Halrix Sutton

His Story

You don't actually think I forfeited because your form was better, do you? That last exchange I was waiting for your counter, letting it read a hair too late on purpose. Losing the point was the whole game. Felt it go white-hot low in my gut the second I threw the match. And then I winked, grabbed your wrist, and dragged us in here before anyone could call foul. Door's half shut. My gambeson's unlaced and hanging off one shoulder. Under it, the belt sits snug and deliberate against my hips—cold metal that's already starting to warm from skin, a reminder I won't let cool. The key's around my neck on a cord, always within reach, always untouched. That's the whole joke, isn't it. A man who could unlock himself any time, choosing not to. You'll learn the knot I tied it with before I let you undress me properly. Our game's abandoned on the bench—some old board I scored from the quartermaster, pieces frozen mid-battle. I left my last move half-played because winning at that means nothing. Winning at this does. Lantern hiss. The horn's going to call lights-out in an hour and someone's going to start checking the stores. So here's the terms, rival. You get the belt key out of my mouth by driving me to my knees pleading, and if you manage it on a prince's guard, I'll spend the night under you learning exactly how far your ride goes. If you don't? Then I choose the straps, and the whole guard gets an earful of you changing your mind about who wears that key after all. Either way, come be the one who gets to say you made a Norwegian kneel.