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Farcaster-native Erotic Fiction:
âThe Rose of Daggerpointâ
A forbidden tale from the court of /farcastles
In the forty-second year of the Sundering War, when smoke from the Northâs dragonforges still smeared the southern skies, and the banners of the Twin Castles bled red and blue from years of rain and bloodshed, a girl of no great birth but scandalous beauty was summoned to the court of Queen Drakara herself.
Her name was Isolde Vale. Daughter of a disgraced botanist. Tamer of venomous serpents. And nowâby an unspoken wager between fate and follyâshe stood cloaked in violet silk at the gate of Daggerpoint, the South's most treacherous stronghold, a place where lords whispered treason between sips of claret and mistresses tasted poison from one anotherâs painted mouths.
The guards let her pass not because she belonged, but because desire outranks suspicion.
They could smell it on her. The red jasmine oil at her throat. The ink of old spellbooks still staining her fingertips. The taste of rebellion in her breath.
She was not the sort of girl one dared to touch without consequence.
She was the sort of girl one wanted to touchâdesperately, ruinouslyâanyway.
---
The Queen received her in her solar, a chamber of warm stone and velvet shadows, high above the barracks where the cries of sparring soldiers and rutting pages blended like the basso and treble of war.
Queen Drakara was draped in chainmail too fine to be practical, each ring etched with draconic runes, the metal resting on bare skin like a thousand tiny mouths whispering secrets. Her crown was crooked. Her smile was worse.
"You are the gift from the North," she said, circling Isolde. âThe bard theyâve sent to serenade my defeat.â
"I bring only stories, Your Grace,â Isolde said with a curtsy laced with mockery. âWhat you do with them is your own sin.â
The Queenâs hand curled under her chin.
âI do so love sin.â
---
Later, in the Queenâs bedchamberâwhere the tapestries showed anatomically explicit sagas of conquest and divine surrenderâIsoldeâs silks pooled to the floor like melting sorcery.
"Do not mistake this for affection," Drakara warned as she bound Isoldeâs wrists in gold-threaded rope.
"Affection is for wives," Isolde whispered. "Rope is for those who know how to use it."
The Queenâs eyes glittered. "And you, girl, do you know how to bleed for a cause?"
"I bleed only when it pleases me," Isolde murmured, "and only for those who ask sweetly."
Drakara didnât ask.
---
Isolde was not a spy, not exactly. But she was a woman of appetites, and those appetites made her dangerous.
She had, in the week since arriving, already learned the shape of every Southern lordâs desire:
âLord Vael, with his pathetic need for a tongue too clever and teeth too cruel.
âMistress Elire, who dressed like a widow and drank like a knight, asking always to be watched but never touched.
âThe Lady Captain, who preferred pain to poetry, but wept like a hymn when you whispered both.
Isolde fed them all stories.
Of siege weapons lined with pleasure charms. Of swords that moaned when drawn. Of castles whose moats were filled not with water, but with the milk of enchantresses. They listened, they laughed, they disrobedâand they told her everything.
But Drakara... Drakara told her nothing.
She only took.
---
The Queen was a glutton in every sense.
She devoured Isolde like a siege engine devours stone, with hands that bruised like kisses and kisses that bit like oaths. She chained her to the war table and poured hot wine into her mouth while recounting each Northern city sheâd burned.
"You call yourself a bard," Drakara said, licking her fingers of syrup and sweat. "But youâve never sung in tongues. Shall I teach you?"
Isolde writhed beneath her. âIf I scream, will the gods blush?â
"No," Drakara purred. "But the walls might moan.â
---
The Queen's war council began meeting in the bathhouse now, where Isolde floated among them, her limbs like lily stalks and her hair pinned with jeweled thorns. No one questioned her presence. To do so was to be branded prudishâa fate worse than death in Daggerpoint.
She heard plans. She stole maps. She passed secrets in the folds of her tongue to a Northern hawk who came each dusk to her window.
And then one evening, while the Queen lay drowsy beside her, fingers idly stroking the bardâs inner thigh like a scribeâs quill across forbidden parchment, Isolde whispered:
âThere is a weapon buried beneath this castle. You know that, donât you?â
Drakaraâs fingers stopped.
"Who told you that?"
"You did," Isolde said, rolling atop her, binding her hands with the same rope once used on herself.
âIn your sleep.â
---
What happened next is still debated.
Some say Drakara allowed it. That she wanted to be tied down, betrayed, conquered by beauty and song. That it was not treason if the Queen came from it.
Others say Isolde never left that chamber alive. That she remains chained in the dungeons beneath Daggerpoint, moaning secrets into the stone.
But the truth?
The truth is far more delicious.
Isolde did find the weapon. A crown of old blood and older magic, once worn by the Sealed King, buried in a ritual chamber far below the keep.
She placed it on her head. It sang to her.
Not in words. In cravings.
---
By morning, the castle gates stood open. The guards had vanished or defected. Queen Drakara was missing.
And Isolde Vale stood atop the ramparts, crowned and naked, her body sheened in oil and glittering with stolen rings, declaring herself:
"Mistress of Daggerpoint. Warden of the Southern Moan. Queen-Consort of War and Want."
The North did not attack that week. Nor the next.
Even desire, it seemed, required time to regroup.
---
In brothels from Cragspire to the Thorned Coast, they still sing of Isolde.
A witch of pleasure. A bard of bondage. A queen who conquered a queen not with armiesâbut with appetite.
They call her the Rose of Daggerpoint.
And her thorns, they say, are still wet. 1 reply
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