Chapter Text
The music abruptly halts, the once-smooth melodies vanishing into an eerie silence. The musicians, their faces pale with fear, scramble in all directions. Some dash for the exit, their instruments discarded in a hasty panic, while others are swiftly overpowered by their female counterparts.
As the pheromones continue to flood the ballroom, the once graceful atmosphere devolves into chaos. The women are the first to succumb, their faces flushed with heat, their regal composure faltering. A chubby princess, unable to take it anymore, rips at the fabric of her gown, her breath ragged and desperate. "UUUGH! I can't take it anymore!" she cries out, stumbling through the crowd, her face contorted with the overwhelming desire that surges through her. She pushes past the growing chaos, losing all semblance of royal dignity as she desperately tries to cool herself.
Behind her, another princess follows suit, her once-perfect hair unraveling as she desperately tugs at it, her regal composure slipping entirely. "W-What is happening?!" she cries out, her voice a mix of panic and confusion, her breath ragged as she struggles against the heat consuming her. She pulls at her dress, her attempt to free herself from the suffocating warmth futile. Her poised appearance crumbles, leaving only frantic energy in its place as she stumbles through the ballroom, lost in the overwhelming chaos.
"HA HA!" Isabella laughs, her voice high and amused as she watches the scene unfold.
Queen Isadora, standing nearby, turns her gaze to the chaos below. Her eyes widen in disbelief. "What in God's name...?" she exclaims, her voice sharp with shock and confusion as the scene around her devolves into madness.
Marcille leans against the balcony, her eyes scanning the room below, searching for Falin amidst the madness. Her heart races as she tries to make sense of the disorienting events unfolding before her. The pheromones linger in the air, and the frenzy continues to grow, but Marcille’s focus remains on the one person who’s managed to stir such a storm in her heart.
The chaos spreads like wildfire. The other women, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the pheromones, begin to react in similar ways. Some rip at their gowns, others clutch their throats or tear at their hair, as their minds succumb to the overwhelming attraction that fills the air. Their once-composed demeanor crumbles, their desperation palpable.
Meanwhile, the men, now growing fearful, move back instinctively, their faces twisted in disgust as they try to escape the suffocating scent. Their noses are assaulted by the same pheromones, but instead of the heady attraction that it elicits in the women, the smell repulses them, filling them with a sense of dread.
“The males react to the scent of the Alpha and know they must flee!” Narrates Isabella to herself.
The men’s faces tighten, their eyes wide with unease, and they instinctively draw away from Falin and Miguel, trying to distance themselves from the source of the scent.
Miguel halts mid-dance, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he scans the chaotic scene around him. The once elegant ballroom now feels like a battlefield, the air thick with pheromones that have completely upended the night. His face is tense, but there’s a strange composure to him now, as though he’s grown accustomed to the overwhelming scent.
"What is happening?!" Miguel’s voice is sharp, a mix of confusion and disbelief as he watches the frantic behavior unfolding.
Before anyone can answer, a princess near him suddenly lunges forward, her eyes wild with desire. "You will do..." she purrs.
“Ah!” Miguel Dodges her, her hands grabbing at the nearest nobleman with ferocity. She pins him down with alarming strength, her breath ragged as she begins to tug at his clothes.
More women, unable to resist the pheromones any longer, begin to pounce on the men around them, trying to undress them with feral determination.
"What in the fucking fuck is going on?!" one of the noblemen shouts, his voice rising in a panic as he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the onslaught of women.
“Get them all!” A female voice yells.
The ballroom, once a place of sophisticated charm and grace, is now a wild, unrestrained frenzy, with the men struggling to resist the women while the women lose themselves to the overwhelming attraction they can no longer control.
“What have you…?! …Huh…” Miguel was about to blame Falin, but he looks at her face, a soft feminine expression of confusion and worry. He concludes she doesn’t know what’s happening.
“Aaaah!” a moan is heard and many follow, screams, shouts, sounds of clothes being ripped.
“Sweet Aurelion! Let’s get out of here!” Exclaims Miguel, forgetting Falin’s stench completely and lifting her in his arms. Ugh, she’s… not that light…
“Are you seriously carrying me…?!” Falin protests.
“There’s no time, princess! We need to escape!”
“Oh my God!” moans of men can be heard as well.
“Oh God… OH GOD! AH!”
