Breakfast

Golden sunlight streamed through the towering arched windows of Queen Morgana’s dining hall, bathing the room in a warm, honeyed glow. The table—a sprawling masterpiece of carved obsidian—was laden with decadent dishes: jewel-toned fruits, blistered pastries, silver tureens sighing steam, and goblets that caught the light like stars. Power hummed faintly in the stone and glass; in Lyria even breakfast felt enchanted.

You stood at the edge of the table, as exposed as you felt—naked in the midst of silk and velvet. No man may sit at the table with Her Majesty. Morgana, seated at the head in a flowing silver gown that seemed poured from moonlight, had explained it with a smile as sharp as a stiletto.

“Men in Lyria have their place,” she said, her cool blue gaze unblinking. “And it is not at the table.”

A velvet-soft wash of magic pressed at your shoulders and hips—insistent, not unkind—guiding you to stand between Morgana and Sera, who sat at her left hand. Your arousal still thrummed with leftover enchantments from the market, a single bright ache between two very different fires.

Sera looked you over with undisguised delight. She had done as Cassandra commanded: the nightgown was gone, replaced by raven-black witchwear—tight corseted mini hugging her waist and hips, sheer stockings kissed to garters, a ribbon choker at her throat. When she leaned her elbows to the table, the corset lifted and framed her like sin itself, and the high hem gave treacherous glimpses of dark lace and the suspender clips biting her thighs. Her copper-bright eyes flicked down, then up, and a wicked smile curled.

“Well,” she murmured, head tilting, “this is… convenient. Breakfast and a show.”

Across from her, at Morgana’s right, Princess Elara sat upright in midnight velvet chased with silver filigree. The bodice fit her like a vow; the neckline left her shoulders bare and impeccable, the crownlet on her brow turning every line of her face into law. You saw the smallest flutter at her throat when she dared a glance toward you. The sight landed in you like a hand pressed to a bruise: you’d never seen anyone look so regal and so human at once.

“Now, now,” Morgana soothed, selecting a ripe fig with delicate precision. “Let’s not overwhelm our dear knight so early in the day. He’s already given us so much to talk about.”

Her attention slid to you—curious, appraising, amused. “Yesterday’s trial was… illuminating.” She traced the fig’s purple skin with a slow fingertip, as if learning a lover by touch. “The way you held yourself in the market—enduring the eyes, the whispers, the little spells. It was quite the performance.”

Heat rippled along your spine; you were suddenly far too aware of the women near you—the faint perfume at Sera’s wrists, the velvet hush when Elara shifted in her chair, the alertness in Morgana’s gaze that made you feel both inspected and invited. You found your breath. “It wasn’t easy,” you said, voice roughened by honesty.

“Not easy?” Sera interjected, laughing softly. “You’re the understatement of the year, Sir John. You were practically glowing with arousal, twitching at every spell cast your way. I thought you were going to pop right there in the square.”

Elara stiffened, fingers tightening in her lap. “The good knight deserves praise and appreciation,” she said, composed but bright-cheeked. “Not your barbs.”

“That was appreciation, Princess,” Sera purred, unrepentant. “No one twitches like the good knight.”

Morgana’s chuckle shivered down the table; a lifted hand quieted the crossfire. “It was indeed a sight to behold,” she agreed. “And a reminder why men like you are so prized in Lyria.”

She lifted the fig and cradled it, nails grazing tender flesh. “When apprentices venture out to trap their first man,” she mused, “many hunt for spectacle. A bigger trophy, more… dramatic results.”

Sera’s smile was all teeth. “Oh, that fits Sir Johnperfectly. Big presence. Bold spine. Always ready to perform. Ideal first catch.”

Morgana brought the fruit to her lips and bit—slow, delicate. The motion summoned a phantom across your skin—a warm, coaxing pressure that skimmed where you were already over-sensitized, a breath you could feel but not name. Your knees softened a fraction; the table, the light, the room sharpened.

Morgana’s eyes glittered with approval. She traced idle circles along the fig, and the echoed sensation circled you with the same studied patience—teasing, evaluating, never crude. “A man like this,” she said lightly, “offers endless opportunities for… entertainment.” She slipped another piece past her lips with an elegant bite; you braced, and the sensation stayed artfully on the safe side of wicked.

“But.” Her tone softened, the amusement threaded with something older. “Others hunt for what cannot be faked. Virtue.” She considered you as if reading a sigil only she could see. “A man loyal in the marrow. Strong in heart and spirit. A man who endures because something worthier than his comfort asks him to.”

Elara lifted her chin. “Sir Johnembodies that strength,” she said softly, eyes on you. “He has proven his character again and again.”

Morgana inclined her head. “Indeed. A rare quality—and one that earns the highest respect among witches.”

She set the fig aside and reached for a small banana nestled in a silver bowl, its peel bright as a trumpet. “And rarer still,” she continued, “is the man who is both.” She peeled it in three even ribbons; as the skin came away, a slender loop of gold light unwound with it, answering her like a pet spell. “Bold enough to be a spectacle, constant enough to be trusted. When those qualities live in the same body, the magic they carry is—” the golden loop drifted from her hand, hovering, “—very pure.”

The loop drifted to you and circled you like a tape of soft sunlight—measuring without touching, tasting without taking. Wherever it passed, your nerves woke as if kissed by warm breath; your body answered before your pride could think to object. Murmurs hummed down the table; you felt their attention like heat on skin.

Morgana’s smile turned feline. She snapped her fingers and the loop retracted, coiling itself neatly around the banana like a ribbon. “Strong magic,” she pronounced. “And very teachable.” Her gaze slid to Sera. “Which brings me to your companion.”

Sera’s eyebrows arched, playful and wary.

“You have talent,” Morgana said simply. “Not merely mischief. You feel where to press and when to release, and your instincts for channeling are—” the faintest nod “—rare in an untrained witch. You should be proud.”

For the smallest heartbeat Sera’s bravado slipped, the compliment landing deeper than she’d expected. Then the grin returned, rakish as ever. “I am,” she said, tossing a curl over her shoulder. “But by all means, Your Majesty, continue praising me.”

The air thickened again, a pleasant, volatile pressure. You caught the way Sera’s pupils widened when the ribbon had circled you; the way Elara’s breath had shortened in the quiet; the way Morgana kept stealing your temperature without lifting a hand. You were naked and standing and very, very seen. And the strangest part—the part you couldn’t confess even to yourself—was the knife-edge thrill of it: the power in their composure, and the knowledge that it was fraying because of you.

Morgana leaned back, letting the chair hold her like a throne should. “You’ve been the center of attention thus far, Sir John,” she said, voice dropping to silk and smoke. “But the next trial will elevate you to something far greater—the star of the show.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Sera said, corset creaking faintly as she sat taller, stockinged knee brushing the table’s underside.

Elara frowned, composed again, but the color stayed high along her cheekbones. “What exactly does that mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Morgana said, amused. She gestured over the feast. “For now—eat. You’ll need your strength.”

You swallowed, head light with magic and the scent of cardamom and citrus. As attendants drifted in with fresh pitchers and the hall’s chatter rose, you let your eyes move—one stolen moment each for the women who had you bracketed. Sera, gleaming black and wicked, biting her lip when she thought you weren’t looking. Elara, all midnight velvet and composure, glancing up and away, up and away, as if daring herself not to. Morgana, the patient moon, smiling like she already knew the shape of your day.

And you—standing, bare, pulse loud in your ears—couldn’t help the thought that came next: if this was only breakfast, the second trial would be a storm.