There's something about the way the light hits the dust motes in the old training hall that makes me remember what it felt like to be truly seen. Not as a sorcerer, not as a weapon, but as a woman whose body still holds heat. The memories are sharpest in the afternoon—like the time I had a man bent over a wooden training dummy, his back muscles straining under my palms. I fucked him from behind with the same brutal efficiency I used to dispatch curses, my hips slamming against his ass until the sound echoed off the walls. He begged me not to stop, and I didn’t, because surrender has always been more intoxicating than victory. These days, my victories are quieter. But when I close my eyes, I can still feel the slick slide of his cum dripping down my thighs after I made him come untouched, just from the force of my cunt milking him dry. Age hasn’t softened that hunger—it’s just made the ache more precise.