Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Эпилог

Epilogue

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To his shame, Cyrill managed to completely miss the arrival of the long-awaited rescuers. In his defence, he could say that at that moment he was already exhausted to the limit and was barely able to stand on his feet, relying solely on his word and stubbornness. The events of the last few days had been difficult, to say the least, and since that ill-fated dinner at the restaurant, there had been no opportunity to rest properly. Escape from the Dark Brotherhood assassins. Battle on the outskirts of Kardarot. They find themselves in an ancient vault. A crazy ride on a dwarf tank through the Underworld. It's an even crazier finale when Cyrill seriously believed everything was over! Undir's battering ram breakthrough through a passage too narrow for the Tough to the surface almost ended in group suicide, and the magotank generator did not explode from the overload of protective barriers and fields, which was nothing short of a miracle from some deity.

The breakthrough was immediately followed by a hellish descent from the mountain, during which the crew and passengers only managed to avoid breaking everything possible thanks to the stabilisation field. But no sooner had this attraction, which was far more thrilling than any roller coaster, come to an end than the water procedures began. More precisely, they swam into a crowded gallery filled with God knows who, against the backdrop of a raging monster that had caused a local Armageddon and awakened an entire fucking volcano! A monster that refused to calm down and continued to try to kill them, suuuuuka! When the cobblestone he threw landed next to the ship, Cyrill once again managed to say goodbye to life. Because he would hardly have been able to repel such a fuck-up, even if he had been fully prepared, in the centre of a ritual circle and with a direct channel to a magical source.

All this was complemented by messages from the System that subtly weighed on his mind, demanding to be read, which he desperately ignored. When the local Sea Goddess appeared, and then the Heralds of the Sun God, and Balrog switched his attention to them, Cyrill felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Well, not a mountain, but a boulder weighing a hundred and fifty kilograms. But when the terrifying monster, which had clearly escaped from the set of the first Lord of the Rings film, returned to its native depths, sending everyone to hell one last time, a mountain fell from the young man's shoulders. And almost immediately, the fatigue, both physical and psychological, that had been building up all this time made itself felt. More than anything else in the world, Cyrill wanted at that moment to just lie down, right on the deck, close his eyes, and sleep. For about twenty hours, and then another twenty. It is possible that he would have done just that.

But who would allow him such joy? As soon as he fulfilled his mentor's sudden request, depicting a symbol he did not fully understand, the galley of lizards was rocked by waves, and Cyrill felt a powerful disturbance in the magical background behind him with all his delicate bodies. The feeling, to put it bluntly, was not the most pleasant, as if he had been hit by a gust of both icy and scorching wind at the same time, and on top of that, it felt as if his ears had been struck by a pressure drop.

Before he could comprehend what was happening, someone abruptly pulled him back toward the galley's side. Simultaneously, Cyrill felt himself being enveloped from head to toe in several layers of powerful protective barriers. A moment later, the young man found himself separated from the rest of the crowd of willing or unwilling passengers on the lizard galley by a living wall. A wall clad in silver-green armour that sparkled in both magical and ordinary vision, with weapons at the ready. At the same time, the young man was gently but firmly taken by the arms on both sides, preventing him from taking a step to the side or moving in any way. For a moment, Cyrill was even frightened, as there was no one but Armina next to him, and the maid did not touch him.

But then First's half-blurred figure appeared next to him, and his quiet but impertinent voice sounded in his ear:

"Calm down, you have Secret Guard agents covering you. Just keep quiet and do nothing!"

//‘Well, I wasn't really planning on it,’ Cyrill might have replied, but he didn't have time. From somewhere behind him and above him, a voice amplified by magic commanded everyone in pure Elvish to freeze and drop their weapons. The vast majority of passengers did just that. And Cyrill understood them perfectly. It was difficult to argue with several dozen clearly formidable elven warriors, who, as it turned out, were supported by dozens of renowned elven archers from a huge white ship that had appeared out of nowhere. All the more unexpected was the hissing of the lizard captain, who demonstratively refused to obey the elves who had boarded his ship. For a moment, Cyrill even thought that the stress he had experienced had clouded his mind.

And then something flew over the ship at tremendous speed. Looking up, the young man barely managed to keep himself from opening his mouth and shouting in surprise. A dragon! A real one, damn it, a dragon! Not nearly as huge as Smaug from Peter Jackson's film, no more than ten metres long, even with its long, flexible tail. More graceful than massive, and very beautiful, with emerald scales and some kind of golden bracelets on its paws, it flew over the ship of elves and lizards, immediately making a sharp turn. In a magical vision, the dragon sparkled no less than the elven warriors. A moment after it flew by, another lizard galley appeared from the other side of the lizard galley, directly opposite the elven ship. It appeared out of nowhere, raising a fountain of spray and a new wave of magical turmoil that rolled unpleasantly over the slender bodies. It was several times larger than the galley on which Cyrill was sailing. It literally dwarfed it in every respect: width, length, height, and luxury of decoration. A real luxury cruise liner against the backdrop of a river pleasure boat.

Although it was more like a battleship compared to a corvette. Because this galley had many more different types of weaves, including clearly combat ones, than the same Tough that remained on shore. A real floating magical fortress, shimmering with dozens of weaves in a magical vision. And these were only the ones that Cyrill could distinguish, and there were certainly others hidden for the time being. But right now, the young man's attention was drawn not to the magical power of the ship that had appeared, but to its crew. More precisely, several real monsters almost instantly disembarked from this fortress onto the deck of the smaller galley, where it was impossible to squeeze through, but around them an empty space formed instantly.

Well, this is just crazy... No, Cyrill had seen images of representatives of the lizard warrior caste; his mentor had shown them to him during lectures. But seeing images and seeing them in real life, as it turned out, were two very different things. Damn, they were like crocodiles on steroids that had learned to walk upright! And somehow, Cyrill really didn't like the looks and expressions on their openly malicious faces as they stared at everyone. The young man was suddenly glad that a living wall of elven warriors separated him from them. The Secret Guard agents holding him, hidden by invisibility, tightened their grip, and Cyrill felt someone hurriedly replacing the discharged metal amulets in his clothes with fresh ones, fully charged. Damn it, not another one...

