespera on her back, Lirien straddling her face, Mira on hands and knees between Vespera’s thighs. He moved from cunt to ass to mouth, never satisfied, always demanding more. When they begged for rest he smacked their faces. They accepted it because he commanded it. Outside, the Iron Guard sharpened their blades and said nothing.
Southward they rolled, through Ostmark towards the jungle frontier. Reinhard dreamed of a new Blutreich rising from violated soil. His cock never softened for long. The coach never stopped rocking.
And in the towns they left behind, girls learned to fear the prince with ice-blue eyes and the bulge that promised ruin.
The Eisenfluss dwindled to a muddy ribbon behind them, its banks giving way to cracked earth and thorny scrub. The amber plains of Ostmark, south of Eisenmark, baked under a brassy sun. Windmills vanished, replaced by lonely watch-fires on hilltops where border riders scanned for raiders. The caravan’s wheels raised plumes of ochre dust that coated tongues and crusted eyelashes. Water grew precious as they approached the edge of the Shemari desert; the teamsters rationed skins and cursed the heat. Reinhard’s midnight-blue coach became a sweat-box, its velvet cushions slick with perspiration and older stains.
Inside, the whores adapted. Vespera fanned herself with a torn map, red hair plastered to her neck. Lirien braided Mira’s honey-blonde locks into a single rope that Reinhard could grip while he fucked the girl from behind. The rocking motion of the coach no longer sufficed; he braced one boot against the opposite bench and drove into Mira with short, savage thrusts that made her small breasts jiggle and her breath hitch in pain. No one complained. Complaints earned bruises.
Evenings brought relief. The caravan halted in dry washes or beside seasonal waterholes ringed with acacia. Tents rose like pale mushrooms. Cook-fires spat sparks into a sky thick with unfamiliar stars. The caravan guards posted sentries; the teamsters watered horses and rolled dice. Talk turned southward, to the jungle frontier, beyond the independent Duchy of Rivermark, and the Amazon women who ruled it.
“They stand seven feet in the shade,” muttered old Klaus, a wagoner with a face like cracked leather. He passed a clay cup of sour wine. “Bronze skin, hair to their arses, muscles like dock workers. One swing of their war-axes and a man’s head hops off like a melon.”
Reinhard heard the tales from his coach at first, curtains cracked to let in the night breeze. The stories prickled his skin like nettle. Seven feet tall women. Vicious. Literal man-killers. His cock stirred against his thigh. He pictured them, tall bodies oiled, breasts bound in leather, kneeling before him as he wore the Blutkrone, throats bared to him as he fucked their faces. The thought made him hard enough to ache.
One night he emerged. The camp fell silent as the eighteen-year-old runt prince, just shy of four feet tall, strode into the firelight, cloak thrown back, breeches unlaced. Mira stumbled behind like a whipped dog, bruises blooming purple across her visible shoulders and thighs. Reinhard settled on a log, yanked the girl into his lap, and cupped her cunt possessively under her dress while the flames painted shadows on his face.
“Tell me more,” he said, voice soft but edged. “About these jungle cunts.” His fingers parted Mira’s folds, slid inside with a wet sound. She whimpered, hips jerking. “Every detail. I’ll pay in gold.” He tossed a handful of coins in front of him, the metal clinking dully onto the dirty rock. The men exchanged glances, uneasy but hungry. Gold was gold.
Klaus cleared his throat. “They say the Amazons birth only daughters. No cocks ever touch them. Some witchery in the jungle soil, or a pact with their goddess. A girl-child quickens in the womb without seed.”
“Bullshit,” snorted Tomas, an Iron Guard private with a broken nose. “They keep men in pits. Breed ‘em like stallions, then cut their throats when their bellies swell and they know they’re pregnant. That’s what my uncle swore. He traded salt to the frontier forts in Rivermark.”
Reinhard’s fingers pumped faster, the wet sounds audible over the crackle of the campfire. Mira’s breath hitched and her thighs trembled. “Pits,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Chained. Forced to rut on command.” His cock pressed against Mira’s ass, rigid through his breeches. “Continue.”
Vespera appeared at his shoulder, red hair flaming in the firelight, pouring wine into a silver cup. He drank, then spat a mouthful across Mira’s tits. The girl gasped as the liquid cooled her skin. Reinhard pinched her nipple through her tattered dress until she cried out. Vespera then soothed it with her tongue while the men pretended not to watch.
