The Ascension is a saga of two heroes, each bound to a destiny of their own. Across perilous lands and through relentless trials, they will face ordeals both savage and unforgiving as they strive to fulfill their fates. Marked by violence, sacrifice, and hardship, their journeys will test the limits of their strength and resolve. This tale explores dark and mature themes and may not be suitable for all audiences.

CHAPTER 2: TUG OF WAR

The Norse warrior flexed his fingers against the cold stone, his knuckles pale from the strain. His azure eyes gazed upon the room, sizing up the competition. Around him, the remaining ten men stood like trees after a storm—battered, rooted, but still standing. Their balls throbbed in unison, each pulse a dull reminder of how close they’d come to ruin. The scent of iron and spilled seed clung to the chamber like a second skin.

One of the survivors—tall and muscular, with jet black hair and a wolf’s grin—let out a shaky laugh, more nerves than bravado. "Gods," he muttered, rubbing at the tender swell of his sack. "Thought my balls would end up as soup." His attempt at humor fell flat. No one chuckled. The Matron’s gaze slid over them like oil, her lips curled in a smile that promised nothing good.

The Greek warrior, dark brown hair with hazel eyes, was hunched over with hands on his knees. His massive shoulders were still heaving from the effort of resisting the iron, eyed the Norse warrior sidelong. "Next trial’s worse," he said under his breath, his accent thick as honey. "Always is." His cock, still half-hard from the adrenaline, twitched against his thigh—a traitorous thing, eager even now. The Norse warrior grunted in agreement, his own arousal a low burn beneath the ache.

The Matron's fingers traced the edge of the iron weight still warm from its grim work, her smile widening as another droplet of ruined seed slid down its polished surface. "Ten remain," she murmured, her voice carrying through the chamber like a blade being drawn from its sheath. The torchlight caught the silver in her hair, turning each strand into a filament of cold fire. "But by dawn's light, only five will keep their stones."

A ripple went through the remaining warriors—half tension, half anticipation. The Norse warrior's nostrils flared as the scent of blood and lavender thickened in the air. The Greek beside him shifted his weight, his knuckles whitening against his thighs where old battle scars formed pale constellations against sun-darkened skin.

"Next trial is simpler," the Matron continued, stepping over a slick trail of gore with the grace of a cat avoiding puddles. She gestured to the far wall where ten iron collars hung from rusted chains, each wide enough to encircle a man's throat. "No weights. No pulleys." Her smile deepened as she plucked one collar from its hook, the metal screeching like a wounded animal. "You'll wear these—tight enough to remind you of your mortality, loose enough to let you scream."

The Greek warrior was the first to understand—his eyes flickering from the Matron’s smirk to the collar’s dimensions, then down to his own groin. His breath hitched. "No," he muttered, too low for most to hear. But the Norse warrior beside him caught it, his ice-blue gaze dropping to the iron loop in the Matron’s hands. The realization hit him like a spear to the gut. The collar wasn’t wide enough for a throat. It was just the right size to encircle a ball sack and cock.

A collective inhale sucked the air from the chamber. The remaining men—ten hardened warriors who’d faced death without flinching—stiffened as one. The black-haired man took an instinctive step back, his hands twitching toward his groin. The Matron’s laughter was a slow, silken thing. "Did you think we’d waste time on necks?" She trailed a finger along the collar’s inner edge, where ancient stains darkened the metal. "Necklaces are for women. This..." She snapped the iron open with a click that echoed like a bone breaking, "...is for men."

The Norse warrior’s balls tightened against his body, a primal recoil. He’d seen these before—slave collars meant to prevent escape by tethering a man’s vitals to a post.

The Norse warrior felt his balls tighten instinctively—not from fear, but from the sudden understanding that this collar wasn’t designed to restrain. It was designed to ruin. The iron loop in the Matron’s hands gleamed with a sinister polish, its inner edge serrated just enough to promise agony without mercy.

The Matron's fingers danced along the rusted links of the nearest chain, her nail catching on a flake of old blood. "Each chain," she murmured, "has two collars." She lifted the iron loop, letting it dangle like a pendulum between her fingers. The torchlight caught the jagged inner edge—tiny, hooked teeth filed into the metal, glinting like a predator's grin. "One for you." She let the first collar swing lazily. "And one for your opponent." The second collar clinked against it, a discordant chime that echoed through the chamber.

