The throne room had grown again overnight.
Three thrones had fused into one massive living seat: moon-white crystal on the left, obsidian on the right, pure starlight silver in the center where the three met.
Elena sat on the left, legs draped over the arm, pussy glowing silver.
Sophia on the right, same pose, dark thighs spread wide.
Vyrneth in the center, crimson eyes blazing, black skin shimmering with fresh runes that now matched the triad's.
Lucas stood before them, naked, cock dripping glowing nectar that sizzled where it hit the floor.
Behind the throne, two hundred moon-elves and two hundred dark-elves knelt in perfect alternating rows (silver hair, blood-red hair, silver hair, blood-red), like living chess pieces waiting for the king's command.
Silver and black vines rose from the floor, weaving a lattice above the triad.
The moment Lucas stepped onto the dais, the vines snapped into motion.
They lifted Elena, Sophia, and Vyrneth simultaneously, suspending them in mid-air, legs spread, pussies aligned in a perfect vertical line.
Elena on top.
Vyrneth in the middle.
Sophia at the bottom.
Lucas's cock lined up with all three.
He thrust upward.
First into Elena (one slow, perfect stroke that made her scream and squirt glowing silver down Vyrneth's belly).
Then lower, into Vyrneth (black pussy swallowing him whole, runes flaring crimson-silver as she came instantly).
Then lower still, into Sophia (her dark thighs trembling as he filled her to the hilt).
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Fucking all three queens in sequence while the vines held them suspended, bodies pressed together, tits rubbing, mouths kissing in a messy chain.
The clans watched, bound by silver-black vines that mirrored the triad's rhythm (every thrust Lucas gave the queens, the vines gave the elves).
Two hundred moon-elf mouths opened in perfect sync.
Two hundred dark-elf tongues extended.
The vines fed them: sliding into throats, pussies, wrapping clits, stroking cocks that didn't exist but still made them writhe as if they did.
Elena came first, squirting in a glowing waterfall that rained over Vyrneth's face, then Sophia's tits.
Vyrneth followed, black pussy gushing silver, the mixture running down to coat Sophia's clit.
Sophia shattered last, screaming into Vyrneth's mouth, squirting so hard the vines had to tighten to keep her from falling.
Lucas never stopped.
He pulled out of Sophia, fisted his slick cock once, and painted all three queens in thick, endless ropes (across faces, tits, bellies, pussies), until they were glazed and dripping like living statues.
The vines lowered them gently onto the fused throne, still tangled, still kissing, cum connecting them in glowing webs.
Then the real orgy began.
Moon-elves and dark-elves were paired by the vines (one silver, one obsidian), pressed breast-to-breast, mouth-to-pussy, feeding from the glowing seed that dripped from the queens above.
Every pair mirrored the triad: one licking, one being licked, vines fucking both in perfect rhythm.
Lucas walked through them, cock never softening, sliding into whichever mouth or pussy caught his eye (moon-elf throat, dark-elf cunt, moon-elf tits, dark-elf tongue), until every elf had tasted their king.
When he returned to the throne, the three queens pulled him down into their lap, legs spread wide, guiding him back inside them one after another while the clans watched and chanted:
"One king.
Three queens.
Four hundred servants.
One realm.
Forever."
He came a final time, buried in Vyrneth while Elena and Sophia rubbed their clits against his thighs, flooding her so full that the overflow rained down onto the kneeling elves below like a coronation blessing.
The vines released everyone at once.
Four hundred elves collapsed in a moaning, glowing heap, silver and black skin intertwined, mouths still seeking, bodies still trembling.
The fused throne pulsed once, then spoke in a voice that shook the roots of the world:
**"The realm is whole.
Pleasure is law.
The triad reigns eternal."**
Elena, Sophia, and Vyrneth pulled Lucas down into the center of the elf pile, four hundred hands reaching to touch, to taste, to worship.
The twin moons above shone brighter than ever, bathing their new empire in silver and shadow.
Seven days after the unification orgy, the three queens woke glowing.
