Wanton Trials of a Sinful Throuple – A [FFF] Polyamorous Tale

Cyrene ran through a corridor, dark and grim. The lonely echoes of her footsteps reverberated through the solitary walls. The sharp sting of a serrated blade, twisting through her fragile heart, sliced away every morsel of hope that she fostered. Her lungs struggled against the heavy, oppressive air that seemed to fill the daunting, ghastly corridor. Phantoms whispered in her wake, taunting her, urging her to crumble, jeering at her for acts that were not her own.

Eventually, with heavy feet, and quaking knees, she approached the door. Her fingers trembled, uncontrollably, as she clutched the handle. Mustering every shroud of her failing strength, she pushed open the door and threw herself on the soft bed. Or, rather, let herself crumble in the empty space. In the modicum of respite offered by the solitude of the room -- stained from tears -- the still vivid memory came flooding back. Like a child's doll tossed under titanic forces, her fragile hope shattered.

Splayed on tear-soaked pillows, she covered her head with her arms, shielding her pitiful face. Crying. Deep, racking sobs tore at her delicate form, as she cried, abandoned. It all made sense now. She was not wanted. Never needed. That shameless carnal act that they wallowed lustfully in her presence was all that she needed to know. Cyrene felt her very inner being mocked. Agony rippled through the crushed Mage in waves.

As she slipped further and further into oblivion, Cyrene wondered if there was any chance left for her. The searing flames within ripped the delicate fabric of her soul. There were no lasting friendships promised for her in this life, or much else. Like the dreary roll of a wheel, it was all history tirelessly repeating; all over again.

Even the effort to stifle sobs began to fail her, and she continued to sob -- helplessly lost in her distress. The hopeless girl had given away to the most harrowing emotions that she could feel. A sense of desperation swept over her. To think that all those smouldering affections, and tender touches, only to disappear in the searing burst of her own lust. The sense of betrayal ripped through Cyrene's deflating self. Desperation found refuge in the empty space. It built up inside of her until it was beyond control. For what felt like a torturous eternity, she held onto her shaking shoulder, as she tried desperately to stem the sobs of broken hope.

Falling apart was hard work. Cyrene was no newcomer to being tossed aside or to the perilous land of isolation. She had been there before. She had been broken before. During those long nights of her own loneliness, when she would lay alone, curled up on her bed, hiding from the rest; hiding from herself. Days. Nights. All spent in anguish. Despair filled her soul, casting a gloomy pall over her body. When the night progressed, bringing its inky blackness, blanketing everything in shadows and utter silence, she couldn't help but imagine that there was no one who cared. It was like this -alone- again. Maybe, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she could perhaps convince those shadows to retreat.

Instead, Cyrene found herself running as fast as her tiny feet could carry. Her small tulip bud palms, clutched tightly in fear as she peered with eyes wide; wide as only a child could have. Squatting her tiny form by the corners, she scanned her surroundings. Hiding and scared, Cyrene cannot remember who she was hiding from. Was it her violent father, her monstrous mother, or the grooms from the stables? Or perhaps her siblings? The marks on her back, still fresh and bruised, hurt when the fabric rubbed against it. As she tried to make her small form even smaller by huddling, the searing pain from the unhealed gash in her tush sent heated spikes of pain flooding through her. Tears welled in her seraphic eyes.

The child that Cyrene was could not remember who inflicted those wounds. Certainly, not her father. He is not that sort of a man. On many an occasion, her father had openly declared that any man who gave the end of the cane to his child; a spineless bastard. No. Her father would never raise the cane. Discipline should be enforced by one's own hands. Just how a man should act. He loved the sublime taste of violence of his own naked fist. That was the kind of man she had for a sire.

No. It definitely was not her mother, either. Had it been her mother, she would not be where she was. The draconian woman would have broken her. Just like how she did it multiple times before. If it had been her mother, Cyrene would have feared every sound she could hear. Only dreaded lulls in the air. That was the aura of her mother. Her steel would break her flesh and her domineering demeanour, her mind.

To her young mind, it appeared that her whole household shared a secret agreement to torment her. The agony of her tiny form, shocked, shook the entire structure of her psyche. Slowly. Quietly. Tenderly. She tried to console herself, in a way that a child knows.

