Jonas and Ingvar spend time getting to know one another and Jonas begins to grasp the true scale of the challenge before him. What once seemed like a difficult trial now reveals itself to be something greater than Jonas anticipated.
Jonas followed the scent of charred meat and fermented honey through the doorway, his boots sinking into fresh rushes strewn over packed earth. The interior swam with smoke from a central firepit, its glow painting the rafters in flickering hues of amber—and there, swaying among drying herbs and salted fish, a multitude of phalluses pierced by iron hooks, the Breedmaster's trophies collected over the years. Jonas's cock twitched at the sight, imagining the choked cries that must have accompanied each addition to the macabre collection.
Ingvar traced the outline of a particularly massive specimen, its gnarled veins casting shadows like twisted roots across the ceiling. "Not all these victories are mine," he admitted, thumbing the desiccated skin where it stretched thin over the bulbous glans. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur as he guided Jonas's gaze toward a monstrous length nearly the size of a forearm—darkened by time, but still visibly thicker at the base where brutal force had ripped it free. "That one belonged to my father, the former Breedmaster. I tore it off myself to become the current Breedmaster." Jonas marveled at the member. It must have pleasured many maidens before it met its cruel fate.
Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose, the musk of old blood and cured leather filling his nostrils as he studied the relic. The severed end still bore the ragged imprint of teeth—not cleanly severed by blade, but gnawed through tendon and sinew in the heat of battle. Ingvar's fingers lingered on the bite marks with something like reverence. "Taught me my first lesson about power," he murmured, pressing close enough for Jonas to feel the Breedmaster's erection hot against his thigh. "A man's worth isn't measured by what swings between his legs... but by who decides if it stays there."
The firelight caught the silver in Ingvar's beard as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Jonas's ear. "You think I don't know whose blood pulses in your veins, princeling?" His calloused palm slid down Jonas's abdomen—slow, deliberate—coming to rest just above the Norseman's twitching cock. "Your father is the Frost Giant Jotun. And that, makes you a demigod." Jonas stiffened as Ingvar's hand caressed his member.
Jonas's pulse roared in his ears as Ingvar's other hand rose to grip his chin, forcing their gazes to lock. The Breedmaster's eyes burned with steely resolve, with the intensity of white-hot coals. "You're here because your father continues to spill his seed," Ingvar growled, his grip tightening until Jonas's jaw ached. "And you must garner enough strength to emasculate him. An almost impossible task, even for a demigod."
The firelight flickered ominously across the Breedmaster's face, casting shadows that deepened the cruel twist of his lips. His thumb pressed into the hollow of Jonas's throat, where his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. "You think I don't recognize the hunger in your eyes?" Ingvar murmured, his free hand sliding lower to palm Jonas's tightening sac. "You don't just want my women—you want my warriors' essence too."
Jonas's breath hitched as Ingvar's fingers traced the thick vein running along his cock, pressing just hard enough to make his balls twitch. "I know your plan of swallowing their seed," Ingvar accused, his breath hot against Jonas's lips. "Absorbing their strength through your gut. Clever. But as we both know, the seed is nothing compared to the flesh and you long for my manhood."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Ingvar's face as he leaned in, his tongue flicking out to catch the sweat beading along Jonas's collarbone. "But what you do not know is that I plan on harvesting you myself," he purred, his tongue grazing the Norse prince's neck seductively. "I too yearn for the power of a god, and your cock will elevate my strength to untold heights."
Jonas's breath hitched as Ingvar's fingers trailed lower, tracing the thick vein along his shaft with deliberate slowness. The Breedmaster's thumb circled the swollen head, smearing precum in slow, deliberate strokes. "The law of the old gods demands this transfer of strength only be done only when the manhood is taken unwillingly in combat or as the ultimate sacrifice though total self-emasculation." he murmured.
Ingvar's handsome face as his face darkened, menacing and severe. "But I have no intention of sacrificing my own manhood," Ingvar growled, his fingers tightening around Jonas's throat as his other hand twisted the Norse prince's wrist behind his back with brutal efficiency. The Breedmaster's cock twitched against Jonas's thigh, hard and eager, yet untouched. "Which means I'll have to harvest yours through force in combat."
Jonas bared his teeth, his free hand darting toward the dagger at his hip—only to find empty air where his weapon should've been. Ingvar chuckled darkly, his lips brushing Jonas's ear as he held up the stolen blade, its edge catching firelight in wicked winks. "Not tonight, princeling," he purred, pressing the dagger's flat against Jonas's jugular in a mockery of a caress. "Tonight you're my guest. Tomorrow..." His thumb traced the vein pulsing beneath Jonas's skin. "Tomorrow we'll see whose seed strengthens whose line."
