Peaceful wind finally blew within the walls, three days after the hunt of someone synonymous with the devil himself. Yet, dread still lingered in the hearts of the elven clan, shaken by the brutality of the aftermath. Even their King, the strongest Merge, hadn't escaped unscathed.
Within the palace, in Elara's room, silence lingered, heated by faint sunlight streaming through the window.
Allen lay unconscious on her unblanketed bed, his skin scarless, gleaming like that of a newborn—thanks to his sex-stolen regeneration ability.
Natasha sat quietly on a wooden chair at the corner of the bed. Her flawless curves hadn't withered a bit, but her heart pounded in prayer. "Please, Lord Allen... don't leave us..." she whispered, her voice low and sorrowful, both hands tightly clutching Allen's like a child holding her mother.