Miguel blushes. "What?!" His gaze lands on a couple entwined on the dancefloor, lost in a passionate frenzy. The man’s expression flickers between conflicted emotions—disgust at the cloying scent surrounding them and undeniable pleasure as the woman moves with unrestrained intensity.
“Princess, don’t look!” Miguel warns sharply, spinning around to shield her from the scene.
Confused, Falin stares at him blankly.
Without hesitation, he rushes toward the exit, carrying her in his arms. His eyes dart around the chaos, the room a vivid vision of what he imagines hell must look like.
“Falin!” Marcille’s voice rings out from the second floor.
Falin immediately twists in Miguel’s arms. “Marcille!” she cries, her face lighting up before slipping free of his grip.
“No, Princess! It’s too dangerous!” Miguel shouts, lunging to catch her. But she’s already too far, the surrounding pandemonium swallowing her as she races toward Marcille.
Before he can chase after her, a woman pounces on him, her eyes wild with hunger. “You’re mine!” she growls.
“Back off, lustful fiend!” Miguel snarls, drawing his sword in a flash. The sight of the blade sends her scurrying into the shadows.
All around him, the debauchery grows worse. Couples entangled in passion writhe on the floor—sometimes trios, sometimes pairs of women, sometimes entire groups. Many men have already fled, but others remain trapped in the chaos, succumbing to the temptations surrounding them.
“Armand! Why don't you fend them off?!” Screams a man being overpowered by two women.
“Are you not a man?! This is heaven!” Screams the other man as he lets himself be taken by a group of women.
Miguel watches them in disgust.
“Men! Stand your ground!” Miguel shouts, his voice straining to rise above the overwhelming din. “Fend off these beasts! Don’t give in!”
But his command is futile. Around him, the men succumb one by one, their resolve crumbling as they fall into the arms of the ravenous women. Some even rush toward their temptresses willingly, desperate and lost in the madness.
The air is thick with the sound of moans and cries of ecstasy, a cacophony of passion that echoes off the walls. The wet, rhythmic noises of flesh against flesh intertwine with muffled gasps and guttural groans, creating an oppressive symphony that fills every corner of the room.
Miguel’s heart pounds as he forces himself to ignore the lewd sounds surrounding him, his focus fixed on finding a familiar face. “Where’s the Cardinal?!” he mutters desperately, his voice thick with urgency, his grip tightening on his sword.
“Cardinal Alarion!” he bellows, shoving aside entangled bodies as he pushes forward. “Cardinal Alarion, where are you?!”
He kicks apart writhing couples as he advances, his eyes darting through the chaos in search of the elusive Cardinal.
“We have to help them!” Marcille demands, turning to Isabella with frantic urgency.
“No, we don’t!” the queen snaps, her voice sharp and unyielding. “We must stay safe!”
From the stairwell, Falin’s voice pierces the air. “Marcille!” she cries, sprinting toward the second floor.
“Falin!” Marcille calls back, her voice trembling with love and relief. But then she remembers —her scent is the catalyst for all of this.
“Wait! Stay away!” Marcille shouts, her voice breaking as panic rises in her chest.
Falin freezes, her pout deepening as confusion clouds her face. “Why?!” she asks, her tone wounded, her voice barely audible over the relentless symphony of moans and cries of passion reverberating through the hall.
“It’s you!” Marcille blurts out, her voice trembling with realization.
Isabella steps forward, placing a steadying hand on Marcille’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she says calmly, her sharp eyes glinting with understanding. “I think we’re safe.” She points toward Falin’s neck.
“Huh?” Marcille follows Isabella’s gesture and notices Falin’s neck. The faint down of feathers that normally adorned it has almost completely disappeared.
“Just wear this and run. We’ll be fine,” Isabella instructs, handing Marcille a silk scarf with the air of someone who knows what they’re doing “The pheromones wont come out anymore.”
“Pheromones?!” the queen exclaims, her voice a mix of shock and alarm.
Without hesitation, Isabella wraps her own scarf around her mouth and nose, her movements swift and efficient.
“Sorry, Mom,” Isabella says, her tone apologetic but firm. “I only brought two. You’ll have to hold your breath.”
“Me?! But…”
Before the queen can respond, Falin strides forward, her expression resolute as she carries Marcille securely in her arms. “Follow me,” she orders, her voice steady and commanding, her gaze locking on Isabella and the queen.