The fire popped as Ingvar stepped back, handing back Jonas's dagger which the Norse demigod carefully took. The Breedmaster's grin widened as the Norse prince's nostrils flared—not at anger or indignance but at the scent of roasting meat suddenly mingling with the metallic tang of heated steel. "Rest well," Ingvar murmured, his calloused palm lingering on Jonas's shoulder as he moved past. "Dawn comes early.”
Jonas followed the scent of charred meat and fermented honey through the doorway, his boots sinking into fresh rushes strewn over packed earth. The interior swam with smoke from a central firepit, its glow painting the rafters in flickering hues of amber—and there, swaying among drying herbs and salted fish, a multitude of phalluses pierced by iron hooks, the Breedmaster's trophies collected over the years. Jonas's cock twitched at the sight, imagining the choked cries that must have accompanied each addition to the macabre collection.
Ingvar traced the outline of a particularly massive specimen, its gnarled veins casting shadows like twisted roots across the ceiling. "Not all these victories are mine," he admitted, thumbing the desiccated skin where it stretched thin over the bulbous glans. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur as he guided Jonas's gaze toward a monstrous length nearly the size of a forearm—darkened by time, but still visibly thicker at the base where brutal force had ripped it free. "That one belonged to my father, the former Breedmaster. I tore it off myself to become the current Breedmaster." Jonas marveled at the member. It must have pleasured many maidens before it met its cruel fate.
Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose, the musk of old blood and cured leather filling his nostrils as he studied the relic. The severed end still bore the ragged imprint of teeth—not cleanly severed by blade, but gnawed through tendon and sinew in the heat of battle. Ingvar's fingers lingered on the bite marks with something like reverence. "Taught me my first lesson about power," he murmured, pressing close enough for Jonas to feel the Breedmaster's erection hot against his thigh. "A man's worth isn't measured by what swings between his legs... but by who decides if it stays there."
The firelight caught the silver in Ingvar's beard as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Jonas's ear. "You think I don't know whose blood pulses in your veins, princeling?" His calloused palm slid down Jonas's abdomen slowly, coming to rest just above the Norseman's twitching cock. "Your father is the Frost Titan Jotun. And that, makes you a demigod." Jonas stiffened as Ingvar's hand caressed his member.
Jonas's pulse roared in his ears as Ingvar's other hand rose to grip his chin, forcing their gazes to lock. The Breedmaster's eyes burned with steely resolve, with the intensity of white-hot coals. "You're here because your father continues to spill his seed," Ingvar growled, his grip tightening until Jonas's jaw ached. "And you must garner enough strength to physically emasculate him. An almost impossible task, even for a demigod."
The firelight flickered ominously across the Breedmaster's face, casting shadows that deepened the cruel twist of his lips. His thumb pressed into the hollow of Jonas's throat, where his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. "You think I don't recognize the hunger in your eyes?" Ingvar murmured, his free hand sliding lower to palm Jonas's tightening sac. "You don't just want my women—you want my warriors' essence too."
Jonas's breath hitched as Ingvar's fingers traced the thick vein running along his cock, pressing just hard enough to make his balls twitch. The Breedmaster's touch was knowing, deliberate. "I know your plan of swallowing their seed," Ingvar accused, his breath hot against Jonas's lips. "Absorbing their strength through your gut. But as we both know, the seed is nothing compared to the flesh and you long for my member."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Ingvar's face as he leaned in, his tongue flicking out to catch the sweat beading along Jonas's collarbone. "But what you do not know is that I plan on harvesting you myself," he purred, his tongue grazing the Norse prince's neck seductively. "I too yearn for the power of a god, and your cock will elevate my strength to untold heights."
Jonas's breath hitched as Ingvar's fingers trailed lower, tracing the thick vein along his shaft with deliberate slowness. The Breedmaster's thumb circled the swollen head, smearing precum in slow, deliberate strokes. "The law of the old gods demands this transfer of strength only be done only when the manhood is taken unwillingly in combat or as the ultimate sacrifice though self-emasculation." he murmured.
Ingvar's handsome face as his face darkened, menacing and severe. "But I have no intention of sacrificing my own manhood," Ingvar growled, his fingers tightening around Jonas's throat as his other hand twisted the Norse prince's wrist behind his back with brutal efficiency. The Breedmaster's cock twitched against Jonas's thigh, hard and eager, yet untouched. "Which means I'll have to harvest yours through force in combat."
