The council chamber was quiet as Zafira stepped forward, her long white hair trailing behind her like a banner of moonlight. She wore her ceremonial garb—dark sapphire silks lined with gold thread, draped artfully around her curves, exposing the hollow of her collarbone and the carved runes inked along her hips.
Every movement she made was deliberate.
Every word she spoke struck the room like a gavel.
"I invoke the Rite of Silvra'tei," she announced, bowing her head. "The ancient law of the dark elves. A queen must be chosen before a kingdom is born. And I offer myself."
The other girls froze.
Kyrie's wings rustled.
Dimara's tail twitched.
Setara's quill snapped.
Fiore just narrowed her eyes.
Kujo looked from Zafira to the others, then back again. "You're serious?"
Zafira stepped closer. "Without a queen, your rule is seen as unstable. Tribal law demands legitimacy. This ritual seals your power in the eyes of my people—and others who still cling to old traditions."
"And you want to be that queen?"
"I'm not asking for harem rank," she said quietly. "But someone must be first. For the sake of diplomacy. For unity. For you."
She reached out, hand resting gently over his heart.
"And because I love you."
That night, the entire east wing of the manor was cleared. Only two people were allowed inside.
Zafira led him through the candlelit hallway barefoot, her gown trailing behind her like shadows in motion. The ritual chamber had been converted into a sanctuary—walls lined with obsidian mirrors, the floor painted with glowing runes, and candles burning softly at each corner.
In the center of the room: a bed of enchanted silk, surrounded by floating glyphs.
"Remove your shirt," she whispered, voice like velvet.
He obeyed.
She did the same, letting her ceremonial robe fall from her shoulders. Her skin was already inked with the beginnings of the sigils—flame-shaped tattoos spiraling from her hips, curling across her back, and glowing faintly in the candlelight.
"This rite links us," she said. "Magically. Spiritually. Physically."
She pressed her palm to his chest, and a soft line of glowing ink appeared, spreading up his shoulder.
"The more we give… the stronger the bond."
The tattoos continued to trace along their bodies—symmetrical, mirrored, binding.
Zafira pushed him gently back into the silken bedding, straddling his waist as she chanted in low, ancient elvish. The symbols pulsed, syncing with their heartbeats. Her hands guided his across her waist, her chest, her throat.
The magic responded with warmth—intimate, intoxicating.
When the last word of the spell left her lips, she leaned down and kissed him—not as a lover chasing pleasure, but as a queen claiming her place beside her king.
And he kissed her back with everything he had.
By dawn, their bodies were wrapped together, the glow of the tattoos fading into their skin like golden scars.
She lay with her head on his shoulder, one hand resting over his heart, her breath soft and steady.
"Mine," she whispered.
The door stayed shut until morning.
But rumors never did.
By noon, every member of the harem knew.
"Well then," Setara muttered, arms crossed. "That's one kind of announcement."
"She used ancient law," Fiore said, almost grudgingly. "Smart."
"I can be ancient too," Dimara pouted. "I've lived in, like… cursed vats."
"I don't need tattoos to brand him," Chusi said with a grin. "I'll just mark him the old-fashioned way."
Kyrie said nothing. She was already writing a celestial oath in divine ink across a parchment titled Marriage Plan A.
Aeva, lounging in the corner, sipped tea and smirked. "Let her have her night. Just means the rest of us get to plan ours."
That night, Zafira was still sleeping in Kujo's bed, tangled in his arms.
But outside his room… a storm was brewing.
The rumors began with whispers.
Vanished villagers. Strange lights flickering in the cracks beneath the southern market. A vendor who claimed his sleep was haunted by chanting and clawed silhouettes dancing in the shadows. At first, it sounded like another fringe conspiracy—until Setara cross-referenced supply logs and found a pattern: crates missing, tunnels rerouted, access glyphs tampered with.
Someone was hiding something.
Underground.
"Demon cult," Fiore muttered, standing over the map. "Classic. Ugly robes. Forbidden summoning. Probably cannibalism."
"I want to check it myself," Kujo said.
"I'll go," Dimara declared immediately, wrapping her tendrils around her waist like a sash.
Chusi stepped up beside her. "I love hunting creepy things in dark places. I'm in."
Within the hour, the three were descending into the forgotten underbelly of the village—a maze of sealed catacombs, collapsed aqueducts, and ancient demon-etched stone. Dimara took the lead, sniffing the air occasionally, her pupils glowing with focused purpose. Chusi followed with silent steps, her tail flicking lazily behind her.
Kujo walked in the center, eyes sharp, ready to summon his magic at the first sign of movement.
They didn't wait long.
Torches flickered ahead—real fire, not magical. Voices murmured in a language older than the kingdom itself. Deep, guttural chants that coiled like smoke through the tunnels.
Dimara's tendrils twitched.
"That's a summoning rhythm," she whispered. "They're channeling something big."
"Three signatures," Chusi murmured. "Maybe more. Humanoid. Two armed."
Kujo nodded. "Split left and right. Hit them hard on my mark."
They surged into motion.
The moment their boots hit stone, the cultists panicked. Robes scattered, torches fell, and one roared a warding curse that Chusi instantly countered with a pounce that knocked him unconscious.
Kujo slashed a sigil-carved spear in half with a wave of shadow, then caught the arm of a retreating summoner. "Where's your conduit?!"
The cultist screamed something unintelligible and flung a vial at the ceiling.
The explosion cracked the tunnel.
A cascade of stone and metal came crashing down.
"Kujo!" Dimara shrieked—and launched herself across the tunnel.
A hundred tendrils erupted from her back, stretching, shielding, hardening in a split-second cocoon of black-green muscle and bone. She slammed into Kujo and wrapped around him tightly as the ceiling fell.
Crack.
Boom.
Dust.
Silence.
The cave dimmed into gray.
For a few seconds, Kujo couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Could only feel warmth, pressure, and the frantic heartbeat pulsing beneath Dimara's skin as she held him close.
"…Dimara," he rasped, coughing.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, voice shaking.
"No. You covered me." He blinked, brushing dust from her cheek. "You saved me."
She loosened her tendrils slowly, trembling, breathing hard.
"I thought I was going to lose you," she whispered.
Kujo looked into her eyes—glowing with fear, with fury, with love so sharp it could cut stone.
Without thinking, he pulled her in and kissed her.
Hard.
Deep.
Covered in dirt, surrounded by shattered rock and still-burning torches, he pressed his lips to hers and poured every ounce of gratitude, adrenaline, and raw emotion into that moment.
She gasped softly against his mouth, then kissed him back just as fiercely, wrapping her arms around his neck, tendrils curling around his legs.
"You idiot," she murmured when they broke apart. "You can't die before we have our real night."
"Guess I'll have to survive a little longer," he said, brushing her hair back gently.
Chusi's voice echoed from beyond the rubble.
"Hey! If you two are done making out in the dirt, I found a blood altar and three idiots chained to it. Little help?"
Kujo exhaled, still holding Dimara close. "We're coming."
"Damn right we are," Dimara growled.