“But… pheromones?!” The Queen exclaims.
Isabella nods, gripping the queen’s arm. “Mom, I'll tell you all about it at home. But now let's go,” she urges, glancing warily at the chaos around them as the moans and cries of passion echo through the air like an ominous melody. The Queen nods.
Isabella runs behind Falin, holding her mom’s hand. Falin has seen where the fastest way to the door is.
The chaos in the ballroom has descended into debauchery, the regal hall now a haze of heat and pheromones. Falin strides purposefully toward the exit, her arms strong and steady as she carries Marcille. The half-elf clings to her scarf, pressing it firmly over her nose and mouth, her green eyes wide with alarm. Behind them, Isabella and Queen Isadora follow closely, the younger woman clutching her scarf with one hand while keeping a firm grip on her mother’s wrist.
Bodies writhe on the polished marble floor, draped across the elegant furniture in clusters of passion. Couples, trios, and larger groups are lost in the throes of desire, their movements and moans filling the air. The heavy fog of pheromones wraps around everything, making even the chandeliers overhead shimmer faintly as if corrupted by the atmosphere.
“Did you know this was going to happen?” Marcille asks, her voice muffled behind the scarf but tinged with nervous accusation.
“No,” Falin replies firmly, though there’s a flicker of guilt in her golden eyes. She adjusts her grip on Marcille, glancing down at the scene beneath her feet. “Better hold your breath if you can. It’s… safer.”
Marcille’s blush deepens as Falin’s gaze momentarily catches hers. The draconian woman’s discomfort is clear as she tries to step carefully, her boots crunching over discarded jewelry and brushing against tangled limbs. Falin’s jaw tightens; despite her immunity to the pheromones, running through a crowd of people openly making love is something she can’t entirely ignore.
“I'm sorry…,” she mutters under her breath, her feathers still shedding.
Behind them, Isabella pulls at her mother’s arm. “Mom, come on, we’re almost there!” she says, her voice slightly panicked.
Isadora stumbles, her breath catching as she inhales sharply. Her hand flies to her mouth, but it’s too late. Her composure falters as the pheromones take hold, her pupils dilating as heat rushes through her.
“Mom?” Isabella asks again, her voice rising in alarm.
But Isadora doesn’t answer. Her gaze suddenly locks onto a solitary figure amidst the chaos — Cardinal Alarion.
There, in the center of the madness, the Cardinal kneels in prayer. His crimson and gold robes pool around him as he clutches his glowing staff, the sacred crystal at its tip shimmering faintly in the debauched haze. His lips move in silent prayer, his serene expression untouched by the chaos around him. He seems like a beacon of calm in the storm, wholly devoted to his faith.
But for Isadora, the sight of him is something else entirely. Her vision blurs as memories flood her mind: she sees the young priest she first encountered when she was nineteen. Alarion had been only twenty-eight then, a man of striking features and an unshakable faith. She remembers his commanding presence, his deep voice, and the way his words of devotion had stirred something forbidden within her.
Now, the years fall away. Overwhelmed by the pheromones and her long-buried feelings, admiration twists into something wild and uncontrollable. Isadora stops abruptly, her body trembling as desire takes hold.
“Mom!” Isabella yells, tugging at her arm. “We have to go!”
But Isadora’s attention is fixed on the Cardinal. He’s no longer young, but the Queen still admires him. She moves like an animal caught in a spell, her breathing uneven, she tries to release herself from her daughter’s grip.
“Your Majesty!” Falin shouts, turning to look over her shoulder. “Marcille, keep your scarf on. This is getting worse.”
“Isabella! Didn’t you say this was not gonna get worse?!” Marcille exclaims.
“Marci, hold your breath, please.” Falin asks het with urgency.
Marcille, her cheeks flushed and her heart racing, nods silently. She clings to Falin tighter as the tall woman pivots back toward the door.
“Mom, please!” Isabella cries, her voice breaking.
But Isadora breaks free of her daughter’s grip. With trembling steps, she pushes through the crowd, her eyes never leaving Alarion.
Falin grabs Isabella's wrist and pulls her in the opposite direction.
“Moooom!”
The Cardinal looks up, his prayer faltering as Queen Isadora approaches. For a moment, his calm expression shifts to confusion, then concern. Rising to his feet, he opens his mouth to speak.
