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ELIRA

F our months have passed since the day I tore Vaelin’s soul from the void and remade him, binding his life to mine.

Protheka has changed around us, just as I have changed within.

The Overlord’s armies withdrew to a few scattered strongholds, licking their wounds.

The Red Purnas fled into shadow, their influence greatly diminished.

Orcish allies, human enclaves, and the newly strengthened witch covens have settled into a fragile yet determined peace.

High in the mountains of Prazh, our coven bustles with cautious hope.

Gone is the oppressive fear that once clung to these halls; in its place, I sense a budding optimism for the future.

We’ve reclaimed rooms scarred by the war, cleared debris, and reinforced our wards to keep watch over the gargoyle prison.

People of different races—orc, human, even a smattering of Dark Elves estranged from the Overlord—can be found exchanging knowledge or bartering for goods.

I walk the familiar corridors, illusions dancing faintly at my fingertips in a sign of contentment rather than frantic alarm.

My steps echo on polished stone, the air carrying the faint hum of magical wards that shimmer overhead.

Four months have wrought so many changes: the novices who once trembled at the mere mention of gargoyles now practice illusions to strengthen our defenses, and alliances once unthinkable have begun to flourish.

At the darkened corner of the hall, Vaelin leans against a carved pillar, talking to a group of orc scouts.

He’s explaining something about vantage points for patrolling the valleys.

The sight of him always sets my heart thrumming with warmth.

His appearance is different from the man I first met—a new complexion, faint runic patterns beneath his skin, eyes tinted with a twilight hue—but his posture, the quiet confidence, the fierce devotion in his gaze remain constant.

The orcs nod, satisfied with his suggestions.

They depart, leaving Vaelin scanning the hall for me.

Our eyes meet, and a gentle smile curves his lips.

My illusions flutter in a wave of recognition, brightening the space between us.

I approach, feeling that tug of our shared bond—the anchor we forged when I ripped him from death.

He’s not a gargoyle or Dark Elf anymore.

He’s something unique, a new being bound to my magic in ways neither of us fully predicted.

Yet, day by day, we’ve found balance.

He inclines his head in greeting.

“Busy morning, Elira?” he asks, illusions sparking in his own hands, a playful mimicry of mine.

Four months of practice have allowed him to weave illusions with surprising ease, though the threads shimmer in a slightly different spectrum from typical Purna illusions.

I exhale a soft laugh.

“Busier than I’d like. The Matriarch had me reorganizing some older scrolls we recovered from the battlefield. She believes they might clarify the new wards around the gargoyle prison.”

Vaelin nods, stepping closer so our shoulders brush.

The contact warms me, illusions swirling between us in gentle flickers.

“I can help if you want. I still owe your coven for, well… everything.”

My heart aches with fondness.

“You owe us nothing. You’ve already done enough—defending these halls from stray Red Purnas, guiding orcish scouts. Most of all, you stood by me.” My illusions pulse, reflecting a quiet gratitude.

He lifts a hand, brushing a lock of my hair behind my ear.

The intimacy of it makes my breath hitch.

Even after four months, the nearness of him can leave me light-headed.

“I do it because I want to,” he says, voice low.

“This place… your people… they accepted me in a way I never knew possible.”

I cover his hand with mine.

“We accepted you because you chose to be one of us, to protect and build instead of destroy.”

His gaze flicks to the illusions dancing around our joined hands.

“Elira, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss,” he begins, voice faltering with uncharacteristic nerves.

I arch a brow. “What is it?”

Before he can reply, Olyssia darts around the corner, illusions sparkling with excitement.

She nearly collides with us, half out of breath.

“Elira! Vaelin! The Matriarch wants to see you both in the main atrium. Something about new alliances or an urgent delegation from the Yavar tribe.”

Vaelin sighs with a rueful smile, illusions dimming.

“We’ll talk later,” he murmurs, giving my hand a final squeeze before we follow Olyssia through the corridors.

By midday, we stand at the center of the coven’s grand atrium—a vast, dome-like space carved from the mountain’s heart.

