On the outskirts of Dweller City, the morning sun cast a soft, ethereal glow through the transparent glass ceiling, creating shimmering patterns on the ground. The massive glass cylinders, standing like solemn sentinels, pierced into the ground, each one a silent testament to the lives and traditions they embraced.
Agneyastra stood amidst the gathering—a mosaic of Dwellers adorned in their traditional hues, Dweller Warriors with expressions carved in stone, and Fire soldiers, whose presence seemed to ripple with inherent energy. Together, they formed a tapestry of sorrow, a collective silence enveloping Aurgelmir's family beside her.
The solemn procession of Dweller Priests, clad in flowing robes of muted colors, moved with a grace that belied the weight of their task. They bore Aurgelmir’s body on a raised platform, a spectral figure draped in the finery befitting his stature, one hand brushing against the gilded edge of his tunic.
Tears glistened on Agneyastra’s cheeks, silent witnesses to an internal storm. She stepped forward, her path an unsteady dance between grief and duty, each footfall an echo resonating deep within her core. The glass cylinder, a monument to preservation and goodbye, stood open, its mouth yawning wide to receive Aurgelmir’s lifeless form. The air felt charged around it—a tangible anticipation, a collective holding of breath. The Priests gently lowered him into the cylinder’s embrace, their movements a choreographed ritual of reverence and respect.
As the glass door swung closed, sealing with a muted click, clarity spread across the crowd like the ripples of a tranquil lake. Faces reflected across the cylinder's surface—a tapestry of Dwellers bound together in shared loss. Agneyastra’s fingers brushed over the rigid, cold glass, the barrier both a comfort and a cruelty, separating the living from the dead.
Within the cylinder, Aurgelmir seemed almost to sleep, the stillness so profound it belied the harsh finality of death. His features were softened in repose, the lines of life momentarily erased. Around them, the Dweller Priests began their incantations—a rhythmic cadence that wove into the fabric of the air, lifting up through the glass ceiling and out into the vastness of the Dweller lands.
Aurgelmir's family, gathered as a solemn unit, wore their grief with quiet dignity, eyes tracing over his beloved features once more. Every sigh, every gentle murmur, was a thread in the tapestry of their farewell.
Clearing her throat, Agneyastra's voice rang out strong yet tender, the heartfelt quaver belying her calm exterior. “Aurgelmir was not only my mentor,” she proclaimed, her words weaving through the crowd like a shared thread of memory, “but one of my dearest friends. He saved me as a child, sheltering me under any storm, I never knew I needed. His spirit was relentless, a beacon in the darkest night, forever urging me forward.”
Her gaze swept across the assembly, finding kindred spirits in the faces of Dweller Warriors, poised yet subdued, and Fire Soldiers, standing as silent sentinels of homage. Together, they formed a tapestry of unity, woven from diverse threads of life.
As Agneyastra returned to her place beside Marudeva and Tyson, the gathering took on a life of its own. Voices arose like a swelling tide, recounting tales of bravery and compassion, each story a vivid stroke upon the canvas of Aurgelmir’s legacy. Laughter mingled with tears, an orchestra of emotion that enveloped them all, wrapping them in the tender embrace of shared remembrance.
At last, the testimonials subsided, leaving a poignant stillness in their wake. The Dweller Priest stepped forward with ritualistic grace, his movements deliberate, as though each action was a solemn pact with the past. Fingers brushed gently against the glacial surface of the control panel, and a mere press of a single button set destiny into motion.
In the blink of an eye, Aurgelmir’s form was consumed by a cleansing fire, the brilliance of its blaze capturing the crowd's collective breath. Flames danced elegantly, their ethereal fingers tracing the air, reducing flesh to shimmering sand in a matter of heartbeats. The ashes cascaded downward, shifting like grains in an hourglass, returning Aurgelmir to the embrace of the earth from which he rose.
Agneyastra’s heart was heavy as she embraced Aurgelmir’s family, their faces lined with a mixture of grief and gratitude. “Please let me know if you need anything,” she murmured.