Cyrill did not have time to finish his thought, as an emerald dragon landed with surprising grace on the bow of the giant galley that had appeared. Carefully folding its wings, which significantly reduced its size, it bent its long, flexible neck and growled something. Or rather, he spoke, as it was clearly not just a roar, but meaningful speech. However, Cyrill did not understand a word of what was said. And, judging by the fact that Diantrel's Google Translate did not work, his mentor did not understand the dragon's speech either.

But before anyone could explain anything to the young man, a third ship appeared out of nowhere next to the long-suffering gallery of reptiles, where it had become quite cramped and generally uncomfortable. Once again, the subtle bodies were showered with disturbances in the magical background created by the movement of such a machine. However, this time they were almost completely compensated for by the protection surrounding Cyrill. Blinking, the young man immediately recognised the giant that had appeared, surpassing in size both the elves' ship and the lizard galley. The palace ship of the Eastern Emperor's envoy. And, judging by all appearances, he was with his guards and entourage. Thanks to the diadem, the young man easily distinguished a solid-looking man of Asian appearance in bright red and orange clothes standing on the top deck, surrounded by a numerous retinue, also dressed quite brightly. A moment later, his voice, amplified by magic, rang out over the waters of the Elven Bay:

"What a wonderful spectacle. May I ask, sirs, why you, who were just fighting side by side, are now going to fight each other?"

Personally, Cyrill understood perfectly well the reason for the elves' overly nervous behaviour, which had led them to disembark on this unfortunate galley. Or rather, who. But for obvious reasons, he had no intention of voicing it, even if First, still blurred due to active camouflage, had not directly ordered him to remain silent and not reflect at all. And even if Diantrel had not repeated the dark elf's words a few seconds later via mental communication.

Therefore, Cyrill, surrounded on all sides by magic and invisible agents of the Secret Guard, remained silent. And he was not the only one. Complete silence fell over the ill-fated galley, broken only by the splash of water against the hull and the distant cries of seabirds. Several dozen people and various non-humans from the coastal settlement, who had rushed aboard the galley after Cyrill and the other passengers of the Tough, were silent. Some of them, who were on board with small children, even covered their mouths with their palms or pressed their faces against their stomachs for safety. The dark dwarves huddled in a tight circle were silent, almost the only ones who, upon the appearance of the elven warriors, not only did not drop their weapons, but on the contrary, gripped them tighter and bristled with them. The steppe dwellers huddled together with the Caliphate soldiers, and a couple of unfortunate restaurant workers who had joined them were silent. The dark elves, who were supporting their compatriots who had somehow managed to get to their feet, froze tensely. The latter was clearly not easy for them, but apparently their pride did not allow them to show weakness in front of so many representatives of the younger races. Everyone was silent, constantly casting tense or terrified glances at the elves and lizards who were ready for battle.

And all this against the backdrop of mountains ablaze with forest fires and a new volcano continuing to spew lava. It's so beautiful, you could start shooting a disaster movie right now.

And so, in this, let's say, frightening and tense silence, several seconds passed. The elf warriors, with their weapons at the ready, stared at the lizards. The lizards, bearing their toothy jaws, crouched slightly and spread their paws with monstrous claws, staring back at them. Then, from the elven ship, a firm, calm voice, enhanced by magic, rang out, clearly that of someone accustomed to giving orders and commands:

"Stop it!"

At that very moment, the living wall of elven warriors that had shielded Cyrill from the other passengers simultaneously and almost synchronously took half a step back and lowered their swords and battle staffs. But they did not put them away. Turning around awkwardly, Cyrill saw several elves slowly approaching the side of the huge elven ship. And along the side, it turned out, stood a neat row of elven archers ready to shoot. But upon receiving the command, they also lowered their bows. But they did not remove the arrows placed on the bowstrings, whose tips glowed brightly in magical vision from the weaves embedded in them. Four of the archers moved aside in unison, letting the newly arrived elves pass.

First came the tall firstborn, with long, perfectly straight blond hair, a young but extremely authoritative face, and cold grey eyes. He was clad in magnificent silver plate armour, covered with filigree patterns of foliage, which looked surprisingly elegant rather than bulky. The elf's shoulders and back were also covered by an emerald cloak embroidered with golden patterns of the same leafy theme. His armour glowed distinctly in magical vision from the magic embedded in it, even despite the camouflage that such an important elf must have had.

But shone most brightly in his magical vision the golden crown adorning his head, clearly the equivalent of a magical diadem. His right hand, clad in a gauntlet, rested on the pommel of a long sword, which was still sheathed at his belt. In his left hand, resting on his belt, he clutched a short carved staff made of white wood. And if Kirill understood anything about magic, it was that this was a controlling amulet to which all the weaves of the elven ship were tied. Weaves that were in no way inferior in power to the galley of the lizards and were only slightly inferior to the floating palace of the envoy of the Eastern Empire.

Behind the crowned elf walked two of his kin, clad in similar silver plate armour, but in addition to the filigree patterns, it was also generously encrusted with precious stones and crystals, some of which glowed distinctly even to the naked eye. Both clearly gifted firstborns leaned on tall carved staffs made of light wood, decorated with large faceted crystal finials. They wore classic diadems on their heads, whose precious stones glowed like magical fire, and short wands hung from their belts in holsters.

When this trio appeared, followed by several more elves clad in armour, a wave of surprised sighs and whispers swept through the gallery, which, however, almost immediately fell silent in fear. Stopping at the side of his huge white ship, the elf with a golden crown on his head slowly scanned the grey eyes of everyone on the deck of the long-suffering galley of lizards with a steady and heavy gaze. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Cyrill, which made the young man feel uneasy, and a chill ran down his spine. It was as if he had been X-rayed by some kind of magic. It is very possible, by the way, that this was indeed the case. Fortunately, it lasted only a moment. The elf looked a little longer than the others at the emerald dragon sitting on the figurehead. His face was completely calm and even impassive.

The dragon did not avert his gaze from the enormous yellow eyes with vertical pupils, which also glowed noticeably, but bent his long neck slightly more. Turning finally towards the representative of the Eastern Empire, the elf looked at him and the numerous entourage surrounding the envoy for a few seconds. Then he turned back to the dragon and spoke in classical Elvish:

"The Forest Warriors who fight under my command never thought of raising their weapons against those who had just joined them in repelling the terrible enemy that had emerged from the depths of the earth. They merely responded to the call for help that came from this ship, which sails under your wing, honourable Gyar'Skalashass. To the call of those who are under the direct protection of the Forest. And therefore under my protection."

