Ch 8.4

All the guild leaders of Barville were summoned under urgent writ to the city of Despóra, where the Warlord’s Council was convening—this time alongside a diplomat of the Church.

The call was sudden. Abrupt.

Such summons were rare, reserved only for moments when something large—something disruptive—was about to be announced.
Yet whatever that something was, it hadn’t surfaced yet.

Within the Tranquil Pavilion, inside a quiet chamber tucked away from the night’s revelry, a woman sat with composed elegance.

Mesphine.

Her long, vivid hair cascaded down her back, small horns curving subtly from her temples as she leaned over an open ledger. Candlelight glinted off ink and parchment as her quill moved with practiced precision. Every line she read, every number she marked, carried weight.

One of the Pavilion’s Three Royal Mistresses.
It's crown jewel.
And tonight, it's acting overseer.

The night had just begun, and Mesphine was going through the ledgers. Onteko’s absence had placed the guild’s reins firmly in her hands, and she intended to run it without flaw.

Truth be told, she had little interest in returning to her usual duties. Her body still ached, a lingering soreness reminding her of the wolf’s excess workout.
Thankfully, the administration demanded clarity—not endurance.

Her quill paused.

Footsteps echoed faintly outside her door.
Then a sharp, tense voice cut through the hall.

“You cannot go in!”
The door slammed open.

A man strode into the room as if it already belonged to him—tall, broad‑shouldered, handsome in a rough, predatory way. His shirt hung loose and half‑unbuttoned, scars tracing his chest and arms like trophies from old battles. He looked every bit the ideal warrior.

Except for one thing. He was human.

And he had just barged into the Dorm Mother’s quarters like it was a roadside tavern.

“Where’s the hag—”

He stopped mid‑step. His gaze locked onto the woman seated behind Onteko’s desk.

“…Huh.”

His expression shifted instantly, lips curling into a slow grin as his eyes dragged over her.
“And who’s this lovely lady?”

A servant girl rushed in after him, pale and flustered.
“L‑Lady Mesphine, I’m so sorry—he wouldn’t listen, he just forced his way in—”

Mesphine lifted a hand, her smile calm and controlled.
“It’s fine,” she said gently. “I’ll handle this. You may go.”

Relief washed over the girl’s face. She bowed quickly and fled.

The man didn’t bother hiding his interest now, standing boldly as his gaze roamed over Mesphine like she was something laid out for purchase. Mesphine leaned back slightly, golden eyes cool.

“So,” she said, her voice silk laid over steel, “you must be one of the Church envoys lodging in our garden cabins. A member of that… ragtag crew.” She tilted her head. “What brings you here?”

"I am Wallus," the man stated, drawing himself up with a confident air. "Captain of the Bastion Guild and currently serving as the acting Marshal for Envoy Bishop Fernandes of the Church of Virtues." A smirk touched his lips. "We'll be staying here until our emissary is back. Thank you, by the way, for looking after our ship at the port. We have been thoroughly enjoying your hospitality."

“I understand. You’re dismissed, if that is everything.” Mesphine replied.

But Wallus stood his ground, simply staring at Mesphine, taking her in from head to toe.

Mesphine eventually faced Wallus again. “Is there something more?” she inquired.

“There is,” Wallus mumbled.
Mesphine’s forced smile didn't reach her eyes.
“Then state your business. And keep it brief.”

Wallus planted a hand on the desk, shamelessly leaning closer, his gaze openly suggestive. “I actually came to ask Madam Onteko to… expand that hospitality,” he stated, his voice thick with insinuation. “The Church will pay, of course.” He chuckled softly. “But I never expected to meet you, Lady Mesphine.”

His eyes glittered. “They weren’t exaggerating. Beauty carved straight from heaven. A goddess, even.” He licked his lips. “No wonder they say, it makes a man want to taste paradise.”

A sudden chill permeated the room.

Mesphine’s pleasant smile vanished, her eyes hardening. “Careful,” she said coldly. “For a devout servant of the Church, calling beastwomen ‘goddesses’ borders dangerously on heresy.”

Her glare was sharp, cutting into him like a knife. “If I were you,” she added, her voice sharp and measured, “I would mind my tongue.”

Wallus merely laughed. “A sharp tongue, I like that. I like girls with a bit of fiesty.”

Wallus reached for her.

It was quick. Casual—the kind of grab made by a man who believed the world owed him obedience. The instant his fingers brushed her wrist, heat exploded.