Night after night he joined them, always with one or more whores in tow. Sometimes Lirien knelt between his knees, silver head bobbing slowly while he questioned the teamsters. Sometimes Vespera straddled his lap facing the fire, red hair cascading, cunt impaled on his obscenely oversized shaft as he fucked her lazily while demanding details about the Amazons. Mira he kept under tight command, forced to crawl and lick his boots or fingers between tales. The men grew accustomed to the wet sounds, the stifled sobs, the casual cruelty. They told themselves it was the prince’s way: mad, royal, generous. Reinhard’s gold silenced their scruples.
On the tenth night south of Ernteheim, Sergeant Hagen, a grizzled Iron Guard veteran with a limp and a scar that split his left eyebrow, told his story. It was clear he’d been rationing it, waiting to tell it so as to drive up the price Reinhard would pay. The fire crackled low; embers glowed like blood. Reinhard sat with Lirien on one knee, Mira on the other. Vespera knelt behind him, massaging his shoulders, occasionally leaning down to lick the sweat from his neck.
The sergeant’s voice was gravel. “Twenty years past,” Hagen began, “I rode with Captain von Stahl’s border company on a patrol through Rivermark, at the request of the Duke. We were ordered to map the jungle edge, to find an entrance the Amazons hadn’t sealed.” He snorted. “It was a fool’s errand. We lost three men to fever before we saw a single bronze tit.”
“Then came the mist. It was thick as milk, stinking of rot and orchids. We tethered horses and pushed on foot. Found a clearing filled with these strange stone idols, blood crusted black on their faces.”
“That’s when they hit us, seven of ‘em. Tall? Gods, yes. Tallest was near eight feet, shoulders wide as an ox-yoke. Skin of all colors, hair in warrior knots threaded with bone. They wore scale skirts of wyvern-hide and nothing above but paint. I swear those tits were heavy as cannonballs. They carried war-axes longer than a man’s arm, and well-used.”
“They didn’t scream, just came out of the mist like ghosts. The first man, Jorg, lost his head before he cleared steel. His blood fanned three paces. I got my sword free and swung but missed. The bitch I was swingng at laughed, deep like a drum, and hooked my leg with her axe butt. Down I went.”
“Captain shouted at us to form a square, but it was too late. I watched helplessly on the ground as one Amazon bitch vaulted the shield wall, landed cat-light, and gutted poor Lukas with a backhand. His entrails steamed on the grass. I managed to scramble up, stabbed at a thigh as thick as my waist and drew blood. The bitch roared and kicked me in the chest. My mail split and my ribs cracked like kindling. Just from a kick!”
“They were toying with us. One of ‘em pinned the captain by the throat, lifted him clean off the ground while her sisters disarmed the rest. I saw the bitch’s muscles ripple. She could’ve crushed his windpipe, but she didn’t. Wanted him alive, I guess. They bound us with these magic vines that tightened when we struggled. Dragged us deeper into the green.”
“We camped that night in a stockade of living trees, the roots woven into cages they shoved us into like animals. They stripped us, rinsed us down with buckets of cold water. Laughed at our cocks shriveling. Then the leader, the tallest of the lot, scar from eye to lip, walked the line of cages. Started reaching in and pinching our balls, weighing our shafts, sniffing our armpits like we were livestock. She chose three: the captain, me, and young Pieter with the pretty face.
“Pieter screamed when they took him out of the stockade to breed. We heard it all: the slap of flesh, his begging, the bitches’ grunts. Lasted for hours. They brought him back in at dawn walking bow-legged, his eyes glassy, seed crusted on his thighs. They fed him honeyed wine, then took him again, in front of us this time, not caring that we saw.”
“They kept us in that stockade for weeks. They’d leave from time to time, probably to go back on their patrol, or hunting or whatever, leaving us in those root-cages without a guard. Guess they knew we couldn’t get out. Every night they’d come home and one of em would rape Pieter again, draining his balls with those iron cunts of theirs.”
“Me they kept for labor. I hauled logs and dug latrines for them. At least I had it better than the captain. They made a pet of him. Dressed him in a loincloth and taught him to oil their weapons. At night the leader bitch rode him in her tent. I heard the frame creak, her laughter, his broken sobs. One morning he tried to run. They hunted him down. Didn’t take long. Brought back his scalp on a spear.”
“I escaped during a storm. The rain came down so hard the roots of my cage swelled and some of them snapped while the bitches were away. I crawled through mud for three days until I got out of the jungle. Eventually I found a trade caravan and hitched a ride back north. Never went back.”