The elf spoke absolutely calmly, unhurriedly, and clearly pronouncing each word.

"And so I ask: are there any here who wish them ill?"

The question was asked in an exceptionally polite and matter-of-fact tone. But the tension in the room suddenly rose sharply. Personally, Cyrill had no doubt that all the passengers on the long-suffering galley, whether individually or collectively, were ready to declare right now that they had no ill will, even in their thoughts, towards the elves or those they protected, that they had never had any, and that they had always recognised their superiority, unattainable greatness and all that sort of thing. Just drop us off somewhere. Anywhere. Please...

It is quite possible that similar thoughts were in the minds of the lizard crew members. But certainly not in those of the lizard warriors who had disembarked on the small galley, or their kin, frozen on board the larger vessel, waiting for a single command from their fire-breathing master to rush into battle. They all had yellow eyes with vertical pupils and openly bared their terrifying mouths with huge fangs. Most of them did not have their usual weapons or armour, except for a couple armed with brass knuckle bracelets with something like claw blades. But with his magical vision, Kirill could clearly see the combat weaves embedded in the ordinary metal bracelets that adorned their huge paws. Or rather, they looked relatively ordinary, but in fact were variants of combat amulets. And the skins of the lizard warriors even looked extremely durable and resistant to both magic and weapons.

They ignored the question of the crowned elf; none of the lizard warriors uttered a sound or moved from their places. The lizards who were members of the small galley's crew remained prostrate, not daring to raise their heads from the deck. But the dragon, or rather, as it turned out, the dragoness, clearly heard the elf's question and obviously understood it. Flashing her eyes, which literally glowed with magical fire, she snorted loudly, then, without taking her eyes off the crowned elf, she waved her hanging tail briefly.

At that moment, her emerald body began to glow brightly and change rapidly, eventually taking on a humanoid form. She did not turn into an elf or a human, remaining covered in scales of various shades of emerald green, but her form was definitely humanoid. Her appearance now reminded Cyrill of an Argonian from the legendary Skyrim. An Argonian who was almost two metres tall. But let's be honest, she was quite pretty and had very seductive curves, which could be fully appreciated, as the dragoness had no clothes on after her transformation. However, she did have numerous gold decorations covering all the most interesting places. And behind her back were two membranous wings, folded like a cloak.

Clicking her powerful claws on her feet, she confidently took a few steps across the figurehead, jumping off it onto the galley's deck with one deft movement and continuing to walk straight across it, maintaining perfect balance. All the while, her eyes, burning with magical fire, were fixed directly on the crowned elf. Reaching the middle of the side of her galley-battleship, she stopped directly in front of him, folded her arms on... bulges suspiciously resembling breasts, and said something short but distinct. True, her words were more like a hiss.

At that very moment, the captain of the small galley, who, like the rest of the lizards in her crew, had been lying with his snout buried in the deck and dared not raise his head, literally jumped to his feet with unexpected agility, considering his well-fed figure. Quickly bowing three times to the dragoness, he burst into loud and rapid hissing mixed with growls, once pointing his clawed paw towards Diantrel, who had somehow managed to appear next to Kirill behind the backs of the elf warriors. The captain's speech did not last long, no more than half a minute. When he finished speaking, the captain of the lizards froze in place, bowing his head respectfully and not daring to look up at his mistress. She turned away from the crowned elf for a moment, barked something briefly, and the lizard immediately bowed three more times, then stood up proudly, turning towards the elves. The expression on his face was openly malicious.

Just like a schoolboy who was beaten up by his bully classmates, but was suddenly rescued by his strict and stern father. Turning back to the crowned elf, the dragoness unexpectedly spoke in a powerful but pleasant female voice in classical Elvish, with virtually no accent:

"The sorceress who walks by your hand, the venerable Iardal Blade of the Forest, threatened my faithful servant with death and seized by force the ship entrusted to him. My ship."

The malicious expression on the lizard captain's face became even more obvious. The crowned elf turned his head slightly, glancing briefly at him. The elven archers lined up along the side of the white ship, followed suit. This somehow caused the malice on the lizard captain's face to diminish sharply. Turning back to the dragoness with a completely impassive expression, the crowned elf said in a perfectly calm voice:

"Knowledge of the noble language of those whose veins flow with fire as well as blood, as well as the language of their servants, is not among the many talents and skills of the honourable Diantrel. I am confident that the words that your humble servant..."

The elf did not seem to emphasise the last phrase, and his tone did not change, but there was more contempt in it than Lenin had felt when looking at the bourgeoisie, which caused the tip of the dragoness's tail, which had taken on a humanoid form, to twitch slightly.

"... took as threats to ршы life and your incomparable dignity, honourable Gyar'Skalashass, were merely requests for help. Perhaps they sounded overly hasty and harsh, which is why they were not entirely understood correctly. But the reason for this was not the honourable Diantrel's intention to offend you in any way, but solely her desire to save everyone currently on your ship from a painful death in the flames of the earth's depths. Including your servants, even the most insignificant of them."

After once again casting a cold and heavy gaze over everyone in the small and large galleries, Iardal stopped at the dragoness and asked:

"And so, I will ask again. Is there anyone here who wishes harm upon those who are under the direct protection of the Forest?"

The question was asked, as before, in an extremely polite voice. But once again, all the passengers, both voluntary and involuntary, felt somewhat uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. They wanted to be somewhere else. But the captain of the small lizard galley felt most uncomfortable, as almost all the passengers, the elf warriors, and even some of the lizard warriors looked at him at the same time. To his credit, he managed to keep a straight face. Although perhaps the fact that the scaly creatures cannot turn pale in principle played a role here. It seemed... Turning slightly towards him, the dragoness growled something briefly. The captain, jerking his tail sharply, immediately returned her bow and hissed something rapidly in response, bowing again at the end.

