Chapter 4: Gauntlet in Hillhaven (Updated)

A ripe grape exploded against Sera Vael’s left shoulder with a wet crack. The impact stung—sharp enough to make her hiss through clenched teeth. Thick purple grape-jelly splattered across her chest, warm and sticky, dripping in slow rivulets down her pale breasts and stomach. The sweet, fermented scent filled her nostrils as the gel clung to her skin, already beginning to tingle and heat.

She froze. The rules were absolute: slowly count to sixty when shot. No movement, stay frozen like a statue. No resistance to what they called the spreading.

A burly vintner—broad-shouldered, hands stained from the harvest—rushed forward from the crowd lining the street. His hand went immediately to her ass, kneading the flesh as he smeared the jelly across both cheeks, spreading her slightly in the process. Next he slid upwards, grabbing Sera’s small tits fully, thumbs rubbing the gel over her hardened nipples in rough circles. Sera stood rigid, jaw locked, storm-gray eyes fixed on the cobbled road ahead. The man’s touch was not gentle; it was possessive, deliberate. She endured the full minute, body burning from the gel’s aphrodisiac warmth and the public groping, counting seconds in her head.

Sixty, she thought, and bolted forward again, jelly streaking her skin, thighs slick.

Hillhaven had summoned both women here with the quiet inevitability of a trial that demanded everything. Another province, another gauntlet of shame and strategy, another layer of exposure they were forced to endure to prove their worthiness for the throne.

Across the same street, hidden behind an overturned wine cart, Mara Thorne crouched low. Her curvier frame pressed against the wood, glowing skin already marked with faint purple streaks from earlier hits. She watched the rooftop slingslot teams—three teenagers in stained tunics—load another round of red-berry pellets into the taut leather pouches of their handheld slingslots. The devices were compact, deadly accurate at short-to-medium range, and far more mobile than the old heavy catapults. The youths laughed, snapping the elastic cords back, testing tension before pivoting to aim at the open square. Mara waited. The moment they turned away to reload, she darted across the alley, bare feet silent on the stone.

Hillhaven’s streets were infamous for this trial. Every vineyard and orchard grew the same fat, juicy grapes—sweet, bursting with juice, perfect for wine and perfect for the slingslots. The grapes carried a natural spice that stung raw skin. A direct hit hurt—sharp sting from the impact, followed by the warm, tingling burn of the jelly seeping in, forcing the senses to react that could not be ignored. Each strike meant sixty seconds frozen, vulnerable, while spectators rubbed the mess in—hands free to explore, fingers lingering on breasts, asses, between legs. The jury scored on time to the southern throne platform with penalties for being hit.

Sera had planned a direct route—straight down the main thoroughfare. Speed, she had reasoned. Cut through the open squares, accept a few strikes, outrun the rest. Her lean, agile build would let her dodge the worst.