The night sea was silent around them, the skiff gliding beneath a canopy of stars. Velastra sat at the prow, silent and watchful, while Orion helmed the vessel. Cael paced between them, every step unsteady—his skin damp with sweat, fingers curling and uncurling.
He pressed his palms to his temples, eyes squeezed shut. A low moan rumbled in his throat, half agony, half longing. Every few heartbeats he would stumble, clutching the rail as though it might anchor him to reality. He inhaled sharply, as if chasing a scent, he could no longer find.
Orion called his name softly, concern sharpening his voice. "Cael?"
Cael's head snapped up, eyes wild. "I… need her," he whispered, throat raw. "Her scent… I can't—" He broke off, trembling so violently the boards creaked beneath him.
Velastra rose, her cloak falling away like smoke. "Cael," she murmured, stepping forward. But he recoiled, instinctively narrowing his arms around himself. His gaze flicked past her, as though searching the darkness for someone else entirely.
Orion frowned. He pressed a hand to Cael's collar and caught a faint, lingering fragrance—roses, deep and heady, threaded with something darker. "You're losing control," Orion said, voice low. "You smell of Arisven's roses."
Cael's eyes flickered with confusion and rage. "It's breaking me," he gasped. "I can't think of anything but her—Lira."
Velastra's heart clenched. She drew a silent breath.
"It's the Thornbind Enchantment," Orion declared, voice tight. "A sex-spell first mastered by Queen Serathe—your mother, Velastra—to seal loyalty with venomed desire. It corrupts the spirit-bond, twisting devotion into obsession."
Cael's hands went to his head, trembling as if wracked by unseen forces. "I need her," he choked out. "Only her…"
Velastra's blade gleamed in the moonlight—her eyes soft but fierce. "Then let's free him," she commanded. Drawing an Oath-Arcana symbol in the air, she summoned the old seal between them. It flickered, weak but unbroken.
Orion laid a hand on her shoulder. "It won't hold long."
---
Orion's voice was low but urgent as he laid out the only hope left. "The Thornbind can only be undone by restoring the Oath-Arcana in its pure form—passion to passion, soul to soul. You must rebuild what the enchantment has ripped away."
He drew a rune in the air—fragile light dancing at his fingertips. "But know this, each moment of union will force Cael will feel agony, both pleasure and destruction—mind, body, and spirit. It may succeed… or shatter him further."
Velastra's eyes, flickered with fear. "This… might kill you," she whispered, voice cracking. She drew back, heart pounding. "Maybe I should send you back to Arisven—let you heal, and I'll only visit."
Cael's gaze sharpened, despite the haze of pain. He reached up, thumb brushing her hand. "No," he said, fierce in his frailty. "I will survive this." His voice was hoarse, but his eyes burned with promise.
Her heart lurched. In that instant of tender defiance, Velastra cast aside her doubt. She seized his hands. "Then le's take the gamble," she vowed, guiding him toward her chamber.
Before they could step further, Velastra glanced back at Orion, who stood just beyond the threshold. His lips curved into a wry, pained yet mischievous smile.
"Make sure you cast a silence spell on yourself, Orion," she rasped. "Or you will regret not marrying Lady Cirell."
Orion inclined his head and smiled solemnly. He wove a soft ward of quiet around the heavy wooden door. Beyond it, the night would hear nothing.
---
Velastra's lips brushed his in a fierce kiss, but beneath her passion, she felt his body jerk against hers—his need warring with the Thornbind's cruel pull. As her mouth claimed his, Cael's teeth sank into her lower lip, sharp and desperate.
She tasted blood. The sudden sting made her flinch. A thin line of scarlet ran down her chin. For a heartbeat, they stared at one another—pain and longing tangled in his eyes.
"Your Highness... I regret it. Sent me back... I am dirty."
Then Velastra smiled, wicked and warm. She leaned forward and bit his lower lip in return, gentle enough to draw blood but fierce enough to make him arch into her. That low, ragged groan shivered through her like music she'd longed to hear.
His body, trembling, pressed back against hers.
Velastra's breath came in heated wisps as she slid back just enough to look into his eyes, fingers trailing along his jaw. "You will never be less," she murmured, voice husky, "never impure."
Before he could answer, she surged forward again—this time with urgent hunger. Her lips crashed onto his, faster and deeper, claiming him wholly. Cael's body convulsed against hers.
He groaned, every note a testament to the Thornbind's cruel grasp—and to the fierce salvation in Velastra's arms.
Velastra's breath trembled against his skin, her voice a vow spoken in shadowed warmth.
"Cael...you belong to me," she whispered.
Cael tried to speak, but the ache inside him twisted too deep. The enchantment still laced his blood—desire sharpened into poison, every touch a contradiction. His body burned, torn between devotion and the false imprint that refused to release him.
She kissed him again—slower, deeper, like a tether reforged through fire. Her mouth moved over his with hunger and sorrow, not to consume him, but to anchor him. His breath hitched. A sound—part groan, part plea—escaped him as his hands gripped her waist, trembling.
"I don't know what's real anymore," he gasped against her lips.
"I do," she answered, guiding his hands to her skin. "And I'll show you."
Their bodies met like tide and flame—fierce, unrelenting, yet searching. Cael's rhythm faltered, pain threading through every motion, but still he moved with her.
Every shiver in her breath. Every arch of her body seeking his. It grounded him.
The enchantment clawed at his spine, digging deeper whenever he closed his eyes, trying to replace her with the memory of another. But Velastra wouldn't let him slip. Her touch reclaimed him—her voice calling his name again and again, not in command, but in reminder of whom he belongs.
"You're mine," she whispered into the crook of his neck. "Not by spell. Not by chain. By choice."
He answered her the only way he could—his hands clenching tighter, his lips finding hers again, now raw with both need and pain. Every thrust was a fight, a vow, a scream swallowed in silence.
She moved like wildfire over him, refusing to slow, her rhythm wild and unrepentant, as if daring the enchantment to shatter.
Cael broke first.
A cry escaped him—raw, guttural—but he didn't stop.
Even as tears pricked his lashes from the torment, his body kept answering hers. And with every movement, every breathless sound, some invisible thread began to weave anew between them. Frayed, but holding.
By the time his forehead pressed against hers again, their bodies slick with effort and ache, he was still breathing—and still there.
Alive. With her. Though weaker.
And the enchantment, though not yet gone, had cracked.
Velastra held him tightly, her voice soft, trembling against his skin:
"We're not finished. But we've begun."