Etched pillars support the dome, each pillar inscribed with runic patterns that glow faintly.

Sunlight filters through an oculus overhead, illuminating a mosaic on the floor depicting ancient Purna symbols.

Gathered around are purnas, orc representatives, and a handful of humans from the valley, all conferring on matters of trade, borders, and the watchful eye on the gargoyle prison.

The Matriarch presides over it all, seated on a curved stone bench at the far end of the mosaic.

Her silver hair is braided into a coronet, illusions drifting around her in stately hues.

She nods in greeting when we appear.

“Elira, Vaelin. Good timing. We need your insights on coordinating with the Yavar tribe. They’re willing to provide more scouts if we can offer them wards to protect their farmland.”

We move forward, illusions shimmering.

I exchange a smile with Vaelin—he’s become our liaison with orcish and human enclaves, bridging gaps no one else can.

He steps up to the dais, giving the orc spokesperson a respectful incline of his head.

They launch into negotiations, discussing farmland boundaries, illusions for crop protection, potential caravans to Orthani’s outskirts.

The talk is brisk, occasionally tense, but overshadowed by mutual necessity.

While they converse, I drift to the side, illusions swirling idly as I greet novices who gather in small clusters.

They pepper me with questions about advanced illusions or the new wards.

I share what I know, though my thoughts remain half-focused on Vaelin.

I sense an unusual tension in his manner, an undercurrent of anticipation.

He wanted to speak with me earlier.

At last, the meeting concludes in an exchange of scrolls and illusions.

The orcs depart, satisfied, while the Matriarch calls for an hour’s recess.

A hush spreads through the atrium as people scatter for tea, rest, or final errands.

Vaelin catches my eye, beckoning me over with a subtle gesture.

We slip away through a side corridor that leads to a small courtyard open to the sky.

The air is crisp, scented with mountain wildflowers that have begun blooming in the warmer season.

A gentle breeze stirs the vines climbing the courtyard walls.

Vaelin paces, illusions flickering around his feet.

“Elira,” he starts, stopping when I approach.

He grasps my hands, illusions dancing over my skin in delicate arcs.

“Do you remember what we discussed, weeks back, about Purna vessels?”

My heart clenches with a swirl of curiosity and nerves.

“Yes,” I reply softly.

We’d once talked about how powerful Purna purnas sometimes take vessels—consenting partners who help them channel excess magic.

Vessels can be purely pragmatic arrangements or intimately bonded.

“Why do you ask?”

He exhales, eyes flicking to the vines overhead.

“I’ve been thinking about it… about us. Ever since you resurrected me, we’ve shared a deeper bond than I dreamed possible. But I know, in your society, taking a vessel is not always about love or permanence. It’s an arrangement. Yet there’s also the tradition of Purna mating ceremonies, where the vessel and the witch form a spiritual—and physical—union.”

My cheeks warm, illusions shimmering in reflex.

“Yes, the matriarch sometimes oversees those ceremonies. It’s a big commitment, forging a bond recognized by the entire coven.”

He nods, illusions flaring around his forearms. “I want that. For us.”

My heart jolts.

“You… want to be my vessel? Officially?”

His fingers tighten around mine.

“I don’t just want to stand at your side as an ally or a convenience. I want to be recognized in your coven as your mate, to share your burdens, your magic. I’m already bound to your illusions by the resurrection, but I want it to be a choice. One that we announce to the world, forging a new path for Purna and, well, for me.”

My throat constricts, tears gathering in my eyes.

He’s proposing a Purna mating bond.

“Vaelin, that’s… Are you sure? This is no small commitment.”

He offers a small, wry grin.

“I’ve died and come back, thanks to you. My entire existence is shaped by our bond. I can’t imagine a greater commitment. But only if you want this too.”

My illusions quiver with emotion, shimmering bright as I fling my arms around him.

“Yes,” I whisper, face pressed to his chest. “I want it more than anything. You’re everything to me, Vaelin.”

He lets out a breath, wrapping me in a fierce embrace, illusions tangling in a swirl of color.