Turning back to the crowned elf, the dragoness said in Elvish:

"The language of your folk, honourable Iardal, Blade of the Forest, is as exquisite as it is difficult to understand. Few of those who walk under my wing have mastered it to the required level. And my loyal servant, to whom this ship is entrusted, is not among them..."

For some reason, Cyrill was absolutely certain that the captain of the lizards, despite speaking with a strong accent, understood Elvish perfectly. But, of course, the young man did not share his suspicions with anyone.

" ...and since the venerable sorceress who walks at your side..."

With these words, the dragoness turned to Diantrel, staring at her intently with her yellow eyes.

"...did not intend any harm against those who walk under my wing, neither I nor any of my servants wish harm upon her or the others who are under your protection."

Turning back to the crowned elf, the dragoness looked into his eyes for a few moments. With the same indifferent, impassive expression, Iardal said briefly:

"It is gratifying to hear these words, honourable Gyar'Skalashass."

At that very moment, just as synchronously, the elf warriors standing on the deck sheathed their cold weapons and placed their battle staffs in their belt holsters. The archers aboard the white ship removed arrows from their bows and put them away in quivers. A couple of seconds later, the lizard warriors did not put anything away, as they had no weapons in their hands, but they stopped snarling and lowered their paws. All the passengers of the long-suffering small galley seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at once. Almost immediately, the polite and courteous voice of the envoy of the Emperor of the Eastern Empire rang out over the waters of the Elven Bay. All this time, he and his men had been watching the negotiations with interest from the sidelines.

"It is truly gratifying to see that this unfortunate misunderstanding was resolved so quickly and without unnecessary bloodshed..."

Turning towards the floating palace of the local Asians, Cyrill took another look at its owner. And suddenly he realised that he did not understand his words, but understood their meaning! A second later, it dawned on him that the diplomat dressed in red and orange robes was clearly speaking in his native language. Kirill's first thought was that Google, or rather Diantrel Translator, was working again, since his mentor knew the language of the Eastern Empire. But it turned out that she had nothing to do with it, and his understanding of what the diplomat was saying did not come from her. And the rest of those around him also seemed to understand the envoy's words. How... Ah, that's it!

Looking closely, the young man noticed a young-looking woman standing next to the Voice of the Emperor of the East among the other courtiers, with milky-white skin and jet-black hair gathered into a tight bun at the back of her head, into which several long pins were stuck. The absolute whiteness of her skin suggested a thick layer of obviously sophisticated alchemical cosmetics. She was dressed in a light blue dress of oriental cut, made of what was clearly silk fabric, which covered her shoulders but left most of her arms exposed.

And with these hands, folded on her flat stomach in front of her, she moved them continuously, as if she were sorting through invisible yarn with her fingers. In a sense, that was exactly what she was doing. Looking closely, Cyrill's magical vision discerned a barely noticeable weave stretching from her to the diplomat's throat. Hmm, it seemed to be some kind of Mind Magic, working on the principle of an elderly shaman's spirit translator. Only if the spirit somehow literally changed the words spoken by Guur'Aar, translating them into Old Confederacy, this sorceress do something else. Somehow, without changing or translating her boss's words, she seemed to supplement them with a clear meaning that anyone who heard them could understand. An interesting and clearly complex technique...

Thinking about the various options and methods of magical translators, Cyrill almost missed the rest of the speech of the Eastern diplomat. He was brought out of his thoughts by a feeling of dull irritation, and some kind of doom came through the mental connection with the mentor.

"And since the monster that emerged from the bowels of the earth returned there, we too can return to the beautiful White Harbour. But it would be the height of cruelty and heartlessness to abandon these unfortunate souls, who were saved from the clutches and flames of the terrifying monster by the efforts of your most worthy enchantress, the honourable Iardal, Blade of the Forest, and your most worthy servants, the honourable Gyar'Skalashass. And since I had to leave the hospitable waters of White Harbour anyway, I will not consider it a hardship to deliver all those who wish to return to their native shores and the homes saved by the mercy of the Lady of the Seas."

The voice of the Emperor of the East's envoy sounded downright fatherly and distilled human-and-not-only-human love. So sincere, in fact, that Cyrill could theoretically even suspect that this incredibly high-ranking official, who was clearly also some kind of feudal lord from the highest aristocracy, with a pedigree like a show poodle, had really decided to show mercy to the poor and destitute of this world. After all, such a thing could be possible. In theory. Probably.

However, thanks to the same mental connection with her mentor, any illusions on this subject were dispelled by Diantrel's confident statement: ‘Bulshit.’ The Emperor couldn't care less about the rescued inhabitants of the coastal town, who together were probably worth less than the furnishings of one of his rooms on the upper deck. But he and his numerous entourage, among whom the female translator was not the only talented person, could not help but appreciate the extremely motley composition of the galley's passengers. He alone would have aroused interest and questions: What are you doing here, and how did you end up here?

The obvious interest on the part of the elves and the haste with which they rushed to the aid of this unfortunate galley, among whose passengers was somehow an entire elf sorceress, and not just any sorceress, only increased the number of questions. So Cyrill's mentor had no doubt that such a generous offer from the eastern diplomat was not out of concern for the poor of this world, but a banal desire to invite at least some of them on board and question them thoroughly. Or even interrogate them outright. And the Caliphate and the Steppe People had something to say. And the dark elves too, although the latter, still standing in a tight group and somehow managing to maintain a proud and haughty appearance, were clearly trying to stay closer to their terrestrial kin.

And the saddest thing was that Diantrel saw no way to prevent what was happening. If this ill-fated galley had been flying the flag of the Forest, then there would have been options. But as it happened, it belonged to the lizards, or rather, to a specific dragoness who was present here. And she had clearly also managed to assess the extremely motley and unusual composition of the passengers. As well as the fact that the elves immediately formed a living wall around one particular passenger and covered him with three layers of protection. Turning towards the floating palace of the eastern diplomat, she waved her tail and spoke again in pure Elvish:

"Truly, it would be the height of cruelty and heartlessness to do so, most honourable Kin Yao, Voice of the Emperor..."

Turning to the passengers of the long-suffering galley, who were still silent and, for the most part, seemed afraid to breathe, she continued, her golden eyes flashing:

"Just as it would be unfair to allow only you to show concern for the fate of these unfortunate people. There is also room on my ship for those who wish to return home. What's more, it's faster..."