Silence followed. The fire popped. Reinhard’s cock throbbed against Lirien’s arse; he had been grinding into her slowly throughout the tale. Mira’s cunt dripped onto his thigh where his fingers had been working without pause. Vespera’s breath was hot against his ear.
“Eight feet,” he murmured. “Breeding huts.” He yanked Lirien’s head back by her silver braid, exposed her throat, and bit down hard enough to bruise. She gasped; he ignored her pain. “I will chain them. I’ll fuck those bitches into submission myself.”
He stood abruptly, dragging Mira by her braid. “Sergeant Hagen, twenty crowns.” Gold arced into the firelight. “The rest of you, ten each for every new detail.” Coins rained. Men scrambled to provide him with any information they could dredge from their memories.
Back in the coach he arranged his whores on hands and knees, asses raised like an offering. He took them in rotation, imagining bronze giants in their place. When he spent the final time across Vespera’s back while Lirien licked Mira’s cunt clean, he whispered the old oath against the Blutstein dagger’s hilt.
The caravan rolled on. Dust gave way to red sand; acacias to fever trees draped in moss. The nights cooled, but the tales grew hotter. Reinhard paid in gold and cruelty, storing every fragment like ammunition. The jungle loomed closer, a green wall on the horizon.
And in the dark between stars, the runt prince smiled.
The trade road narrowed to a rutted scar between red-rock bluffs, the air thick with resin and the distant rot of the jungle. Fever trees gave way to towering blutbäume, blood-trees whose crimson sap wept like wounds when the wind scraped their bark. The Eisenfluss was a memory; water came from brackish springs guarded by scorpions the size of a man’s fist. The caravan crawled, wheels creaking, horses blowing foam. Reinhard’s coach had become a mobile torture chamber: cushions shredded, silk curtains torn for bindings, the floor sticky with layers of cum and sweat. Mira’s braid was now used by Reinhard mostly as a leash; Vespera and Lirien took turns crawling to lick the prince clean between bouts of rutting.
At dusk on the twenty-third day out of Eisenstadt, the desert bluffs parted to reveal a border town that barely qualified as a village. A palisade of thorn-wood and iron spikes ringed a cluster of adobe hovels, a single stone watchtower, and a well whose windlass groaned like a dying man. The gate guards, sun-blackened Rivermark veterans in mismatched mail, recognized the Iron Guard banners and waved the caravan through without charging a toll. Reinhard leaned from the coach window, ice-blue eyes narrowed against the glare. Beyond the town, the jungle began: a wall of green so dense it swallowed the horizon, vines hanging like nooses, the air humming with unseen wings.
Gunter reined up his piebald horse beside the lead wagon and barked orders. The caravan turned east along a dusty track that skirted the palisade, away from the jungle’s maw. Reinhard’s head snapped around. “Stop,” he commanded. The word cracked like a whip.
The coach lurched to a halt. Dust settled. Iron Guard horses stamped; teamsters muttered. Gunter trotted back, mopping his jowls with a handkerchief now more brown than silk. “Problem, Your Highness?” The merchant’s tone balanced on the knife-edge between deference and exhaustion.
Reinhard stepped down from the carriage, his boots crunching on the gravel. He had not bothered to lace his breeches; his cock hung half-erect, glistening. Mira crawled out after him, tits swaying. Vespera and Lirien followed, naked save for bruises and the prince’s drying seed on their thighs. “We go south,” Reinhard said, voice low. “Into the jungle. To the Amazons. To the Schattenkammer,” he added, referencing the so-called Shadow Chamber, the legendary vault where old Blutreich relics were stored, supposedly guarded by the Amazons.
Gunter barked a laugh that turned into a cough. “With respect, my lord, I’m not paid enough to feed my corpse to Amazon axes. Nor are these men.” He swept a meaty hand at the caravan: fifty guards, several dozen teamsters, cooks, farriers and other camp followers. “We’ll skirt east to the Shemari border, sell the surplus grain, buy spices, and be back in Eisenstadt by autumn with fat purses and all our limbs.”
Reinhard’s smile was a razor. “No. We enter the jungle. Name your price.”
Gunter’s eyes flicked to the gold-trimmed coach, to the royal crest, to the Blutstein dagger at the prince’s hip. Greed warred with fear. “Five thousand crowns,” he said at last. “Up front. And hazard pay for every man.”