"Harold?"
My smirk abruptly disappeared as my whole body froze.
When I looked back, I noticed Rosaluna standing there at the entrance of the door with one hand resting on it.
Rosaluna's delicate pink eyes—soft as sakura petals in moonlight—shifted from my face to the bed, and then down, down, as her gaze followed the pale curve of our mother's thigh to where the hem of her gown had risen, caught and bunched above her hips, just enough to expose a sliver of white cotton stretched taut across her mound, parted slightly in sleep. A wet shimmer clung there, betraying the act just committed.
She froze. Her pupils dilated. One hand went to her lips, as if to muffle a gasp.
"W–What are you doing?" She stuttered.
I felt my spine stiffen—not in fear, but the old reflex of needing to think quickly.
Keep calm.
Keep control.
You've handled worse, James.
Gently, without urgency, I let go of Isabella's legs and pulled her gown back down, smoothing it carefully over her hips like tucking a child to sleep. Her breathing remained steady, mouth slack in post-orgasmic softness, lashes fluttering faintly. Whatever storm had gripped her during the nightmare, it had broken, and now she slept in still waters.
I stood, letting the sheets fall into place, and turned to face Rosaluna.
"What do you think I was doing?" I asked.
She blinked rapidly. Her jaw worked, but no words came immediately. Finally, she murmured, "I—I don't know…"
Of course she didn't. Poor Rosaluna. So bright, so earnest, and yet her world was shaped by books and Isadora's rigid lessons. She had never whispered with friends about boys, never seen the raw mechanics of lust played out in the flesh. She lived in theory, not in heat.
And yet she had seen enough.
She had seen me between mother's legs. She had seen my tongue pressed where no son's should be. So I had to guide her understanding now. Carefully. Rationally.
"Come," I said, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder and steering her from the room. "Let's not wake her."
Rosaluna glanced over her shoulder as we stepped out, her brow creased with worry. But mother remained still, nestled into her pillow, lips slightly parted, the outline of her nipples visible through the thin cotton of her nightgown. I closed the door behind us.
"What did you see, sister?" I asked softly.
Her cheeks flushed instantly, eyes dropping. "Y-You… were licking mom's p…peehole…"
I almost smiled at her choice of words—so childish, so naïve.
"Yes, I was," I confirmed. "Do you know why?"
She shook her head, nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot, fingers toying with the hem of her tunic. Her body language screamed discomfort. But not disgust. Confusion. Curiosity.
"You know about mother's nightmares," I began.
"Yes," she said quickly. "I always hear her. She cries, thrashes. I try to wake her when it gets too bad."
I nodded. "Waking her up can work, yes. But big sister… if it happens every night? If you keep waking her, never letting her rest—what do you think will happen after a year of that?"
She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her brows drew together in concern.
"She'll… go mad," she whispered.
"Exactly," I said, drawing her in. "Her mind needs rest. Peace. But she can't escape the nightmares. They follow her, night after night. So I had to find a new method."
Her breath quickened, lips parted slightly. "A… method?"
I leaned against the wall, folding my arms as I spoke. Calm. Rational. Authoritative. "The brain is complex, sister. It responds to trauma, yes—but also to pleasure. If you drown out the pain with enough sensation, enough warmth… the nightmare doesn't stand a chance. It gets overwritten. Smothered."
She blinked. "Pleasure… like… like that?"
"Did she look in pain to you?"
Her cheeks deepened in hue, nearly the shade of blooming roses. "N-No… she looked… good… she moaned and… shivered."
"She felt peace," I said. "Release. She drifted into real sleep, not that torment cycle she's trapped in."
Rosaluna looked away again, but her gaze was unfocused now, inward. Wrestling.
"But licking… there… gives pleasure?" She asked.
Gods. That voice. Soft, unsure. Desperate for understanding, and utterly untouched.
"It's one of the most sensitive places on a woman's body," I said, moving slowly closer. She didn't flinch. "Thousands of nerve endings. When stimulated properly… it floods the body with warmth. Pleasure. Even love, in some cases."
Her lips parted further. A tremble touched her throat.
"Where did you learn that?"
"A book," I said. "A rare one. From the old house. It burned, unfortunately."
"But…" she hesitated. "You were… using your tongue."
I stepped closer again. Close enough to see the fluttering pulse in her neck.
"I had to be gentle," I said. "Hands can be clumsy. The tongue… it's softer. Warmer. More precise."
She bit her lower lip.
I could see it—her thoughts spiraling, questions forming in that innocent head of hers.
"Do you understand it now?" I asked her.
Rosaluna looked at me, hesitating for a moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Uhm…"
I sighed, feeling the tightness in my chest loosen just a bit. I'd been ready to launch into a full-blown, overly complicated explanation—something long-winded and dramatic but luckily, she seemed to get it.
And I wasn't lying, not really. What I was doing—what I had to do—was the best way, maybe the only way, to keep Isabella from falling into those same terrifying nightmares again and again.