“Your Majesty?” he says cautiously, his deep voice steady despite the chaos around him.
But Isadora doesn’t respond with words. She lunges toward him, her regal composure utterly discarded, her movements raw and instinctive.
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“I don't see my mom!” Isabella yells.
“I'll go back to get her, but first let's get you two out of here!” Falin assures her.
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“Waah!” Falin exclaims as they finally burst through the door, leaving the chaos behind. Marcille and Isabella immediately remove their scarves, gasping for the fresh, cool air.
“Falin! Please, go get my mom!” Isabella begs, her voice trembling with desperation.
Falin nods firmly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get her out.”
“Wait!” a familiar voice calls.
They turn to see Miguel approaching, now clad in light armor, his face set with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he declares. “I will not abandon the Cardinal. I’ll get the Queen as well.”
Falin sighs, her expression softening. “I appreciate your bravery and loyalty, but—”
Miguel cuts her off, his tone resolute. “I’m going back in, m’lady.”
He… m’lady. Marcille thinks, a soft giggle escaping her lips as she quickly covers her mouth, her tension easing for a moment.
Miguel continues, his voice steady and full of conviction. “I am a loyal subject of King Alaric. It’s only natural that I want to save his Queen and our Cardinal. But you…” He pauses, meeting Falin’s gaze with admiration. “You owe nothing to this kingdom, yet you’re willing to sacrifice your dignity to save them. That is admirable.”
Falin opens her mouth to respond but hesitates. “I’m actually immune to the—”
“The mysterious fog! Yes… Falin is immune due to her… uhm, virtuous nature,” Marcille interjects hurriedly, her voice a touch too enthusiastic. She glances at Falin meaningfully, her eyes urging her to stay quiet.
Falin raises an eyebrow but wisely closes her mouth, deciding to let Marcille’s explanation stand.
Miguel’s eyes widen, his expression betrays his incredulity for a second but then he nods earnestly. “Of course. That makes perfect sense. Your purity and strength must be what shields you. Truly remarkable,” he says, his tone almost reverent.
Marcille suppresses a smirk, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, while Isabella shoots her a suspicious side-eye, clearly not buying the act.
“Let’s go in then, your grace,” Miguel says, straightening up and offering a slight bow.
Marcille steps forward, holding out the scarf. Her hand brushes against Falin’s as she hands it to her, and she lingers for a moment, her grip tightening slightly. “Take care, please,” she murmurs softly, her voice filled with concern.
Falin nods, her expression tender as she meets Marcille’s gaze. “I will,” she promises, her voice steady yet filled with unspoken emotion. She holds Marcille’s hand with reverence, her fingers lingering as if reluctant to let go. For a moment, the chaos around them fades, leaving only the quiet intensity of their shared glance.
“Uhm…” Isabella mutters, signaling to the women to stop being lovey dovey.
“Let’s go then!” Says Falin.
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Once they’re back inside, Miguel takes up a knight’s stance, his tone sharp. “I’ll go left, you go right…”
“Uh… actually,” Falin interjects gently, glancing at him with a weary expression. “I know where the Cardinal is. But… you’re not going to like it.”
Miguel frowns. “What do you mean?”
Moments later, his voice rings out in utter disbelief. “Oh my holy…!!”
Cardinal Alarion and Queen Isadora are tangled together on the lavish futon in the royal suite, their passion completely unrestrained.
Miguel’s shock turns to outrage. “Stop it! You’re a man of God!” he yells at the Cardinal, who barely acknowledges him.
“And you!” Miguel glares at Isadora, appalled. “You’re the Queen!”
Isadora doesn’t flinch, her focus remaining on Alarion.
Falin steps forward and places a calming hand on Miguel’s shoulder. Her voice is soft but firm. “Miguel, let’s go… We can explain everything to Isabella later.”
“No!” Miguel protests, turning to Falin with desperation. “No way! We can’t just leave them like this. Let’s break them apart.”
Falin sighs, the weight of the situation evident in her posture. “Miguel…” she begins, but he interrupts her.
“Your Grace, please,” Miguel pleads, his voice low. “At least let me do it. You don’t have to get involved—I’ll handle it.”
Falin takes a slow breath, her eyes softening as she turns to the couple. “Enough, you two,” she says quietly, her tone a mix of fatigue and compassion.
