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[I]“The path you follow is hasty. Do no-“

[/I]He shook his head, hastily shushing the voices the mists carried to his ears. He had learned to crush those voices and sensations, enough to get rid of his blindfold but not enough always to tune them down. Sometimes, they were so loud and pressing that even ignoring them was a pain.

“Is there something, Rytlock?" asked a familiar voice, the Commandant.

That voice was calm and soothing yet prodded for an answer. Moreover, its owner remained still and expecting, the eyes lingering on the Charr's body and armor.

“Do not worry. Keep going on searching them. I am fine," he boastfully answered. Yet, he wasn't fine. Rytlock used to live by the idea that nothing could get under his fur. But this statement was dead wrong—not due to Rangar Ruinbringer's betrayal. It hadn't been a surprise for the Imperator to covet the mantle of Khan-Ur and lead the Charr, nor that he turned to underhanded tactics such as seeking to subjugate Jormag. But it was… Worse.

Last time Rytlock and Rangar had met, the latter had been not only caustic but prodding about Rytlock's allegiance. Enough to worse Rytlock's hands. He should have… Done it. The failure. More than that, he used Ryland as a tool. He hadn't found the time to reach out and talk with his cub. Maybe it was also a volition, but he had better to handle from the Ascalonians, the elder Dragons, and worse. In comparison, Ryland had been… Second fiddle in his life; an afterthought amidst all the worries and troubles the Tribune had to handle.

However… After such a brutal talk from Bangar, he hadn't expected a letter. A mail for his eyes only. Rytlock had, at least, honored such a flippant decision by reading it and burning the letter thereafter.

It was a decision that weighed on him, as much as the content of the said letter: Bangar wanted a meeting between the two, and the place was decided in advance. Rytlock could read the “Trap" written in bold through the exchange where they would meet in private, far from their allies, without weapons and velleity. A meet driven by the collaboration Rytlock and Bangar had maintained over the years… Such a pitiful excuse.

“Are you certain? You are more sullen than usual? Is there something you need to tell me?"

Again, the Commandant was at it, so smooth and soft. Rytlock wasn't a human cub to be carefully handled. He scoffed.

“Not really. A report I will need to investigate about Bangar's forces. I'll keep you updated on it," answered Rytlock, lying through his teeth and not willingly.

“If you say so. Whenever you need me, I'll answer."

Such… Positivity. Well, it was agreeable to have someone capable of keeping that positive outlook on reality despite the troubles. Jormag was out in the north, Primordius active and throwing tantrums, and remained the third last dragon they had only a few clues about. And their sole hope was another crystalline Dragon.

“Don't be a stranger, Rytlock!"

On those words, the Charr left. He ventured north. Grothmar Valley was to be his destination, at least until he had to veer towards the Shiverpeaks and ascend, though not directly to the Bjora Marches. Bangar's indications were clear and stated, and the Tribune advanced without needing a map. The place wasn't familiar by any means. Although it would be the same for the Grothmar Valley after so many years under Bangar's regime. Instead, he continued to advance until the cold stung his skin once more, and the cold breeze peppered icy fragments into his exposed fur. His ears flapped, trying to remove the buzzing sensation that was in them as he climbed the last few steps leading to… A cavern.

By any account, he would have been jumped inside already. Even though he didn't have Sohothin at his hips, he could… Reach it, through the mists. He was ready. He sighed, resting his hands while he glanced left and right: no ambush, no scout hiding. Still, he expected a trap as he continued and was welcomed by a warmer cavern. The place was… Warm. To the touch, to his paws.

He reached for a rock, feeling the drumming heat within. Then, he removed his paw and advanced, his ascension turning into a slow descent within the depths. He advanced, the drumming continuing in his heart while the cavern shifted. Steel and beams had been inserted into the stone. Wood planks had been used to cover some holes, and the whole descent smoothened: that was an old excavation. But how old? It wasn't Charr, by any means. It seemed to be humans, but it was too far. It couldn't be Norn, nor even Asura.

Again, he looked over his shoulders… No one. Surprising, yet he didn't dare to utter anything else as he landed by a door and… Found it. Found him. Bangar. Sitting not far away from a crevice from which emanated light. Around him were the remnants of a forge but far too old and sophisticated. Webs and dust covered the smelters, the anvils, as well as the different broken workbenchs that had crumbled under the metal's weight.

The Tribune's eyes glanced, focused… And then-

“This is not a trap, Brimstone," Bangar said coldly. He hadn't even looked away from the aperture or moved from his seat.

