Page 26

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.

Then he speaks in a low, steady voice, carefully reciting the vow we discovered:

“Elira, Purna of this coven, I open my heart and body to your magic, willingly, in trust and devotion. I offer myself as your vessel, to share your burdens and harness your power when you need me most. No chain binds me but love.”

Tears prick my eyes at the sincerity in his tone, illusions quivering around me like joyous sparks.

My heart throbs. He’s truly giving himself over to me in a spiritual sense.

I swallow, forcing calm, and recite my part:

“Vaelin, I receive your pledge, acknowledging your free will and your right to stand beside me in all I do. I bind my magic to you in trust and love, guiding its flow into your vessel, that we remain balanced and unbroken. I accept you as my partner, my vessel, my anchor.”

As the last words leave my lips, illusions flare, forming a radiant swirl of color that envelops our kneeling forms. I sense his presence intimately, a swirl of warmth and devotion that parallels my own heartbeat.

The circle glows, candlelight turning golden as illusions fuse in a gentle explosion of synergy.

My entire being tingles, pulses of raw magic coursing between us.

Vaelin’s breath catches, and I gasp in soft delight.

Our vow is forging a deeper channel than before.

He’s letting me pour illusions into him, test the boundaries of how far he can channel my power.

For a fleeting instant, I fear it might overwhelm him, but his new form—neither Dark Elf nor gargoyle—absorbs it with surprising grace.

We exhale in unison, illusions stabilizing into a shimmering aurora around our bodies.

The vow is complete.

The hush in the room lingers, fragile as spun glass.

Slowly, I open my eyes, meeting Vaelin’s gaze.

He smiles, eyes bright with tears.

“Elira,” he whispers, hand rising to cradle my cheek.

“I feel… whole.”

I lean into his palm, illusions shining with affection.

“Me too. Thank you.”

He lifts his other hand, illusions coiling around his fingertips in a playful swirl.

“Seems your illusions like me better than ever.”

A laugh breaks from my throat, relief mingled with euphoria.

“They’ve always liked you—maybe now they just show it more.”

We share a grin, the tension of the vow releasing into sweet intimacy.

My illusions flicker, enticing.

“Now,” I murmur, cheeks warming, “it’s custom that the vow be sealed physically. Typically, the witch might share a token or a moment of closeness?—”

Before I finish, Vaelin bends forward, pressing his lips to mine in a tender kiss that ripples with newly magnified magic.

The moment his lips meet mine, the world dissolves into heat and light.

His kiss is tender at first, a slow, searching press that quickly deepens as the magic between us surges—a live wire of connection that arcs straight to my core.

I moan into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue slides against mine, possessive and sweet.

The illusions around us burst into shimmering fractals, dancing along our skin like sparks, every brush of his fingers against my body sending fresh waves of pleasure through me.

He is mine. And I am his.

The vow thrums between us, an unbreakable tether, and when his hands slide down my arms, peeling away the last of my cloak, I shiver—not from cold, but from the sheer want that floods me at his touch.

His palms are rough yet reverent, mapping my body with a hunger that makes my breath stutter.

I reach for him in turn, fingers tracing the runes etched into his chest, feeling the pulse of his magic beneath my fingertips.

“It’s all for you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire, and the words send a shudder through me.

I answer by dragging my nails lightly down his torso, watching as his cock twitches beneath his trousers, already hard, already aching for me.

My own need coils tight, my pussy clenching around nothing, slick and desperate.

We sink onto the cushions, our movements slow but charged, every touch magnified by the vow’s magic.

His hands find the laces of my dress, tugging them loose with deliberate patience, his lips never leaving my skin—kissing, nipping, worshipping.

When the fabric finally parts, his breath catches at the sight of me bare before him.

“Fuck, Elira,” he growls, and the raw need in his voice makes me arch against him.

His fingers glide over my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they peak, tight and sensitive.

I gasp, my hips rolling instinctively, seeking friction, seeking him.

He doesn’t make me wait.

His mouth closes over one nipple, sucking hard, and I cry out as pleasure spears through me, sharp and sweet.

His other hand slides down my stomach, fingers slipping between my thighs, and the first brush of his fingertips against my soaked folds has me trembling.

“So wet for me,” he rasps, and then his fingers are inside me, curling just right, stroking that perfect spot that makes my vision blur.

My back bows off the cushions, my pussy clenching around his fingers as he works me with slow, relentless precision.

The illusions around us flare brighter, mirroring the pleasure building inside me, a storm of color and light.

“Vaelin—please—” I beg, my voice breaking, and he doesn’t hesitate.

He strips away the last of his clothes, his cock thick and heavy in his hand, the tip glistening.

The sight of him—all hard muscle and raw power, his gaze burning with devotion and lust—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

He settles between my thighs, his body covering mine, and when he finally pushes inside, we both groan at the sensation.

He’s perfect, filling me so completely that for a moment, all I can do is cling to him, overwhelmed.

