First Strike
Copyright© 2025 by Nexii
Chapter 3: Terms of Winter
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3: Terms of Winter - 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 woke before the sun had fully cleared the eastern trees. Her body felt heavy and restless, as if she had run all night in her sleep. She dressed herself in light chainmail with the same efficiency she used at home, then followed the smell of cooking down to the palace kitchens.
The first elf she met turned white.
“Queen Nexii, you should not be in here. Please, allow us to prepare whatever you desire.”
“It is Princess,” she said. Her voice came out a little rougher than she intended. “And I can cook an egg without breaking your fine dishes. I am a Vanadian, not a baby.”
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then stepped aside. The others stared as if a snow leopard had wandered into a porcelain shop.
Nexii found a pan, cracked six eggs into it, and dug out butter from the nearest pantry to grill them. The eggs were fresher than she expected, the butter rich. She ate at one end of a long counter while the kitchen staff hovered like nervous sparrows.
They want to fuss. They cannot help themselves.
Vanadia had no servants. Anyone cooking or cleaning did it on their own accord. Seeing people bound to their kingdom this way always made her uneasy.
She felt the shift in the room. A subtle tightening of air. They were staring at both the food and at her physique, incredulous that someone in peak condition would eat something so crude and so ample.
Keep staring.
This is a real woman’s breakfast. Something you kitchen slaves would never know.
She hid her grin in another bite. This was a warm-up Trial for the negotiations to come.
The real problem sat in the back of her mind like a stone. She had not slept well. Every time she started to drift off, she could feel Offering’s weight across her hips again, that last pin in the yard, her wrists caught and held. Her body remembered it too well.
She wiped the plate clean with a last lick of her tongue, then left the kitchen before someone worked up the courage to offer her a napkin and a lecture about how stoves were dangerous.
The council chamber had tall windows and too many chairs.
Crystasia, regional queen of Lyrendel, sat beneath a carved relief of some elven goddess. To each side, ambassadors, ministers, merchant captains, and one stiff looking archer arranged themselves in a careful arc. The polished table gleamed. The velvet cushions looked like traps.
Nexii took the seat they had marked for her. It had a cushion. Her tail did not trust it.
One by one the elves filed in. At last there were eleven of them.
Eleven and one. Numbers on their side, but no unity.
Nexii did not feel outnumbered at all. If anything, she felt oddly tall in a room full of people who kept glancing at their notes instead of each other.
Offering entered last.
The purple of the mink cloak caught the light first, then the white fox trim, then the bright gleam of Vanadian steel. The cloak flowed around her as she crossed the room, as if it belonged on that floor, in that hall, in that light.
Nexii’s thoughts skipped like a stone.
She realized too late that someone was speaking to her.
“Your Highness. Does that sound acceptable?” Crystasia asked.
Nexii dragged her eyes away from the cloak draped behind Offering’s chair. The fox fur caught light from the tall windows and made a soft halo around the elf’s shoulders. It took her a moment to remember someone had spoken to her.
“Let us start again,” she said. “My bed was too soft last night and I didn’t sleep well.”
A few chuckles went around the table. She did not look toward Offering to see whether the elf believed that excuse.
A ripple of gentle laughter passed around the table. Crystasia inclined her head.
“Then we shall begin with what each of us has to spare,” the queen said. “We would not presume before hearing your side.”
They bought it. Good.
Nexii risked a glance at Offering. It felt like a confession. An admission that she had been staring. That she could not stop.
Offering gave nothing away. Her face was composed, her hands resting lightly on the back of her chair, her gaze on Crystasia. If she had noticed Nexii’s distraction, she did not show it.
That made Nexii itch more than any open smirk would have.
They began with grain.
A merchant captain stood, unrolled a scroll, and started reading storage figures. There were more scrolls. One marked worst case. One best case. One adjusted for losses on the southern roads. One adjusting the adjustment.
Nexii listened with half an ear.
The numbers were not bad, considering. If true, Lyrendel could spare a great deal without starving its own people.
She watched the merchant’s hands shake slightly on the parchment.
He is afraid to admit what they truly have. Afraid someone here will call him a liar.
Nexii let him finish, then said, “Not bad. What about barley and oat.”
A hush fell. None of the papers on the table mentioned either.
Several ministers turned to each other with alarmed faces, then back to their notes, then back to each other, as if the words might appear if they stared hard enough.
“Barley and oat are secondary crops here,” one ambassador said carefully. “We did not realize your people required them.”
You did not ask. That is the problem with you.
Before the whispers could build into full panic, Offering spoke.
“Then we will need to pause that part,” she said. “We will send someone to confirm how much we can divert without harming our own supply. While we wait for those figures, we can discuss what Vanadia has.”
She is always offering something. Food. Tours. Now pauses.
It should annoy me that she steers a room with one breath.
Instead I catch myself imagining her on my side of a war table. Elven form; Vanadian essence. A dangerous combination.
Nexii gave a short shrug. “Fine.”
An attendant poured wine.
Being waited on in a palace made Nexii feel wrong. In Vanadia, household service wasn’t just frowned on. It was illegal.
Nexii took her glass, brought it to her nose, and smelled flowers.
Of course.
She swallowed the whole cup in three drinks. Several elves at the table winced, as if her throat had just done something obscene.
“Too sweet,” she said, feeling the warmth hit. “But it will do.”
The second glass stayed mostly full. She did not want to go through this entire treaty dulled. Just loosened.
“How do you know I am not a feisty drunk,” she asked, more to Offering than anyone else.
It slipped out without thought. The room quieted for an instant too long. Nexii realized every eye had turned toward her.
Offering’s hand lingered near the decanter. She met Nexii’s gaze with an unhurried look that pinned her almost as firmly as her body had the day before.
“I do not know,” Offering said. “If you are, I will deal with it.”
Deal with me, you mean.
Heat climbed Nexii’s neck. She sank back in her chair as if the cushion had suddenly flattened.
“Let us hear about the ore,” Offering added, and the attention shifted away from Nexii.
They went through the steel.
Nexii told them what they already knew and what they did not. That Vanadia had little surplus refined steel because they did not waste time making weapons they did not use. That raw ore was plentiful, but it took time and fuel to smelt. That not having to fish every river and lake to the bone in winter would free hands and minds for forging.
“We have a thousand tons of ore that can be moved before the first snow,” she said. “We can have it all refined within one month. Two, at worst, depending how early your grain ships arrive.”
One scribe gasped at the number. Merchant captains began whispering. Crystasia’s expression became very thoughtful.
“It is a heavy risk,” one minister whispered to another. “We would be sending grain before seeing any finished steel.”
“We would be sending it onto the winter sea,” another added. “Ships sink. Caravans vanish.”
Nexii’s claws started to tap a short, impatient rhythm against the table. A warning from her own body that she was about to say something unhelpful.
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