First Strike
Copyright© 2025 by Nexii
Chapter 1: Aiming Lines
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Aiming Lines - An anthro snow leopard princess and an elven paladin clash in a duel, forge a winter treaty, and test how far trust can go behind closed doors. Slow erotic buildup, deeper character psychology, fur fetish and clothing themes.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Fiction High Fantasy Furry BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Massage Petting Slow
Nexii arrived in Lyrendel alone, just as she had planned. No escort. No delegation.
If things went bad, it would be her life only. And Vanadia would have its war.
The white camouflage bow on her shoulder felt strange in this climate. The air was softer here, less biting, more full of leaf and loam than ice and metal. The paint was meant for snow and distant rock, not green fields and marble towers.
She was greeted by a pair of elven guards at the gates.
“Queen Nexii,” one said with a grim smile. The other put his blade away and stepped aside to let her pass.
“It is Princess,” she said as she strode past. Her feline ears caught the mutter that followed.
“She came alone?”
“Snow leopards are solitary, are they not?”
Her tail gave a slow, irritated swish.
Further down the stone path, another pair of elves approached. Their armor was brighter, their cloaks thinner, more ceremonial.
“Welcome to Lyrendel, Queen Nexii Vanadis,” one of the ambassadors said, bowing in typically polite elven fashion.
“It is Princess,” she corrected a second time. “I have not taken my mother’s throne yet.”
The elf flinched once, very slightly.
“Of course. Princess Nexii Vanadis. We hope you find our city comfortable.”
“I am not here on a vacation,” she replied.
Comfort was not why she had come. Grain was. Steel out. Food in. If the elves tried anything clever, she would make sure to take a few down before the war started.
“Of course, your Highness. As planned, negotiations start at sunrise tomorrow.”
As the ambassadors peeled off, Nexii regretted making such good time. It would have been easier to get the treaty over with today and be done. Now she would have to sit with her thoughts in a strange city for a whole evening.
She told herself to be patient, the way she was when she waited on a shot with her bow.
She went to the town square next. Her appearance drew a few stares. Most here had never seen a Vanadian in person. Almost none had seen a six foot snow leopardess with a bow taller than some of their children.
Certainly not one who looked exactly like her.
The silver fur and black rosettes were common enough among her people, but her eyes were not. The strange pink glow in them made some elves look away and then look back again, unsure if they had imagined it. Her braid, platinum blonde and thick, reached all the way to her knee. It swung against the small of her back as she walked.
Nexii surveyed the area, not out of any special curiosity about elven culture so much as habit. She sized up potential enemies. Their structures were fancy to her eye, mostly carved wood with veins of white marble between. On first inspection one could assume they valued luxury first. On a second look she had to admit there was function here too. Arched streets that would channel crowds. Overhangs that could hold archers. Walls that were prettier than Vanadian stone, but no less solid.
It made her think, more seriously than she wanted to, about how a real war might go. Most Vanadians loved the idea of battle, but skirmishes against machines were not the same as fighting the entire south.
Eventually she came to the paladin’s guild. A number of women in steel and red capes were training in the yard. They sparred with swords and shields. They took turns kneeling at a small altar in one corner, touching hand to glass and speaking to some light goddess that she did not know the name of. Or was it love? Either way, they seemed capable enough. Their movements were tidy, drilled, almost too neat. To Nexii they looked like a mounted division, trained to hold formation rather than break it.
She was about to turn away toward what she guessed was the caster’s guild when a different shape in her peripheral vision caught her.
A woman in more striking attire stood at the center of the yard.
Her cape was a deep royal purple, the kind of dye that cost a small fortune even in the north. It caught the late sunlight in a way that made the fox fur along its edges glow faintly, each guard hair bright as ice. The cost of it was obvious. Anyone who had ever worn true northern pelts could see it in the slow sway when she turned, the soft drop at the hem. It was a luxury piece, but a functional one. Nexii felt its warmth just by watching it move, the way a hunter knew the difference between real fur and the southern imitations that collapsed under frost.
The rest of her armor gleamed with a shine that did not belong in a practice yard. Not quite mirror-bright, but close enough that Nexii’s distorted reflection could be seen in the chestplate and pauldrons. It was Vanadian steel. Not the dilute alloy typically exported. The good kind, made into axes for the elite berserkers, and bows for skilled archers such as herself.
Nexii did not like that her eyes lingered there. But they did.
She stopped without meaning to. She lingered in the shadow of the colonnade and stared.
The elf wore her hair long, like Nexii, a pale spill of blonde pinned back in a long ponytail style that kept it off the armor joints. From this distance Nexii could see the precision in it. Every strand seemed exactly where it was meant to be. The woman was in charge here, that was obvious at a glance. Paladins moved when she spoke, shifted formation, adjusted posture.
That was where the similarities seemed to end.
She was an elf, after all.
As beautiful as she was, it all looked like ornamentation to Nexii. The polished steel, the thick white fur, the perfect cloak line. The elves just did not have that Vanadian drive. That willingness to do whatever it took, to throw themselves against machines until something broke.
At least, that was the story Nexii had always told herself.
Her eyes kept tracking the fur.
The thick fox trim sat on the elf’s shoulders like it belonged on a northern warlord, not on a southern holy knight. Nexii knew what a cloak like that weighed when wet, how it trapped heat, how it smelled of snow and blood and the faint oil the furriers used. On anyone else from the south it would have been an insult. A mockery.
Here it was simply wrong. Wrong and hypnotic.
She found herself imagining, for one stupid second, what it would feel like if that cape slipped forward over her own shoulders. The crush of fur over her chainmail breastplate. The warmth of it around her neck. The elf’s scent caught in it, under the mink and fox, something she could not name yet.
She blinked hard and tore her gaze back to the yard.
What drew her attention even more than the cape was that the elf did not come straight over.
The woman glanced toward her once, clearly saw her, then turned back to finish whatever quiet exchange she had been having with a younger paladin.
She knows I am watching her.
The purple cloak brushed the back of one armored calf as Offering turned. Nexii’s eyes kept tracking it in spite of herself. The dye was wrong for the south. Too costly for a normal paladin’s salary. Too bold for someone trying to blend. She kept looking anyway. It was the sort of garment she had only ever seen in glass cases or on nobles who had never hunted a day in their lives. And yet somehow it worked on this elf. Or perhaps it only worked because it bothered Nexii.
She realized she had studied the cloak longer than the woman wearing it.
She is testing how long I will stare.
A correction of footwork, a brief clasp at the shoulder, a word at the altar. She finished those things before she moved toward Nexii.
Back home, everyone wanted Nexii’s attention immediately. Captains angled for promotion. Berserkers wanted to brag. Mystics wanted permission to try something new. There was always some crisis, some petition, some attempt to stand in her line of sight.
Being made to wait, even for a few minutes, set her fur on edge.
She glared, but her eyes kept slipping back, tracing the fox fur, the line of the elf’s jaw, the way she carried the sword at her hip as if it were a part of her.
A southerner wrapped in a northern pelt and northern steel. It clawed at her sense of order. It should have been one of her best soldiers wearing that. It felt like a mockery.
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