As she stepped back, Agneyastra’s gaze drifted over to where Tyson stood, his form tense and bristling like a storm about to break. He was surrounded by a cluster of archivists, their robes rustling with the movement of turning pages and the whisper of troubled inquiries. Tyson’s face was a mask of anger, his brows furrowed deeply as he scanned the pieces of parchment in his hands.
Sandra, standing beside Agneyastra, followed her gaze. Her voice was a curious melody in the air as she asked, “What is that about?”
Agneyastra turned to Sandra, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite the heaviness in the air. They parted from their embrace, each woman holding onto the warmth and strength they had shared in that brief moment. “Make sure Aurgelmir’s family gets home alright,” Agneyastra instructed, her voice firm yet comforting. “I will find out and keep you informed.”
Sandra nodded, understanding the unspoken promise, and drifted away, moving with grace and purpose toward Aurgelmir’s family. With determination lighting her steps, Agneyastra made her way toward Tyson.
As she moved closer, Tyson's voice sliced through the serenity, thick with defiance. “I will not allow this to happen, I don’t care if he is willing to agree to a peace treaty.” His words were tinged with a sense of helplessness, echoing the frustration of a battle-hardened warrior who had long fought for what he believed in.
The Archivist, cloaked in an aura of calm, stood beside him, embodying a contrasting serenity. “I am only telling you as a courtesy, it is her decision to make,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering, like the placid surface of a hidden pond.
Curiosity piqued and concern shadowing her eyes, Agneyastra stepped forward. “What is going on?” she asked.
The Archivist took the crumpled papers from Tyson's clenched hand, unfolding them with an ease that suggested familiarity with their contents. He extended the documents to her, and as she took them, his gaze never wavered. “King Arroyo will end the war if you become his bride,” he revealed.
Agneyastra’s face twisted with disgust, the notion hitting her like a wave of nausea. She struggled to process the proposal, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The thought of the aged King Arroyo made her stomach churn. “He is old,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, as her eyes skimmed the elegant script on the papers.
Her gaze met Tyson's, his eyes a storm of turmoil, reflecting the gravity of the choice before her. The weight of countless lives seemed to bear down on her slender shoulders. “King Arroyo said he would end the war,” she mused, her voice barely above a whisper, each syllable laced with the anguish of sacrifice. “It would mean no more warriors dying.”
Tyson's gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of frustration and concern. “You have done enough for these Dwellers,” he declared, his voice cutting through the morning silence like a blade. “You owe them nothing more.”
Agneyastra turned to him, her eyes reflecting a kaleidoscope of emotions—gratitude, exhaustion, and an unyielding determination. “I owe them my life,” she said softly, words imbued with a depth of conviction. “But I am so tired of fighting.”
As if summoned by the gravity of their conversation, Marudeva emerged from the shadows, his presence both commanding and reassuring. With the morning light casting elongated shadows behind him, he approached with measured steps, having overheard their discourse.
“Arroyo cannot be trusted,” Marudeva intoned, his voice deep and resonant like the rumble of impending thunder. “He could cancel the peace treaty at any moment. The demons have sunk their claws into him, twisting his mind. Tyson is right; you owe us nothing.”
Agneyastra felt the weight of their scrutiny upon her. Her fingers brushed over the parchment one last time as she handed it back to the Archivist who stood nearby, his presence almost spectral in the dawn’s light.
“It is a no,” she declared, her voice steadfast. “He is influenced by demons. If you see the Golden Demon, tell him the next time we meet, I will rip his soul from whatever form he has taken over.”
***
The Dweller Farm lay silent under the vast expanse of sun’s rays, the golden wheat fields whispering secrets to the night breeze. Inside the farmhouse, shadows danced across the walls, coaxed by the soft glow of the candle flickering by the bedside. Ramil reclined, vulnerable and introspective, the sheets barely clinging to his form as he stared at the closed bathroom door.
The evening had woven its tapestry with threads of tension and unshed tears. Evain’s voice, gentle yet probing, floated from behind the door. “I thought you would’ve gone to your General’s funeral.”
Ramil exhaled, a heaviness in his breath. “His family didn’t want me there. Plus, I am mad at Sandra right now.”