“Then it’s settled,” he says against my hair.

“Let the coven see we stand as one.”

I tip my head back, blinking away tears.

“We’ll ask the Matriarch to bless us. The ceremony can be done here, among our allies—like a bridging of all the new bonds forming in Protheka. It might set an example for orcs, humans, even rogue Dark Elves who remain open-minded.”

A warm flush creeps up my cheeks at the thought of a public vow.

But the excitement throbs through me.

He’s asking me to be his mate.

We kiss, illusions pulsing in radiant arcs, no words sufficient for the rush of joy in my heart.

Over the next few weeks, the coven bustles with preparations.

Rumors of our impending ceremony spread quickly, stirring curiosity.

Some novices squeal in excitement, never having witnessed a formal Purna mating outside old scrolls.

Orcish ambassadors, hearing of it, vow to bring gifts of smoked meats or carved charms. A cluster of humans from the valleys plan to attend, curious about the union of a resurrected Dark Elf hybrid and their savior witch.

The Matriarch, though initially caught off guard, embraces the idea.

She sees in our mating a symbol of new unity—if our bond can transcend race and monstrous heritage, then perhaps the entire realm can find lasting peace.

I sense a quiet satisfaction in her, though she warns me about the spiritual intensity of the rite.

It’s more than a simple vow; it’s a melding of magic and hearts.

Vaelin meets me often in the library, illusions dancing as we read up on the details.

We learn the steps: how the Purna witch channels a circle of illusions, how the prospective mate stands at the center, allowing her power to flow through him.

Then the coven’s blessings finalize the vow.

Usually, it’s accompanied by a small exchange of gifts, or tokens that reflect each partner’s essence.

The entire event can be as intimate or as grand as we wish.

We decide on a middle ground: a public ceremony in the coven’s grand atrium, with close allies in attendance.

We’ll share vows, illusions, and the swirl of energy that cements him as my official vessel and mate.

The night after, we’ll complete the final spiritual merging in private—an epilogue to the public rite.

My heart flutters with nerves, imagining the intense magic that might spark between us.

At last, the day arrives.

The grand atrium is cleared of normal traffic, illusions woven in soft, glowing patterns across the polished floor.

Overhead, enchanted orbs provide a gentle twilight hue, though it’s midday outside.

Rows of benches line the walls, filling with purnas, orcs, humans, even a few curious Dark Elves who have renounced the Overlord.

The Matriarch stands at the far end, staff in hand, illusions shining in regal arcs.

I wait behind a curtained entrance, wearing robes of pale lilac edged with silver thread.

My illusions swirl in a gentle halo at my ankles, a reflection of my mingled excitement and jitters.

Olyssia stands with me, adjusting the final fold of my robe, illusions flickering with affectionate teasing.

“You look radiant,” she whispers, giving my hair a final tidy.

“He’ll faint when he sees you.”

I let out a shaky laugh, illusions brightening.

“I just hope I don’t trip over my own staff.”

She snickers, then sobers, eyes glinting with emotion.

“I’m happy for you. Truly. After all we’ve endured… this is a beacon of hope.”

Warmth pools in my chest. “Thank you, Olyssia. I couldn’t have done any of this without your help, your unwavering friendship.”

She touches my shoulder in a gentle squeeze, illusions swirling.

“Go, your mate awaits.”

I inhale, illusions rippling with my breath.

Then I step through the curtain into the atrium.

A hush falls over the gathered witnesses, illusions overhead dimming slightly to cast me in soft light.

My eyes sweep the rows: novices wide-eyed, orcs standing with arms crossed in stoic approval, humans smiling.

I spot the battered elders, each nodding with support.

At the center stands Vaelin, turned to watch my entrance.

My breath catches. He’s clad in simple dark robes, embroidered with faint runic lines reminiscent of the patterns in his skin.

The new color of his flesh glows softly, illusions swirling around his shoulders.

His eyes lock onto mine with such tenderness I feel a pang in my chest. He’s breathtaking.

I approach, illusions flickering in a trail behind me.