“Do you want me to believe that? Imperator Ruinbringer? Or Betrayer Ruinbringer?"

Even though it had only been a statement, Bangar's betrayal of the Legion was a sore wound. He was a bastard, yes. But he had been a loyal, efficient, and talented bastard. Rytlock approached with a sour expression as he watched whom he had served. A charr like him, with a fur possessing a redder tinge, more saturated than Rytlock's dim coloration. The former Imperator's horns undulated and then pointed upward like a Bull. Otherwise, his hair was trimmed to fit within the Legion's standards… However, Rytlock saw something different as he glanced at the Imperator's golden gaze. Somehow, the color was dulled. Or had specks of… Blue?

“What is this, then?" asked Rytlock, slowly walking around the opening Bangar had been watching; a hole in the ground led to a magmatic chamber. Light and steam emanated from the lava below.

“I couldn't speak when you had your clique. It should have been private, Brimstone. But our exchange isn't done," Bangar answered in a less formal tone as he turned to Rytlock and offered a hand, inciting the Tribune by his side.

An offer Rytlock huffed at, sitting by a distance.

“I didn't come here to talk, and neither have you invited me to exchange empty words. What is the catch, Bangar?" Rytlock asked, his brows dropping.

“The catch is nothing. I remember how talented you were in the Fahrar. The potential you possessed and wasted with Destiny's Edge. Do you remember what followed? What… could we have?"

“I—" started Rytlock, shaking his head. “Is this a talk about Logan? Or the others? We worked well together. Our nations are at peace, for once, and you're wasting it instead of helping us. We had something."

“At what price, Rytlock."

Bangar's voice was sour… But he shook his head.

“I didn't invite you to converse about it. You're too headstrong to care about my opinion. Neither do you care what our people endured," said Bangar as he reached for his shoulder pads, removing them with one flick. “But, this is a quality I valued. You kept pushing even when the other warbands stepped away. But it makes you inquisitive. I know you want nothing but to prod. There is nothing you want but to put my actions and motivations in question. You won't find any failings."

“They are our allies! And you want us to separate, to stand alone against the Dragons' threat? Or with Jormag's help?" asked Rytlock, nearly fuming.

“They are a bigger threat. Tyria survived through the Dragons. But the humans? They are the invaders, and we have been pushing them back ever since. We... are the solution to them."

“Which solution? You will exterminate them? You will crush them? They are not alone; the other imperators will oppose you. The other races will stand in your path, Bangar."

“Then, help me," answered Bangar. All the while, Rytlock gritted his teeth. Again, the attempt to persuade him.

“I won't condone your acts Was it all you wanted us to talk about? I won't join you. I will, too, be on your path."

“Then. Let's remember before our paths clash and leave one of us dead."

“Remember what?" cut Rytlock, snarling.

“Our nights together."

With a clang, Rytlock watched Bangar's chest piece drop, revealing that auburn fur all over that muscular body. From that furry neck to those large and chiseled pectorals and muscular belly. Years of working as an Imperator, barely on the frontline, hadn't impacted Bangar's well-defined and wondrous body. He was a fighter, a soldier, through and through. Yet, an old partner, Rytlock, watched approach, the metal scrapping against the stone until their heads were inches away… Until their snouts met and rubbed, Bangar's cold noise bringing a shiver to Rytlock's body.

“I cannot," retorted Rytlock. Yet, he felt not only blood pump in his body and through his loins but also the memory arising from the depths.

They had been partners. They fought, they clashed, they hated one another. Bangar spurned Rytlock for associating with humans. Rytlock hated him for being such an old guard who followed the same rhetoric. But they had been partners. They shared females willing to bear a cub and knew to keep it quiet. It was against the honor and reputation to honor a female of such a low value, many would say. But Bangar wasn't above it. And… He sometimes did it for the pleasure of it. Many nights, Rytlock and Bangar would share a bed outside the Black Citadel. They constantly bickered, fought… But they always returned to the bedroll. They did so many times; even one time, they did it in an old tent after their escort had been killed on a journey East. They had been covered with blood, reeking of sweat, and sticky. But it had been a wondrous experience to feel Bangar's tightening hole around his mast and… Well, to hear his Imperator's moans. But none revealed it, and none spoke of the Imperator's submissive desires.

“Because of your loyalty? This is nothing about loyalty and honor, Rytlock. We know it. We had a rule: Never to speak of it; Never to mention it. This will probably be the last time we will be alone together."

“Are we truly alone?"