The bathroom door creaked open, releasing a tendril of scented steam that curled into the room. Evain emerged like a vision, clad in lingerie that caught the candlelight and turned it into a thousand shimmering stars against her skin. Her presence was a balm yet carried within it the sharp edge of curiosity.
“I must know, what did she do?” Evain asked, her voice a gentle insistence as she leaped onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her playful weight.
Ramil's gaze traced Evain's form, drawn to her warmth. He hesitated, the question hanging between them, painted in unspoken words. As he leaned in, seeking solace in her kiss, he murmured, “Why?”
Ramil lay sprawled on the bed, the worn sheets barely concealing his form, his skin a canvas marked by the burdens and battles he bore. Evain’s fingers traced a languid path down his chest, her touch a whisper against his skin before delivering a playful, unexpected slap. Her lips curled into a mischief-laden smile as she observed the impish glint in his eyes, eyes that mirrored a sky long forgotten in a war-ravaged realm.
“I enjoy your misery,” she teased, her voice a melody of sweet mockery and affection.
Ramil's laughter broke the silence, rich and resonant. “Sandra is General now,” he said, pride laced with an undercurrent of bitterness tugging at his tone.
Evain inclined her head, drawing closer, her lips brushing against his neck, sending shivers dancing along his spine. “That’s my girl, moving up in the world,” she murmured, her breath a sultry warmth against his ear. “So that’s why you’re truly upset. It sounds more like jealousy to me.”
Ramil sighed, a sound mingling frustration and longing, dreams deferred whispering in the spaces between their hearts. “I always wanted to be a General.”
Her fingers continued their path, tender yet firm, grounding him to the present moment. “Being a General is a waste of time,” she said, her voice a mixture of wisdom and world-weariness. “You still take orders from someone else. And soon, this war will be over.”
Intrigued and unsettled, Ramil drew her closer, their bodies entwining in a refuge amid the chaos of the world beyond those rustic walls. “What are you talking about, Evain?” he asked, his voice low, almost pleading.
For a moment, silence wrapped around them, the room holding its breath. Evain turned her gaze away, her eyes losing themselves in his gaze. She hesitated, the weight of her knowledge a palpable presence between them. “I’ve said too much,” she whispered, her voice fragile, like a thread spun of gossamer.
Ramil’s hand found hers, their fingers interlocking, grounding him in the only truth he knew: this moment, “How will the war end?” he asked.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
as Evain’s touch lingered softly on his chest. Her lips danced across his skin, gentle and searching, like a secret waiting to be spoken. It was in this fleeting intimacy that Evain’s voice broke the silence, carrying words that seemed to twist the very fabric of the evening.
“My father signed a peace treaty,” she murmured, her voice both a confession and a revelation. “So, he can make Agneyastra his bride.”
His reaction was immediate. Ramil bolted upright, the flimsy sheets barely clinging to his form, eyes wide with disbelief. “He can’t do that,” he declared.
Evain’s eyes sparkled with an amused curiosity, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I thought you hated Agney,” she teased gently, her fingers tracing invisible lines across his skin.
“Only people close to her can call her that name,” Ramil replied, his voice now a mixture of frustration and protectiveness.
The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as Evain watched him with a new intensity. “I’ve never seen you react this way,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated with enchantment. “It kinda makes you hotter.”
Her hands moved with intention, rubbing warmth into his chest, trying to pull him back into the cocoon of their shared intimacy. But Ramil’s mind was elsewhere, his resolve hardening with each heartbeat. He shifted away from her, the decision written in the lines of his body as he swung his legs off the bed.
“I need to go speak with Agney,” he stated, each word deliberate, as if saying them gave him strength.
Yet before he could rise fully, Evain’s grip tightened—firm, but not forceful—her determination a palpable force. In a moment, she pulled him close again, silencing his intentions with a kiss that spoke of desire and desperation.
Ramil found himself caught in the tempest, the storm of her passion overriding his senses. Evain's fingers traced the contours of his member. Her fingers moved with a deliberate slowness, wrapping around him before bringing it to her lips.
With a defiant gleam in her eyes, she enveloped him entirely, a wordless challenge hanging in the air. Her actions were both audacious and intimate, a dance of defiance and desire as she filled him more into her mouth with an electric intensity.
