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He put his hand over her wound.

The divine energy came out of his palm in the specific gold-warm quality of the Breeding God ability — not aggressive, not the forceful output of combat energy, the other kind, the vital kind, the kind that had grown a world tree from a seed in six hours and had been doing things to pregnant women’s bloodlines for months.

It entered the wound.

Celestia’s eyes went wide.

The wound — she could ’feel’ it, the specific sensation of damaged tissue receiving energy, of the sword-cut beginning to knit from the inside out, the bleeding stopping not through clotting but through the actual physical restoration of what had been cut. The pain didn’t stop — it ’changed,’ became the ache of healing rather than the acute shock of damage, which was a different kind of pain entirely.

"’Wait,’" she said. "’You can do — is that divine energy? You can ’channel’ divine—’"

She stopped.

She looked at the wound.

At his hand on it.

At the green lines in her skin.

The lines were — fading, which was the herb’s work, but not fading ’fast enough,’ and she could feel the difference, the paralytic’s presence still spreading against the compound’s rolling it back. Two things racing. The compound was slower than the poison. The math was visible.

She looked at Viktor.

She saw something in his face — something small, something that was present for a half-second and then became the normal Viktor expression, but she’d been raised by a general and had spent her whole life reading the faces of people managing information, and she’d caught it.

"’It’s not working,’" she said.

Viktor looked at the wound.

"’It’s working,’" he said. "’Slowly.’"

"’Viktor.’"

He met her eyes.

She held his gaze with the expression of a woman who had three years of military command and nineteen years of her father’s instruction behind her and did not look away from things.

"’It’s not working fast enough,’" she said. "’Be honest.’"

Viktor looked at her for a moment.

Then:

"’I would need to inject the divine energy directly,’" he said. "’Rather than through surface contact.’"

Celestia looked at his hand.

At the glow of it.

"’Inject it how.’"

Viktor said nothing.

The nothing had a specific quality. The quality of a silence that is answering the question in the only way it can without the words existing to answer it directly.

Celestia looked at his face.

He looked back at her.

"’What,’" she said. The word came out very flat. "’What do you mean by ’inject.’’"

"’I promise,’" Viktor said, "’that this is to save you.’"

’’’

Her mind was hazy.

The paralytic’s progress — slowed by the herb compound but not stopped, the compound fighting a rear-guard action rather than winning — had reached the specific stage where the gap between ’think’ and ’feel’ had widened into something she couldn’t fully bridge. She knew what she was thinking. She could see the thoughts. They were just — further away than they should have been, the distance between the window and the thing outside the window, present but not touchable.

She tried to protest.

The words formed — the specific words of a woman of rank and dignity and twenty-two years of ’this is not appropriate’ looking at a situation that was not appropriate — and the distance was too large, the words were glass on the other side of the gap, and what came out was not the words but a sound, the protest-shaped sound.

Viktor moved.

The armor came off with the efficiency of someone who had thought about armor — which he had, extensively, as a function of having spent months around women who wore various categories of it and had needed assistance with it. The pauldrons first, the articulation unlocked, set aside. The chest piece. The articulation at the joints.

She watched it happening.

The hazy distance of her mind watching her own armor come off with the specific quality of a person watching something happen in a dream — present, seeing, not able to do the thing that stops it.

The breastplate separated.

The underlayer — the cloth and leather beneath the plate, the functional underdress that soldiers wore against skin — came next. Viktor’s hands on the buckles were not slow, not fast. Deliberate. The specific deliberateness of someone who has a goal and is pursuing it without making the pursuit itself a performance.

"’What is he doing,’" she said, out loud, to herself, the words arriving from the hazy distance. "’Is he doing this to his aunt.’"

Viktor did not answer.

The underlayer opened.

Her breasts came free — full, soldier-built, the body of a woman who had trained for combat since childhood, the specific firmness of muscle beneath softness, her nipples catching the cool air of the hut and responding immediately to it. They were larger than the armor’s silhouette had suggested, the armor having done the compressive work that armor does, and their actual weight and shape arrived into the air with the patient reality of things that had been contained and were no longer.