Elena's belly had rounded into a perfect, firm dome, runes pulsing soft gold across her skin.
Sophia's the same, obsidian skin shimmering with silver light.
Vyrneth's midnight flesh now cradled a silver-black swell that made her crimson eyes glow brighter.
Their breasts had doubled overnight: Elena's 34J → 38M, Sophia's 36K → 40N, Vyrneth's already massive → impossible, veins glowing beneath the skin, nipples dark and leaking constantly.
The realm responded instantly.
The great tree lifted an entire island into the sky (a floating paradise of cloud-soft grass and crystal springs), suspended above the palace by living vines thick as redwoods.
Four hundred elves (moon and dark) were carried up on silver-black wings of light, naked, eyes wide with reverence.
At the island's center: a circular dais of warm moonstone, three throne-beds grown side-by-side.
The queens reclined, legs spread, bellies cradled by soft vines that lifted their breasts like offerings.
Lucas stood before them, cock blazing, eleven inches dripping glowing milk that steamed where it touched the stone.
The festival began with the First Milking.
Aeloria (High Seer of the moon-elves) and Nyxara (new High Seer of the dark-elves) stepped forward together.
They knelt between Elena's thighs, mouths sealing over her leaking nipples at the exact same moment.
Elena moaned, back arching, milk spraying in sweet, glowing arcs.
Aeloria swallowed greedily, throat working, silver hair turning luminous with every gulp.
Nyxara did the same to the other breast, crimson lips stained white.
When Elena's tits ran dry, the vines lifted Sophia into their place.
Then Vyrneth.
Every elf took their turn (two hundred moon-elf mouths, two hundred dark-elf mouths), drinking from the queens in perfect rotation until every belly glowed faintly with royal milk and every chin dripped silver.
Lucas never waited.
While the elves nursed, he moved behind the thrones.
First Elena: sliding into her from behind while she lactated into elven mouths, pregnant pussy tighter than ever, runes flaring with every thrust.
Ten strokes, then Sophia, then Vyrneth, cycling between three swollen, dripping queens while four hundred elves watched and moaned.
The island itself responded: clouds raining warm nectar, grass stroking bare feet, vines curling around elf ankles to keep them kneeling and open.
When the last elf had drunk their fill, the queens rose (bellies round and heavy, breasts still leaking) and laid Lucas on his back across the three throne-beds.
They took him together.
Elena straddled his face, pregnant pussy grinding on his tongue, milk dripping from her tits onto his chest.
Sophia mounted his cock reverse-cowgirl, swollen belly bouncing, dark pussy swallowing every inch.
Vyrneth knelt over his thighs, rubbing her leaking nipples against Sophia's back while vines fucked her gently from behind, keeping her on the edge.
The elves formed a living carpet around them (moon and dark paired again), drinking spilled milk from the stone, fingering each other in perfect rhythm to the triad's thrusts.
Lucas came first, flooding Sophia so full that glowing milk-cum poured out around his cock, running down his balls in thick rivers.
The elves scrambled to catch it on their tongues.
Sophia came next, squirting pregnant juices across Lucas's abs, mixing with the milk already pooling there.
Elena followed, grinding hard on his face, squirting straight down his throat while her tits sprayed both sisters in the face.
Vyrneth shattered last, vines pulling out as she came untouched, milk gushing from her nipples in silver-black arcs that painted the sky.
They kept going for seven straight days.
No sleep.
No night.
Only the floating island, the glowing queens, the king who never softened, and four hundred elves who drank, fucked, and worshipped until every belly (elf and royal) swelled with new life.
On the seventh sunrise, the island lowered gently back to the palace tree.
The queens stood at the edge, bellies huge now, milk still dripping, and spoke to their realm:
"Every year, on this week, the skies will lift us again.
Every mouth will drink.
Every womb will quicken.
Pleasure is our legacy."
Lucas pulled them close, hands resting on three glowing swells.
"And love," he added, voice rough, "is our law."
The tree sang.
The moons bowed.
The realm (whole, pregnant, and eternal) answered with one perfect, endless moan.
**THE END… for now.**