Three days had passed since the world shattered.
The cave they had been flung into was not a prison of stone, but of silence. It was a fresh tomb, the air still tasting of the portal's violent, jade-tinged magic and the raw, animal scent of Damask's grief. A constant, monotonous drip of water from a crack in the ceiling was the only sound that marked the passage of time, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the profound stillness of their ruin.
For Petunia, those three days had been an eternity lived on the razor's edge of terror and a devotion so profound it had burned away all other needs. He ran on a fuel of pure, desperate hope, his own exhaustion a distant, irrelevant ache. His hands, once soft and manicured for a courtesan's touch, were now chapped and raw from frantically scraping edible moss from the damp walls and plunging into the icy black pool to snatch at the blind, slick fish that were their only sustenance. He barely ate, his own hunger a ghost against the all-consuming need to keep his Dom alive.
The vigil was a constant, intimate, and horrifying ritual. He kept Damask clean, wiping away the grime of battle and the clammy sweat of his catatonic shock with scraps of his own torn robes. The act was a desperate attempt to preserve the dignity of the magnificent body that lay before him, a temple now in ruins. He massaged Damask's muscles, the powerful, sculpted flesh that had once been a testament to his Dom's power, now terrifyingly slack. Petunia's fingers dug into the softening tissue, a frantic, non-sexual act of defiance against the encroaching atrophy, trying to knead life back into the cooling flesh.
And he whispered. His voice, now hoarse and raw, was a constant, desperate stream against the suffocating silence. He didn't just tell stories; he reported, as if to a conscious commander, his words a fragile thread meant to keep the idea of their pride alive in the void of his Dom's mind.
"Kestrel will have found high ground by now, my Lord," he'd murmur, his lips brushing against the shell of Damask's unresponsive ear. "She's the First Blade. She's too stubborn to die. Lyra is reckless, but Kestrel will protect her. The Sows will be tending to their wounds. They are waiting for you. We are all waiting."
But Damask was a ghost in his own body. He ate when Petunia patiently pressed morsels of raw fish past his lips. He drank when the Fem tilted a leaf-cup of cool water to his mouth. But his eyes, the color of a stormy sky, saw nothing. The intoxicating, dominant musk that had once defined him, the scent that had been the very air Petunia breathed, was gone. In its place was the simple, mortal smell of a grieving man. His monumental cock, once the center of Petunia's universe, lay limp and forgotten against his thigh, a sorrowful, useless length of flesh.
On the third night, Petunia's own hope began to fray. He was curled against Damask's back, his own small body a shivering, inadequate blanket against the deep cave chill. He was exhausted, his own meager mana reserves utterly spent. He had given everything, and it was not enough. A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," he whispered, his voice a broken, defeated thing. "I'm not strong enough."
It was then that the world convulsed.
It was not a sound, but a feeling—a violent, psychic shockwave that slammed into the cave, a familiar, beautiful, and terrifying intrusion of pure Bitch-mana. It was Kestrel's signature, sharp and clean as forged steel, but it was intertwined with another, a wilder, more chaotic fire that could only be Lyra's. The two energies were braided together, amplified into a roaring chorus that was a declaration of survival.
The psychic blow hit Damask's catatonic form like a lightning strike. His entire body seized in a violent, full-body convulsion, a raw, guttural sound torn from his throat that was not a word, but the sound of a soul being forcibly dragged back into its flesh.
His eyes, vacant for three days, snapped open. They were wild, disoriented, but they were seeing.
After an eternity of silence, a single, ragged cry ripped from his lips: "Kestrel."
It was a name. It was recognition. It was proof that the commander was returning from the void.
And then, the miracle. Damask's cock, a dead thing for three days, gave a single, violent, spastic jerk against his thigh. A system coming back online with a painful surge of power.
Petunia saw it. He felt the psychic wave, he heard the name, and he saw that flicker of life in the dormant flesh. His exhaustion, his despair—it all burned away in a wave of pure, triumphant relief. His own body answered the call, a surge of arousal born not of lust, but of hope made manifest. His small cock hardened, leaking a thick, sweet nectar, a tribute to his Dom's impossible return.
Damask was no longer catatonic, but he was raw, like a newborn thrust into a harsh, blinding light. The pain of his loss, the weight of his failure, was now a conscious, acute agony. He turned, his movements stiff and clumsy, and he truly saw Petunia for the first time since the world had ended. He saw the gaunt face, the raw, chapped hands, the tear-streaked cheeks, and the unwavering, absolute devotion in those wide, luminous eyes. A storm of shame, of gratitude, and a flicker of his old, possessive pride warred within him.
He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched Pet's cheek. His voice was a ghost of what it was, a raw, unused thing. "Pet… I heard you. All of it. Help me."
The words were an absolution. They were a command. Petunia's heart felt like it would burst. He was no longer just a caretaker; he was the instrument of his Dom's rebirth.
The cultivation was a slow, agonizing process. Damask's body was a cold engine, his will a flickering ember. Petunia's mouth, his hands, his unwavering devotion were the flint and steel, striking again and again against the dormant flesh. He took Damask's nascent cock into his mouth, the taste of his own hopeful nectar mingling with the salty tang of his Dom's sweat. He licked, he suckled, he coaxed, his every touch a prayer. It was a fumbling, desperate, and profoundly intimate act. Damask shuddered, his body a warzone of humiliation and a desperate, burgeoning flicker of sensation.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of patient, worshipful work, the cold flesh began to warm. A weak, hesitant pulse of blood answered Pet's call. It was a pathetic excuse for an erection, a mere "Sprout" where a monolith had once stood, but it was hard, and it was real.
The penetration was a moment of shared, breathtaking vulnerability. Damask entered Petunia's tight, welcoming heat not with the force of a conqueror, but with the desperate, fumbling need of a survivor finding his way home. Petunia took him with a choked sob of pure, triumphant joy, his body becoming the living crucible for his Dom's reforging.
The climax, when it came, was a cataclysm. Damask's body went rigid, a deep, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he came. It wasn't a calculated injection of mana, but a raw, explosive release. He felt the power surge from his core, a searing heat that was both agonizing and exquisite. It was the feeling of his own internal forge reigniting, violently compressing the raw power he had just absorbed into solid form by the sheer, overwhelming force of his orgasm.
With a final, soul-shattering groan, he erupted. A thick, gritty, almost painful torrent of his newly forged Gristle Seeds flooded Petunia's guts. It wasn't a fluid release; it was an injection of hot, abrasive sand, a searing brand of raw Solid-1 mana that scoured his insides and seared his ownership into his very soul. Petunia screamed into his mouth, but the sound was one of sublime fulfillment. The gritty, solidifying mana was not a violation; it was his reward, a permanent, internal mark of his success.
In the aftermath, Damask did not release him. He collapsed onto Petunia, his body spent, the fire in his cock finally abated to a low, smoldering ember. He was exhausted, raw, but the catatonic despair had been replaced by a cold, burning rage. He held Petunia with a fierce, possessive grip—the grip of a man who had clawed his way back from the abyss and would never let go of his anchor.
And now, he could feel it. A distant, thrumming echo. The Resonance of his Bitches. Alive. Fighting.
He tightened his grip on the small, trembling body beneath him, his lips brushing against Petunia's ear. His final thought was not one of despair, but of grim, unyielding resolve.
They're alive. And they're waiting. I'm coming.