“Yes," confirmed Bangar. “I sent my scouts away with the order to stall anyone from following you, nothing more."

Rytlock pondered those words… But then, he sighed as he, too, removed the pauldron's straps and let them drop. Then, his gauntlets, his chest piece. Part by part, he stripped in front of his former superior. His dull brown fur exposed, he proudly showed the scars he had gained over the fights. Not by lack of talents but rather by formidable foes that would have crushed lesser.

Scars Bangar reached, stroking one across Rytlock's left shoulder. But it didn't hurt. Any longer.

“That meeting was only for us to meet and fuck?"

“Yes," confirmed Bangar once more. The scarred flesh was soft under the thumb pads. But as Bangar's thumb descended, he found the collarbone and stopped. “Strip."

A retort was on Rytlock's lips. He thought about it, about pushing back. He could; he had nothing to honor. Bangar had betrayed him and the Legion, put him in a difficult situation, even worsened the wedge with his son. There was no reason for Rytlock to give in. Yet, he continued. His boots dropped, the front and back plates undone. Then, he worked on the belt and the tassets. The first opened and dropped, as for the seconds, they didn't follow right away. There was some resistance from the metal skirt. But through grunts, he managed to pull them away… And threw them down. Before him, Bangar remained still and pleased.

“Strip."

One word, one order. Rytlock grunted, but pushed his thumbs against the layers of chainmail and the hemp below. He wiggled his posterior, his tail swinging at the thought. And then… It dropped. His pants, his dignity, his Charrhood. All dropped.

“Nothing has changed," said Bangar, as if to confirm it.

“Of course, nothing has changed," scoffed Rytlock, crossing his arms over his chest.

What did he expect? A vulva would've grown between his legs instead of a cock? He scoffed again, glancing down. Everything was there: his dark brown, but fluffy, scrotum weighed heavily by his testicles; his sheathed cock, still dripping and simmering with fluids inside those skin folds; the bushy pubes almost hiding away the pink spot where his cocktip was. Everything was there; everything was as normal; as expected.

Everything but whom Rytlock had before his eyes. Bangar.

He, too, started to strip, and steel dropped. Charr's armors were heavy-fitted and full of straps. For someone unaccustomed, it was a chore. Not for the two, as they merely glanced at one another while Bangar's armor pieces fell and clanged.

Boots, belts, tassets, pants. Nothing was left hidden from the Tribune. Powerful thighs and muscular legs, fitting of a warrior.

As for his private parts, they were fitting. Once they dropped and Bangar's genitals were out in the open, Rytlock could observe that cock, pink and covered with spikes, slowly rising from its sheath. Bangar was well-endowed, but most Charrs were so. None had managed to meet with Rytlock's sheer width and length… Bangar… He looked small in comparison, despite the rising and glistening erection: of sweat, of precum, of urine.

“Closer, Rytlock."

Another order the Tribune followed, using his feet to push the armor pieces aside until his groin was close to Bangar's, yet he remained sheathed while his partner was eager… Expectant, desiring.

Enough to go on his knees. But not dropping.

Rather than going down directly, Bangar took his time. His snout rushed against Rytlock's furry chest and descended. Along the belly he sniffed, the lower belly he nudged, the groin he licked, along the sheath he kissed.

By the end, Bangar's mouth was over the folds, his prickling tongue dancing against the skin and… Yet, prodding it. He prodded it, dared even to slide a tongue where the perfume would be the strongest and most pungent. Venturing there was akin to foretasting all that had graced Rytlock's organ in the last few days, since he had the comfort of a thorough clean-up.

Yet, Bangar wasn't bothered.

That tongue delved deeper, pressed on the cock's underside, then the right side, above, danced along the organ and collected the fluids before bringing it back to Bangar's mouth… And as the cock slowly grew, driven by the blood pushing and throbbing within, the former Imperator retreated and allowed Rytlock to reach his full mast. A length so imposing it could be compared to an arm's length and width. A monster equally fitted by his testicles, churning with needs and life, now he was aroused.

“I will tak-"

“Silence, Rytlock."

Order.

Rytlock stopped, muzzling his words as he watched the Betrayer return to his cock. The long snout was ready, the hot air emanating from the nostrils brushing the pubes… The lips pressed against the rigid and humid organ. But it wasn't to take it inside, merely to brush. It didn't stop, with Bangar's hands reaching for Rytlock's testicles, backed up after weeks of no moments with a female. They had none in the encampment. Human females? Aplenty, but they were brittle… And strange. They wanted him to roar, purr, or ask for belly rubs.