The Norse warrior’s gut clenched. Tug of war—but not with hands. With balls.

The Matron paced between the remaining men, her hips swaying like a ship cutting through dark water. "Pair up," she commanded, her voice honeyed steel. "Winner keeps his cock. Loser..." She let the unspoken truth hang heavier than the iron in her hands. "Let's just say the women love a spectacle." The women perched on the divans leaned forward as one, their breaths shallow, fingers twitching against bare thighs.

The Norse warrior exhaled through his nose as the cold iron collar encircled his cock and balls—the metal already warming against his skin, the serrated inner edge pressing just shy of breaking flesh. The collars reminded him of the ones that bound the severed manhoods of slain enemies to a wooden plaque, where they were mounted on the walls of his ancestral home as trophies. The thought of his balls and cock dangling from the walls of the Fertility house made his stomach turn. Across from him, a dirty blonde warrior with pale blue eyes adjusted his stance, his jaw set tight as the Matron fastened the second collar around his groin with a click that echoed like a coffin lid slamming shut. The chain linking them stretched taut between their thighs, each link glinting with the patina of old blood and spilled seed.

"Remember," the Matron purred, running a fingertip along the chain, "it's not about strength." Her nail caught on a jagged link, the sound like a bone snapping. "It's about conviction." The women lounging on the divans leaned forward, their eyes dark with hunger, fingers tracing idle patterns on their own thighs as if imagining the feel of iron on flesh.

The Norse warrior flexed his knees, his balls drawing up tight against his body—not in fear, but in anticipation. The dirty blonde hair warrior mirrored him, his thick thighs tensing, each with as sturdy as black oak. The chain between them trembled with the first subtle shift of weight, the collars biting just enough to make their breath hitch. Around them, the other eight warriors paired off, their faces etched with varying degrees of defiance and dread. The black-haired man with the wolf's grin locked eyes with a bull-necked brute, their chain already singing with tension.

The Matron led the men to another room, dimly lit and unwelcoming. The chamber exhaled cold stone breath against the warriors’ skin as they entered. Torchlight licked the walls in erratic flickers, revealing rows upon rows of severed cocks—glossy, veined, and appeared impossibly alive. The phalluses stood at rigid attention, their heads darkened with pooled blood, each mounted beside its paired bollocks like obscene artworks. The testicles glistened under a thin membrane of preservation magic, still plump as freshly picked fruit, their surfaces dimpled where the cords had been severed. The Matron trailed her fingers along one particularly impressive specimen—a thick, curved shaft with a scar along the underside—and it twitched under her touch as if remembering its owner’s last moments.

The Matron trailed a finger along the nearest hook, her nail clicking against the metal. "These," she murmured, "are for the men who can't hold their ground..." Her gaze slid to the chain linking the Norse warrior's groin to his opponent's. "...nor their family jewels." The dirty blond warrior across from him exhaled sharply, his thighs flexing as the collar around his sack twitched with the movement.

"Every man who fails the second trial joins our collection," she murmured, her voice echoing off the wet stone. Behind her, the Norse warrior’s nostrils flared at the scent—not decay, but salt and iron and the faint musk of semen. He sensed magic humming beneath his feet, a vibration like a hive of bees trapped in the mortar. It thrummed through the fresh trophies, keeping the flesh firm, the veins prominent, the sperm inside still viable. One of the younger warriors—the wiry archer who’d barely survived the first trial—swayed on his feet. A droplet of precum trembled at his tip before splashing onto the floor. The Matron smiled. "They’re still fertile, you see. We harvest what remains. The nectar is good enough to drink but not to fertilize. No, only the victors are allowed that privilege to seed our wombs." The Norse warrior stilled his mind; he had to focus on the upcoming trial and not the enchanted phalluses.

Five empty plaques gleamed against the far wall, their polished oak surfaces catching the torchlight like hungry mouths. Each bore a sturdy iron hook—curved upward to hang the manhoods soon to be harvested. There were no names as why would the names of five inferior specimens be important? They were only good enough to drink or flavor food, not to procreate. The Norse warrior counted them twice, his gut tightening. Five plaques. Five men about to become trophies.

The men shifted into position, the chains between them pulling taut with a sound like clashing steel. The Norse warrior's collar bit into the base of his cock, the serrated teeth just shy of drawing blood. His opponent—blue-eyed and broad-shouldered—adjusted his stance, his scrotum tightening visibly beneath the iron. Around them, the other pairs mirrored the tension, their breaths coming faster now.