He stills, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling.

“You feel—” His voice is rough, wrecked.

“Gods, Elira, you feel like home. Heaven.”

Then he moves, and the world narrows to the slick, hot slide of his cock inside me, the way our bodies fit together like they were made for this.

Every thrust sends pleasure spiraling through me, deeper, deeper, until I’m gasping, my nails digging into his back.

“Vaelin!” I scream as he sets me on fire with ecstasy, every fiber of my being screams his name as he takes control of my pleasure.

The magic between us swells, a crescendo of light and sensation, binding us tighter with every ragged breath.

“Come with me,” he demands, his voice a growl against my lips, and I shatter.

Pleasure rips through me, blinding and endless, my pussy clenching around him as I cry out his name.

“Yes! Vaelin! Yes, take all of me…” I scream and getting los in the sensation as my pussy creams. I lost it when he hits my sweet spot again, my cream gushing out of my like a river.

“Oh… Oh…”

Vaelin grins, rubbing a finger fleetingly to the part where his cock and my pussy meet.

His finger’s covered in my juices, and I watch him, mesmerized, as he takes that finger into his mouth.

“Oh… you taste like ambrosia,” he moans, closing his eyes as his cock piston faster inside me.

“Gods…” I gasp, feeling so sensitive and overwhelmed by him.

Then, I feel another climax building up.

“I’m coming, Vaelin… another one!” I close my eyes as I tremble and let out a soundless scream.

“Yes!” Vaelin roars, and he follows me to the top, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills deep, our magic erupting in a final, radiant burst.

We stay like that for a while—entwined, breathless, trembling—as the aftershocks fade into a warm, sated glow.

The illusions around us dim to a soft shimmer, but the vow’s magic lingers, humming beneath our skin, an unshakable promise.

He gathers me against him, his lips brushing my temple, and I sigh, boneless and content.

“Mine,” he murmurs.

“Yours,” I whisper back.

After a quiet interval, Vaelin shifts, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Elira,” he murmurs, illusions flickering around us in lazy whorls, “I never realized how incomplete I felt until you made me whole. Now, this vow… it cements everything.”

I brush my lips over his jaw, savoring the closeness.

“I can hardly believe it myself,” I whisper, illusions trailing along his torso.

“From the broken enforcer who haunted me at first to the man who’d give his life for me… to the partner who stands here, heart open, giving me everything. I love you.”

He smiles, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he echoes.

We lounge together for a while, letting the candle flames gutter into a warm hush.

Our illusions fade to gentle embers, a sign that our souls rest in sated contentment.

Outside the window, the sky darkens to a velvety midnight, studded with stars that watch over our quiet vow.

Eventually, we rise, redressing in comfortable robes that the novices tailored for us, illusions still faintly shimmering in our aura.

We blow out the last of the candles, each flame snuffed in a swirl of illusions that glimmer and vanish.

Hand in hand, we exit the small terrace room.

The coven halls are mostly quiet by now, novices asleep, orcs dozing in guest chambers, humans retired.

A single robed elder patrols the corridor, illusions glowing in pale hues to keep watch.

They nod politely, not questioning our presence—perhaps they sense the deep magic humming between us.

We wind our way to our shared chamber, nestled in an upper level where the mountain wind sometimes howls at night.

Inside, I wave my staff to kindle a faint orb of witchlight.

Vaelin sets aside his cloak, illusions flickering across the silver runes on his arms.

He glances around the snug chamber—our bed, a small table, shelves of scrolls.

His expression softens.

“It feels like home now,” he murmurs, illusions dancing in content circles.

“I never had a place that felt like mine. But here, with you…”

I close the distance, slipping my hands around him.

“It’s ours,” I say, illusions brightening, “and you’ve every right to call it home.”

He cups my cheek, his eyes glinting with promise.

“Tomorrow, we’ll announce publicly that I’ve become your official vessel, that we completed the vow.”

A grin spreads on my lips, illusions swirling.

“And you’ll stand at my side, no matter the Overlord’s next schemes or the gargoyle wards we must maintain.”

His expression darkens slightly at the mention of threats, but he nods.

“We’ll handle them. Nothing can stand against us when we’re united.”

I lean up to kiss him, illusions flickering in a final hush of synergy.

“Then let’s rest. We have a lifetime to shape, building a world that leaves monstrous curses behind.”

Morning arrives with a gentle golden light spilling through the narrow window.

We wake entwined, illusions drifting in calm sunrise colors across the bed.

My chest feels weightless, as though I’ve cast off every chain of prophecy and fear.

Vaelin stirs, pressing a drowsy kiss to my shoulder.

We dress, illusions weaving around us in playful arcs as we share a quick breakfast in the corridor—a small platter of fruit and freshly baked bread the novices prepared.

Laughter echoes off the stone walls.

Olyssia catches us grinning at each other, illusions glowing with a newly bonded shine, and rolls her eyes in amused exasperation.

