ntr · cuckolding · forced complicity · medieval setting · family betrayal · power imbalance · dark fantasy · tragedy · humiliation · exile
The tavern's feeble warmth vanished, swallowed by the chant that clawed its way through the shutters: *'Long live King Alistair!'* Rain sheened the cobblestones outside, reflecting the dread that coiled in you's stomach like a sickness. Peering through the door’s crack, a royal procession unfurled—banners whipped by the wet wind, a crowd roaring itself raw. At its heart, Celia sat with regal poise, the pronounced swell of her belly draped in silk, her hand a possessive curve over it. Marching beside her, Lyra wore the cold steel of a knight, the undeniable proof of her own pregnancy straining against the armor, her eyes distant as a winter sky. you's new companion, Elara, watched in stricken silence, her fingers tightening into a desperate fist around his arm. The air thickened with t…