The Matriarch lifts her staff, illusions weaving a gentle fanfare of light across the dome.

My heart races as I meet Vaelin’s gaze.

He reaches out, taking my hand.

The hush in the atrium is so profound I can hear my own breathing.

The Matriarch begins in a formal tone: “We gather in the old traditions of the Purna. This day, Elira Vex claims her vessel, forging not merely a practical bond but a union of hearts. Vaelin, once an outsider, stands willingly in acceptance of this vow.”

She lowers her staff, illusions swirling around her.

“Elira, step forward and call your illusions to form the circle. Vaelin, stand at the center and open your essence to her power.”

I swallow, illusions shimmering at my fingertips.

I lead Vaelin a few paces forward, our joined hands glowing.

The crowd steps back, forming a ring around us.

My illusions expand in a slow swirl across the floor, shaping a circle of silver-white arcs that encompass him.

The runic lines under his skin glow in response, reflecting my magic.

“Vaelin,” I say, voice trembling with devotion.

“I claim you as my vessel, not in servitude, but in partnership, that our powers and hearts might stand as one.” My illusions intensify, arcs of space-time swirling around his ankles.

He breathes in, illusions flickering over his arms. “Elira, I offer myself freely, bound by no leash but love. I accept your claim, pledging my strength and soul to you as mate.”

A gentle gasp ripples through the assembly.

The Matriarch nods approvingly, illusions brightening.

“By the old vow, let illusions and space-time weave your spirits. Claim your union before all assembled.”

My pulse hammers.

We step closer. I press my palm to Vaelin’s chest, illusions crackling in a delicate web.

He leans in, resting his brow against mine.

Our energies mingle, illusions swirling in radiant arcs.

My staff, resting at my side, vibrates with the magic building in the circle.

“Vaelin,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes, “I love you.”

He smiles, eyes gleaming.

“I love you too.”

We kiss, illusions erupting in a blossom of color that envelops us.

Gasps and murmurs rise from the crowd, but I barely notice, lost in the warmth of Vaelin’s lips and the tingling current where our bodies meet.

The swirl of illusions forms a spiral overhead, shining with acceptance of our vow.

Time seems to slow, as though my space-time power yields a brief hush for this perfect instant.

When we break apart, breathless, the Matriarch steps forward.

She touches her staff to our clasped hands, illusions swirling around the staff in a gentle swirl.

“Then let all know: Vaelin and Elira are joined in the Purna rite, bonded in life and magic, a testament to love stronger than curses or crowns.”

A cheer arises, subdued but heartfelt, from purnas and allies alike.

Orc warriors stamp their feet in approval, humans clap, novices squeal excitedly.

Olyssia dabs tears from her cheeks, illusions flickering in pastel joy.

The entire atrium glows with illusions, a celebration unlike any I’ve witnessed in these halls.

Vaelin glances around, eyes shining with wonder.

He squeezes my hand, illusions flickering in a shy wave of gratitude toward the crowd.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“We vow to protect this coven and Protheka’s fragile peace, together.”

The crowd disperses into a smaller celebration—an impromptu feast of bread, fruit, smoked meats, and orcish brews.

Our close friends gather to congratulate us.

I see elders from our coven greeting Vaelin with new warmth, novices peppering me with giggling questions about taking a vessel.

My illusions dance in swirling patterns, buoyed by the heady rush of acceptance and love.

Night falls once more, and the festivities subside.

Vaelin and I slip away, illusions flickering along a quiet corridor.

The ancient wards overhead cast faint runic shadows, reminding me of how drastically life has changed since the war.

But now, my heart thrums with anticipation—tonight, we complete the final bond in private.

The Purna vow includes physical intimacy, an exchange of magic that seals the mate bond at the deepest level.

I recall Olyssia teasing me that the synergy will be intense, magnified by Vaelin’s hybrid nature.

My cheeks flush at the thought.

We enter my chamber, illusions drifting in soft pink glows.

The door closes behind us with a gentle click.

Silence envelops us, broken only by our own breaths.

My illusions swirl around my staff, and I set it aside carefully.