Jonas bared his teeth, his free hand darting toward the dagger at his hip—only to find empty air where his weapon should've been. Ingvar chuckled darkly, his lips brushing Jonas's ear as he held up the stolen blade, its edge catching firelight in wicked winks. "Not tonight, princeling," he purred, pressing the dagger's flat against Jonas's jugular in a mockery of a caress. "Tonight you're my guest. Tomorrow..." His thumb traced the vein pulsing beneath Jonas's skin. "Tomorrow we'll see whose seed strengthens whose line."
The fire popped as Ingvar stepped back, handing back Jonas's dagger which the Norse demigod carefully took. The Breedmaster's grin widened as the Norse prince's nostrils flared—not at anger or indignance but at the scent of roasting meat suddenly mingling with the metallic tang of heated steel. "Rest well," Ingvar murmured, his calloused palm lingering on Jonas's shoulder as he moved past. "Dawn comes early." He hands over a hunk of venison which Jonas voraciously devoured.
Jonas awoke to a thrall's calloused fingers shaking his shoulder—not gently, but with the brisk efficiency of someone accustomed to rousing warriors before first light. The thrall's lips barely moved as he spoke, his voice rough from years of inhaling hearth smoke. "The Breedmaster waits in the proving chamber," he rasped, pressing a clay cup of fermented mare's milk into Jonas's hand. The demigod drank deeply, feeling the thick liquid coat his throat as the thrall continued, "Where men both breed and bleed." Jonas swallowed the last of the bitter milk, his eyes already scanning the longhouse for his weapons.
The proving chamber smelled of old blood and fresh seed, its stone walls streaked with generations of both. Jonas's bare feet registered the grooves worn into the floor—not by time, but by countless warriors shifting their stance mid-combat. The Breedmaster stood at the chamber's center, his naked form illuminated by torchlight as the room had no windows. Jonas could see the handsome warrior's battle-strengthened physique, completely nude except for a belt holding only a brown pouch snugly to his waist. Ingvar's cock hung semi-hard between his thighs, its thick vein pulsing visibly as he rolled his shoulders. "You came," he observed, thumbing the edge of his curved blade. Jonas noted the fresh blood staining its tip—someone had already been gelded this morning. “It would be rude to decline an invitation from the host,” Jonas smiled wryly. Jonas donned only a leather belt with a pouch, his loin cloth he left at the inn. Duels in the fertility house are to be performed naked. He took off his loin cloth and the belt, where his weapons and pouch containing his possessions hung.
When Jonas reached for his dagger on his belt, he instead found a short, hooked blade with a serrated edge, its bronze surface etched with runes Jonas didn't recognize. The Breedmaster's grin widened as he recognized the demigod's confusion. “A special gelding knife, I hope you don’t mind, but my servants switched it with yours last night.” he purred, rolling his wrist to make his own blade catch the light. “Not at all” Jonas smiled uneasily. Jonas had used gelding knives before but this was different. He took a step forward, his bare feet whispering against the bloodstained stone. Ingvar laughed. ”Shall we see whose seed is worthy of spilling today?" Jonas's cock twitched in response, already hardening at the promise of violence and dominance.
The Breedmaster moved first with a slow, and calculated predatory advance that made the torchlight ripple across his scarred torso. His shadow elongated on the cold stone floor as he moved forward cautiously in the flickering flames of the torchlight. Jonas mirrored his movements, his own feet silent against the stone as he circled left, keeping the Breedmaster between himself and the chamber's single exit. The demigod's pendulous cock swung heavily between his thighs, already half-hard with anticipation.
Jonas's fingers tightened around the unfamiliar blade, testing its balance as the Breedmaster's blue eyes tracked every twitch of his muscles. The gelding knife felt alien in his grip—too light compared to his broadsword, too short for proper defense—but Jonas had trained with every weapon from ice-forged daggers to poisoned nails. He rolled his wrist experimentally, watching how the torchlight caught the serrated edge in jagged winks. There was a disquieting quality in the air. As a demigod, he was strongly favored in this fight. Yet the Breedmaster was as comfortable as an infant in his mother's embrace.
Ingvar suddenly halted mid-step, his predatory advance freezing like a wolf scenting unexpected prey. His nostrils flared as if catching some forgotten scent in the chamber's musk of sweat and old blood. "Ah," he murmured, his fingers loosening around his own blade's hilt. The Breedmaster's entire posture shifted—not retreating, but relaxing into something darker, more ritualistic. His free hand moved to the brown pouch at his waist, fingers dipping inside with the reverence of a priest retrieving sacred relics. "Forgive me, Jonas. I neglected an important matter."