Diantrel's silent irritation became more noticeable, even though outwardly the elf, standing motionless next to her student, was the embodiment of elven composure and impassivity. Something suspiciously resembling a silent reproach also came through the mental connection, hinting that Cyrill should have listened to her when they were sitting in the shelter near Kardarot. But the young man completely ignored it.

Because if someone asked Cyrill right now, he would be ready to describe his state of mind in one word: Tired! With a capital ‘T’! Now that the madness of the last few days was finally behind him, now that the long-awaited help had finally arrived, the consequences of everything he had been through began to weigh more and more heavily on Cyrill. And apparently his body, which had been working in a state of increased stress, periodically reaching extreme levels, felt that it could finally breathe. In other words, to switch off. But they wouldn't let him.

Therefore, Cyrill did not care about the chatter of the dragoness and the local Asians. He did not care about the possible problems with secrecy that Diantrel had hinted at. Right now, he did not care about anything! Deal with all this yourselves, and take me to my quarters and let me sleep for twenty hours! Moreover, Cyrill was sure that the elves could do it; on board such a large ship, there must be a portal capable of reaching White Harbour, and from there to the Royal Palace. In theory. There must be, right? The thought of asking Diantrel flashed through his mind for a moment, but Cyrill found the strength to resist and not distract her unnecessarily. His mentor was probably feeling a little better than he was now; she had also given her all and was exhausted, but she wasn't showing it. So it was better to be patient, otherwise she would think he was a little child who asked, ‘are we there yet?’ every two minutes in the car.

And so Cyrill had to fight off the irritation and fatigue that were overwhelming him and dream of his huge bed with silk sheets, a bath with hot water, and other delights of life in the luxurious surroundings of the Royal Palace. Meanwhile, the dragoness and the representative of the Emperor of the East, who had experienced an amazing surge of human and non-human love, wasted no time. From the floating palace of the eastern diplomat on the deck of the unfortunate galley, closer to the stern, they began to open a small portal. The glowing point gradually expanded, turning into a thin glowing circle, in which the deck of the floating palace was already visible. From the huge galley of the dragoness, at her command, the lizard sailors began to lower several wide and very comfortable ladders. At the first touch, they were firmly fixed to the deck of the smaller galley with some kind of magic. The same magic completely eliminated the rocking of the sea, even though the waves caused by the battle between the devilish balrog and the local sea goddess had managed to rise. So all four ships stood as if rooted to the spot, completely ignoring the turbulence of the water.

Unlike the other saviours, the elves were not exactly overflowing with desire to help the unfortunate refugees. Although Cyrill had no doubt that they would gladly take everyone on board. And most likely would not disembark until they had talked to each one. But who would allow them to do so? So, as imperturbable as ever, Iardal announced in an impassive voice that the Forest was also ready to help anyone who wanted to reach White Harbour. He also confirmed all the promises and commitments previously made by his representatives. The latter was clearly said for the benefit of the elderly orc shaman and his relatives. At the same time, at his command, one of the elf mages accompanying him also began to form a small portal-passage leading from the deck of the small galley to the deck of the white ship with a short wave of his staff. It began to open, characteristically, behind the backs of the elven warriors, next to Cyrill.

And right now, the passengers of the ill-fated galley of lizards, divided into groups, almost half of whom were residents of the coastal town and had no idea what the hell was going on around them, were frantically trying to figure out what to do and where to go, in the sense of who to go to. The first to make up their minds, unsurprisingly, were the group of dark elves. Almost immediately, as soon as they heard the proposal from their land-dwelling kin, they all walked past the parting warriors and froze next to the forming portal. Following them, with only a slight delay, were the young waiter and the half-breed siren. Pausing for a moment in front of the Forest warriors, who had closed ranks again, they began to say that they were both citizens of the Forest and residents of White Harbour. The elves said nothing, but a couple of warriors stepped aside slightly, allowing both of them to enter the fenced-off area.

But the other passengers, including Cyrill's unwilling companions, were in no hurry to make their choice, casting tense glances at each of the ships. Moreover, Shinda-Bah and his companions, as the young man noticed with some surprise, were casting openly fearful glances in the direction of the elves. And they were much more interested in the ship of the Eastern Emperor's envoy. However, Cyrill almost immediately stopped caring about this. Let them go wherever they want, he didn't care. Just please, please, open that damn portal already and transport him home!

Apparently his irritation was too strong, because Diantrel said through a mental connection:

‘\\Be patient a little longer, Ciriall! The portal is being made as stable as possible to eliminate even the slightest risk of possible destabilisation from the outside.’

//‘What destabilisation?’ the young man did not understand.

//‘Possible. The probability of this is low, but since it exists in principle, it must be ruled out. Especially since, unfortunately, people are showing excessive interest in us.’

//‘What do you mean?’

The mentor let out a distinct mental sigh.

// ‘Do nothing, stay where you are and don't give anything away.’

//"What are..."

Before Cyrill had time to ask his mental question, Diantrel sent him a series of sequential mental images. A slender and, as far as could be judged from the bandage covering the lower part of her face, rather attractive young woman with jet-black hair tied in a tight ponytail, wearing a strange, form-fitting black-and-grey silk robe. She was the very embodiment of a female ninja. Or should they be called shinobi? Although who knows what they are called in this world. But for some reason, Cyrill immediately believed that this lady was a representative of the profession so often glorified in anime and manga.

She was standing on one of the upper decks of the floating palace, but not the top one. She wasn't standing right by the side of the ship, but closer to the wall, hiding in the shadows and leaning against it with her back. One might think that she, with her hands folded on her clearly visible chest, was openly bored, waiting for everything to end. But her dark eyes were extremely focused, and her pupils literally burned with some slowly rotating symbols. And even through the mentor's thought form, one could sense that the woman was surrounded by a dense cocoon of some kind of camouflage, literally preventing any outside gaze from catching her, even though the woman did not seem to be hiding...

The next image. Some very strange-looking lizard, clinging with all four legs and its tail to one of the upper rails of the dragoness's galley, with which it had almost completely merged in colour. And the camouflage was not only visual; it was clearly complemented by some kind of illusion, for which the lizard's camouflage served as the basis. The lizard had huge, bulging eyes, like a chameleon, which independently slid over the passengers of the smaller galley. Or rather, only one eye slid, while the other stared at one spot. Directly at Diantrel and the student standing next to her. And the lizard's eyes glowed dimly but distinctly, which suggested the use of some kind of magical vision.

