Shadowheart was the first to rouse, her breath still uneven from the night's closeness.
She lay half draped over Mamba's chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles across his skin—touches that were less about desire and more about reassurance, as if grounding herself in the fact that he was still there.
Minthara woke second, though she would never admit to having slept so deeply.
Her hair was wild around her shoulders, her eyes half-lidded, and for a moment—only a moment—she looked soft.
Not defeated. Not submissive.
Just at peace.
Both women stayed close to him, their bodies loosely entwined with his, claiming space without competing for it. The room smelled of sweat, warmth, and the faint incense Shadowheart lit the night before—a calming mixture of dusk-rose petals and moon-chalk dust.
There were no words spoken at first.
Only breathing.
Only the slow pull of flesh against woven blankets as they shifted closer, unwilling to let the moment end.
Mamba doesn't rush.
He never does—not with them.
His hands held them both with that same mixture of gentleness and strength that defined him as a lover and as a leader.
The kind of touch that said:
"You are safe."
"You are mine."
"I am yours."
Shadowheart curled into him, kissing his jaw softly.
Minthara pressed her forehead to his collarbone, a rare sign of vulnerability only he ever sees.
Their closeness turned into warmth…
the warmth turned into movement…
and the movement into a slow, wordless communion that needed no description to be understood.
No frenzy.
No vulgarity.
Just three souls entwined in the kind of intimacy that comes not from lust—but from trust.
When it was done, they lay together again, breathless and tangled.
Shadowheart whispered, voice airy with satisfaction:
"If the world ended right now… I would die content."
Minthara snorted with a smirk:
"Content? Speak for yourself. I could go again."
Mamba only laughed under his breath—
a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through all three of them.
And eventually…
with kisses and tired limbs…
they drifted out of the bed, cleaned, dressed, and prepared for the world that awaited them outside the sanctuary of that room.
⟡ The Courtyard — Arcaeon's Envoy ⟡
When Mamba stepped into the daylight, the titan silhouette of a gold dragon already dominated the courtyard.
Polished scales.
A royal bearing.
Wings folded like banners of molten sunlight.
Jaheira stood before the creature, armored and ready, her hair pulled back tightly, her face proud and conflicted all at once.
The envoy bowed deeply to Mamba when he approached.
"Warchief. We are ready to depart when you are."
Jaheira exchanged one last look with him—
gratitude, duty, sorrow, and honor all wrapped in a single, steady nod.
He returned it with a warrior's salute over his heart.
And just like that…
the new ambassador of the Snake Tribe ascended the dragon's foreleg and vanished into the sky.
⟡ Mamba Calls for Volunteers ⟡
Moments later, he steps into the training yard where the tribe is gathering after breakfast.
His voice rolls across the grounds:
"Snake Tribe! I require volunteers for a strike mission in the village we reclaimed. The spider queen matriarch has grown bold—too bold. She has taken our people."
Ogres roar in anger, already stepping forward…
but Mamba lifts a hand.
"No ogres. You can't fit in the tunnels.
This must be a stealth team."
The ogres deflate like guilty mastiffs.
A quiet ripple of anticipation rolls through the rest of the warriors.
Shadowheart folds her arms, already stepping closer.
Minthara's eyes narrow with interest.
A handful of Harpers rise from their seats.
A myconid scout tilts its head, spores drifting excitedly.
Mamba waits.
And the tribe waits with him.
The air is charged, ready, tense.