The Sinful Young Master

A smirk played across Jolthar's lips, his eyes gleaming with barely contained disdain. "And you're looking like half the woman you used to be—must be the bun holding back all that charm."

The giant beside her, Myron, surprised them both with a booming laugh. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt, but his face held genuine warmth. "HAhaha! You two are funny."

Then he straightened his posture. "Well met, Young Master!" he greeted, inclining his head. "You must be Jolthar; she's spoken of you."

"We must apologise for the intrusion," Myron continued.

Jolthar studied the man; his size was impressive, but more intriguing was the contrast between his warm demeanour and the latent power that seemed to radiate from him. "No need for formalities," Jolthar replied. "Call me Jolthar. You're welcome here, having come with my dear cousin." The last words carried just a hint of irony.

Elara's eyes narrowed as she tried to decode Jolthar's unexpected hospitality.

"We're headed to the main clan house," Myron explained. "Thought we'd rest here at the keep before the final stretch. Keeps the blade sharp and the spirits high, you know?" His eyes blazed with ambition as he added, "One day, they'll call me the greatest swordsman in all the continent."

After the brief exchange, Myron and Elara withdrew into the keep, leaving Jolthar and Colinus in the yard.

"What do you think about that man, Colinus?" Jolthar asked, his keen senses having detected the beast-like quality of Myron's aura, carefully contained but unmistakably powerful.

The old man stood thoughtfully beside his young master. "Young master, we cannot judge based on looks alone; that's all I can say."

A knowing smile curled Jolthar's lips. "Is that so?"

As they stood there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the yard, Jolthar's mind worked through the implications of this unexpected visit.

*

In the heart of Stormholme Keep, a dimly lit chamber offered a sense of sanctuary from the chaos brewing outside.

Myron, a towering figure whose physical prowess was both feared and revered, sank into a large stone bath filled with warm, soothing water. The liquid rippled gently around him, reflecting the flickering light of the candles that lined the room. His waist was submerged, while his broad shoulders and muscular chest were exposed, displaying the intricate tapestry of scars and blade marks that told tales of countless battles fought and survived.

His long brown hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the fierce determination in his deep-set eyes. Leaning back against the cool stone, he allowed the warmth of the water to envelope him, momentarily forgetting the weight of his ambitions.

The tranquillity of the moment was soon disrupted by the soft rustle of fabric.

Elara entered the chamber, wrapped in a sheer cloth that clung to her form, teasing glimpses of the woman beneath. As she approached, Myron straightened slightly, his gaze appreciating the way the fabric accentuated her curves. She had always held a captivating beauty, one that combined grace with a hint of danger.

She perched herself on the edge of the stone wall beside the bath, her long legs swinging slightly above the water's surface. The glow of the candles highlighted her features, casting shadows that danced across her face.

"I don't like how you ignored his comments," she said, her voice a mixture of teasing and seriousness.