The stones remembered the witches.
Shin could feel it in the way the air sat heavy against her skin, thick with old whispers and older power. The henge rose around her like the ribcage of some massive dead thing, black rock columns jutting from the wet earth of Seatos at angles that shouldn’t have held, and yet they did. Had for centuries. Night Sister work. She could taste the residue of it on the back of her tongue—something bitter and green.
She paced the inner circle, boots crunching on the damp stone. The fog curled between the columns like fingers reaching for her.
“How much longer?” The words came out sharper than she intended. She didn’t care.
Baylan stood with his back to one of the central pillars, arms crossed, that maddening patience of his settling over him like a cloak. He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the sky beyond the ring of stones, where the clouds hung low and bruised.
“She will come when she comes.”
“Or she won’t.” Shin stopped pacing. Her hand drifted to the hilt at her hip. “This is a waste. We should be—”
“Should be what?” Now he looked at her. Those pale eyes, steady and knowing. The kind of look that made her want to scream and kneel at the same time, and she hated that. Hated the way her body responded to the weight of his attention before her mind had decided anything.
She didn’t answer. She just stood there, jaw tight, the wind pulling strands of white-blonde hair across her face.
Baylan pushed off the pillar. He was a big man, and he moved like one—deliberate, unhurried, each step placed with the certainty of someone who had never once doubted the ground beneath him. He stopped a few feet from her. Close enough that she could smell the leather of his armor, the faint ozone tang that clung to him after a lightsaber ignition.
“You’re restless,” he said.
“I’m bored.”
“Restless. Bored. Impatient.” He tilted his head slightly. “All the same wound, different names for it.”
Shin’s fingers tightened around her lightsaber hilt. She could feel the cold metal pressing into her palm, the familiar geometry of it grounding her. “Then let me train. Spar with me. Something.”
Something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile. Something slower, more deliberate.
“Very well.” He uncrossed his arms. “A lesson, then.”
Relief washed through her—finally, movement, purpose—and she pulled the saber free in one fluid motion, thumb finding the ignition—
“No.”
The word stopped her hand. The blade remained unlit, humming faintly in its dormant state.
Baylan hadn’t moved. Hadn’t reached for his own weapon. He simply stood there, watching her with that infuriating calm.
“Not that kind of lesson.” His voice dropped half a register. The way it did when he was about to say something she wouldn’t like. “A lesson in obedience.”
Shin’s eyes narrowed. The word landed in her chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples outward through her ribs. Obedience. She was his apprentice. She obeyed. That was the arrangement, had been since he’d found her on that ruined moon, half-starved and furious and so full of the Force she could barely contain it. But he said it differently now. The weight of it shifted.
“What do you mean?” Her voice came out flat. Controlled. She was proud of that.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked a slow circle around her, and she tracked him with her eyes, refusing to turn her body. She could feel the heat of his gaze moving over her—the armor, the fitted undersuit, the way the fabric clung to the lines of her body. Her skin prickled beneath it.
“You carry tension in your shoulders,” he said, stopping behind her. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, warm and close. “In your jaw. In the way you hold that saber like you’re trying to choke it.”
“I’m not—”
“Strip.”
The word hit her like a slap. She turned, finally, and found him standing right there, close enough to touch. His expression hadn’t changed. Still that same measured calm, but his eyes—his eyes had gone dark, intent in a way that made something low in her belly clench.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. “Remove your armor. All of it.”
Shin’s mouth went dry. The wind cut between the stones and she felt it against her flushed cheeks, cold where the heat had been building. This wasn’t training. This wasn’t a spar. This was something else entirely, and the recognition of it sent a complicated pulse through her—embarrassment tangled with something hotter, something that made her fingers tremble against the saber hilt.
“Why?” The question came out smaller than she wanted.
“Because I told you to.” He held her gaze. “And because you need to remember what it feels like to be exposed. To have nothing between you and the world. That is where power lives, Shin. Not in the armor. Not in the weapon. In the raw thing beneath.”
Her heart hammered against her sternum. She could refuse. She knew that. He wouldn’t force her—not physically. But the refusal itself would be its own kind of failure, and they both knew it.
Slowly, she clipped the lightsaber back to her belt.
Her fingers found the first buckle at her shoulder. The leather was stiff, cold from the Seatos air, and it released with a click that sounded obscenely loud in the quiet of the henge. She set the pauldron on the stone beside her. Then the vambrace on her left arm. Then the right. Each piece removed felt like a layer of herself being peeled away, and she kept her eyes on his face, searching for something—mockery, satisfaction, anything—but finding only that same steady attention.
The chest plate came next. She pulled it over her head, and the wind hit the thin undersuit beneath, pressing the fabric against her skin. She was aware, suddenly and acutely, of the shape of her body—the curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the way the suit hugged her hips. She’d never felt so visible.
