We y tangled together, breathless and trembling. My skin was still warm from him, my heart unsteady in my chest. Embarrassment hit me a moment ter—sharp, overwhelming, impossible to hide.

  I started to shift, trying to subtly extract myself from the sticky knot of our limbs. The feeling of his release was everywhere—a warm, slick trail on my belly and beneath my chest. My face burned.

  Rocher's arm tightened around my waist, holding me in pce.

  "Stay," he murmured, his voice a low, contented rumble against my hair.

  Then, as if sensing my exact discomfort, he leaned up. His eyes, soft and sated in the dim light, searched mine. "Let me help."

  Before I could protest, he slipped out of bed. He moved with an easy, instinctive grace, padding over to the water basin. I watched, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm, as he returned a moment ter with a basin of warm water and a clean, folded cloth.

  He knelt by the side of the bed, not looming over me, but looking up at me with a quiet reverence that made my throat ache. He didn't move to use it himself. Instead, he dipped it in the water, wrung it out, and offered it to me.

  "Here," he whispered. "Let's get you upright."

  His support was purely physical, a steady hand on my back as I pushed myself up. He held the basin as I cleaned myself, my hands trembling slightly. His gaze was averted, giving me a sliver of privacy in the midst of his overwhelming care. When I was done, he took the cloth from me, rinsed it, and then gently, methodically, wiped the mess from his own body.

  He set the basin aside and slid back into bed, pulling me into his arms. The clean, warm scent of him filled my senses. My defenses, which had been shattered by pleasure, were now completely disarmed by his tenderness. I felt raw, exposed, and terrifyingly safe.

  A desperate, reckless need to break the spell, to poke at the perfect moment and see if it would break, bubbled up inside me. I had to say something, make a joke.

  I tilted my head back to look at him, a tentative smirk pying on my lips.

  "You know," I said, my voice a little too loud in the quiet room. "For a guy who supposedly likes women, you seemed awfully eager to get your hands on a former man."

  I expected him to ugh, or to get defensive. Instead, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. It was a gesture of such pure affection that it disarmed me completely.

  "I know what I want, Cire. And it's you," he said softly, his voice a gentle counter to my sharp-edged jab.

  My smirk vanished. My face went hot, and I was suddenly flustered, all my witty retorts drying up in my throat.

  A knock rattled the door hard enough to jolt us awake.

  Rocher sat up. I squeaked and vanished under the bnket, making a hole small enough to spy on the intruder.

  The door swung open before either of us could form a word, the first light of the day filling the space.

  Ferric stepped in like he lived there. His silhouette was a contradiction—narrow waist and fred hips under loose armor, but the way he carried himself radiated a wolfish, unselfconscious confidence. His braid was damp, as if he'd come straight from some river.

  He sniffed once. His lips curled.

  "Oh. That expins the dey."

  Rocher went rigid. I went completely still, hoping he wouldn't notice me.

  But Ferric didn't care. He strode in, eyes flicking zily over the scene—rumpled bnkets, scattered clothes, heat still clinging to the room.

  "Don't mind me," he said as he waved. "I've walked in on worse. Seems like you two had a very enthusiastic night."

  A small, horrified sound left my body.

  Ferric ignored me and circled, inspecting Rocher with the idle focus of someone evaluating livestock: posture, hips, shoulders, legs.

  "Aye. You'll do," he said. "Strong legs. Excellent muscuture." A beat. "Stamina goes without saying."

  Rocher choked.

  "Ysel says you belong to me today," Ferric continued. "That is, if you're still able to walk. If you like, I can carry you, but I'll expect a proper thank-you in return."

  He licked his lips. I felt the sheets shift as Rocher balled his fists.

  "Rex, Hero." Ferric sighed theatrically. "'Twas merely a jest. If you're that tense, it'll affect your training."

  Ferric tapped a finger to his lower lip—more distracted than flirtatious—already mentally halfway out the door.

  "That being said," he added absently, "if the priestling ever gets bored of you, I'm quite popur in threes."

  Both Rocher and I blurted "NO" in perfect unison.

  Ferric blinked, faintly puzzled by the intensity, then shrugged. "Suit yourselves."