Another lizard just like it, only fused not with the yardarm but with the side of the stern superstructure of the dragon galley, also looking at Cyrill and Diantrel with one eye, while the other scrutinised the eastern diplomat and his entourage...

A slanted-eyed and very well-fed man with a neat short beard but extremely long drooping moustache, reaching almost to the middle of his chest, stood in the envoy's retinue. He was dressed in very colourful and obviously expensive silk garments adorned with various amulets in the form of jewellery. His eyes shone clearly and brightly as he openly scrutinised the passengers of the small galley. In particular, Diantrel and her apprentice, standing behind the elven warriors...

What... Having received his mentor's thoughts, Cyrill involuntarily began to shake his head, but Diantrel immediately stopped him:

\\‘Cirial! Don't give anything away! Just stand still. The portal will be formed shortly, and we will be transported to the ship!’

//‘Excuse me! Do you think they can...’

//‘Highly unlikely. More likely, they are just trying to figure out who you are. Unfortunately, this attention was unavoidable.’

//‘They definitely can't...’

//‘Highly unlikely. You have been carefully concealed not only by protection, but also by camouflage. But it's not worth the risk in any case.’

The young man completely agreed with the last statement. But the news about the observers did not improve the mood at all. True, it did not worsen it much either, but rather added to the dull irritation. Damn it, how long are you going to take to open this portal?!

To be fair, the elf portal was already almost complete and was now undergoing the final stage of stabilisation. Even in its current state, Cyrill was quite impressed, considering how much energy was being poured into it from the white ship. And that was despite the fact that the distance to be covered was literally a couple of metres. Well, okay, not a couple, but a whole dozen. Damn, wouldn't it have been easier to use stairs...

//‘The portal will be more reliable,’ the mentor cut in.

She accompanied her categorical statement with an image of a natural water blade, striking with monstrous pressure from the space between the ships and cutting the bridge in two. And also those who walk on it.

//"Ah..."

‘In theory, that's possible. Be patient, Cirial, I want to get out of here just as much as you do.’

Confused that Diantrel still read his condition, the young man forced himself to appear calm. To distract himself, he looked around at the passengers on the galley and noticed that most of the passengers from the coastal town had divided into two roughly equal groups, which had already moved towards the passageways to the dragoness's galley and the almost open portal to the floating palace. The dwarves from the Tough also headed towards the lizard galley. The Chalifate people were quietly discussing something among themselves, as were the steppe dwellers. But while the former cast pointed glances towards the floating palace, the latter continued to look clearly in the direction of the elves.

Damn, how annoying... Hmm... Maybe I could make one of the ladies around me bare her breasts? A crazy thought flashed through Cyril's mind, but it disappeared almost immediately. And not because his conscience made some kind of indistinct sound that was clearly disapproving. After using the token to save himself in that ill-fated restaurant, Cyril could calmly ignore any disapproval she might have about the immorality of the gift from the damned Master. There were simply no suitable candidates nearby. And those who were, in particular Armina and Diantrel, were now in the same condition as Cyril. That is, exhausted and in need of a good wash. And it would have been impossible to properly appreciate the women's charms, given the circumstances and the fact that Cyril was still being held by the arms... Wait a minute!

A new crazy idea made Cyrill forget about his bad mood for a moment. But he doesn't just have Melons... What if... Nah, screw it... No... What a stupid idea... Although there's no other way to use it anyway... Ah, fuck it, just for fun! Well, you can't just throw it away, can you? Besides, how are you going to throw away the token? Okay, it's decided! Just for a laugh.

Suddenly forgetting his overwhelming fatigue and dull irritation, Cyrill cautiously looked around, barely turning his head. Some part of his personality, suspiciously similar to Prudence, screamed that he was about to do something crazy, if not worse, something stupid. But it was silenced by another, much larger part of his personality. The legendary part that makes young and not-so-young guys (and some girls) do all sorts of crazy, sometimes very dangerous things, which then get hundreds of thousands or even millions of views on YouTube.

So, what do we have here... Or rather, who do we have here? Hmm... Almost immediately, Cyrill's gaze fell on what was probably the most obvious candidate for his plan. Of course, it was the dragoness who had taken on the form of a quite respectable Argonian, Gyar-Salashass-Whatever-Her-Name-Was. Had she remained in her previous form, it is not certain that the token would have worked at all, but in her humanoid form, her appearance was exotic, yet very appealing. So the mental command to use it, and then to confirm, worked without any problems.

In an instant, one of the charges on the Naughty Tongue token burned out, and a button with an inscription appeared in Cyrill's mind:

Naughty Tongue: Gyar'Skalashass 100/100

Smiling to himself, the young man glanced at the dragoness, who was still standing on the deck of her galley while her servants finished setting up the gangways. Well, let's start... Although... Damn... With his finger literally poised over the button, Cyrill froze in indecision. As one classic character would say, ‘Slavik, I'm getting cold feet...’ After all, this is a dragon, not just anyone, look how she glows in my magical vision... What if this lady freaks out from such a prank, that someone licked her in an intimate place through all her defences, and, for example, sneezes fire? Indeed, who knows how she will react to such a prank...

After hesitating for a couple more seconds, Cyrill finally took his finger off the imaginary button, giving himself a mental slap on the wrist. Damn, he wasted a token... Although, it's not really a big deal, it's just useless crap anyway. Okay, okay, he can use it later when he's far away and safe. So, who else could he pin down who isn't so dangerous... Hmm...

The young man's gaze, enhanced by his diadem, swept over the people standing on the decks of the floating palace. Hmm... Maybe the interpreter of the eastern envoy, who puts pure meaning into his words? No, she's a Mind Mage after all, she'll be able to block... Wait, what the hell is there to block? It's just a token, no mage can track it... Wait! That's it! This is going to be hilarious! So, where are you... Aha!