"Keep this secret though, big sister," I added, leaning in slightly.
"Eh? Why?" Rosaluna blinked, lifting her head to look me straight in the eye, her brows pinched in curiosity.
I hesitated for a beat, pretending to wrestle with myself, then said, "I read somewhere… we're not supposed to do that kind of thing unless we're in love. Like, love-love."
"But… you love Mother, right?" She asked, her head tilted in innocent confusion. "Then it's okay?"
She really didn't grasp the difference between familial love and romantic love. She was still so pure, so untouched by the complications of what love could become.
"I do love her," I replied slowly, frowning a little, letting my face crumple into something sadder than it needed to be. "But… I don't think she loves me back the same way. I doubt she'd understand. I doubt she'd accept it if she knew how I've been helping her."
Her lips parted slightly in shock. "W-What? Of course Mom loves you, little brother!"
"I'm not sure…" I shook my head, glancing away. "The book said only a father could do it… because that kind of love has to go both ways. The love between a man and a woman."
Rosaluna stared at me, her mouth open, eyes searching my face for answers she couldn't quite put into words. "I—I don't understand… Mom loves you like I love you and you love us don't you? That should be enough…"
I smiled faintly, shaking my head. "It's not the same, sis. If Mom finds out and doesn't understand, she'll tell me to stop. And if I stop… the nightmares will come back. She'll suffer again, alone, every night."
I clenched my fists tightly at my sides.
"I don't care if she hates me for it. I'll take that. But if she tells me to stop… I can't go against her wishes. I just—" I swallowed, my voice trailing off. "I don't know what'll happen then…"
For a moment, Rosaluna stood frozen, her hands fidgeting at the hem of her nightgown. She looked like she wanted to say something—maybe to protest or reassure—but the words wouldn't come.
"T-That is…" She whispered, biting her lip.
Then, gently, she reached out and patted my head, her hand trembling slightly.
"Don't worry, Harold," she said, managing a small smile through her nervousness. "I understand. I won't tell Mom. J-Just… make sure she sleeps well, okay?"
Hell yeah, I'll make sure she sleeps well, I thought to myself, though I kept the words locked safely behind my teeth.
"Thank you, big sister," I said softly.
"It's fine… I just feel bad," she murmured, dropping her hand and looking away. "I didn't even realize you were doing all this for her. I feel like I left all the responsibility on your shoulders…"
"Don't worry, big sister," I said, stepping forward and gently squeezing her arm. "I might be your little brother, but I'm strong enough to carry some of your burdens, too."
Her eyes softened.
"I know," she whispered. "Good night, little brother."
She turned and began walking toward her room, her steps slow, hesitant. Just as she reached the doorway, she stopped. Her hand hovered near the doorknob, and she turned her head halfway back toward me.
Her lips parted slightly like she wanted to ask something. Her cheeks began to flush, pink blossoming on pale skin. But whatever it was—whatever question had bloomed in her mind—she swallowed it. Instead, she darted inside, shutting the door with a soft click behind her.
I let out a breath.
This was close.
Very very close.
But I managed to convince Rosaluna, it really worked well that she had an innocent mind untouched by filth. Well the only thing she cared about was magic and us so it was understandable.
But mother…
I smirked glancing at her door.
[Isabella Eindoral] Love Gauge: [88%] 🩷
Soon enough she will fall.
The first pale threads of dawn crept through my bedroom window, pulling me from sleep with the gentle insistence I'd grown accustomed to over the years. My body stirred before my mind fully awakened—a habit carved deep by countless mornings of discipline and routine.
I dressed quietly, pulling on the worn leather tunic and sturdy boots that had become my second skin. The wooden floorboards knew my footsteps well enough not to creak as I made my way through the darkened hallway, past the closed doors where my family still slept.
My usual meditation spot waited for me in the small clearing behind our home—a circle of packed earth where I'd worn away the grass through years of practice. But today held something different. Something new.
After twenty minutes of stillness, I rose and walked to where I'd left it the a week before—a long ash wood lance, nearly seven feet from tip to butt. The weapon felt foreign yet familiar in my hands, like greeting an old friend after a long absence. I'd trained with lances before, though not with the dedication I'd given to other pursuits. Today, that would change.
The first thrust came slowly. I extended my arms, driving the steel point forward in a clean line, feeling the weight and balance of the weapon. Then again, faster this time. And again. Soon I fell into a rhythm—thrust, recover, thrust, recover—each movement flowing into the next like links in a chain.
Swords had never felt right in my hands. Too short, too intimate. They demanded a closeness to combat that left me feeling exposed, vulnerable. My body craved the freedom of movement that came with fighting bare-handed, relying on speed and instinct rather than steel. But the lance... the lance was different. It became an extension of myself, a natural growth of bone and sinew that reached far beyond my physical limits.
I spun the weapon overhead, letting it whistle through the air before bringing it down in a sweeping arc. The motion sent a thrill through my muscles—this felt right. This felt like home. I could keep an enemy at distance while still maintaining the fluid, dance-like movements that came naturally to me. The lance didn't fight my instincts; it amplified them.