He shivered.

“A problem?"

“Nothing."

Nothing, this was a moment between Bangar and him, not weaklings, not females, not humans. Especially not humans. He sighed, feeling the deft fingers press against his nutsack, digging within them and eliciting… Well, a purr. Short-lived, but adding to his peeking and rising erection. His cock had pulled on the sheath's folds from the erection, depositing and slathering Bangar's saliva all over it, over the dark red flesh below. He grumbled, too, when feeling Bangar's fresh breath against his cock. He groaned, the stroke going over the spines and the cockhead, over the corona and the veiny length. His legs could be weak, but he didn't. He maintained his posture despite his body attempting to lead him on and drop. He didn't; he wouldn't allow himself to be like a weakling.

“Make you comfortable, Rytlock."

Again, an order. Rytlock followed, grunting while Bangar's muzzle retracted, and so did his breath. He sat, his fluffy posterior handling the charge while Bangar took said charge and advanced. Prowling, the former Imperator advanced and observed Rytlock's imposing organ. He gauged it, watched… And then, with a growl, he opened his muzzle to usher the tip within. Again, his breath was colder than the room's temperature. The sweltering heat was gone once inside, and it was somehow as much displeasing as tempting when that long and coarse tongue danced against the cock.

It danced, coiled, and rolled, giving many arguments to honor Bangar's prehensile tongue. Its coarse presence was a difficult sensation to bear. It was a rubbing that stole whimpers and breaths out of Rytlock when his sensitive flesh was brushed and titillated, sometimes pulled from a long lapping motion. But as those sensations were unnerving, intense, crushing, so was the reprieve when Bangar's mouth gave him a second to breathe. A moment of peace solely to be followed by another lick, another dance, another brush against his cocktip but nary his urethra. Yet.

As the sweeping tongue continued and collected whatever fluids had coalesced onto Rytlock's cock, forming a greasy sheen, its approach relentlessly pushed closer to the urethra until one… That one was touched. Yes, Bangar teased it. Not to penetrate or assault it, merely to push and nudge Rytlock's weak spot.

“You can stop," Rytlock growled, his voice low. That was enough. He reached out, placed his paw on Bangar's muzzle, and pushed against it, glancing at those strange eyes that watched back at him, but... accepted.

Accepted and stood up, ascending from his position and exposing his own Charrhood. His cock throbbed hard, dripping with fluids and excitation. However, Bangar didn't move closer to have it pressed against Rytlock's face. He wasn't going to allow the Tribune the pleasure.

Rather, he turned and lifted his tail, presented his backside with no shame.

“Prepare me."

Rytlock complied, his clawed hands reaching for the firm buttcheeks. He dug into them and separated them, pulling on the crevice until he saw Bangar's sweaty but clean hole. The fur was pristine save for the expected sweat from working out or walking through the mountain, something even Rytlock expected at the moment.

But with it came the rough and potent musk associated with a Charr: raw, heavy to the nose, with hints of powder and smoke. Rytlock inhaled it and huffed it until his nostrils dilated. Then, he opened his mouth and outstretched his prehensile tongue.

While Bangar's movements had been a relative dance, moving with a fluidity and coiling, ceaselessly touching a spot only to leave it bereft of attention the second after, Rytlock was… Brutal. His tongue assailed the same place, frontal and vicious, like a battering ram. He forced on it, his tickling tip touching and stroking the wrinkled hole. But as Bangar huffed, puffed, and grunted, Rytlock bowed and chose another strategy. He went from picking at the center, probing it, to rolling his tongue along the rim. Clockwise moved his tongue, pressing along the wrinkle and tugging on them through his tongue's papillae. Beneath his action, he censed Bangar's resistance as well as the pleasure he felt, the tension through the hind legs and even the cheeks clenching, naturally. Bangar, too, was the victim of such pleasure, but Rytlock didn't utter a comment. Needless to say, this would cause frustration for both sides. And they desperately needed that moment, both.

That moment? He was certain as much as the weight he sported between his legs, and Bangar between his own.

He grunted, growled, and sighed, his warm breath warming the hole until its lukewarm surfaces heated up and the inners opened up. Then, as the weakness presented itself, Rytlock's tongue forced. No longer did it turn and twist; it returned to its natural and brutish assault, forcing through the opening while saliva dripped along the inner walls, thawing them. He sensed the flesh release its embrace, easing off while his prodding went further and further, finding once more that spot Bangar had been eager to ask Rytlock to press, touch, and caress. A spot along which he drummed but for a moment, returning to his preparation.

