Now boys know how to throw a party.

  You hear the war horns? Drums echoing down the pass? You know it’s about to get . Next thing you know——the door bursts open and in stomps some slab of muscle with a name like , or , or , covered in furs, dripping with rain and bad decisions, shouting, “BRING ME YOUR FINEST MEAT AND WOMAN.”

  And we .

  Because when those lads show up, it’s .

  You think elves are fancy and Lycans are primal? Barbarians are just . Pure, ale-soaked, blood-slicked, naked . No pretense. No drama. Just raw laughter, slurred toasts, and someone ends up licking mead off your tits while shouting a drinking song about their mother’s goat.

  I’m not even mad. That’s my style.

  One time, I swear to the gods, five of them showed up mid-blizzard. By the time the fire was roaring and the clothes were flying, I was on the table, two girls were swinging from the rafters, and someone was trying to roast a chicken on a candle.

  No one even noticed we’d run out of wine. We were too busy .

  And in bed?

  Absolute chaos. In the best way. They don’t know technique, they don’t it. They just , like they’re plundering your soul through your pelvis. Hair pulling. Boot still on. Smelling of pine smoke, sweat, and victory. You’ll wake up bruised, full, and deeply satisfied—sometimes next to an axe and a fur pelt that isn’t yours.

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  And the best part?

  They leave you a tip a war chant. And sometimes a wolf pup. One time a boar tusk necklace. I wore it for weeks.

  So yeah.

  Barbarians?

  Ten out of ten.

  Would pillage again.

  Barbarians?

  are what whores for.

  You think I’m joking? I’m . Every seasoned harlot has her favorite client type—some like the brooding necromancers, some go for the coin-heavy dwarves. Me? I’ll take a barbarian any day of the week and twice on raid day.

  They walk in, all muscles and mayhem, covered in war paint and probably someone else’s blood, and the moment they see you?

  “Elven princess,” they whisper, eyes wide, voice low, like they just spotted a unicorn wearing perfume. Never mind your accent’s Seebulban dockside trash and your last bath was a prayer and a splash. You’ve got smooth legs, no facial hair, and your tits sit nice? To them, that’s Royal lineage.

  They wanna after every round. No joke.

  You barely finish wiping yourself off and they’re already muttering about building you a longhouse and giving you eight sons with names like Skullbreaker and Goatbane.

  And they always . That’s part of the whole thing. “I’ll take you north,” they growl, “make you my winter bride.” Yeah? Then do it, Ulfgar. . Pack me up, carry me off like a good brute. But no—they actually do.

  Because it’s a game. It’s a game.

  They ravish you, roar about destiny and fated love, then pass out hugging a barrel. You tuck them in, steal their coin pouch, and the next morning they’re weeping because “the snow spirit maiden” is gone.

  That’s , darling.

  Saya. Spirit maiden. Elven whore queen of the beer hall.

  We play the part, they play theirs, and everyone leaves happy—, drunk, slightly robbed, but happy.

  That’s what I call good business.