The severed phallus emerged from the pouch like a grotesque puppet—its desiccated skin stretched tight over what must have once been a monstrous girth, the severed end ragged with ancient tooth marks. Jonas recognized it instantly from the rafters—the Breedmaster's father's trophy. Ingvar's incantation slithered through the chamber, the words twisting like smoke from an elder shaman's pipe, and suddenly the wrinkled flesh began to ripple. Veins pulsed beneath parchment-thin skin as the organ inflated obscenely, lengthening and thickening until it dwarfed even Jonas's demigod endowment. The glans darkened to a plum-purple, throbbing with unnatural vitality, its urethral slit glistening with fresh precum despite lacking any visible connection to a body. The color of the member changed from gray to an angry pink, full of vitality. The shriveled balls now the size of grapefruit, pendulous and swaying slightly and sheltered in its sack.
The Breedmaster's chant rose to a crescendo, and the phallus started to twitch violently. Right before the phallus ejaculated, the Breedmaster placed the glans into his mouth. Not a moment too soon as his father's member's twitching transitioned to rhythmic spasms, filling his son's mouth with seed. Ingvar took the deluge of pearlescent, viscous nectar like a champ. It was a miracle that the Breedmaster did not drown in his father's seed. He was truly a paragon of man.... No, he was more.
Ingvar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand but a little bit of his father's seed coated his lips causing a shine in the torchlight. Jonas recognized the spell—the incantation could only be cast by gods and demigods. But it was not one of regeneration but one of illusion. The manhood was never dried and shriveled but only to make it look that way. The phallus was as fresh as the day it was severed. His eyes widened as he now understood that Ingvar was hiding his true heritage. One that was divine.
The Breedmaster's nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply through his nose, his father's seed still glistening on his lips. His blue eyes intensified and lightened—the same hue as Jonas's own when his demigod blood stirred. Ingvar's fingers twitched around the gelding knife, his knuckles whitening not from strain, but from the effort of suppressing whatever power surged beneath his skin. Jonas exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on his own blade as the implications settled in his gut like lead. The Breedmaster was no mere mortal warrior—he was a demigod like himself, hiding in plain sight. And now, with his father's essence coursing through him, Ingvar's true strength would be unleashed. The torchlight flickered violently as the chamber seemed to pulse with latent energy, shadows elongating like grasping fingers.
Jonas's fingers traced the unfamiliar runes carved into the gelding knife's hilt—the grooves older than any language spoken in Midgard today. His thumb caught on the sigil for "unmaking" hidden beneath the crossguard, and realization struck like a hammer blow. "These are the runes of Ymir's bloodline," he breathed, his demigod senses flaring as the ancient script burned cold against his palm. The blade wasn't just for gelding—it was forged to sever divine essence of a itself. Jonas's lips peeled back in something between a grin and a snarl. "At least now it'll be a fair fight." His cock twitched against his thigh, arousal and battle-lust mingling as the implications settled—two demigods, one knife, and a chamber built for slaughter.
Ingvar's chuckle reverberated through the stone walls, deep as glaciers calving. His father's stolen member twitched obscenely in his grip, still weeping thick droplets that sizzled where they struck the floor. "You didn't ask the right question, princeling," he murmured, rolling his shoulders until his own heavy sac swung mockingly between his thighs. The Breedmaster's grin widened until his canines gleamed predatorily in the torchlight—too long, too sharp for any mortal man. His fingers flexed around the pulsating length of his father's stolen cock, veins bulging as the organ throbbed with renewed vigor. Ingvar exhaled through his nose—a controlled, measured breath that didn't quite hide the way his irises flickered with stolen divinity. "The same frost giant who sired you," he admitted at last, his voice roughening with the guttural cadence of their shared bloodline. The admission hung between them like a blade suspended mid god-fall. Jonas's nostrils flared as the chamber's air thickened with the ozone-scent of gathering storm—two demigod sons of Jotun, one knife, and a legacy written in spilled seed.
Jonas's grip tightened around the gelding knife until the Ymir-wrought runes bit into his palm. His lips peeled back from teeth suddenly too sharp for any mortal man—canines elongating as the scent of his half-brother's stolen divinity flooded his senses. The torchlight caught the way Ingvar's pupils dilated—not at the threat, but at the scent of Jonas's arousal mingling with battle-lust. The Breedmaster licked his lips, tongue lingering over a bead of their father's essence still glistening at the corner of his mouth.
"It happened during the Long Winter," Ingvar murmured, fingers flexing around the pulsating length of Jotun's severed member. The organ twitched in his grip as if recalling its own violation, its urethral slit weeping viscous droplets that sizzled against the stone. "Our father had taken his third wife that night—a shieldmaiden from the southern fjords. I waited until he mounted her, until his balls tightened and his cock swelled to bursting." The Breedmaster's thumb circled the flared glans, smearing precum in slow, deliberate strokes. "That moment when a man is most vulnerable—when his seed is poised to spill and his thoughts are nothing but heat."