He forced, and without much more to do, he retracted his tongue and allowed saliva to back up within his mouth.

For a moment, he allowed himself to watch the former Imperator's winking hole, those heavy testicles, the precum pouring between their legs. He watched the tension heighten and admired how he held the traitor and betrayer between his hands. He could do anything; he could break him or catch him. He was in a posture of weakness.

However, his tongue returned to the orifice, profuse with saliva to ensure the preparation and Bangar was lubricated… Just. Enough.

“Stop."

Another order, but Rytlock had already stopped before and retracted his muzzle, covered with sweat. He licked his lips, sampling the rough and salty liquid while Bangar turned and approached. He widened his stance; his gaze focused on Rytlock while his blue irises glanced at the Charr's body.

“You will take me," he said, his voice coarse.

“As expected," retorted Rytlock, reaching out for Bangar's cheeks as the former Imperator advanced and squatted.

With Rytlock's firm grip anchoring and helping Bangar, the former Imperator had no issue squatting and pressing his buttcheeks against Rytlock's cock. He grunted, as expected, from the warm contact against his hole. But he grunted more from the sensation of that cocktip going within. It pressed against the tight orifice, and the orifice widened through pressure, gravity, and strength. And so… Both sighed.

Bangar from feeling the pressure within him grow, and Rytlock from the pressure around his cock.

“You're tight, today," commented Rytlock with a gruff voice, feeling the muscles press against his cockhead. It felt more difficult than usual… But so was intensified the pleasure he felt from the sphincter closing on his shaft. Along came the joy of being massaged, of enjoying the long embrace as the redder Charr started to lower his hips… Further, further.

“Silence, Rytlock," Bangar growled, his tail flailing in the air and his teeth showing out of anger, while the length was… Less than a half inside.

Gone was the penetrative gaze from the former Imperator, his eyelids clenched tight as much as his jaw while the progress slowed and… Reinforced the pressure around Rytlock's shaft, pushing him to the limit.

“Hrmph… You are… Pretty tight," continued Rytlock, feeling he couldn't go any further at the moment. Even if he had been in a better posture, he felt like he had hit a wall and had to retreat.

Something… he did.

Not directly, but by lifting Bangar's heavy body. With his hands, and through the help of those powerful thighs, he forced Bangar to ascend. Followed the sensation of his penile spines rubbing against the walls and being forced to bend, ever so slightly, before their grip was released and then returned. The sensation was gritting yet pleasing. Non-Charrs didn't know about that pleasure and couldn't comprehend it: there was a slight pain, but it also followed the satisfaction of marking a hole with that sensation.

Yet, as he watched Bangar grunt and growl, his teeth gritting together, he didn't know why the former Imperator loved to be fucked that way so much.

But it wasn't his problem if Bangar was masochistic or crazy. He was undoubtedly both for having betrayed the other legions and led a path of conflict against the other nations. A thought Rytlock experienced before it fled and disappeared when his hands ceased the movement up. Once he had almost pulled out, he gripped Bangar to impale him.

With that, Rytlock would be certain the Charr's abused inners would make the former Imperator feel the penetration with an increased intensity… And so, Bangar roared while his cock throbbed and pointed right at Rytlock's muzzle, albeit only a few droplets of precum spurted out and landed on the Tribune's belly.

“Silence, Tribune!" growled Bangar, his voice low… Extremely low.

That time, Rytlock didn't retort. He kept it quiet while his thumbs dug deeper within the cheeks, feeling the muscles heat up and tense as he pushed them up once more. It was a slow movement, returning to the rubbing, gripping, and bending from the penile spines until the tip was almost out. And again, the drop.

A pace which stole grunt from both, and yet accelerated. It grew, too, in intensity. The Charrs' movement grew in potency as Bangar's nuts started to bang against Rytlock's abdominal muscles, battering them as much as Rytlock's enormous cock battered Bangar's inside. It was a duel, of a sort, with the two Charr showing off their grit and will while their bodies worked against them. And for Rytlock, he knew he hadn't lost. Had never lost ever since he had learned about Bangar's spot, about that prostate that needed and begged to be touched, abused, pressed.

He growled.

He growled some more when he leaned forward, using his chest as a makeshift support for the balls, stopping their slapping while his angled dick rubbed against the spot. He watched his current opponent moan, saliva dripping from his mouth… And then, he sensed that tight sphincter tighten around his dick, at the limit of the possible. Rytlock's eyes widened from the sudden sensation, observed Bangar's discreet smirk…

And he, too, started to moan and salivate when Bangar's hips moved despite Rytlock's locked hands.