Mesphine’s mana surged on instinct. Thick crimson‑black scales burst from her skin, racing up her arm in a blink as the temperature spiked violently. Wallus hissed and jerked back, pain searing into his palm as if he’d touched a furnace.

“Shit—!”

Her anger flared with it. The scales burned brighter, hotter. The desk beneath her hand began to smoke—then ignite. Flames licked up the edge, devouring parchment as ink blistered and ledgers curled into blackened ruin.

Mesphine’s eyes widened. “—Damn it!”

She snapped out of it, seized the flower vase, and dumped it over the desk. Water hissed as it smothered the fire, steam and smoke choking the room. She slammed the empty vase down, chest rising sharply.

“Look what you did!” she snapped. “That hag is going to skin me alive for this.”

Wallus stared at his reddened hand, flexing his fingers—then laughed. “Well, that wasn’t my—” He paused, eyes flicking back to her as his grin crept in, slow and filthy. “…Still. Even your temper turns me on. Makes me want to tame you.”

Mesphine’s gaze went glacial. “Enough,” she said flatly. “Say why you’re here. Now.”

Wallus straightened, confidence swelling back into him like rot. “Tonight,” he said, voice thick, “I want you. And your other two royal mistresses.” He winked. “I’ll give you pleasure you’ve never even imagined. Maybe then you’ll finally understand what it means to be a woman.”

Normally, Mesphine would have retched. Tonight, the words landed closer to home than she liked. Her expression didn’t change.

“The royal mistresses are off duty,” she said coolly. “Now get back to your quarters. I have work to do, and I’m not entertaining your cheap one-liners.”

Wallus’s smile cracked. “But I’m looking at you right now, aren’t I?” he said sharply. “Stop bullshitting me. You don’t want to upset the Church.”

Mesphine scoffed. “You’ve already been given more hospitality than you deserve.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’m the acting guildmaster here, and I’m ordering you to leave.” Her eyes burned into him. “I doubt the Church wants to burn bridges because one of their dogs didn’t get to bone the royal mistresses.”

Wallus’s face twisted. “The fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Mesphine spat, her voice sharp with contempt. “Without the Church’s control, you are utterly meaningless—a handsome shell with nothing inside. I am only tolerating your presence because Onteko ordered it. If the decision were mine, you and your men would have been expelled days ago.”

Wallus slammed his fist onto the desk. “You bitch!” he snarled. “Don’t get cocky just because you’re hot. I’m Wallus of the Bastion Guild. I’ve slaughtered your kind on the shores for a living. One word from me and this place gets branded heretical. Your guild shut down. Your girls will be sold as slaves.”

Silence.

Mesphine rose slowly from her chair. “I could kill you right now,” she said calmly, her eyes having an icy resolve.

For the first time, Wallus hesitated. He felt it—the pressure in the air. This woman wasn’t just a courtesan. She was a predator wrapped in silk.

But Mesphine knew the truth. If she did it, the Church would come down like a hammer. If the Warlord’s Council sided with them, the Isle would sell the Pavilion out without blinking. Her jaw tightened.

Then she smiled—cold, controlled.

“I apologize for my outburst,” she said. “The royal mistresses are currently unavailable; they are off duty.” She motioned towards the exit. “The others are at your disposal. Take them. Enjoy them. And get out of my sight.”

Wallus fixed her with a glare before his expression shifted to a smirk. “Very well, if those are your terms. I accept your offer,” he said. “You will regret this later.” He spun around and marched away, a palpable wave of anger emanating from him.

This guild will pay for insulting me, he thought. They just don’t know it yet.

The door slammed shut.

Mesphine exhaled slowly and sank back into her chair, fingers pressing against her temple.
“…I am absolutely not cut out to be a guild leader.”

Before the thought could settle, the door burst open again.

A woman stepped inside with a coy, almost playful smile. Her lips were freshly painted, her hair slightly disheveled in a way that spoke of hurried departure rather than neglect.

“Pardon the intrusion, Acting Guild Leader,” she said lightly.

Mesphine looked up, already irritated.
“Haria,” she sighed, “you can just call me Mesphine. And shouldn’t you be on duty right now?”

Haria’s smile didn’t fade. “My client was… easily satisfied,” she replied with a shrug. “But that’s not important.”

She took a step closer, her voice lowering just enough to carry weight.
“We have a situation. One that needs your attention immediately.”

Mesphine’s brows twitched.

That familiar, unpleasant knot formed in her stomach—the kind that never preceded good news.

“…Of course we do,” she muttered, pushing herself up from the chair.