Like shadows crawling on a moonless night, Cyrene slithered through the huge, wide door. Gloomy and dreary, amalgamated with the smell of murky tomes, wafted in. She buried herself in books too huge for her small size and too voluminous for her age. No one will find her here. The wing where she made her nest, normal people do not dare to tread. The choice of her reading materials was obscure for a child her age. Her mother never read her fairy tales. No bedtime stories. No tales of righteous people receiving their well-earned reward. No virtuous maiden elevated to the position of a princess. No knights performed valiant deeds. She was not aware that such a world existed. She certainly did not know that as a child she belonged there.

Instead, thrashing and beatings made her young mind highly inclined -- to count. Her mother’s preferred discipline method to force her to list her own failings made her count. The penchant for numbers led to fascination with geometric patterns. Deciphering geometric patterns led to arcane sigils. Finally, she learned of the unseen world. Not a fantasy world, but whole worlds, where more agreeable demons and decent devils, than the ones she was accustomed to, danced.

This was her personal sanctuary. She will be protected -- for a while.

Unbidden, another memory rolled over the current one. A few older boys accosted Cyrene who was not yet old enough to hold a blade; she still had a few summers left. Nursing her torn lips and bruised cheeks, she pushed her dishevelled hair down and ignored the rip running low across the front of her shirt as she entered the familiar embrace in the comforting bower of books. Her tormentors lingered around -- outside -- like fleas to a rotten carcass. All whistles, jowls and jeers. Waiting for Cyrene to step outside her sanctum.

Ignoring their taunts proved difficult. Remaining undaunted, an even more laborious task. Try as she could, the courage to stand against them failed Cyrene. As she tried to read the thick alchemical treatise, she felt the warm embrace of fleece on her back and the old, gnarly hands that laid it upon her.

"Young girl, you may not be a maiden yet, but you should still learn the value of modesty," said the old man, averting his eyes from looking at the torn piece of fabric hanging from her chest, and the skin revealed behind. The speaker had the lustrous white beard that Cyrene, at her age, had ever seen. His hand, his skin, his whole frame, almost as old as mountains, made Cyrene forget the older boys laying in wait for her outside.

"And pray, what interest does a girl of your age have with that alchemical treatise?" asked the old man.

"I am not interested in alchemy. I am interested in comprehending the stability of a planar rift through cryogenic cooling, and Vangere's treatise happens to be the most prominent in the field," replied Cyrene.

"Interesting. Come. Why don't you tell me all about that topic of yours over a cup of warm chocolate drink?" said the old man.

As Cyrene turned and followed, she stood arrested, and her tormentors slowly circled around them.

"Girl, did your mother never tell you not to follow strange old men who offer a free drink?" chuckled the old man.

At that age, Cyrene did not know why he made her feel the way she felt. But something about his company kept her at ease. Smiling, gently moving, he spoke softly, as if she were a bird perched on his finger, looking both adorable and sad.

Turning and looking at her, he added," Are you an orphan, girl? Or perhaps motherless? Yes, that would explain. No mother would let their treasured daughter walk around in those shabby clothes."

Cyrene, intelligent but not wise enough for her age, could not know what about those statements made her heart race faster. Almost filling her with elation. But her bliss, like always, was short-lived as one of those boys screamed.

"That ain't any girl. He's lad with a pecker," came a loud boisterous voice from one of her tormentors, shattering her short-lived solace. The words, spoken with desperate intensity and harshness, fazed Cyrene. It rattled her sense of self.

Taking one deep long look at Cyrene, the old man excused himself, "I am sorry, my boy. Must be the age getting to me. Eyesight is not what it used to be. Now to introduce myself, High Alchemist Vangere, at your service."

"Syrune," uttered Cyrene in a grim voice. No family names. In fact, even the first name felt, so wrong. She wished she did not have to provide any.

Another feeling clawed into Cyrene's still shaking heart, festering from those slumbering distorted memories. Cyrene, still not old enough to hold her own blade, still very much a child, both physically and mentally, sneaked into the kitchen. The events were still foggy in her mind. Was she hiding? avoiding? Perhaps, severely punished, she came to steal food? Not that the details mattered. But the events that unfolded did.

Cyrene knew not what she sought in the kitchen but laying her eyes on the clean apron, a bold rush of courage urged her to try it. She wrapped those linen garments with frills around her waist. Twisting her limbs, she gingerly tied the ends around her, just like how she had often witnessed the maids do. Cyrene thought she was alone. Felt bolder. When a maid, a young girl who probably gained a year or two over Cyrene, witnessed it, she invited the terrified Cyrene to the Maids quarters.