Ramil stood transfixed, his mind a whirlwind of bewilderment and intrigue. A low, involuntary grunt escaped him, breaking the charged silence like a sudden gust of wind. His thoughts were a tangled web, caught between the shocking display and the undeniable allure it carried. He slowly places his hand on her head guiding her faster. “I will speak with her later,” Ramil muttered.
***
The morning light filtered softly through the kitchen windows, casting a warm, golden glow that danced on the wooden floors. Moriko, with her auburn hair catching the sun’s playful rays, rushed over to Agneyastra, enveloping her in a warm embrace. “Good morning,” Moriko chirped, her voice a melody of cheer and anticipation.
Agneyastra’s eyes sparkled like the azure sky as she returned the smile, a gentle breeze of friendship passing between them. “I am well,” she replied, her voice calm and reassuring. “Are you and Emathion coming with me to the market?”
Moriko nodded enthusiastically, momentarily pausing as she stepped past Agneyastra. “Wait for a moment,” she called, her voice carrying a hint of the excitement that was woven into her every step. “I’ll go see.”
She hurried up the stairs, her footsteps a soft percussion on the well-trodden path. Reaching Emathion’s bedroom, Moriko knocked gently on the door, allowing it to creak open. The sound of running water met her ears, a steady rhythm mingling with the unusual grunting emanating from the bathroom.
Peering cautiously around the doorframe, she saw Emathion, silhouetted against the cascading water. The steam swirled around him like a mystical fog, his muscles tensed and glistening. As Emathion strokes himself, as his grunting fill the room. After a few minutes he releases himself onto the wall.
Moriko stood frozen, her heart pounding as her eyes lingered on the figure of Emathion in the shower. He seemed like a statue come to life, water droplets tracing the chisels of his form, making his muscles shimmer in the light like liquid marble.
From downstairs, Agneyastra’s voice rang out, a sharp contrast to the serene scene unfolding before Moriko. “Are you guys coming?” Her voice carried the casual urgency of someone accustomed to the daily bustle.
Startled, Emathion turned his gaze toward the open door, meeting Moriko’s wide-eyed stare just before she stumbled back, her face flushed with embarrassment. The spell broken, he reached to turn off the water, the cascade halting abruptly to a dripping silence.
Hurriedly, Emathion dried off and dressed, descending the stairs with the cool confidence of someone who hadn’t just been caught off guard. He found Agneyastra waiting, her bright eyes full of expectancy.
She stepped closer, a playful curiosity in her tone. “Are you guys coming with me to the market?”
Moriko and Emathion responded simultaneously, their words overlapping like a discordant melody.
“No, I am staying,” Moriko stammered, retreating further into herself.
“Yes… I mean, I’m also staying home,” Emathion echoed, his voice uncertain yet resolute.
Agneyastra surveyed them both, her perceptiveness masked by an easy smile. She nodded, accepting their responses without question, and turned to leave, her departure leaving a lingering quiet in her wake.
The morning light streamed softly through the gauzy curtains in the living room, painting delicate golden patterns on the wooden floor. Moriko stood near the window, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the ground, a blush blooming across her cheeks like the first hint of dawn. Her heart danced an erratic rhythm in her chest as Emathion crossed the room, his movements fluid and purposeful, like a predator inching closer to his prey.
Emathion’s gaze flickered around the deserted house, the silence almost tangible, wrapping around them with an intimacy that made the air thick and electrifying. His voice was gentle, yet resolute when he finally spoke, “Were you watching me in the shower?”
Moriko's breath caught in her throat. She didn’t dare lift her gaze, fearing the emotions swirling within her might spill forth uncontrollably. She whispered her confession, voice barely more than a tremor in the stillness. “I didn’t mean to at first…” As she retreated to the couch, her voice quivered, a delicate note in the morning air. “…but once I saw you, I couldn’t look away. Your body is… beautiful.”
Emathion moved beside her, the couch giving a slight creak beneath his weight as he settled in. With tender care, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against her chin with an intimate familiarity. Moriko felt her face gently being lifted, reluctantly meeting his gaze. His hands were warm, enveloping her face with a reassuring steadiness, conveying more than words ever could.
