The room was still, save for the faint sound of their breath and the distant hush of waves brushing against temple stone.
Cael lay against the pillows, pale, sweat beading along his temple, his body bruised inside and out. Every movement cost him something—pain lingered like ghostfire in his limbs, heavy and cruel.
Velastra sat beside him, unmoving, as if afraid that even the sound of her voice might cause him to shatter.
"I can stop," she said softly.
But Cael turned his face toward her, breath ragged. "Go on."
His voice was strained, but clear.
Velastra's fingers traced the side of his face, the curve of his jaw rough with the beginnings of a tremble. He leaned into her touch—not with hunger, but with aching need. Not for pleasure, but for anchoring. For proof that he was still wanted. Still hers.
Their breaths mingled, uneven and warm, and Cael let out a low, shuddered sigh. When she kissed him again, it was deeper. Not demanding—but determined. A promise sealed in the way her lips lingered, coaxing the truth from his silence.
His hands rose, hesitant at first, brushing over her arms like he was afraid she'd get mad. Pain still flickered behind his eyes—raw, residual—but she did not resist his closeness.
"Touch me," she whispered into the space between kisses.
He answered with a nod and a fragile smile that cracked like light through broken glass.
Then he rested his forehead against hers.
"Forgive me," he breathed, "but even my body did forget... my soul did not."
She paused, eyes searching his.
Cael closed his eyes briefly, then continued. "I still want us... even if I am not worthy. Don't forgive me. That's fine. Just like before. Stay with me. Punish me... That's better."
Velastra didn't answer.
Her hands slid down his chest, caressing his skin. Every touch was measured. She guided his hands to her hips, inviting him to reclaim the rhythm.
He followed her lead, breath stuttering as she shifted above him. When their bodies met, it was slow—like a moonrise, steady and glowing, not blazing like fire but warm enough to break frost.
He gasped, eyes flying open, pain flickering—but she steadied him with both hands at his face, kissing his brow, his jaw, his lips. "Breathe with me," she whispered, and he did.
Every movement after, was laced with restraint. He trembled beneath her, sweat slicking his skin, but he stayed with her—each motion a vow that pain would not steal this from them.
Velastra whispered his name into the crook of his neck.
Their union this time was not explosive—but tender, aching, longer. The pain didn't disappear, but it faded beneath her. And when he finally trembled, and groaned, and clung to her like a man starved for salvation, it was not a scream—but a prayer.
Velastra buried her face in his neck, holding him tightly through the end.
When it was over, she didn't let him go. Cael's breathing was shallow, but steady. His fingers curled around hers.
"Your highness," he whispered.
Velastra kissed the top of his brow.
And in the quiet, they lay tangled in warmth—not healed, not whole—but peaceful.
---
Outside the sealed chamber, Orion sat cross-legged on the skiff deck, arms folded, a complex knot of silence wards still humming faintly above his head. The stars above flickered like smug little witnesses.
He sighed, not for the first time that night.
"They're probably… staring at each other and crying," he muttered, staring into the night fog.
He may not hear them, but their movement rhythms the sea.
Orion winced and coughed. "Okay. Maybe not just crying."
He lay back against the skiff's carved hull, arms behind his head, eyes fixed on the sky and tried—foolishly—to think about anything but the passionate reunion echoing behind those magical doors.
He huffed, a sound that betrayed more longing than annoyance.
"Will I ever be married?" he asked the stars. "Is there someone out there willing to bleed magic and burn cities for me? Maybe just… moderately obsess over me? Cook dinner once in a while? Wear thigh-high boots and whisper threats?"
The silence did not answer.
But Orion's mind—traitorous and sleep-starved—wandered.
He dreamed.
Of a mysterious woman wrapped in red silk and shadow, storming into his chamber to slap him for ignoring her, only to later drag him into bed with unmentionably urgent motives. Her voice dripped with desire, her grip unrelenting. And for some reason, she kept calling him Lord Orion in increasingly scandalous tones.
His breath hitched in the dream, shirt half-unlaced, fog rolling across the tent floor—
—BANG!
"Get up."
He jolted upright, nearly tumbling into the water. Velastra stood over him, her cloak flaring behind her like she'd just stepped off a battlefield. Her brows arched in mild amusement and... was that a smirk?
"Why are you moaning 'yes, my lady, tighter' in your sleep?"
Orion flushed a full shade of crimson.