The dormitory hosting the maids was a lot different than the one Cyrene was used to. A calm and serene gentleness wafted in generous measure. With melodious laughs and gentle giggles, the girls greeted one another. Only tender touches and genuine smiles were passed around. For the troubled Cyrene, the atmosphere felt almost too welcoming. She wished she could stay there forever. A place where she could belong. Before she could lose herself in the magnificence of her newly found paradise, the maids thrust the dainty Cyrene, still small for her age, into a beautiful floral dress with lacy hems. Exhilarated, with an unknown feeling invading her, not the malicious kind, but like a ray of searing sunshine dissipating the heavy oppressive fog that haunted her for years, Cyrene twirled around happily.

Voices whispered. At first barely audible but they grew louder.

"Like a princess," they said. Cyrene could not explain why, but she liked what she heard.

Soon, more maids gathered around. A small crowd forming.

"Almost a princess," voices chorused, "We should call her princess."

Cyrene rejoiced; almost. And then the fall came. The very ground split open to swallow her pathetic form.

"Princess Pervertte, that is her name," more giggles, followed by tiny laughter. They grew louder and louder, till they became a surging tidal wave. "Princess Pervertte." They mocked.

Gone was the nurturing paradise that Cyrene felt moments before. Gone was the dancing star that she so dearly desired to grasp. Gone was the sweet, blissful joy, she so sorely craved. Words broke her when torture instruments and steel could not. Her weak legs could hold her trembling frame no more. She fell while around her the chorus of rhyme filled.

"Here lies princess Pervertte,

Word, like a forest fire in an arid summer afternoon, spread. Graciously embellished with every iteration. Until, she was cornered by her mother. The woman came at her with all the fury of a raging tornado. Grabbing her long hair with her huge Ogre hands, she dragged a pleading, kicking Cyrene from the streets. Cyrene was drenched in tears, sweat and her own mucus as her virago mother pinned her. With her brothers Tristan and Daeran holding her down,  she cruelly shaved her head.

Arrested by the strong hands of her own brothers, Cyrene's tears pooled on the ground, mixed with the locks of her lost lustrous hair. A crowd of almost unsympathetic eyes gathered, watching her mother bring out the searing white-hot blade of a dagger -- to brandish Cyrene on her face.

"Hold him tight," barked her mother, "Just a small brand on either cheek. When he matures, the scar will force him to grow a full beard, just how a real man should have."

Tearful green eyes of the girl who is not yet a girl met the venom-laced searing green eyes of the mother. So similar, yet so very different. Cyrene pleaded, desperately, harbouring hope that her mother would recognise the trembling frame that very much resembled her own. But her mother was not a woman given to such sentiments. She was a woman dedicated to singular opinions and unwavering resolve. Try as hard as she could, Cyrene can only remember the hot distorted edges of the white-hot blade and her earth-shattering screams.

When she woke up, she found herself, safely tucked in a bed with a warm quilt and Vangere reclining on a couch nearby. Seeing her stir finally, he beamed a smile.

"Your mother was a stubborn woman. Goes with her reputation, I suppose. But I do not get to be a High Alchemist without the ability to unleash pustules plague. Her own warriors fell on her, imploring her to stop."

For the first time, Cyrene felt safe. but she would be prudent. Keep her guard up -- all times.

Cyrene clenched her fists tight till her knuckles blanched. When she glared up, her eyes sought the familiar comfort of Vangere; the only parental love that she had ever known. Taking a breath and wiping the tears streaking down her cheek, she desperately hoped that they were back in his lair. The pleasant nights she spent, just sitting on the ground beside his chair in the library, arms looped around his legs, as she slept with her head on his lap while the ancient alchemist worked burning the midnight oil.

Sure, Vangere would never hug her, or pat her head when she did something remarkable. Or stroke her hair. Not that Vangere withheld affection. The old man simply did not understand emotions. Though Cyrene was certain that despite his quirks the old man did try, in his own way, to fill the role of a father or perhaps a grandfather to her. He treated her like a friend, advised her like a grandfather and on occasions would correct her like a father. The cozy silence they shared over a single cup of steaming brew, their usual ritual, she missed badly.

Cyrene recalled vividly, the incident she witnessed at the academy. The way the girl rushed into her mother's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Her mountain of her resolution, shattering at the tender presence of her mother. Her father, a slightly overweight man with receding hairline, threatening to slam the boy on the grounds for breaking his daughter's heart. Beat his ass to the ground. His own words. Despite all his uncouth words and almost comically fervent rage, Cyrene now held the man in high regard.