She looked at them.

Looked at him.

"’What.’" The haze was making the word longer than it should be. "’What are you—’"

Her panties.

She didn’t see them come off — blinked, and the haze took the moment, and then her legs were spread on the dried grass with the specific coolness of evening air where evening air was not normally welcome, and the specific feeling of ’nothing’ where something had been.

She looked down.

At herself.

At her own thighs, spread. At the dark hair of her pussy — the full natural growth of a woman who had been on campaign for three months and had other things to think about, the thick dark thatch of it between her legs, her lips beneath it pink and warm in the dim light of the hut.

Viktor’s hands.

On her thighs.

His hands were warm — the divine energy still moving through his palms, the specific warmth of it, the vitality field she’d been feeling at the edges all day now emanating from direct contact with her skin.

She felt it.

Even through the haze. ’Especially’ through the haze — the haze removed certain things and left others, and what it left was the specific physical reality of sensation without the mediation of composure, and the warmth of his hands on the inside of her thighs was—

"’What are you,’" she said.

Not meaning it rhetorically. Genuinely asking — the question of someone whose categories had become insufficient, who was looking at the face of her sister’s son and finding that the face did not match the category it was supposed to be in.

His hand moved downward.

She felt it at the threshold — the warmth of him, the specific pressure of something at the entrance of her, not inside yet, just ’there,’ the patient deliberate presence of the thing that was going to happen before it happened.

She looked at his face.

He was looking at her wound.

At the green lines.

At the hem of the paralytic’s work spreading in her skin.

He was not — she noted this through the haze, the specific noting of something that mattered — looking at her body the way Cassius had looked at her on the cobblestones. He was looking at the thing that was killing her and at the place where the solution to that thing was going to be delivered.

The calculation was in his face.

Not the cold calculation of Cassius. Something else. Something that she didn’t have the composure to categorize right now because the composure was on the other side of the haze.

She breathed.

She looked at the ceiling of the hut — the canvas above the wooden frame, the way it caught the faint breeze from outside and moved.

She thought: ’if I survive this I am going to be so angry.’

She thought: ’I’m going to survive this.’

PAH!

"’Ahn~!!’"

The sound came out of her before she could stop it, which she wouldn’t have been able to stop it anyway, the haze having removed the specific facility that allows a person to modulate what their throat does when their body receives this.

The pain was sharp and immediate — the specific sharp of the first moment, the threshold crossed, her body registering the fullness of him and the resistance of tissue that had not been asked to do this before and was doing it now regardless.

She breathed.

She looked at him.

"’Aunt,’" he said, to the ceiling, to no one, to the specific category of person that had just been added to a list, "I just added you in that list.’"

The first thing he registered was the resistance.

Not the soft give he knew. Not the wet, practiced grip of a woman who’d been here before.

This was ’different’ — a tightness that pressed back against him like a wall with a pulse, something that hadn’t been opened and was telling him so with everything it had.

Viktor stilled.

Half inside her.

The lower half of his cock swallowed in her hairy silver-grey cunt, the upper half still exposed to the cool hut air, glistening, and the difference between the two halves was almost funny.

Almost.

Her whole body had locked.

Celestia had gone rigid the way iron goes rigid — not soft-stiff, not the tense-up of someone in discomfort, but a full ’systems failure’ kind of locked, her thighs pulling inward against his hands, her spine arching off the dried grass floor until only her shoulders and the back of her skull were still touching the ground, every cord in her throat drawn tight.

Viktor’s hands kept her thighs open. He wasn’t gentle about it.

The muscle under his palms was real — the thick functional mass of a woman who’d trained for combat since she was a child, not decorative thickness, the real kind — and it fought him when she clenched, and he spread her wider anyway, pressing the insides of her thighs outward with the calm grip of someone who had decided where he was going and was removing what stood between him and that destination.

He looked at her.

’Really’ looked.