"I—I was praying," he said far too quickly. "To the stars. For... spiritual binding. And compression. Of morality."
Velastra tilted her head. "You need new prayers."
She turned with regal calm and descended toward the helm.
Orion slumped back onto the deck with a groan, dragging a cloak over his face.
"What a grave desire," he muttered into the fabric. "If I ever get married, maybe, I'll stop dreaming dirty too."
But in the silence that followed, a small smile tugged at his lips.
---
Orion stood near the helm, arms crossed, eyes squinting at the chamber door like it might sprout teeth. A breeze rustled the sails, and the sun—reluctant and soft—peeled slowly across the sea's horizon.
And yet… still no Cael.
He muttered under his breath, pacing once before calling out casually, "Did the two of you... did it all night?"
Velastra, seated calmly by the skiff rail, didn't even glance his way. "Yeah, that's why he's still sleeping."
Orion blinked. "Really?"
She nodded, serene yet with a hidden intent to brag.
Orion's brow furrowed. His instincts—honed through years of tending to soldiers, cursed emissaries, and foolish nobility—stirred uneasily.
"Sleeping…" he repeated, slowly crossing the deck.
Without warning, he walked beside Velastra and gently touched her wrist.
Her brow rose, but she didn't flinch.
"Orion?" she asked.
He wasn't listening.
His fingers were still, eyes closed. Listening not to her breath, but her energy—her inner rhythm. He frowned.
Then—his eyes flew open. His face paled.
"He's not sleeping," Orion said sharply.
Velastra froze. "What?"
"He's not just resting," he said, already walking. "His spirit meridians are dull. Almost numbed."
Together, they moved to the sealed door. Velastra waved a hand, the last privacy ward dissolving into mist. Inside, the chamber was dim, the air thick with the soft weight of aftermath.
Cael lay on the silken bed, skin pale beneath the light, chest rising—barely—with shallow, fragile breaths.
Velastra rushed forward, kneeling at his side. "Cael…"
Orion followed, muttering a curse under his breath as he ran diagnostic spells with a flurry of flicking fingers. Threads of light trailed from his hands and sank into Cael's body like needles through fog.
His lips pressed into a tight line.
"He's alive," he said. "But barely."
Velastra's hands trembled where they touched Cael's face. "Tell me."
Orion didn't soften. "The enchantment was dispelled faster than I thought. However, it cost him so much."
Her eyes snapped to him. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying—" he exhaled sharply "—that during the act, while you were restoring the stability of your spiritual bond, he had already started fighting it long before, in Arisven. The Sahl'Vereth, the enchantment worm that parasites the spiritual bond within him, didn't just die quietly. It fought. And the stronger your bond grew, the more desperate it became."
He stood upright and spoke with a voice edged with frustration.
"It fed on the energy—the wrong intimacy. However, I suppose as Cael and that woman do the act, Cael's consciousness of seeking your warmth and being still aware of your existence, the Sahl'Vereth cannot be fully fed. Thus, to survive, the worm fed itself with Cael's spirit energy. Furthermore, your rightful union woke your bond, yes, but it also made the parasite fight back harder. At the peak of your connection, it tried to sever the bond entirely to save itself… by attacking Cael's spirit meridians with its poison."
Velastra went still.
Orion crouched beside her again, this time his tone gentler. "His spirit meridian is bruised. Not broken—but hurt. The pain he endured wasn't just physical. It was internal. The meridians where your bond threads weave into him- it was healed, Velastra."
Her breath caught.
A beat of silence.
"I should've sensed it," she said, her voice low. "I should've stopped."
Orion shook his head. "He should have told you to stop, yet he really endured and fought hard."
He reached for Cael's wrist, checking again, then looked toward Velastra with a rare softness.
"He's fighting. But he'll need time. The worm is gone—but the wound it left…"
He didn't finish.
Velastra's eyes lowered to Cael's unmoving form, her fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from his brow.
"I'll give him time," she said quietly.
Orion nodded.
Velastra gave him a look—a command of threat and gratitude.
Orion stood, dusted off his robes, and grumbled, "I'll be making tea. And none of the chants nor oath-arcanas can save him. He needs real herbs. Groundroot, dusk fennel, and maybe a slap to the chest if he doesn't wake up soon."
He paused in the doorway, sighing once more.
"Still… lucky bastard," he muttered under his breath. "All I get are dreams."