To be fair, even with the help of the tiara and magical vision, which was already starting to hurt his eyes, without the thought image sent earlier by his mentor, he would never have noticed the female ninja. And even knowing who and where to look for, he only managed to spot her on his second attempt. The difficulty was compounded by the fact that Cyrill tried not to turn his head, but glanced around with his eyes. He was no longer held on both sides by the invisible agents of the Secret Guard, but he could clearly feel their presence near him. The elves had not only replaced all the metal plates in the protective amulets in his clothing but had also added some additional, clearly personal ones, made especially for Cyrill. What's more, First was standing nearby with Armina and Diantrel. It was difficult to move around without attracting attention...

So, there you are, my ninja... Damn, what a good distraction, I can't get a good look at you, even though I know where you are... My gaze keeps slipping away. Okay, now... Oh, that's better! Concentrating, Cyrill zoomed in on the image, simultaneously increasing the intensity of his magical vision. It worked, and he managed to overcome her protective cover and clearly see the female figure in dark clothes, who continued to stand with her back against the wall. Okay, now... Faaak! Completely unexpectedly, a moment before Cyrill gave the mental command to use the token, the woman turned her head slightly. And the young man realised that he was looking straight into her slanted dark eyes, in which magical symbols continued to burn. And they looked back at him. The woman raised her eyebrows slightly, realising who was looking at her, despite the disguise. Cyrill froze for a moment, not expecting such a turn of events.

Probably the most sensible thing to do at that moment was to simply turn away and pretend nothing had happened. But even if that sensible thought did cross Cyrill's mind at that moment, it clearly did not reach its destination. Instead, another thought came to him, one of the ‘if you're going to do it, do it right’ variety. Maintaining the calm and composed expression he had been trying to maintain since the arrival of the ‘rescuers,’ the young man winked briefly at the female ninja with his right eye. At the same time, the young man mentally confirmed the use of the Naughty Tongue token, burning the second charge. After that, he calmly turned away and immediately confirmed its use on the selected target with a mental command.

A new button label immediately popped into his mind:

Naughty Tongue: Li Yan 100/100

With a mental effort, the button was pressed twice. And then something extremely amusing happened. As it turned out, even if you couldn't see the target of using the token, its image still appeared in your mind at that moment. Cyrill literally saw the unknown shinobi straighten up sharply, jumping away from the wall as if stung, assuming a fighting stance. A moment later, she twitched again, her hand involuntarily darting to her crotch, which had just been thoroughly licked for the second time. And this was despite the fact that she clearly had protection, which did not even detect the impact.

You gotta give the lady credit, she reacted instantly, jumping backwards right into the wall. Either she passed through it like a ghost, or she used some kind of ninja blink technique, literally disappearing. At that moment, her image vanished from Cyrill's mind. Okay. Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Damn it, don't laugh, bitch! Stay calm. Don't laugh, damn it! And don't look. Don't look, fuck...

Outwardly, Cyrill tried with all his might to remain calm. And on the whole, he even managed to do so. But inside, the young man was giggling like crazy. Just like a little idiot who had done something really stupid. But funny, stupid. Damn... Some part of Cyrill understood that what he had done was not just nonsense, but genuine stupidity. But for some reason, it lifted his spirits considerably. He even felt suddenly happier. Eh... Well, damn, it's stupid, of course, but it's cool! Now she's panicking! Okay, don't laugh, bitch... Calm down, calm down! Calm down, I said! We had our laugh, now that's enough. So, what's up with the portal? Seriously? Are they kidding?

The reason for Cyrill's amazement was that the elves had put even more effort into creating a portal to bridge the distance of no more than fifteen metres between the decks of the two ships. Naturally, it was some kind of hellish burst of magical energy, which is why its outline, although thinner than a pencil, glowed very brightly even in normal vision. And in magical vision, it naturally glowed no worse than the sun, and not only the portal, but also the three layers of stabilising and protective contours surrounding it. No, seriously, they could have sent it straight to White Harbour, having put so much effort into it. By the way, how far is it to White Harbour? Maybe they really plan to throw it straight there, and not onto the ship? Well, it's quite possible... No, wait, you can see the deck of the elven ship through it. Although... Maybe it's an illusion? Maybe... So that's it... I understand why they're dragging it out... Wait, how far is it to White Harbour from here?

With a mental command, Cyrill brought up a system map in front of him, where all the places he had visited were now permanently marked. The third level of meta-skill added considerable functionality, including the ability to calculate the distance between markers on the map. So, where is he now... Wow... Well, well, well, that's cool!

As it turned out, the third level of meta-skill, when Cyrill was in open terrain, did not map everything the young man saw in detail, but only the surrounding space around him within a radius of thirty metres. On the one hand, it was a bit disappointing, of course, because now he could have ‘sketched’ a rather large area of terrain, as the sea is visible from far away. On the other hand, in this particular case, this limitation led to a rather amusing result: the system map also marked the seabed along the entire length of Cyrill's route from the shore. As his mentor had said, the Elven Bay was not too deep, so a radius of thirty metres was quite sufficient. The depth where they were now was about twenty metres, and even less closer to the shore. As a result, a peculiar ‘gut’ appeared on the system map, stretching from the shore to their current location through the ‘fog of war’. It looked extremely funny...

A delicate coughing sound coming from behind the wall of elven warriors tore Cyrill away from his contemplation of the system map. Pushing it aside, but not closing it, the young man realised that he had missed the moment when two dense groups of steppe warriors and caliphate warriors approached the living wall of elven warriors. At the head of the first group stood Guur'Aar, and at the head of the second, Shinda-Bah. The latter attracted Cyrill and Diantrel's attention with a cough. At a sign from their mentor, a pair of elf warriors parted before them, and they stepped forward. Leaning on his staff-spear, the old shaman slowly spoke in a tired voice, still in Old Confederation:

"I consulted with my relatives and decided we would continue travelling with you to your city of White, since we have nowhere else to go now."

Dianterl nodded slightly to him and replied calmly:

"We will take you and your family wherever you wish, honourable Guur'Aar, and we will not leave you empty-handed. The Forest does not break its promises and will reward you for your help."

It wasn't easy to read anything on the old shaman's face, and he only nodded restrainedly in response. Shinda-Bah, after bowing briefly, spoke in his eloquent manner. At the same time, it was noticeable that he was visibly nervous and generally tense:

"Let me thank you once again for saving my nephew, honourable Cirial, and express my deepest condolences that my desire to thank you has ultimately caused us so much trouble..."