Isn't that what all fathers were supposed to do? To be there when they shed tears? To encouragingly rub her sobbing shoulders and tell her that it was not her fault. More importantly, to remove her sadness, to care for her happiness, to take responsibility for her when she could not. Deep in the buried recess of her heart, Cyrene knew that she only needed a small tattered fragment of Vangere, just to anchor herself against the cracks from the rejection that scarred her soul. Her very being scattered across a cold dark void.

She just wished that her master, no... her father, the high alchemist Vangere would drop whatever research that occupied his puzzle-addled mind and come here, hold her close, talk to her, allow her to cling to him. To reassure her. To hear her. Just once....to prove to her that there was someone out there, who understood her, and cared for her. It would ease some of the reaving pains inside her.

And like everyone else, even he abandoned her. Given only to his own rambling research, she was all but forgotten.

Despite all of Vangere’s proclivities to give into his own curiosity, he never enforced his will on her. In contrast, the reaper in human form who sired her, a dark shadow encased in steely muscles with an aura demanding total submission, denied her that freedom. Often inflicting her with his own maimed view of honour. Cyrene shivered as a cold wave spiked through her spine at the memory of the last time -- she was forced by him -- ravaged through her.

Her protests were ignored. Forced against her will, to be naked. Her clothes were ripped from her slender frame.

"Men are never daunted by nudity. You should not feel ashamed of it, Syrune," mocked Tristan.

She had just turned old enough to hold her own blade. Her mind sharp, too sharp for her age, but not her body. The countless times spend in the solitude of books and scrolls could be blamed for her lack of strength. Maybe her passion lay with the touch of a quill between her delicate fingers than an iron-grip on the handle of a sword. Cyrene simply lacked the aptitude to swing a blade. A simple fact that brought the wrath of her infuriated sire on her.

"Do it." Her father commanded. A sharp steel-edged tone that sent shivers through all who assembled in the stables.

"But Lord," stammered the stablemaster, -- her father's trusted hand. His eyes flicked from the naked and restrained form of Cyrene to the heavy oppressive savagery compressed in human form.

"The infusions, no doubt, have bred the fiercest stallions. Our pride. But they were not meant for humans. Besides, he is your son."

From behind the visor, her father's glacial blue eyes slowly drank every part of her naked flesh. Cyrene felt as if she was a worm and her father a cruel child, his otherwise icy blue eyes -- which women swooned over for the supposedly misunderstood calmness -- a magnifying glass and his gaze, a searing heat focussed on her.

Cyrene felt her soul struggle, desperately, to leave her hollow shell of a body when the piercing gaze of her father lingered slowly towards the space between her legs.

"No calluses on his palms. Lack of muscles. Not even a single hair sprouts on his body. Administer enough infusion to put hair on his chest. Either my son will die with a blade in his hand; to the claws of a hulking beast, or as a sickly feral monster put down by my own hands. But I will never allow the life of a weak coward."

None dared to speak in his presence. Even his cool glacial stillness was saturated with ferociousness.

Cyrene lacked the strength to fight her way out. She lacked the magical ability to throw fireballs or to beckon wild beasts to do her bidding. Or to bend spirits to her will. The pungent infusion, a weird brew of herbs and other carefully guarded secrets, offered nothing. She is no alchemist. But the cask preserving the infusion, the spell etched on it, mundane to be of any use to anyone -- except her. She could unravel their individual components and their binding planes. Vulnerable and helpless, panic surged inside Cyrene. She abandoned praying to gods who were deaf. In despair, she reached out, calling to any who would answer her.

For a tenderly vulnerable moment, her sisterly love for her brother surged. She never met Tristan after the incident. Even her sister, despite several persistent insistence, refused to engage her on the fate of her brother. Her mother, the woman who so despised tact and preferred a meet issues head-on, surprisingly managed to avoid the topic. In fact, the last time when Cyrene met her mother, the woman did perform the unthinkable, forcing Cyrene to extinguish the last embers of hope that she so desperately held onto.

Memories swirled in a chaotic maelstrom. At having seen only sixteen summers, Cyrene was the youngest to don the official mantle of the Mages collective. Her heart brimmed with an amalgamation of enthusiasm and happiness on the dawn of that particular day. She felt exhilarated, even more than when she received her official robe. Taking deep breaths, she calmed her racing nerves as she waited for her mother.