He spoke softly, his voice a rich, warm timber that resonated through her core. “For as long as I can remember,” he began, searching her eyes with a vulnerability that mirrored her own, “all I truly wanted was for you to desire me. But now, here in this moment, I find myself almost paralyzed by your presence.”
Emathion sat close to Moriko, the tension between them palpable. Her eyes, deep and seeking, locked onto his as she leaned in, capturing his lips with an urgency that sent a shiver down his spine. “Touch me,” she whispered, her voice a soft melody that echoed in the quiet room.
With a reverence that belied the storm within, Emathion laid her back on the plush couch. His touch was a mix of tenderness and raw instinct, fingers trailing over her skin as if tracing the lines of some sacred map. As his hands moved with a will of their own, a sudden slip of fabric revealed delicate skin, newly kissed by the morning light. The sound of cloth tearing seemed to hang in the air, a rift in their brief eternity.
For a moment, time stilled. Emathion's gaze lingered on her, his fingers hesitating over the soft curve of her breast. But just as his lips hovered near, a flicker of doubt broke through his desire. Tenderly, he covered her once more, a silent apology resting in his touch.
Rising to stand, the world appeared to sway as he turned away from her. Guilt and longing waged a private war within him. “I am sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above the breath of air around them. “I thought I could resist... control these urges.” Without meeting her eyes, he moved toward the door, leaving the house.
Moriko’s heart pounded as she dashed out the front door, the ancient wood creaking under her hurried steps. The morning air was thick and hot, “Emathion!” she called, her cry echoing through the streets, but only silence responded.
***
In the softly lit office of the Water Kingdom Palace, the midmorning sun filtered through intricate lattice windows, casting shimmering patterns on the marble floors. Evain, with her deep blue hair cascading down her shoulders, sat hunched over an imposing pile of documents. The crisp parchment rustled under her fingers as she muttered to herself, “How does Marius do this?” Her voice was a mix of admiration and frustration, echoing softly through the spacious room.
The tranquility was abruptly shattered as the heavy wooden doors swung open with a resounding thud. King Arroyo strode in, his cerulean robes flowing like water behind him. His eyes blazed with a mix of desperation and anger. Standing opposite him was the infamous Golden Demon, a figure draped in shadows despite the daylight, eyes glinting with a malevolent promise.
“You said she would agree to the treaty,” Arroyo bellowed, his voice like the roar of ocean waves crashing against a cliff. Each word was edged with the weight of responsibilities and the hopes of a kingdom relying on a fragile peace.
The Golden Demon, unperturbed by the king's fury, replied with a calm malice that seemed to suck the warmth from the room, “You need not worry, we will just go with our other plan. Capture her, then drain her of all her powers.” The demon's voice was a silken snare, promising assurance while wrapping danger in every syllable.
Evain couldn't help but let out a laugh, sharp and cutting through the tension like a blade. Her mirth was not joyful but laced with a disbelief that bordered on challenge. “Sure, okay. Like you did last time. Father, why did you have to make a deal with the worst of all demons?” Her eyes met her father’s, filled with a painful mixture of understanding and disappointment.
The Golden Demon turned its gaze upon Evain, eyes narrowing to slits of molten gold, its ire palpable in the coldness that crept through the chamber. “I have never failed with any of my other deals and will not fail this one,” it asserted, each word dripping with the chill of unwavering confidence.
Suddenly, an Archivist entered, holding a delicate scroll, its edges frayed and aged. “This was her verbal reply,” he announced, his voice steady but tinged with trepidation, as he extended the note towards the Golden Demon.
The demon’s eyes glinted like molten gold as he scanned the message. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the note into a nearby ornate trash bin, where it landed with a whisper, consumed by shadows. “How dare she?” His voice reverberated, a growl of barely restrained fury. “I will rip her to pieces!”
Evain tilted her head, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. “What have you been trying to do, then?” she asked, her words a deliberate provocation.
The room held its breath as the Golden Demon turned towards her, his gaze scorching, a silent storm brewing behind his eyes. “It’s not wise to anger a demon,” he warned.