“Continue.”
Her jaw tightened. She reached for the fastening at her throat, the one that sealed the undersuit from collar to waist. The zipper made a sound like a hiss as she drew it down, and the cold air rushed in against her bare skin—her collarbones, the upper swell of her breasts, the valley between them. She kept going. Past her sternum. Past her navel. The suit parted and she shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it pool at her waist.
She stood in her leggings and boots, her torso bare to the wind and to him. Her nipples hardened in the cold, and she hated the visible evidence of her body’s response. Hated that he could see it.
“All of it.”
Shin’s hands found the waistband of her leggings. She hooked her thumbs and pushed them down, stepping out of them with the boots still on, then sat to remove those too. The stone was cold and rough against her bare backside as she worked the laces. When she stood again, she was naked. Completely. The wind moved over every inch of her skin and she fought the urge to cover herself—with her arms, with her hands, with anything.
Baylan’s gaze traveled over her with the same deliberate pace he used for everything. No rush. No hunger she could name. Just assessment. As if she were a weapon he was inspecting.
“Turn around.”
She turned. Slowly. The humiliation burned through her chest and down into her stomach, but beneath it—beneath the heat of shame—something else was stirring. A warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the swell of her backside. She was shaved bare between her legs—a practical choice, one she’d made long ago for hygiene and ease beneath armor—and she was acutely aware of how exposed that left her. How visible everything was.
“Good.” His voice came from behind her, closer now. “Now lie down. On your back.”
Shin turned to face him again. The stone floor of the henge was uneven, still damp from the morning fog, and she could feel the cold seeping into her skin as she lowered herself onto it. The rock bit into her shoulder blades, her spine, the backs of her thighs. She lay there, staring up at the gray sky framed by black stone columns, her chest rising and falling with breaths that came faster than she wanted.
Baylan knelt beside her. She heard the soft sound of his own armor being set aside—not all of it, just enough—and then his hands were on her. Warm. Rough with calluses. They moved from her collarbones down to her breasts, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound as his thumbs brushed over her nipples. The touch sent a bolt of sensation straight down through her center, and she felt herself clench involuntarily, empty and wanting.
“You’re wet.” He said it like an observation. Clinical. “Already.”
Shame flooded her face. She turned her head to the side, away from him, but his hand caught her chin and turned it back.
“Look at me.”
She looked. His face was above hers, those pale eyes dark with something she’d never seen in them before—not quite desire, not quite possession, but something adjacent to both. His hand moved down her body, over the flat of her stomach, and she felt her muscles tense beneath his palm.
“Relax.” The word was almost gentle. Almost. “You’re fighting yourself.”
His fingers found the place between her legs and she gasped—couldn’t stop it—as he traced the length of her slit with one broad finger. She was wet. Embarrassingly, obviously wet, and the slick sound of his touch in the quiet henge made her want to crawl out of her own skin. But her body arched toward him anyway, hips lifting off the cold stone, seeking more pressure, more contact.
“That’s it.” His voice was low, almost approving. “There’s no shame in what your body wants. Only in denying it.”
He positioned himself between her thighs. She felt the heat of him against her inner leg, the hard press of his cock against her entrance, and her breath caught in her throat. This was happening. This was really happening, on the cold stone of a Night Sister henge, under an open sky, while they waited for a witch who might never come.
He pushed inside her.
Shin’s back arched off the ground. The stretch was immediate and intense—he was thick, and she was tight, and the fullness of him splitting her open sent a wave of sensation that was equal parts pleasure and overwhelm. Her fingers scrabbled against the stone, finding nothing to grip, and she made a sound—a broken, desperate sound—that echoed off the ancient columns.
Baylan didn’t rush. He seated himself fully, hips flush against hers, and held there. Let her adjust. Let her feel every inch of him inside her body while the wind moved across her bare skin and the old power of the henge pressed in from all sides.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first. Deep, measured strokes that dragged against every sensitive point inside her. Shin’s head fell back against the stone, her mouth open, her eyes half-closed. The pleasure built in waves—each thrust sending a pulse of heat through her core that radiated outward to her fingertips, her toes. She could hear herself making sounds she didn’t recognize, small desperate noises that seemed to belong to someone else.
But beneath the pleasure, the humiliation persisted. She was spread open beneath him, completely bare, completely exposed on the floor of this sacred place. Anyone could come through those stones and see her like this—see the great Shin Hati, apprentice to Baylan Skoll, naked and gasping and taking her master’s cock like it was the only thing that mattered in the galaxy. The thought should have killed her arousal. It didn’t. It fed it. Made it hotter, darker, more consuming.
Baylan’s pace increased. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks, and he pulled her onto him with each thrust. The wet sound of their joining filled the space between the stones, obscene and rhythmic, and Shin couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t hold onto the shame or the anger or the pride. There was only the sensation—the deep, grinding pressure of him inside her, the way each thrust hit something that made white light flash behind her eyelids.