The Matron's hand fell like a headsman's axe. "Begin."

The Norse warrior's world narrowed to the chain vibrating between his thighs. He didn't pull first—he exhaled, letting his opponent's initial jerk stretch the links taut. The serrated teeth of the collar kissed the tender skin behind his balls, a lover's whisper before the bite. Across from him, the dirty blond warrior's face contorted with effort, veins standing out along his neck like ropes. The chain sang between them, a single link at the center lifting slightly—a fulcrum where their fates balanced.

Then suddenly the Norse warrior and the dirty blond warrior lunged forward and away from each other in perfect unison! The chain snapped taut between their thighs with a sound like a bowstring releasing. For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the collars bit.

The Norse warrior’s vision whited out. The serrated teeth ground into the tender flesh behind his balls, hot iron meeting hotter skin. His scrotum stretched obscenely forward, the skin at the base of his cock puckering where the collar’s edge sawed inward. Precum sprayed in erratic pulses, slicking the inside of the iron band—a traitorous lubrication that only made the teeth grip harder. Across from him, the blond warrior’s scream choked off into a wet gurgle as his own collar cinched tight around the root of his shaft, the metal teeth sinking into the soft underside where the skin was thinnest.

The women leaned forward as one, their breath catching. The Matron’s lips parted—not in sympathy, but in hungry anticipation. She’d seen this dance before: the way men’s bodies betrayed them when iron met flesh. The Norse warrior’s balls, once snug against his body, now hung suspended in the collar’s grip like overripe fruit in a sling. The left one—slightly larger—bulged against the metal rim, its surface mottling purple where the blood flow pinched off.

The dirty blond warrior stood like an oak carved by battle—taller than most in the chamber, his shoulders broad enough to eclipse torchlight when he turned. Sun-bronzed skin stretched over muscle that moved in thick, defined cords beneath the surface, each ridge and valley earned through years of swordplay and survival. His chest was a wall of sculpted strength, the kind that could take a spear thrust and still keep swinging. His abdomen was covered with the same kind of dense muscle but six identical, symmetric, and clearly delineated. But it was his thighs that betrayed his true power—thick as tree trunks, the muscles there flexing visibly even at rest, the kind of legs built for relentless marches and brutal charges. Even now, sweat gleamed in the golden trail of hair leading from his navel down to where the iron collar bit into his flesh, his body a living testament to the brutal elegance of his lineage.

Across from him, the Norse warrior was a study in lethal precision—where the blond was broad, he was streamlined, his body honed by fjord winds and the unforgiving sea. Lean but corded with sinew that spoke of swift, calculated violence, his physique was that of a predator built to outlast as much as overpower. His shoulders, while narrower, were sharply defined, the muscles there moving like river currents beneath pale skin. His abdomen, just like his chest, was beautifully shaped and proportioned in anatomical perfection. His thighs, though powerful, were sculpted more for agility than raw strength, the muscles long and defined where the blond’s were dense and bulging. His curly medium brown hair that covered his head was a stark contrasted to his piercing blue eyes. The hair on his body was finer, a dusting of light brown covered the youth. The same hair surrounded the navel but thickened into curly dark brown locks southward toward a majestic tool and family jewels.

The chain between them trembled as the blond warrior shifted his weight, his breath coming in controlled bursts through flared nostrils. His cock, thick and ruddy with arousal, twitched against the iron band, the head darkening where blood pooled beneath the skin. The Norse warrior’s own length was no less impressive—paler, but veined and rigid, the tip glistening with a bead of precum that trembled before falling to the stone below. Their bodies were mirrors of opposing philosophies: one built to dominate through sheer force, the other to endure through cunning and adaptability.

The Norse warrior’s scrotum stretched like tanned leather over a drumhead, the skin behind his balls blanching white where the serrated collar bit deepest. His opponent’s grip on the chain faltered—just a fraction—but it was enough. With a roll of his hips and a shift of stance honed by years of navigating treacherous ice flows, the Norse warrior redistributed his weight. The chain groaned as the tension tilted in his favor.