Sweat began to bead on my forehead as I pushed through increasingly complex patterns. Thrust, spin, sweep, recover. The movements became meditative in their own way, my mind emptying of everything except the weight of the weapon and the precision of each strike. Time seemed to blur at the edges.
When I finally drove the lance point-first into the soft earth, my chest rose and fell with deep, satisfied breaths. Half an hour had passed, though it felt like minutes. I left the lance standing there like a sentinel.
I took my time washing away the sweat and grime of training with a shower. The hot water worked its way into my muscles, easing the pleasant ache that came from pushing my body to its limits. I dressed in clean clothes and left.
The kitchen was already alive with the gentle sounds of morning routine when I entered. The rich aroma of fresh bread and bacon filled the air. Mother moved between the stove and table efficiently.
Rosaluna sat at the table. She was picking at a piece of toast, her attention divided between breakfast and whatever thoughts occupied her mind.
"Good morning," I said, settling into my usual chair.
"Oh, good morning," Rosaluna replied, her face brightening with a smile.
Mother's reaction was different. She glanced up from where she was arranging sliced fruit on a platter, her eyes meeting mine for just a moment before darting away. "G-Good morning," she managed. Her cheeks held a faint flush, and she seemed to focus intently on her work, as if the precise arrangement of apple slices required her complete attention.
The change in her demeanor hadn't escaped my sister's notice.
"Mom, do you still have nightmares?" She asked suddenly.
I shot her a warning look, but she ignored me completely, her attention fixed on our mother.
Mother's hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their work. "Nightmares? Much less," she said, forcing a smile that looked more natural than it had any right to. "They're hardly worth mentioning anymore."
"You're sleeping well then?" Rosaluna asked.
"Yes, I am. What are these questions, daughter?" Mother asked, turning to face us fully. The smile remained, but there was something fragile about it.
"Oh no, it's just that I remember when I was a child, you had so many nightmares. You were unable to sleep most days. I would hear you walking the halls at night, or find you in the kitchen at dawn, exhausted but unable to rest," Rosaluna said.
"Oh yes, but it's nearly gone. I feel... really good. I—I am sleeping well," Mother said quickly, stumbling slightly over the words as if she'd caught herself before saying something else entirely. The smile returned, but it carried an edge of desperation now.
"I'm happy for you then," Rosaluna said, smiling happily.
But even as Mother smiled back, I could see the concern etched in the fine lines around her eyes, and underneath it all, threading through every expression and gesture, was guilt. Deep, abiding guilt that seemed to color everything she did, every word she spoke.
The rest of breakfast passed in more comfortable territory.
As we finished eating, I pushed back from the table and stretched. "I'm going hunting," I announced, already mentally preparing for the day ahead.
Rosaluna paused in gathering her things, turning toward me with a frown. "With Tom?"
"With Lisa."
"Alone?" The single word carried layers of meaning—concern for my safety, yes, but also something else. Something more personal.
"Yes, alone as always," I replied.
"Not like always!" Rosaluna protested, her voice rising slightl. "You started hunting alone with her only a year ago, Harold! Before that, it was always you and Tom's group, sometimes with Lisa, but never just the two of you traipsing off into the woods together."
I couldn't help but laugh at her obvious concern. "Because we can do it alone now, big sister. We don't have to match our timing with Tom's schedule or wait for him to finish his other obligations. Lisa and I work well together—we're efficient."
The explanation was logical, practical, and completely missed the point of her worry. I could see it in her eyes—the way they darted between exasperation and something deeper. She wasn't just concerned about the hunting itself; she was worried about what might happen when a young man and woman spent long hours alone together in the wilderness.
"Mom..." Rosaluna turned to our mother with a pleading look, clearly hoping for support in her campaign to rein in her younger brother's independence.
Mother considered the request for a moment, her head tilted slightly as she weighed her words. "Dear, your brother is strong, and Lisa is an expert tracker and hunter. As you said, they've been doing this alone for a year now without incident. There shouldn't be anything to worry about in the Greenwood—it's familiar territory, and they know how to handle themselves."
The response was measured, reasonable, and completely failed to address Rosaluna's real concerns. My sister's expression shifted from hopeful to exasperated in the span of a heartbeat.
"Ugh..." she grumbled, waving her hand in defeat. She gathered her things with more force than necessary. "Fine. Just... be careful, Harold. Both of you."
She swept from the room with the dramatic flair that only older sister can manage, leaving me alone with Mother.
"Be careful, Harold," Mother said softly, echoing Rosaluna's words as I was about to leave.
I stood and moved to her side, taking her in my embrace. Her body tensed shivered at the contact. I could feel the warmth rising in her cheeks, the way her breath caught just slightly.
"Love you, Mom," I whispered into her ear.
Mom shivered even more may breath tickling into her ear like spell. "L—Love you too, my dear bo…y." She stuttered out patting my back.
I smirked and left right after.