  He turned for the door.

  "Five minutes. If you're not outside by then, I'm coming back and dragging you out."

  And then he was gone.

  Silence crashed into the room like a dropped boulder.

  I peeked over the bnket. Rocher ran a hand over his face, mortified but breathing.

  He dressed hurriedly and headed for the door with a quick peck on my cheek. I wrapped myself tighter and saw him off.

  Rocher walked with a slight spring in his step. Ferric, ever the gnat, was already hanging off his arm.

  Unfortunately, my brain chose that exact moment to remember how those arms had felt st night on my hips—strong and sure and grounded.

  I stuffed my face into a pillow and screamed.

  The clearing felt untouched by time.

  The trees circled tightly, trunks bent inward as if bowing. Moss shimmered silver under the moonlight. The air was thick—dense with mana so old it seemed to breathe.

  Seraphine stepped into the center, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She held the Tear of the Ocean cupped in both hands, its pale-blue glow casting ripples of light across her palms.

  Ysel waited, her expression solemn.

  Seraphine drew a steady breath.

  "Cire entrusted this to me." She lifted the Tear higher. "And in turn, I will use it to protect her."

  Ysel's eyes softened.

  Seraphine hesitated only long enough to feel the weight of the moment—then pced the Tear in Ysel's outstretched palm.

  The clearing inhaled. The moss stirred. Roots churned beneath the soil.

  The air hummed as if recognizing the jewel's presence.

  Ysel closed her fingers around the Tear. She knelt and pressed her free hand to the ground.

  The earth responded instantly. Roots surfaced like serpents, weaving together in spirals. Bark formed over them, thickening, lengthening, shaping itself around Ysel's arm as if eager to fulfill a purpose denied for centuries.

  The wood rose, twisting upward, extending, solidifying until a new staff stood between Ysel's hands—raw, powerful, alive. Its surface glistened with sap that shone like moonlit blood.

  But it was incomplete.

  Ysel lifted the Tear.

  At its light, the root-staff shivered, stretching toward it like a pnt toward sun. The top of the staff split open—not cracking, but unfurling—wood curling back in five slender branches.

  Fingers.

  A hand grew from the wood. It flexed once, as if beckoning.

  Ysel pced the Tear in its palm.

  The wooden fingers closed around the jewel with reverent finality.

  The staff sang—a resonance that shook the clearing, deep and steady, vibrating through the stones, the trees, Seraphine's bones.

  Ysel rose and turned toward Seraphine, the staff glowing faintly in her grasp.

  "It beckons now to you," she said. "Do you accept it?"

  Seraphine's fingers shook, but she did not draw back.

  Just like when Cire had first offered her the Tear, she'd take it. Make it worth any price.

  The moment her hands closed around the wood—power smmed into her like a storm.

  Strength. Crity. Recognition.

  Mana surged through her veins in a tidal rush, wild and impossibly pure, as though the forest and the sea were pouring themselves into her at once. Her knees weakened. Her breath tore free in a gasp.

  The Tear pulsed within the wooden hand—once, twice—and Seraphine felt her own heartbeat synchronize with it.

  The staff was alive. And it knew her like an old friend.

  Ysel steadied her. "Easy, child. Breathe."

  Seraphine clutched the staff with both hands, eyes wide, tears stinging unbidden.

  "It's... responding to me," she whispered. "Everything is."

  A circle of runes fred at her feet—bright and sharp, briefly illuminating the clearing. Seraphine gasped. She hadn't meant to call anything. She had only thought about accepting the weight pced in her hands—about Cire.

  "It has chosen you," Ysel said. "Earth and water. Darkness and dawn. And your heart to bind them."

  Seraphine swallowed, feeling the pulse of the Tear thrum through her chest.

  "Matron... what do I do now?"

  Ysel smiled, slow and grave.

  "Now you shall learn to wield it," she said. Without a word, she snapped her fingers.

  Roots burst from the earth at the edge of the circle, braiding together with deliberate grace until a sixth seat rose from the soil, whole and waiting.

  "Welcome Sister Seraphine. Witch of the Coven."