The voice was clear, cheerful, and terrified Sol more than any beast.
Veyra.
"We’re back!" another voice chimed in... lighter, younger. Liora.
Sol froze. He looked down at Lyra.
She was a disaster. Her trousers were soaked darker at the crotch from her earlier climax. Her tunic was bunched up. But worst of all, the side of her neck, her collarbone, and her left breast were streaked with white, drying fluids that smelled unmistakably of sex.
She was in no state to be seen.
"Shit," Sol hissed, panic piercing his lust-addled brain.
He shook Lyra’s shoulder hard. "Aunt! Snap out of it! They are here!"
Lyra blinked, the haze slowly lifting. She looked at Sol, then down at the sticky white mess on her chest.
"The poison..." she mumbled, touching it. "It smells... musky."
The footsteps stopped right at the door. The latch began to lift.
"Why is the door closed?" Veyra’s voice came, muffled by the wood.
"Shit, Shit, shit," he hissed under his breath.
He grabbed Lyra by her unsoiled shoulder, his grip urgent. He scraped the absolute bottom of his mental barrel, squeezing out the last, dying sparks of the Ash Gray energy to enforce one final, desperate command.
"Aunt," he whispered intensely, staring into her dazed eyes. "The poison... it is volatile! You must wash it off immediately before it sinks back in! Go to the back! To the bathing area! Now!"
Lyra blinked, the command bypassing her confusion and hitting her motor functions directly. She was still light-headed, her body humming with the afterglow, but the authority in his voice... and the fear of the "poison"—was absolute.
"Wash..." she mumbled, clutching her tunic to her chest to hide the sticky white streaks. "Yes... wash the sickness away."
She scrambled up, stumbling slightly as she navigated the clutter of the hut. She didn’t look back, moving like a sleepwalker toward the rear exit... a heavy leather flap that led to the small, enclosed bathing area behind the hut. She slipped through it and vanished just as the latch on the front door began to rattle.
Sol wasted no time.
He frantically finished tightening his trousers, tucking himself in with clumsy, shaking hands. He sniffed the air and grimaced. The room smelled thick... a heavy, nutty, musky scent of sex, sweat and cum that hung in the stagnant air like a fog, refusing to go away. It was unmistakable.
"Fuck," he cursed silentely.
He lunged for the small wooden shutter on the side wall, throwing it open to let the evening breeze draft in. He stood in the center of the room, waving his hands frantically, acting like a fucking human fan, trying to disperse the cloud of pheromones, his eyes darting between the door and the window.
Please dissipate. Please dissipate.
The door rattled again, harder this time.
"Sol! Open up!" Veyra’s voice was sharp, impatient.
He took a deep breath, wiped the sheen of sweat from his upper lip, ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and forced his face into a mask of casual boredom.
He strode to the door and pulled it open.
Standing there, framed by the twilight, were Lyra’s three daughters.
There was Arelia, the eldest, tall and composed. Liora, the youngest, looking curious. And in the center, arms crossed over her chest, was Veyra... the middle child, and easily the sharpest of the bunch.
Veyra’s eyes narrowed instantly. She scanned the dim hut, then landed her gaze on Sol.
"What were you doing?" she asked, her tone dripping with suspicion. "Why did it take you so long to open the door? And... by the spirits, what is that smell?"
She wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air. Sol’s heart skipped a beat, but he prayed the draft from the window was doing its job.
"Where is Mother?" Veyra demanded, stepping forward, invading his personal space. "And why are you... sweating so much?"
She looked him up and down. Sol’s tunic was damp, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his chest was heaving slightly from the exertion of the ’friction therapy’ and the subsequent panic. He looked like he had just run a marathon.
Sol leaned against the doorframe, trying to look nonchalant despite his racing pulse. His brain spun at a million miles an hour.
"Aunt Lyra is taking a bath," Sol said, thumbing toward the back of the hut. "She came back covered in dirt from the fields. She wanted to clean up before eating."
"And you?" Veyra pressed, her eyes flicking to the sweat dripping down his temple. "Did you take a bath in your own sweat? You’re glistening."
"I was..." Sol stammered for a microsecond before his improvisation kicked in. "I was doing... repetitive physical movements."
Veyra blinked. "Repetitive what?"
"Movements," Sol said, gaining confidence in the lie. "To harden the muscles. To strengthen the body. I was... lifting heavy stones and moving my limbs rapidly to build heat."
He mimed a vague, jerky motion with his arms. The concept of ’exercise’ for the sake of fitness was alien here; people got strong by working or fighting, not by moving in place.
"It is a technique I... remembered from a dream," Sol added quickly. "It is very tiring. That is why I am sweating."
Veyra stared at him, her expression flat. She clearly thought he was an idiot, and there was definitely something wrong, but she didn’t seem to suspect he had just defiled her mother.
"You are weird, Sol," she muttered, while staring dead at him, before pushing past him into the hut. "Whatever. We brought the tubers. Move aside."
Sol stepped back, pressing himself against the rough wooden wall to let them pass, his heart slowly descending from his throat back into his chest.
As they filed in, the air in the hut seemed to shrink.
Arelia, the eldest, walked in first. She was a taller, younger version of Lyra, with the same broad hips and strong shoulders, though her expression was cooler, more reserved.
She carried the heavy basket of washed tubers with effortless grace, smiling helplessly at Sol as she knew that they were always tit for tat and moved toward the hearth.