The seal beneath their feet flared.
Warmth—not fire, but flesh and magic—spread through the marble beneath them.
Threads of arcane light snaked from the floor and wrapped gently around their ankles, then thighs, rising higher… not to bind, but to awaken.
The masked man—no longer masked—watched them.
He stood at the center of the circle, arms outstretched, golden eyes glowing brighter than ever.
"This is not control," he murmured.
"This is resonance."
Elena stepped forward first.
Her gown shimmered away in motes of white fire, leaving skin kissed by ancient enchantments.
She pressed her hand to his chest.
"So warm," she whispered.
"Like you've held this inside too long."
She leaned in—lips brushing his neck—but before they met fully…
Syrlvia moved.
Silently.
The elven woman stepped between them with no word, only her gaze.
"You're dangerous," she said to him, tone unreadable.
"Not because of your power… but because you mean it."
"Mean what?" he asked, voice low.
"That when you take us… it's not just body.
It's bond."
Her fingers touched the edge of the sigil.
Elven runes glowed on her skin—proof of a bloodline curse, one that marked intimacy with danger.
But she didn't back away.
"Do it then," she said.
"Take what you bought. And carry the curse with us."
He didn't hesitate.
His hands reached for both—Elena's waist, Syrlvia's nape.
Their breath caught.
A surge of magic exploded from the seal.
The room shook.
Pillars cracked.
Velvet drapes burst into slow-burning gold.
"So this is what it feels like," he growled, "to touch… and be touched back."
They fell together into the throne's shadow.
Three bodies. One circle. One beginning.
The ritual had started—but something else… older, deeper, sin-bound… began to stir beneath the castle floor.
A whisper. A shadow. A watching flame.
And it was hungry.