Devereaux stood outside the grand arch of the office entrance, peering discreetly as the Golden Demon and the Archivist made their departure. Their rustling robes whispered secrets against the marble floors, and Devereaux watched with curious eyes until they vanished into the cascading hallways.
Inside, Evain was already in possession of the King's desk, an array of parchment laid out before her like an open book of unspoken history. With a confident stride, Devereaux crossed the threshold, his footsteps echoing softly. The slight curve of his lips as he glanced at Evain spoke volumes—a silent jest shared between siblings. “Did you tell him, Sister?” he quipped, his tone light but edged with mischief.
Evain’s gaze snapped toward him, her voice sharp and immediate, like the crack of a whip, “Shut up!”
The sudden fervor in her voice drew the attention of King Arroyo, who sat with the quiet strength of the tides that shaped his dominion. His eyes, a deep and piercing blue, fixed on his children, weighing the gravity of the scene unfolding before him. “What is going on?” he inquired.
Devereaux straightened, the jest fading from his demeanor. “Marius ran away,” he stated with a simplicity that belied the chaos those words implied.
Arroyo’s expression remained unfazed, as if such news was but a ripple in the ocean’s vast expanse. “It’s fine,” he replied, his voice carrying an undercurrent of resignation. “That’s why I have your sister and you.”
Undeterred, Devereaux pressed on, ambition flickering in his eyes like the sunlit crests of ocean waves. “Why not make me heir, Father?”
Arroyo studied his son with thoughtful regard, the silence between them dense with unspoken emotion. “You are too unpredictable to be King,” he pronounced, each word carefully chosen. His ruling was as immutable as the shifting sands upon which their kingdom thrived. “Now, both of you leave me be for a moment.”
With the weight of the conversation still lingering, Evain rose, her movements fluid and unhurried. She joined Devereaux by the door, as they exited the office.
In the heart of the Lower Trench farmlands, where fields lay draped in a patchwork of vibrant greens and sunlit golds, Marius trudged along the dusty path, each step a quiet testament to the heavy burden he bore. The air was sweet with the scent of soil and wildflowers, mingling with the distant sound of songbirds. The path led him to Gabriella’s farm, a humble oasis of earth and life, framed by weathered fences and blooming borders.
As Marius approached the farmhouse, its wooden structure creaked softly under the whisper of the morning breeze. He paused at the entrance, hesitating before lifting his hand to knock. The door opened, revealing Gabriella, her presence a gentle warmth against the chill of his uncertainty. Her smile was a beacon, bright and welcoming, as her eyes danced with a mix of joy and curiosity.
“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice tender yet probing, as she waved him inside.
Marius stepped over the threshold, feeling the threshold between what had been and what might be. The farmhouse was alive with rustic charm, filled with the scent of fresh bread and the flickering light of a hearth ablaze with promise. Marius breathed deeply, the fragrant air easing the tightness in his chest.
“I quit my job at the palace,” he confessed, his words falling like stones into the gentle pool of quietude that surrounded them. “Now, I have no clue what to do with my life.”
Gabriella surveyed him with a steady, thoughtful gaze as she stirred a pot simmering on the stove. The farmhouse, with its low beams and shelves lined with jars of preserves, seemed a universe apart from the opulence of the palace he had known. Here, time moved differently, measured by the rhythm of the seasons and the toil of honest hands.
“You can work and live here,” Gabriella offered simply, her voice as grounding as the earth beneath their feet. “We always could use extra help.”
Her words were a balm, softening the edges of his uncertainty. Yet, a shadow passed over Marius’s features, a reminder of the hidden complexities that trailed him.
“I can’t be seen by members of the palace,” he murmured.
Gabriella nodded with understanding, her forehead creasing slightly as she considered the dilemma. There was a determination in her gaze, a fierce kindness that could weather storms. “You can stay here,” she reassured him, her voice firm and resolute, like the promise of dawn after the darkest night. “When we’re selling in the market, we’ll find ways to keep you hidden. Don’t worry—no one will come looking for you here.”
Marius felt a wave of gratitude, crashing over him with unexpected force. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Gabriella, his voice breaking slightly as he whispered, “Thank you for your kindness.”
