Chapter 321: Queues and Gossips (1)

Thora’s moan carried cleanly through the door and down the corridor.

It was not a restrained sound. It was long, raw, and unmistakably satisfied, the kind of noise that left very little to the imagination about what was happening on the other side of the wood.

A second moan followed, higher and more broken, before the creak of the bedframe resumed.

Outside in the dim corridor, four women stood in various states of strained self-control.

Misha leaned against the opposite wall with her arms folded, white hair still neatly bound, eyes fixed on the door as if she could open it through sheer force of will.

Sira had claimed the floor, orange hair a mess, chin propped on her knees, listening with open, theatrical suffering.

Kessa paced a short, restless line between them, striped tail lashing.

Griselda stood a little apart, wings folded, yellow eyes half-lidded, the only one who looked like she had expected this exact outcome and was simply enduring it.

Sira broke first.

"She definitely cheated when we spread the sheets."

Misha’s mouth tightened.

"Is that so?"

"Well, how else did we pick her name thrice?"

Sira gestured at the door as another muffled, very clear moan rolled through it.

"Three times. In a row. I shuffled. Kessa shuffled. You watched. And somehow Thora’s name still came up like the universe itself is biased toward tall women with bad attitudes and excellent timing."

Kessa stopped pacing long enough to point a finger at the door.

"I don’t care about the sheets. I care that she has been in there for hours and the rest of us are out here like rejected guards. I waited through Measures and mutations and a devil projection. I am owed surface area."

Griselda’s voice was mild.

"You had surface area in Berakamon. Repeatedly. This is sequential, not cumulative. The agreement was one primary claim tonight. Thora drew it."

Sira twisted around to stare at her.

"You are unhelpful. And calm. Stop being calm while that is happening."

Another moan, longer, shaking, the unmistakable sound of Thora coming hard enough that the bedframe gave a protesting thud against the wall, cut through the corridor.

All four women went briefly silent.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Misha exhaled through her nose.

"She is doing that on purpose."

"Of course she is," Kessa muttered.

"She waited weeks. She is collecting with interest and an audience."

Sira flopped onto her back on the corridor floor and stared at the ceiling.

"I can hear how wet everything is from here. This is psychological warfare. When it is my turn, I am going to make sure the entire manor needs new door hinges."

Griselda glanced down at her.

"The elves already regret giving us this wing. Try not to confirm their worst predictions in a single night."

Before Sira could answer, footsteps approached from the outer stair.

Firlia appeared at the end of the corridor in her formal sash, green hair still neat from a full day of ledgers and apology notes, expression already tired in the specific way of someone who had spent hours managing nobles and schedules.

She took in the four women stationed outside the main bedchamber door, the sounds still leaking through it, and the general atmosphere of frustrated siege, and stopped.

Sira and Kessa moved as one.

Firlia didn’t even get a full step further before Sira had her by one wrist and Kessa by the other, steering her firmly into the waiting cluster like a captured supply cart.

"What is it?" Firlia asked, blinking.

Sira’s grin was immediate and unrepentant.

"Tonight’s Thora’s. You can’t disturb."

Firlia looked from Sira’s face to Kessa’s striped intensity to the door, where another low, rough sound from Thora made the situation extremely clear.

"I... wasn’t planning to."

Kessa released her wrist but did not step back.

"Good. Because if you open that door before she finishes collecting, I will personally put you on inventory duty for a month."

Firlia smoothed her sash, recovering a fraction of her usual composure, though her ears had gone pink.

"I returned from the Queen’s hall. There are updated staging notes for the eastern cohort and a formal acknowledgment of the Berakamon report. I thought someone should receive them before morning."

She glanced at the door again despite herself as Thora’s voice, wordless, wrecked, very loud, carried through.

"...Is she all right?"

Misha’s tone was dry enough to sand wood.

"She is extremely all right. That is the problem."

Sira slung an arm around Firlia’s shoulders with cheerful malice.

"Welcome to the waiting list. Thora drew first claim. The Chief is still half-braced and somehow still going. The rest of us are practicing restraint and contemplating violence. You’re just in time for the next round of listening to her win."

As if on cue, Thora’s moan rose again, the unmistakable sound of a second peak being dragged out of her.

Something shifted against the wall on the other side of the door.

A low male sound followed, rough and satisfied.

The bedframe resumed its protesting rhythm.

Kessa’s tail lashed harder.

"I am going to kill her. Affectionately. After I get my turn."

Griselda folded her arms.

"You are going to wait until morning like the rest of us. Sequential claims were the compromise. Breaking the door down because you are impatient voids the compromise and starts a different kind of fight."

Sira staged a dramatic collapse against Firlia.

"Listen to her. So wise. So calm. So not currently thinking about the fact that Thora is in there getting fucked through the wall while we hold notes and practice breathing exercises."

Firlia’s face had gone a deeper shade of pink.

She carefully extracted herself from Sira’s arm and straightened her ledger case as if it could shield her from the auditory reality of the corridor.

"I will leave the staging notes on the outer table," she said with as much dignity as she could assemble.

"And I will be in the eastern wing if anyone requires actual administrative support rather than... this."

Misha inclined her head, still watching the door.

"Appreciated. And Firlia, if you hear anything that sounds like furniture failing, you have permission to request replacement inventory in advance. The Chief made promises about beds."

Firlia made a small, strangled sound that might have been agreement or prayer, and retreated down the corridor with the posture of someone fleeing a battlefield she had not enlisted for.

Sira watched her go, then turned back to the door as Thora’s voice broke again into a long, shaking cry that left very little doubt about the current score inside the room.

"That was at least the second one," Sira announced.

"Possibly the third. I have lost count. I hate the sheets. I hate probability. I hate that she sounds like that."