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I flush, illusions flickering in embarrassment, but can’t hide a grin. Vaelin chuckles, placing a hand at my back. “We did, though we’re ready to help however we can now. The new day calls.”

Olyssia gestures for us to follow. “Then let’s not keep the Matriarch waiting. She wants to finalize a plan for dispatching watchers to the gargoyle ring. Also, rumor says a Red Purna straggler was spotted near the southwestern pass. We can’t let them regroup.”

We share a determined nod, illusions glimmering at the prospect of continuing our guardianship. This is our life now—protecting the realm from resurgent evil, forging a unity once deemed impossible. My illusions shift in color, an echo of my unwavering resolve.

As we stride through the bustling halls, side by side, I can’t stop the warmth flooding my chest. Vaelin is my mate and vessel. I’ve anchored him to life, and he’s anchored me to a love that transcends the darkest curses. Together, we shepherd a battered realm toward a dawn free from nightmares, standing as living proof that not even death or monstrous heritage can conquer love.

21

ELIRA

Two months have passed since Vaelin and I pledged our vows in the grand atrium, weaving our lives together in the Purna mating ceremony. The covenant that binds us—even after all we’ve endured—continues to grow deeper with each shared moment, each dawn we greet side by side. In the aftermath of war, our coven has settled into a routine of cautious rebuilding, forging alliances, and standing watch over the silent gargoyle prison. Yet beyond all the responsibilities and daily tasks, Vaelin and I find ourselves at the threshold of yet another vital step in our journey.

I stand outside a small terrace carved into the mountainside, illusions drifting around my ankles, tinted a soft rose hue to reflect my mingled anticipation and delight. The sky arches overhead in a pastel swirl of early twilight, scattered with the first glimmers of starlight. I can see a patch of farmland far below, dotted with glimmering lanterns where human settlers toil even after dusk. Orcish scouts have taken to patrolling the ridges, occasionally waving up at us from vantage points. The quiet unity forging among these once-sundered peoples lifts my heart—still, all of that fades in comparison to the anticipation thrumming within me tonight.

Just inside the terrace door is a small, private room the Matriarch offered us for a personal ritual. Candlelight flickers across the smooth stone walls, each flame reflecting in runic carvings that I once thought purely decorative. Now, I sense them shimmering with a faint, subtle magic, as though the mountain itself blesses our moment.

I inhale, illusions trembling with excitement as I recall Vaelin’s words earlier in the day:I have something to ask you, Elira. Meet me at sunset in the terrace room—alone.His earnest gaze and the subtle undercurrent of longing in his voice told me enough to guess this was no casual request. My heart flutters each time I remember how he looked at me, as though brimming with a question that could reshape our bond once more.

Then, a gentle sound: the door glides open, revealing Vaelin in the warm glow of a single arcane lantern. He stands with the posture of a warrior, yet in the quiet hush of evening, his runic-marked skin appears almost ethereal. After the resurrection, his complexion changed—neither Dark Elf silver nor gargoyle stone, but a pale, moonlit hue shot through with faint lines of luminescent silver. Though I’ve grown used to it, my breath still catches at the sight. Especially when he looks at me with that intense, unguarded devotion.

“Elira,” he says softly, illusions flickering around his forearms in subtle arcs. “Thank you for coming.”

I can’t help but laugh, stepping into the candlelit room and letting the door close behind me. “You’re my mate already, Vaelin—where else would I possibly be?”

He relaxes a fraction, illusions pulsing in a subdued wave. “True. I just… wanted this to be special.” With careful grace, he motions me closer to the circle of candles arrayed on the floor. They form a loose ring, reminiscent of the illusions we used in the final vow ceremony, but the arrangement is simpler, more intimate.

My illusions shimmer in curiosity. “What is it you want to do?”

He reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers. The contact sends a hum through my veins, a reminder that our bond isn’t merely symbolic. We share a deep well of space-time magic, illusions, and gargoyle essence that neither of us fully comprehends but we navigate it together.

“You recall,” he begins, voice hushed, “how your coven’s tradition speaks of ‘vessels’—the role one can take in supporting a powerful Purna witch’s magic, ensuring neither the witch nor her power spirals out of control?”

I nod, heart thudding. “Yes. Typically, a Purna chooses a vessel to channel or release excess magic. The relationship can be purely practical or… deeply intimate.” My cheeks warm at the memory of how we once vented my magic with frantic urgency, our union forging a synergy of illusions that saved both our lives.

He breathes in. “When I asked you to be my mate, we formed that vow recognized by the coven, forging our bond in public. But… I never formally offered myself as your vessel. I suspect we each assumed it was implied. Still, I want to do this right.I want you to claim me as your vessel, by your custom, openly and truly.That way, my role in the coven becomes more than an unspoken pact. Everyone will know I exist to strengthen you, not overshadow or leech from you.”

Emotion wells in my chest, illusions flashing bright pink. “You wish to formalize what we already share?”

He nods, eyes reflecting tender resolve. “Yes. Being your mate is the greatest honor I’ve known. But being your vessel—recognizing that part of your magic might need my help, my acceptance, to remain stable—feels like an extension of that vow.” A small, wry smile touches his lips. “I guess I’m old-fashioned after all.”

I let out a shaky laugh, illusions spinning in delicate motes. “You’re a romantic, Vaelin,” I tease softly. Then sincerity floods my tone. “I’d be honored to have you as my vessel in an official sense. You’re already so much more than a simple partner.”

His hand tightens on mine. “Then… let’s do it. Tonight, just the two of us. We can present it to the Matriarch and the others in the morning, but I want our bond sealed privately first. Something personal.”

Warmth envelopes me. I recall the Purna texts that describe a simpler, more intimate vessel-binding than the public vow: an exchange of illusions and essence, a quiet ceremony of acceptance. “Yes,” I answer, my voice catching. “I would love that.”

He smiles, relief and delight radiating in his expression. Gently, he leads me to the center of the candlelit ring. The floor is warm, likely heated by the mountain’s slow-burning heart. I kneel on the cushioned mat, illusions fluttering around my knees in pale spirals. Vaelin kneels across from me, close enough that our legs brush. The hush in the small room feels reverent, almost holy.

Taking a deep breath, I recall the words from the old texts. The vow is short, more direct than the formal mating ceremony. Yet it carries weight in Purna culture—this is the private union of witch and vessel, the acceptance of magic’s demands and the vow to handle it together. No illusions of spectacle, no crowd. Just the raw honesty of two souls entwined.

I meet Vaelin’s gaze. “I’ll weave illusions around us, a swirl of color that represents my Purna power. You open yourself to me, letting me direct that flow.” My illusions begin to swirl around my hands, petals of luminescent color drifting. “Then you speak the vow to accept me as your witch. Finally, I accept you as my vessel.” Heat stirs beneath my cheeks, the final step typically sealed with a personal, intimate moment.

Vaelin nods. “I’m ready.”

The hush stretches as I close my eyes, illusions responding to my heartbeat. I shape them into luminous bands of pearly light that expand outward in slow, spiraling arcs. The candle flames bend to the swirl, casting flickering shadows on the walls. A soft hum resonates in my ears, the gentle murmur of my space-time magic weaving with illusions, forging a safe bubble around us.

Vaelin inhales, illusions pulsing around his arms. I sense him relaxing, letting my illusions guide him. His presence merges with mine, that half-familiar yet still thrilling sensation of bridging two distinct energies. My illusions swirl around his torso, faintly tinted with the silver runes in his flesh. A shiver courses through me, half wonder, half longing.