The couple freezes mid-movement, their heads snapping toward Falin. The Cardinal’s face goes pale as he scrambles upright.
“For the love of God, cover yourselves,” Miguel mutters, turning away in exasperation.
Queen Isadora grabs the Cardinal’s cape and wraps it around herself.
The Cardinal stumbles forward, his voice trembling with fear. “Please… please don’t take Isadora from me,” he begs, clutching Falin’s hands. “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t separate us!”
Miguel slaps the Cardinal’s hands away, glaring at him. “Your Grace, he’s clearly under the effects of the fog!” Without hesitation, Miguel delivers a sharp blow, knocking the Cardinal unconscious.
“Alarion!” Isadora cries, rushing to his side.
Falin kneels beside the Queen, her voice soft but steady. “Queen Isadora, it’s time to go. We’ll talk about this later, I promise.”
The Queen nods, her expression slightly frightened.
Miguel picks up the Cardinal’s limp body and moves toward the exit, glancing back briefly. Falin stays with Isadora for a moment longer, her compassion evident as she helps the Queen gather herself. Then, with a heavy sigh, she follows Miguel out of the chamber.
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Miguel and Falin sit outside on the steps of the grand chamber with Marcille and Princess Isabella, the moonlight casting long shadows across the stone. The night air is still, yet the tension from the events inside hangs heavily between them. Two carriages are stationed nearby, one holding Cardinal Alarion, the other Queen Isadora, both under the strict watch of the palace guards.
Marcille leans forward, her fingers laced tightly together, her face flushed with both embarrassment and concern. “I… I can’t believe it. The Queen and the Cardinal… in that way?” She shakes her head. “It feels unreal.”
Princess Isabella, her composure cracking under the weight of her emotions, buries her face in her hands. Her voice trembles as she whispers, “This is a nightmare. My mother and a Cardinal… How could she?”
Falin steps closer, her golden eyes soft with concern. She places an arm gently around Isabella’s shoulders, her voice low and soothing. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Isabella shakes her head, guilt and shame washing over her as tears slip through her fingers. “No, Falin… I knew this was going to happen,” she admits in a trembling voice.
Falin stiffens slightly, her arm still resting on Isabella’s shoulder. “What do you mean?” she asks, her voice calm but laced with a quiet intensity.
“I mean… I didn’t know this exact thing would happen…” Isabella stammers, looking up, her tear-streaked face filled with remorse. “I knew what your pheromones could do in theory, Falin. I… I wanted to see how far their effects could go in humans. I didn’t think it would escalate like this. But…” Her voice falters, breaking under the weight of her guilt.
Falin’s expression hardens, the compassion in her golden eyes now tempered by a sharp edge. “Isabella…” she begins, her voice severe but measured, “I can’t blame you for this entirely. You couldn’t have predicted everything.” She pauses, letting her words sink in. “But you no doubt bear part of the fault.”
Isabella’s eyes widen, and she recoils as though struck. “I didn’t mean for any of this…” she whispers, her voice cracking as regret consumes her.
Falin lets out a heavy sigh, standing tall but visibly weary. “Intent doesn’t erase consequence,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “This isn’t just about you or me. People’s lives, reputations, and faith are at stake. What you did was reckless, and now we’re all dealing with the fallout.”
Isabella’s lip trembles, tears slipping down her cheeks again. “I’m sorry, I truly am.”
Isabella nods slowly, her tears continuing to fall. “I’ll make it right,” she whispers, her voice small but resolute.
Falin rises to her full height, her exhaustion visible but her resolve intact. “We’ll find a way forward,” she says, her voice carrying both reassurance and finality. “But, Isabella, no more experiments like this. The cost is too great.”
Isabella swallows hard and nods again. “I promise… no more risks.”
Falin glances toward the carriages where the Queen and Cardinal sit, then back to Isabella. “Good,” she says softly.
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Falin and Marcille drive the carriage in silence, the only sound the steady clatter of hooves on cobblestone. Inside, Isabella and Queen Isadora sit quietly, the weight of the events heavy between them. Isabella stares at the floor, while Isadora keeps her gaze averted. No one speaks as the castle looms closer.
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Notes from the author.
Im happier now, though this chapter wasn’t as funny as I expected, he he.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. :)