Across from him, the blond warrior’s cock darkened to a bruised purple where the iron teeth sawed into its base. A thin rivulet of blood traced the underside of his shaft, mingling with the steady drip of precum that now fell in erratic splatters. His balls—once golden orbs nestled tight against his body—bulged obscenely against the collar’s rim, the left testicle mottling an ugly plum color as capillaries burst beneath the skin.

The Norse warrior exhaled through his nose, his thighs trembling not from strain but from strategy. He’d positioned himself at a slight angle, his right foot braced against a groove in the stone floor. The blond’s greater mass worked against him now—his raw strength required perfect balance, and the Norse warrior had disrupted it. The chain’s center link lifted another fraction, the metal singing with the shift in equilibrium.

Elsewhere in the chamber, the bull-necked warrior roared as his opponent—the wiry archer with thighs like knotted rope—jerked the chain between them with unexpected ferocity. The iron collar around the archer’s balls had already drawn blood, thin rivulets tracing the curve of his scrotum like scarlet lace. But it was the bull-necked man’s own collar that betrayed him—the serrated teeth had bitten too deep, too soon. His left testicle bulged grotesquely against the metal rim, its surface purpling as veins ruptured beneath the skin.

"Fuck—!" The bull-necked man’s curse turned into a wet scream as the archer twisted his hips sharply. The chain snapped taut, yanking the collar inward with a sickening crunch. His ball didn’t burst—it peeled, the fibrous outer layer splitting like overcooked sausage casing. Semen and blood gushed in a frothy torrent, splattering the cold stone floors as the bull-necked man collapsed onto all fours, his remaining testicle twitching like a dying animal in its sac, warped and leaking nut juice. Shortly afterwards, the serrated teeth of the collar tore his massive tool off the warrior's body and landed on the floor with a wet SPLAT!, rapidly cooling on the floor. The bull-neck warrior sobbed, his days of being a man were over.

Near the far wall, the black-haired warrior with the wolf’s grin was losing ground—literally. His opponent, a thick-thighed spearman from the southern deserts, had anchored himself against a stone pillar, his bare feet gripping the floor like roots. The chain between them thrummed with tension, the collars digging deeper with every ragged breath. The black-haired man’s cock had gone alarmingly pale where the iron clamped its base, the head now a dusky blue. His balls, once dark and plump as figs, were flattening against the collar’s inner edge, their outlines visible through the stretched skin like grotesque cameos.

The black-haired warrior’s scream began as a roar and ended as a wet gurgle—the sound of a man realizing, too late, that his body was no longer his own. The spearman’s thighs tensed like coiled serpents beneath sun-darkened skin, his bare feet anchored against the pillar with the certainty of a mountain’s roots.

Then it happened in the blink of an eye: The serrated teeth pierced deep into the base of the black-haired man's cock with the same merciless precision as a farmer wringing a chicken’s neck. Blood welled in thin ribbons, tracing the underside of his shaft like obscene jewelry before dripping onto the stone. His balls, already flattened against the metal rim, bulged obscenely—the left one splitting along its seam with a sound like wet parchment tearing.

The spearman didn’t cheer. He exhaled through his nose, his chest rising once, twice, before he wrenched the chain sideways. The black-haired man’s remaining testicle burst like an overripe melon under a wagon wheel, its gelatinous innards oozing through the collar’s teeth in a slow, glistening smear. His cock—still rigid with shock—twitched violently as the iron teeth sawed through its root, the severed shaft flopping onto the floor with a meaty thud. The black-haired warriors collapsed on the floor, unconscious, a mercy bestowed by the gods as no man should witness the aftermath of his gelding.

The Greek warrior's thighs flexed like twisted ship ropes beneath sun-bronzed skin, every corded muscle shifting with predatory precision as he assessed his opponent—a barrel-chested Gaul whose forearms bore the knotted scars of a hundred axe battles. Where the Greek was carved marble, the Gaul was hammered iron: his torso a solid mass of coarse, reddish hair matted with sweat, his balls hanging heavy as forge hammers between tree-trunk thighs. The iron collar bit into the Gaul's ruddy cock, already purpling at the tip from trapped blood, while the Greek's own length—thick and veined like an olive branch—twitched against his abdomen in anticipation.

Three heartbeats passed in silence before the Greek struck. Not with brute force, but with the cunning of a man who'd survived Spartan agoge training. He pivoted his hips left while wrenching his shoulders right, his spine twisting like a coiled spring. The chain between them snapped taut with a metallic scream, the links transmitting torque directly into the Gaul's collar. The serrated teeth spiraled violently, chewing through the Gaul's manhood in a wet, corkscrewing tear.