The Tribune didn't know where that strength came from, but he watched and sensed Bangar's body moving. He sensed the muscles acting as one when the former Imperator moved up and gave his cock a long kiss, the sphincter extremely tight despite the spines' constant prod. It started to hurt, too, not in a good way. But Rytlock wasn't one to give up when his claws dug into the posterior, instantly welcomed by a sensation of wetness around his fur.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the searing heat surrounding his fingertip while he gave a thrust and pulled down.

He expected a mewl from Bangar. But again, the former Imperator roared and groaned, his cock spurting with more fluids while Rytlock imposed his pace. There was no giving up, yet. Hence, Rytlock continued to hit and rub, accelerating the pace until their united ragged breaths were the last vocalization left. Out of breath, out of stamina, out of energy… Yet, the two continued as that breeding lasted for what felt like an hour. Pride.

Rytlock's cock was raw, sensitive, and it was only through sheer force of will he had managed to push down his eruptive orgasm. But each descent was a quiver against his mind, a drum against his prostate, a pressure adding up within the gland until he would give up.

But as he looked at Bangar, he saw the same weakness. No longer was his opponent attempting to hide the pleasure and the pain that was inflicted upon him.

No longer was his opponent attempting to hide the desire and need… So, there was the bite. One powerful bite was inflicted upon Rytlock's shoulder. He glanced and looked, yet remained moving, and his jaw remained static. He looked at Bangar and watched the former Imperator's teeth dig within his shoulder, muscles and bone alike. Blood dripped, warm, and sticky to the fur. It flowed, mixed with saliva, while the movement accelerated, and so did the moans.

It was… A fight. A brutal fight.

Rytlock's claws dug deeper, producing more gashes from which the red liquid poured. But as he dug, he lifted and forced Bangar to move, lift, ascend. He growled while his powerful muscles coiled, even the shoulder by Bangar's jaw. He grunted, but continued… And then, he roared.

“Relying on petty tricks?" he shouted, only to glance at Bangar's eyes—cold, shining, and glimmering with malice—until they stopped, glazed over, and closed.

Then, Rytlock's core was wet… Marked. His core, his chest, even his neck, but no further. He glanced down and watched the fluids spurting from Bangar's urethra right onto his body. Then, back at the betrayer. He glanced… He growled. Then, he resumed. One last lift, one last push as he sensed Bangar's sphincter close up on his cock and clench it. He gritted his teeth.

He felt it.

The moment the pressure within his groin released. And so followed more sighs as his jaw released and all that need, all those pent-up desires he had kept for himself in the last weeks, had disappeared, dissipated. He smiled; he even smiled and grinned while he felt the warm and hot semen pour within Bangar. His tail swayed behind him; his ears flapped, his legs tensed… And yes, his scrotum tensed.

At that instant, everything, all that had been around Rytlock disappeared, vanished, became nothing but pleasure. A surrounding and intense pleasure that had reached its peak… Only then to ascend further when feeling Bangar's sphincter clenching his dick and milking him. The former Imperator was still biting his shoulder off. But it didn't matter. Even the adrenaline coursing through his veins joined and amplified the instant and sensations.

He growled, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to drift.

His breathing eased, and his focus became fickle. As for the pain, it was gone, replaced by a dull warmth around his shoulder.

Finally… It receded. His cock softened, yet he didn't go entirely limp. His scrotum released, and the pressure within his legs eased… So. Remained. Nothing. Nothing of this moment as Rytlock opened his eyes upon Bangar. His Former Imperator. Partner. Enemy. Potential Nemesis.

He glanced at those powerful blue eyes. Then at that fur, then below… He glanced at Bangar's round belly, then up, back to the Former Imperatore.

“Another round, Rytlock? Or you're too weak?"

“Ah! I'm not! I'll prove you wrong!"

Maybe he boasted, but it was what Bangar thought, what the Ice Legion desired. Rytlock was a prime stud, a good male, a fitting male for a brood. He had the strength to sire Ryland, but he could do more.

He might be a terrible father, a poor excuse of a leader. But he was… A good sire.

And the Ice Legion needed more soldiers, more combatants, more generals.

Even if it meant for the Imperator to bear them. All. Of. Them.

He grinned, watching Rytlock's glazed-over eyes. And he reached for those lips, sharing with it the taste of blood and of ice.