She was close. She could feel it building at the base of her spine, a tight coil of tension that wound tighter with every stroke. Her thighs trembled against his sides. Her nails found purchase on the stone floor, scraping uselessly as her hips rose to meet him.
“Master—” The word tore out of her, raw and broken, and she didn’t know what she was asking for. More. Less. Something that would break the thing building inside her before it consumed her completely.
Baylan’s rhythm stuttered. She felt him swell inside her, felt the first hot pulse of his release, and that was enough. The coil snapped.
Shin’s body seized. The orgasm ripped through her like a detonation—every muscle locking, her back bowing off the stone, a sound escaping her throat that was half-scream and half-sob. The pleasure was blinding, obliterating, and she rode it in helpless waves while he emptied himself deep inside her, filling her with heat that seemed to spread through her entire body.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Shin lay there, wrecked, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat despite the cold air. Baylan’s weight pressed her into the stone, his breathing harsh against her neck. She could feel him still inside her, softening but present, and the wet warmth of his seed pooling between her thighs.
Then he pulled out.
The sensation made her flinch—a sudden emptiness, a rush of wetness that spilled from her body and ran down over the curve of her backside. She could feel it on her skin, warm and thick, and the sound it made as it hit the stone was quiet but unmistakable.
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Baylan stood. She heard the soft sounds of him dressing—the rustle of fabric, the click of buckles—and she lay there, staring at the sky, trying to reassemble herself. Her eyes burned. She blinked, and something wet tracked from the corner of her eye. Not tears. She wasn’t crying. It was just—her body reacting. The intensity of it. The exposure. The way he’d looked at her while she came apart beneath him.
She turned her head to look at him.
He was already half-armored again, methodically fastening the chest plate. His expression was calm. Composed. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just split her open on the floor of an ancient henge and filled her with his cum while the old power of dead witches pressed in around them.
Shin’s eyes stung. She could feel the wetness at their edges, the redness that came from holding back something she refused to name. She sat up, and the movement sent a fresh trickle of warmth down her inner thigh. She looked down at herself—naked, flushed, his release still leaking from between her legs—and something hot and complicated twisted inher chest.
A sound cut through the fog.
Low, distant, but unmistakable—the deep harmonic thrum of an engine approaching from the east. Shin’s head snapped toward it, her body going rigid. The sound grew, layered with the whine of repulsorlifts and the particular resonance of a ship that had seen too many hard landings on too many backwater worlds.
Baylan’s hands stilled on his chest plate. He turned toward the sound, and Shin watched his profile sharpen, that hunter’s focus settling over his features like a mask dropping into place.
“She’s here.” He didn’t look at her. “Get dressed. Now.”
The urgency in his voice was new. Not panic—Baylan Skoll didn’t panic—but a hard edge of purpose that hadn’t been there moments ago. The shift was so complete, so immediate, that for a heartbeat Shin could only stare at him, naked and stunned on the cold stone.
Then she moved.
Her hands found the undersuit and she yanked it up over her hips, wincing as the fabric dragged against the wet mess between her thighs. She didn’t have time to clean herself. Didn’t have time for shame or dignity or any of the things that had been consuming her thirty seconds ago. The hum of the ship was louder now, close enough that she could feel the vibration in the stone beneath her knees.
“Boots,” Baylan said. He was fully armored again, his saber at his hip, and he stood at the edge of the inner circle with his gaze fixed on the gap between two pillars where the fog was thickening.
Shin shoved her feet into the boots, not bothering with the laces. The chest plate came next—she pulled it over her head, fumbling with the shoulder buckles, her fingers clumsy and shaking. The vambraces. The pauldron. Each piece locked into place with a click that sounded too loud against the approaching engine roar.
The ship broke through the cloud layer.
Shin saw it through the ring of stones—a dark shape descending through the bruised sky, angular and utilitarian, the kind of vessel that belonged to someone who valued function over everything. It banked hard, searching for a landing site, and the downdraft from its engines tore through the henge, shredding the fog and sending dust and dead leaves spiraling between the columns.
“Ready yourself.” Baylan’s voice was low, meant only for her. “She won’t be alone.”
Shin’s hand found her lightsaber. The metal was warm against her palm—warm from her grip, from the heat of her body. She could still feel him inside her. Still feel the ghost of fullness, the slick residue of what he’d left behind. But the ship was landing now, its repulsors screaming as they bit into the earth fifty meters beyond the henge, and the reality of what was coming pushed everything else to the periphery.
The engines cut. Silence rushed in—or what passed for silence on Seatos, which was never truly silent. The wind, the creak of ancient stone, the distant cry of something predatory moving through the fog-shrouded trees.
Then a figure emerged from the ship’s shadow.
The witch.
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