“You two are nauseatingly happy,” she teases, though her smile betrays her genuine warmth.

Soon, we gather in the Matriarch’s study, illusions drifting in subdued glimmers around the neat table stacked with scrolls.

The Matriarch stands near a panoramic window that overlooks the valley.

She regards us with a thoughtful gaze.

“So,” she begins, illusions shifting around her staff, “you each have an announcement?”

Vaelin clears his throat, illusions swirling around his ankles.

I lace my fingers through his, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

He speaks calmly. “I’ve officially pledged myself as Elira’s vessel, sealed by the Purna vow. We performed the ritual last night.”

The Matriarch’s stern features soften.

A faint smile tugs at her lips.

“I suspected as much. Congratulations. This is a significant step in your personal bond and your role in the coven. While the mating ceremony recognized your union, this vow cements Vaelin’s place as your magical counterpart. I see no cause for concern. The coven will welcome your choice.”

My illusions spark in gratitude.

“Thank you, Matriarch. We do this not just for ourselves, but to fortify the synergy that helps guard the gargoyle prison.”

She nods, illusions drifting in regal arcs.

“Precisely. And with the Overlord still lurking, we need every strong alliance. I will spread the word among the elders that Vaelin’s vow is recognized. Your partnership sets an example that might further unify purnas and those outside the coven.”

Vaelin inclines his head respectfully.

“We appreciate it. And we’ll continue serving the coven, forging alliances, and ensuring peace endures.”

The Matriarch turns to a side shelf, retrieving a small medallion etched with runic designs.

She hands it to Vaelin with a solemn air.

“A token of acceptance, symbolizing that you stand as a recognized vessel within these halls. Wear it if you wish, or keep it close. It helps novices or outsiders identify your special status.”

He lifts the medallion, illusions shimmering across its surface.

“Thank you,” he whispers, touched.

That evening, with the Matriarch’s blessing, we gather briefly in the grand atrium to share the news.

Most purnas receive it with warm applause, illusions flaring in celebratory hues.

Orcish representatives grin, exchanging approval for what they see as another sign of bridging differences.

Humans clap politely, though some are mystified by the complexities of Purna rituals.

Olyssia hoots in delight, illusions spiraling in shimmering confetti overhead.

The novices cheer, a few of them winking conspiratorially at me.

Elders nod in quiet approval, illusions shifting in subtle acknowledgment.

Even a handful of reformed Dark Elves who dwell among us now appear pleased, likely reminded that a new era of acceptance is possible.

After the applause dies down, the Matriarch steps forward, illusions drifting in gentle arcs.

“We celebrate a vow that strengthens our coven’s unity. May it inspire all to remember that from the ashes of war, bonds can form that transcend old hostilities. Let Vaelin and Elira stand as living proof.”

My throat tightens with emotion.

Vaelin’s hand finds mine, illusions binding us in a gentle swirl.

We exchange a smile, the entire atrium’s warmth radiating around us.

The vow is official, recognized, a quiet but potent statement that we choose each other—again and again.

After the brief announcement, the coven returns to daily routines: wards, lessons, forging alliances with outlying enclaves.

Vaelin and I stroll through the corridors, illusions swirling in calm patterns.

He wears the medallion around his neck, its runic markings reflecting the candlelight.

My illusions occasionally flicker over it in fascination.

We pause at a window overlooking the distant valley.

The sun sets in a blaze of orange and pink, painting the sky.

My staff leans against the wall, illusions drifting in lazy arcs around us.

Vaelin’s expression grows thoughtful.

“It’s strange,” he murmurs, “to think how far we’ve come in a matter of months. From enemies on a battlefield to mates forging a new world.”

I slip my arm around his waist, illusions brightening at the contact.

“If anyone had told me, back when you first appeared as the Overlord’s enforcer, that I’d one day share illusions with you as my vessel, I’d have called them mad.” A soft laugh escapes me.

“Yet here we are.”

He presses his lips to my temple, illusions shimmering with quiet joy.

“Here we are indeed. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

My heart flutters, the bond between us throbbing with that renewed vow.

The Overlord may still lurk, gargoyles might remain sealed but never wholly safe, and Protheka’s alliances might be fragile.

But in this moment, in the hush of the coven halls, I sense a future stretching before us—one shaped by determination and love, not by monstrous curses or twisted fates.

I lean into him, letting the final rays of sunset bathe us in gold.

“I choose you, Vaelin,” I whisper, illusions swirling in tender arcs.

“Again and again, every day.”

He smiles, illusions responding in kind.

“And I, you, Elira. Now and always.”

Outside, the sky dims, the first stars gleaming overhead.

Within, the gentle glow of illusions reflects an unbreakable vow, forging our path with luminous devotion.

We hold each other as the night creeps in, content in the knowledge that no darkness can sunder what we’ve built together— our bond, our choice, and our triumphant love.