Despite the previous experiences, Cyrene still held sheer respect for the woman. On occasions, when she was not tracking or hunting savage beasts, the woman did a remarkable job of highlighting the importance of emancipation for her own kind. Other women sought her opinions. From the fishmonger's wife to the duchess, they all flocked to benefit from her courage and wisdom. Cyrene would secretly admire the rare moments when she was allowed to witness her mom lecturing either one of the maids or her sisters, on the significance of self-empowering themselves, to shatter the shackles cast by societal expectations on them. On the damaging influence of exchanging sex for a favour.

Adjusting the folds of her robes, Cyrene mentally went through a list of things she sought. All she wanted was to see dazzling brilliant orange rays of fresh dawn on the horizon with her mother. To have her spend the same attention and rapport that she had with her sisters. Perhaps, there was still a chance for Cyrene to gain that maternal love.

Her mother walked through the corridors; still very much the same as Cyrene remembered. Enshrouded in an aura of virago. Her otherwise heavy chrome-shelled armour clanked while she moved effortlessly in them. The woman moved comfortably in heavy armour as well as in a ball gown. An ability that Cyrene found awe-inspiring. Happiness surged through Cyrene as she admired her mother quickly shortening the distance between them.

No hugs were given but she did beam a bright smile that made Cyrene alleviate all her worries. She commented on how pale and lean Cyrene looked. Enquired if she kept herself well-fed. Prodded if she had financial troubles. Tried to convince her to take her offer of a villa in the city, fully staffed with maids, valets and majordomo so Cyrene could focus on working things that mattered. And finally, she slowly broached the subject of Cyrene's love life -- if there was anyone special, anyone, she fancied.

Cyrene wanted to tell her all. How she felt alien in her own skin. How she felt like she was inhabiting a stranger’s body, living a stranger's life. Surely, her audacious mother, who solved the problem of other women, would definitely find a way out of her predicament. Together they would seek. Undoubtedly, she would never abandon her own child.

She wanted to tell her about the girls she found pretty. About the way, she notices these things, their eyes, the flowing hair, their voices, the smile, even the swaying of their hips. But she was also not averse to the idea of accepting the love of a man, should a man find her attractive; should a man approach her. She wished to pour everything that stayed too long, stagnant inside her.

But before Cyrene could, her mother ushered her inside a bedchamber. Smelling of scented candles, rose petals and subtle alluring lighting, giving the room an erotic glow. In the centre, a wide bed covered in carmine red satin covers and nearby stood a girl, eyeing Cyrene with anticipatory eyes. Slowing biting her lower lips, she gingerly approached a shocked Cyrene. She slowly took Cyrene's hand in her, pulling her closer.

Cyrene could barely believe what transpired. Sure, the girl was pretty. Cyrene found her charming, and adorable. Given different circumstances, she would have willingly given in to what the girl promises. But now only shock roiled over the perplexed Cyrene. She could only imagine that the girl was either one of her mother's proteges or a maid. It was inconceivable that her mother would ever hire a comfort woman. Which all the more begs the question, how did her mother convince the girl to volunteer for the act? Did she abuse her position? Her own mother, who spoke eloquently on female empowerment?

Waves of undisguised disgust cascaded through Cyrene. Guess, to her mother, all those lofty ideals meant nothing. Only to be abandoned, when it involves her own child.

As Cyrene struggled to exit the treacherous place, her mother shoved her. With her open palms, the force of a battering ram, she pushed trembling Cyrene back inside.

"Syrune, do you even realise what I go through, every day?" roared her mother, reverting back to her old form, "I held my head high in society until you happened. There goes Syrune's mother. A failure. My name was smeared all across. Her son kisses like a girl. In back-alleys, her son takes manhood in his mouth. This is what I had to go through every day."

"Prove to me that you are a man. That you are your father's son. I will stand guard outside, when I enter, I wanted to see your stains on those sheets."

Paled. Trembling at her mother's demands, Cyrene's breathing became laboured. Her mind refused to accept those words that her ears heard. Aversion jolted through her body. Only emotions of hurt, humiliation and sadness resurfaced. Cyrene struggled to hold on to any shred of sanity. What more could her mother do to her? Why would she come, approach her only to rip her dignity to shreds? Repeatedly.

Silence settled, encompassing both, reaching its peak. Rattled, Cyrene swallowed dry. Tears formed on the edges of her eyelids. Yet, her mother's demeanour remained unwavering. Her demands; relentless. Sweat dripped down Cyrene's forehead while anguish suffused throughout her entire being. Only the voice of Vangere broke through the heavy oppressive presence of her domineering mother.