The Gaul's roar shattered into a wet gurgle as his right testicle erupted first, its fibrous casing peeling open like overcooked grape skin. Semen and nut pulp sprayed in a frothy arc, splattering the mesmerized women with chunks of warm ruin. The Gaul's left nut—still trapped in the twisting collar—bulged obscenely before splitting down its midline, its gelatinous core oozing through the collar's teeth like juice from a crushed pomegranate. His cock, now deprived of its twin anchors, flopped sideways like a felled tree, its base a mangled ruin of shredded flesh and glistening sinew. The Gaul swooned and fell on his knees before collapsing onto the floor unconscious into sweet oblivion.

The severed cock lay on the cold stone like a beached sea creature—still twitching, still veined, still impossibly erect. Its deep crimson head darkened to purple where blood pooled beneath the skin, the slit at its tip gaping open in a silent scream. The shaft pulsed rhythmically, each contraction mimicking the throes of orgasm, but nothing spilled forth—just a thin dribble of clear fluid from ruined ducts. Without its twin weights, the cock stood at attention like a soldier refusing to acknowledge its general had fallen.

A woman with silver-ringed fingers crouched beside it, her breath fogging the cooling flesh. She traced a nail along the bulging dorsal vein, watching it twitch under her touch. "Look at it," she murmured, pressing her thumb into the flared corona. The cock jerked as if trying to fuck empty air. "Still thinks it's attached." The thick base where it had torn from the warrior's groin glistened with strands of connective tissue, the urethra a dark tunnel leading nowhere.

Nearby, another woman—this one with lips stained berry-red—giggled as she nudged the cock with her toe. It wobbled like a felled sapling, then stiffened again, the veins along its length standing in stark relief against the pallid skin. "Should we preserve it?" she asked, tilting her head. "It will look pretty on the wall." The Matron's laughter echoed through the chamber like smoke as she stepped over the twitching member. "No, this will not provide any nectar. It should go to the dogs." The Matron kicked the member aside with irreverence.

The fifth pair of warriors locked eyes across the chain—both breathing hard, both unyielding. Instead of lunging opposite directions, facing away, they decide to gaze at each other, locking eyes. They both wanted to see the horror of their opponent's face when the gelding occurs. Their bodies gleamed with sweat, their muscles trembling from exertion rather than fatigue. The chain between them quivered at perfect equilibrium, neither side gaining ground. The women watched in hushed silence, fingers pausing between their thighs, as the two warriors reached an impossible stalemate. First the sound of wet silk tearing...then both warriors flew backwards, screaming in anguish!

The first warrior's cock was cleanly severed just above the root, the iron teeth meeting mid-shaft with surgical precision. His balls, still plump and attached to the mighty organ, landed on the floor with the majestic phallus with an unceremonious splat. The skin of his scrotum stretched taut but unbroken, his testicles visibly throbbing through the thin membrane. What once was the pride and joy of a mighty warrior laid cooling on the stone floor, it's purpose unfulfilled.

The second warrior’s gelding was even more violent. His collar twisted at the last second, shearing through the base of his cock at an angle. His shaft flopped forward, the severed end gaping like a startled mouth, with his balls—still miraculously whole—quickly followed. His scrotum however, split down the middle with a sound like a taut sail ripping, spilling his unharmed testicles onto the ground in a slick tangle of cord and flesh. They lay there pulsing, the veins along their surface visibly throbbing, as if unaware they were no longer part of him.

The Matron's laughter curled through the chamber like smoke from a sacrificial pyre. "Perfect!" she purred, her slippered feet stepping delicately over the pair of twitching remains of the pair of emasculated warrior's manhoods. The blood-slicked stone reflected torchlight in jagged streaks across her face as she gestured to the far wall where five bronze plaques hung empty. "All five plaques will be adorned with intact genitals tonight."

Her meek attendant, a beautiful young maiden, materialized from the shadows, cradling a silver tray. She quickly gathered the severed organs as they continued to twitch on the floor, their veins pulsing in useless rhythm. The Matron gazed at the pile of beautiful manhoods on the tray. Never again will they enter a woman's cunt.