Jonas's breath hitched as Ingvar's free hand mimed a downward slash—the motion precise as a headsman's strike. "The runes on the blade glowed white-hot as I severed him," the Breedmaster continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that raised the hairs on Jonas's neck. "Our father roared loud enough to shake glaciers from their beds. His cock spasmed violently as it left his body—still spurting, still trying to breed even as it sailed through the air." Ingvar's fingers twitched around the disembodied length, its veins pulsing with remembered outrage. "I caught it by the shaft just as the last ropes of his seed arced across the bridal furs."
The chamber's torchlight flickered as Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose—not in disgust, but in recognition of the ritual's perfection. A demigod's severed member would retain its potency indefinitely if harvested mid-climax. His own cock twitched against his thigh, responding to the primal truth Ingvar spoke: power flowed not just through blood, but through stolen seed. Jonas flexed his grip on the gelding knife, his thumb brushing the Ymir-rune that still hummed coldly against his palm. "You harvested his manhood," he acknowledged, shifting his stance to better conceal the way his balls tightened in instinctive sympathy. "Yet here you stand—exiled like me, despite your prize."
Ingvar's smile vanished like sunlight swallowed by stormclouds. His fingers clenched around their father's twitching member until the glans darkened to an angry purple. The Breedmaster's throat worked above the faded rune scars circling his neck—identical to Jonas's own.
"Regenerated," Ingvar spat, the word thick with old shame. His thumb pressed bruisingly into the severed cock's weeping slit as if to punish it for surviving. "Like some fucking hydra." The chamber's torchlight caught the way his fingers trembled—not from exertion, but from the memory of Jotun rising from the bridal furs, blood cascading down his thighs as new flesh knitted beneath the gushing wound.
The Breedmaster's gelding knife flashed upward suddenly—not in attack, but in a brutal mimicry of that long-ago nullification. His father's severed member twitched violently in his off-hand, its flared head spasming, almost as if it were in pain, as if remembering the blade's kiss. Ingvar's lips curled back from teeth suddenly too sharp. "I thought the throne was mine but once I saw what happened, I panicked. I ran like a whipped cur before father could recover,” he admitted. "But before I left, I took the best part of him. I remember father's manhood still spilling divine seed as I ran.” His grin returned, knife glinting as it traced obscene circles around the twitching organ's base.
Torchlight caught the thick ropes of precum dripping from the severed cock's slit—each droplet sizzling where it struck stone. Jonas inhaled sharply through his nose, his demigod senses flaring at the scent—the seed of a titan. Ingvar's tongue darted out to catch a bead of their father's essence before it could fall. "Every dawn since, I've milked this cock like a cow,” he murmured, throat bobbing as he swallowed. "Drinking our father's stolen divinity drop by drop. Now I am the most powerful demigod that walk the land." The treacherous demigod’s fingers flexed around the pulsating length, coaxing forth another glistening strand that stretched obscenely before snapping.
Jonas exhaled slowly through his nose—not in disgust, but in sudden understanding. His thumb traced the Ymir-rune on the gelding knife's hilt as he studied the severed member twitching in Ingvar's grip. “It you ingest it, it will not give you the power you seek,” he observed quietly. The torchlight caught the way the Breedmaster's fingers stilled mid-stroke. "Because you know a cock’s power stolen through treachery won't truly transfer." Jonas's lips curled as the pieces fell into place—why Ingvar still hunted demigods despite wielding their father's member. "That's why you still need my cock, my power, in order to challenge father.”
Ingvar's grin faltered for a heartbeat—just long enough for Jonas to see the truth flicker behind his eyes. The Breedmaster recovered quickly, rolling his shoulders until his own heavy sac swung mockingly. "Aren't you clever, little brother," he purred, thumb brushing the cock's weeping slit. "But your cleverness will not save your cock when I harvest it." The chamber's torchlight flickered violently as Ingvar's fingers tightened around their father's stolen manhood, its veins bulging obscenely beneath parchment-thin skin.
Jonas shifted his stance subtly, the unfamiliar gelding knife balanced lightly in his grip. His nostrils flared at the scent of divine seed—two demigod sons circling like wolves around fresh kill. "Only one way to find out," he sneered, rolling his wrist until the Ymir-rune caught firelight in cold blue winks. Ingvar's pupils dilated, ready for battle. The Breedmaster licked his lips slowly, deliberately, savoring the last traces of their father's stolen essence. Only one will leave whole.
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