"My protege is an esteemed member of the Mages collective. Your son or not, force him and I will see to it that your prided platoon of chrome-shelled dragoons; shredded."

Forcefully pulled back to the empty reality of the blank room, the futility of her situation dawned upon her. She was truly alone. Her father would not come. He will not save her from every problem. She cannot sit idly and hope for external salvation for her troubles anymore. Even, that night, at "The Mingling Door" when Loshan tried to force her to entertain him, she remained passive. Waiting for Merrick to intrude, to save her. Had the noble Merrick known what she was, he would not have extended such a chivalrous courtesy; to stick his neck for her; possibly.

Enough.

With a sudden stiffening of her frame, she dispersed all those dark tendrils of abysmal thoughts confining her. She would no longer wait. Hold onto desperate hope for rescue. It was futile. She stopped hoping. For betterment, she decided to face facts head-on. She would solve her problems. She would make her own fate. Would deny the power of shame, repulsion and guilt that crippled her. Something she would never face again. No more a victim. Start fresh, without the pain, without the shame.

Breaking free, she forced herself to keep moving forward. Resolute and immovable, she strode confidently towards the door, towards a future. Matching to the rhythm of her accelerated heartbeat, she strode down the corridor, aimed like an arrow toward the stairs. She would grab her travelling cloak and leave. Antilorwe can send her belongings to the academy later. A new arbiter can be arranged to settle the dispute. Cyrene will leave the Manor, immediately and under the guise of darkness -- unseen.

Her committed steps and determined act met the stunning form of Antilorwe who stood close to the stairs, blocking her path. Unable to escape the Elf Maiden, whose burning eyes were searing on her, Cyrene continued moving onwards, knowing that Antilorwe had plans to never let her escape. Was she going to be sexually assaulted, ripped apart and made to endure endless misery? No matter what, she will not endure anything.

"Let me leave," whimpered the agitated Cyrene.

Blanketingly gazing into her feature, Antilorwe stared at her. The warm smile of the Elf Maiden, almost seemed malicious to Cyrene now.

"Sugarplum, what ails you?" cooed Antilorwe.

Whispering low words, Antilorwe coaxed her closer.

Cyrene stepped back. She will not allow.

"Was the act you witnessed too salacious for your eyes? Please, give me a moment to explain."

"I have made up my mind. I wish to depart now," said Cyrene resolutely, "This manor with all its lavish and decadence is not a place where I belong."

"Then where do you belong, Cyrene?" There was a hardened edge to Antilorwe's voice, desperately trying to break her.

The question, cascading down her body, all embers of anger ignited. Eyes narrow, she ignored the authoritative Antilorwe.

"Not here. Not with your company. Your lies shackle me no more."

"I implore you, sweet Cyrene. We had something amazing, a tender friendship. Please reconsider. I sense something wonderful, achingly beautiful for you, even when it is a fleeting dream."

Filled with rage, Cyrene's words fell, without a filter. "Don't fool yourself Antilorwe. My resolution is firm. Your seductive words and careless touches will no longer push me over the edge of climax."

Antilorwe froze. Trepidation and despair vacating inside her to give place to another new emotion. A sentiment, far more raw, primal and vibrantly stroking her molten core.

The cruel playful smirk on the Elf Maiden face, left many things unsaid.

Cyrene slowly realised.

But Antilorwe's arms already coiled around Cyrene's waist, drawing her closer. The dazzling hazel eyes of the elf met the vibrant emerald eyes of the girl. It was difficult to focus her vision, as the tug from Antilorwe pulled her in more than one way; more than physical. It yanked her soul.

Both their heart hammered in their cages. Their heavy heaving chest competed for the narrow shrinking space. Their warm breaths mingled; caressing one another.

"Sugarplum, look deep into my eyes and tell me do you sense any malice? Any falsity in my intentions?"

Meeting those eyes, brimming with pure love, a warmth began to emerge from inside the girl. Soothing comfort. Soft embrace falling like snowflakes. As they both held, adhered, to those unbreakable gazes. Evident, both their hearts shared the same joy. Both sinking deeper into closeness. One soul nurturing, one soul seeking tenderness. One growing desire.

For once, against the judgement of her logic, she decided to lower her carefully erected barriers and let the presence of Antilorwe draw her in. Cyrene slowly leaned, willingly yearning, yielding her lips to the Elf Maiden.