"Observe," she commanded as she held one of the disembodied cocks for all the remaining warriors to see. The flickering torchlight made the veiny member look like it was alive and twitching. The Norse warrior's balls tightened instinctively as the Matron drove an iron spike through the preserved member's base, pinning it to the first plaque with a wet thunk. Blood wept down the bronze in slow rivulets, tracing the engraved words: Here lies the fate of those who are unworthy.

The Matron's lips parted as she whispered words that slithered through the chamber like serpents through wet grass. The Norse warrior's head snapped up—he knew that cadence and why the magic he first felt seemed familiar. It was Old Norse, the kind the shaman of his tribe used to weave battle-hewed flesh of warriors together, to revive those on the brink of death.

The severed cock on the bronze plaque twitched.

At first, it was subtle—a vein pulsing along its length like a worm beneath soil. Then the shaft darkened, flushing from pallid gray to angry crimson as though blood remembered its old pathways. The warriors held their breath as they witnessed the cock stiffened, rising from the plaque in a slow, obscene arc until it stood at rigid attention, the iron spike still embedded in its base. Precum beaded at its slit, quivering before falling in a slow, golden drip.

The honey-eyed maiden moved like liquid sunlight between the torchlit shadows, her bare feet whispering across the dark stone. She stood before the resurrected phallus, her golden gaze reflecting its throbbing veins. Her tongue—pink and wet as her cunt—darted out to trace the bulging dorsal ridge. The cock twitched violently, drops of precum moistening her lower lip.

The chamber air thickened as she took the shaft into her mouth with a predator’s grace, her cheeks hollowing around its girth. A collective gasp rippled through the women when the disembodied balls—still pinned beside the plaque—suddenly contracted. The sac tightened like a fist, drawing the loose skin taut as the nuts rolled upward in a grotesque imitation of ecstasy. The maiden’s throat worked around the cock as it pulsed against her palate, her golden eyes rolling back in genuine pleasure.

Then it erupted.

The resurrected cock convulsed violently as its first thick spurt painted the maiden’s throat in hot, viscous seed. Her golden eyes widened—not in shock, but in ravenous delight—as she swallowed convulsively, her throat working around the pulsing shaft like a serpent devouring its prey. The second eruption came harder, splattering the back of her palate with such force that creamy ropes shot through her nostrils, dripping in obscene rivulets down her chin. She giggled around the mouthful, the sound vibrating through the twitching member as it bucked against her tongue.

The Norse warrior's breath hitched as the maiden swallowed another thick spurt, her throat working around the disembodied cock with practiced ease. A hot coil of shame twisted in his gut—not at the spectacle, but at the way his own arousal thickened against his thigh, at how his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as if mimicking her motions. He wanted to taste the salt-bitter tang of that seed, to feel its pulse against his palate. He felt the contents of his testicles churn. His seed begged for release, but not into the cunts of the women but into the throats of men. The thought was a blade between his ribs. He clenched his jaw and forced the image away. Right now his duty was to breed, not to satisfy his lust. There will be time later for pleasure... if he survives the trials.

Across the chamber, the Greek warrior’s nostrils flared. His hazel eyes flicked to the Norse warrior’s twitching cock, then back to his face. The longing was palpable. The Greek exhaled through his nose, his own length darkening where it strained against his abdomen. It's a shame he had to unman the Norse warrior. He was the finest specimen of a virile man as long as he could remember. Such beautiful blue eyes, lush curly hair, and a statuesque body and massive cock that made men green with envy. He fantasized how the Norse warrior's seed would taste...citrus and meade perhaps?

The Matron’s piercing voice reoriented the two warriors. "See how eagerly the seed spills?" She stroked the maiden’s hair as the girl lapped at the softening shaft, her tongue catching the last milky drops. "Even severed, a warrior’s essence remembers its purpose." Her fingers trailed down to cup the plump balls, rolling them in her palm like dice. The sac tightened reflexively, though its owner lay unconscious yards away. "Unfortunately it is only good enough to drink, not to fertilize."

The Matron's fingers lingered on the Norse warrior's chest for a heartbeat too long before she withdrew, leaving a smear of the blond warrior's blood between his pectorals like war paint. "Come," she said, her voice husky with something darker than lust. "The worthy may continue." The remaining intact warriors—four now, where there had been twenty—exchanged glances sharp as daggers. Only the strongest remain.