Dawn crept through the shutters in pale golden shafts, dust motes swirling lazily in the light as the first birdsong pierced the morning quiet. Elarion stirred beneath the heavy wool blanket, the straw mattress crackling softly under his weight. As awareness returned, he felt the familiar, insistent ache low in his groin. Glancing down, he saw his cock straining against the thin fabric of his underlinen—rock-hard, flushed, and throbbing with the relentless pulse of a morning erection, standing proud like a soldier at attention.
A wave of despair crashed over him. His eyes burned, throat tightened, but no tears came—only a dry, ragged wail that escaped his lips, hoarse and pitiful, like the lonely howl of an abandoned hound echoing across empty fields. He pressed the heels of his hands to his face, shoulders shaking with silent, tearless sobs until the fit passed, leaving him hollow and exhausted.
With a heavy sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards were cold against his bare feet as he shuffled to the washbasin in the corner. He poured icy water from the earthen pitcher; it splashed sharply, sending ripples across the surface. The shock of the chill bit into his skin as he scooped handfuls over his face, neck, and chest, droplets tracing cool paths down his torso and dripping from his jaw. The faint scent of last night's hearth smoke still clung to his hair, mingling with the clean, mineral smell of well water.
He dressed in simple clothes: a faded linen shirt that hung loose on his lean frame, rough wool trousers, and worn leather boots that creaked softly when he moved. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a low, persistent growl. Determined to cook something—anything—he knelt by the cold hearth, struck flint against steel until sparks caught the kindling, and set a small iron pot over the fresh flames. He cracked two eggs into it, added a pinch of salt and some wilted herbs from the windowsill, but in his distraction the mixture scorched almost immediately. Acrid black smoke curled up, stinging his eyes and filling the cabin with the bitter stench of burnt yolk.
"Damn it," he muttered, scraping furiously at the charred mess with a wooden spoon. The blackened remnants clung stubbornly to the pot's bottom. He raked a hand through his tousled hair in frustration. "I can't believe I still can't cook a simple egg."
With a defeated shrug, he doused the fire, grabbed his patched cloak from the hook by the door, and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp and sharp, carrying the earthy scent of dew-soaked grass and distant woodsmoke from neighboring chimneys. His boots crunched on the gravel path as he headed toward the village square, stomach rumbling louder now.
"Fine, whatever. Who cares?" he said aloud to no one, voice flat but resolute. "I'll just eat at the tavern today."
The promise of warm bread, sizzling bacon, and steaming porridge pulled him forward, the faint clatter of pots and cheerful voices already drifting from the restaurant ahead.
Elarion pushed open the heavy oak door of the village tavern-restaurant, and a wave of warm air enveloped him—thick with the mouthwatering scents of sizzling bacon, fresh-baked rye bread, and rich pork-fat gravy bubbling on the stove. The faint clink of iron pans and the low murmur of conversation greeted him, along with the crackle of a hearty fire in the stone hearth. Only a handful of early customers dotted the room: an old farmer nursing a mug of small beer in one corner, two merchants haggling quietly over their porridge, and a traveling bard tuning his lute by the window. Sunlight slanted through the leaded glass, painting golden patches on the worn tabletops.
He slipped into his usual corner seat, the scarred wooden bench creaking under his weight as he settled against the cool plaster wall, trying to make himself small.
Moments later, soft footsteps approached. A waitress stopped at his table, notepad in hand.
"Morning, love. What'll it be?"
Elarion glanced up—and froze.
She was in her mid-thirties, perhaps thirty-four, with the kind of ripe, maternal beauty that turned heads even in a sleepy village. Full, heavy breasts strained against the laced bodice of her simple green dress, the fabric hugging generous curves that swayed gently as she shifted her weight. Her hips flared wide, the apron tied around them accentuating a round, plush backside that filled the skirt to its limits. Stray wisps of chestnut hair escaped her loose bun, framing a heart-shaped face with warm hazel eyes, flushed cheeks, and lips painted a soft natural rose. The faint scent of vanilla and kitchen herbs clung to her skin, mingling with the subtle warmth radiating from her body.
Elarion's mind blanked. His gaze locked helplessly on the deep valley of her cleavage, rising and falling with each calm breath. Heat flooded his face; his mouth went dry. Fantasies he'd barely dared entertain last night roared to life unbidden—soft skin under his palms, the weight of those breasts in his hands, the way her hips might roll against him. He stared like a starving man presented with a feast, utterly lost.
She cleared her throat once, then twice, snapping her fingers lightly near his ear. "Hello? Anyone in there?"
Nothing. His eyes didn't even flicker upward.
With a soft, exasperated sigh that made her chest rise and fall again—drawing his stare even deeper—she shook her head. Without a word, she turned and walked away, hips swaying with natural grace, the hem of her skirt brushing sturdy calves.
The sight of her retreating finally jolted him. Embarrassment crashed over him like ice water. His ears burned scarlet; he buried his face in his hands, heart pounding so loudly he was sure the entire tavern could hear.
Desperate for control, he straightened, closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe like the traveling monks he'd once seen in the market square. Slow, measured breaths. He began counting silently, visualizing fluffy white sheep leaping over a fence in an endless green meadow.
One sheep… two sheep… three sheep…
The tavern noises faded—the clatter of plates, the low voices, the pop of logs in the fire—until only the rhythmic counting remained.
…nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine sheep… one million sheep…
Minutes stretched. When he finally opened his eyes, his face was a perfect mask: calm, expressionless, the flush gone, gaze steady as still water.
He cleared his throat and called out evenly, "Excuse me, miss. I'm ready to order now."
She returned promptly, professional detachment in every line of her posture, quill poised over her notepad. The same intoxicating warmth and vanilla scent drifted close again, but this time Elarion did not falter. He met her eyes directly—hazel meeting his own dark ones—without a single flicker downward.
"Two eggs, sunny side up, bacon crisp, rye toast, and a bowl of oat porridge with honey," he said, voice flat and composed.
She nodded once, a faint flicker of surprise crossing her features at his sudden poise. "Coming right up."
She jotted the order, turned on her heel, and disappeared toward the kitchen, the soft rustle of her skirt the only sound as she went.
Elarion exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing a fraction. The poker face held—for now.