Vaelin stands near the bed, eyes brimming with a mixture of longing and tenderness.

I approach, illusions dancing between us in delicate arcs.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, voice hushed.

He offers a lopsided smile.

“Maybe a little. But mostly…” His illusions flicker, echoing excitement.

“Mostly I’m overwhelmed by how much I want this—want us.”

My heart flutters.

I envelop him in my arms, illusions brightening.

“We’re allowed happiness,” I whisper.

“After everything.”

He nods, hands tracing the runic patterns along my robe’s collar.

A trembling exhale escapes me as I lean into his warmth.

His lips brush mine, a gentle exploration that quickly deepens.

My illusions flare, responding to the ache of desire.

We tumble onto the bed, illusions spinning overhead like lazy galaxies.

The night is a tapestry of whispered vows and shared caresses, illusions thrumming in time with our merging hearts.

Each moment pulses with tender intensity, forging a union beyond mere words.

We exchange magic in breathless surges, Vaelin’s new flesh humming with synergy that resonates with my illusions.

Laughter mingles with tears of relief, both of us letting go of the fear that once gripped us.

In the hush of candlelight and illusions, we surrender to the knowledge that we’ve chosen each other, forging a bond no curse can unravel.

Much later, I lie curled against Vaelin’s chest, illusions drifting in faint ribbons across the bed.

My whole being hums with the afterglow of magic and love.

The hush of the coven at night wraps us in a comforting stillness.

He strokes my hair, breathing uneven, voice low in my ear.

“Elira,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Thank you for showing me that fate can be defied.”

I lift my gaze, noticing the soft luminescence in his eyes.

“We defied it together,” I reply, threading my fingers through his.

“Tomorrow, we face a new day, forging alliances, watching for threats. But we’ll do it side by side.”

He shifts, illusions curling around his shoulders like a protective mantle.

“Always,” he echoes, voice filled with quiet wonder.

I nestle closer, heart brimming with contentment.

The entire fortress sleeps, lulled by this sense of renewal.

My illusions flicker, reflecting the gentle pulse of my happiness.

No prophecy warns us of how to live beyond monstrous curses.

We’ll discover it ourselves, step by step.

Outside, moonlight bathes the courtyard where watchers stand vigil, ensuring no enemy creeps upon us.

The gargoyle prison remains silent under wards we helped reinforce, and no sign of the Overlord’s forces mars the starlit horizon.

For once, the night belongs to us.

I slip into a half-doze, illusions cradling me in luminous comfort.

Vaelin’s heartbeat under my cheek lulls me, each thump a promise that he’s here, alive, and willingly bound to me as mate and vessel.

My final waking thought is that we’ve won a love that transcends monstrous blood or ancient curses—a love that stands triumphant against the gloom of the past, forging a radiant new dawn.

At sunrise, I stir in Vaelin’s arms, illusions reflecting the gentle gold of morning.

I rise, pressing a drowsy kiss to his lips.

He murmurs sleepily but smiles, blinking in the soft daylight that filters through the window.

We stretch, illusions flickering in lazy arcs of contentment.

Though we ache for more rest, duty calls.

The coven stirs to life, novices prepping for ward maintenance, orcs patrolling the mountain paths, humans tidying up the atrium after last night’s celebration.

Vaelin and I dress, exchanging tender smiles, illusions weaving around our wrists like linked bracelets.

We step from the chamber into the corridor, hand in hand, hearts aligned.

Every person we pass greets us with cautious respect, some with real warmth.

The novices blush, teasing me about the “most magical wedding” they’ve ever witnessed, illusions swirling in delighted giggles.

Orc scouts nod, brandishing short bows in a sign of friendly acknowledgment.

A few humans wave shyly.

Even a pair of reformed Dark Elves—once loyal to the Overlord—stand guard, saluting Vaelin with new acceptance.

We’ve come a long way.

At the end of the corridor, Olyssia waits, illusions glowing in calm sunrise hues.

She arches a brow at us, a smirk tugging her lips.

“Sleep well?”

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.