Smiling, Cyrill shook his head and gestured with his hand to stop the captain:

"No need to apologise, esteemed Shinda-Bah. After all, thanks to you, I had the most unforgettable dinner of my life. I sincerely hope that it will remain so forever."

The captain of the Caliphate ship laughed nervously and nodded hastily, continuing his speech:

"Just like me. I sincerely hope that something like this will never happen to us again. And once again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Honourable Cirial. For everything."

In response, Cyrill nodded silently. Shinda-Bah turned to Diantrel and, bowing elegantly, said:

"In that case, I wish you all the best, and I dare not burden you any further with my presence, as I believe it has already tired you considerably over the last few days..."

Shinda-Bach continued to say something else, but Cyrill's attention was distracted by the system map, which he had not closed, but had conditionally ‘moved to the edge of the screen.’ For a few seconds, it seemed to ripple, like the image on an old TV during interference in the air. What the...

"... and of course, I have not forgotten about your wonderful bag, which you so kindly lent me. Please return it intact and undamaged, along with its contents..."

After another polite bow, the Caliphate captain handed Diantrel the bag he had lent him, which had expanded space. The elf, who had listened to the Caliphate captain's speech with a completely impassive expression, merely nodded briefly to him and said:

"Thank you."

Armina nodded politely, carefully took the bag from Shinda-Bah's hands, and hung it on herself, next to the second bag.

"-... I hope that we..."

"What the heck..."

Shinda-Bach stopped mid-sentence and turned to the young man in surprise. So did everyone else nearby. Armina and Diantrel exchanged glances, seeing that Cyrill was staring into space with a strange expression on his face. Guessing what this might mean, the mentor asked in a polite but firm voice, drawing her student's attention to her:

"Cyrial, what are you..."

"There were just twenty metres below us a moment ago," said the young man, "continuing to stare ahead, ’and now it's as if there's no bottom at all... What the..."

For another moment, Cyrill continued to study the system map, trying to understand what kind of glitch it was. If he had looked around, he would have seen how Shinda-Baha and the other Chalifate members' faces twisted and paled at his words. And so did his mentor. But he was looking at the system map. And then...

"Deep One!!! Alarm!!!"

With a deafening scream, amplified by magic, Diantrel literally flew into the air, rising ten to fifteen metres at once. All around, frightened cries erupted, some people crouched down, some jumped up, some fell, and Cyrill didn't have time to understand anything. His mentor, who had already soared twenty metres into the air, struck with a branch-like lightning bolt with both hands, putting all her strength into it. But not at people or non-humans, but directly into the water of the elven bay.

Well, then everything happened incredibly quickly for Cyrill. Dozens of humans and non-humans screamed in terror. Their cries were drowned out by the magic-enhanced voice of the crowned elf, who barked out some command. The dragoness let out something between a hiss and a roar, crouched down, and leaped upward so high that Olympic champions would have burst into tears and quit their careers if they had seen it. Right in mid-jump, she glowed bright green, returning to her true form. All this flashed before Cyrill's eyes in literally a second.

The young man didn't have time to really understand what was happening, only a thought flashed through his mind: ‘Fuck, you're kidding me!’ Then, amid someone's deafening cry of ‘Take him away!’, Cyrill was literally grabbed by the collar by four or even six hands and almost thrown backwards into the finally formed portal. In an instant, the young man found himself on the deck of an elven ship, not understanding what was happening. But no one was going to give him time to figure it out. Cyrill was immediately dragged towards the stern superstructure. The young man only had time to notice how the elven archers were rearranging themselves, moving towards the centre of the deck. How the elven mages from Iardal's retinue began to perform some kind of obviously powerful magic, literally plunging the tips of their staffs into the wood of the deck. The crowned elf himself stood with his sword already drawn, its blade shimmering with either a cold blue light or natural fire, only semi-transparent.

And then it hit his ears, and through them his brain, as if someone had turned up the volume on the speakers at a rock concert right next to Cyrill's head. Only instead of music, a heavy and eerie voice came out of them, its incomprehensible and alien words literally imprinted themselves on his consciousness:

"HNRYARUUU GNUHMNR RDYARUUU"

His knees buckled instantly, his thoughts became confused, and the world before his eyes began to double and blur. A monstrous weight descended from all sides, as if he had dived to a great depth, and his ears began to ring. But amid the noise, he could still hear the echo of many voices uttering incomprehensible words that he could not make out or understand...

The protective amulet, or rather a whole set of them, worn by the Secret Guard agents on Cyrill, burned the young man's chest with fire. The same fire spread from his chest throughout his entire body, both physical and subtle, burning and expelling something from it... Something. Opening his mouth, Cyrill let out a convulsive sigh, feeling himself becoming lighter. The pressure eased, his vision cleared, the incomprehensible words stopped ringing in his head, but the ringing in his ears remained. Blinking, the young man saw that he had collapsed on the deck and was on all fours. Raising his head, which felt twice as heavy, the young man saw that most of the elves, although they had not fallen to their hands and knees like him, were clearly feeling little better. Many of them were holding their heads with contorted faces. One had literally sunk his teeth into his palm, biting it until it bled.

The two magicians from the crowned elf's retinue and the elf himself held up best. The latter seemed completely unfazed. With a darkened face, he shouted something, standing with his back to the young man, but his words reached Cyrill as if from far away, as if he were not a few steps away from him, but behind a wall. The young man tried to listen to understand what Iardal was saying, but the latter raised a sword burning with blue flames above his head, from which a wave of blue light rushed in all directions at great speed. As soon as it swept over Cyrill, he immediately felt a little better. The ringing in his ears stopped, allowing him to hear the cries and sharp commands coming from all around him. But the young man's legs still felt like cotton wool, and although his head was no longer filled with incomprehensible words, it felt as if it had been filled with lead, causing his thought processes to grind to a monstrous halt.

For a moment, the crowned elf turned towards him, his eyes literally flashing with magical fire, and then he naturally shouted in a voice enhanced by magic:

"TAKE HIM AWAY!!!"

He immediately turned back and began giving orders to his subordinates, most of whom had regained their senses. Someone began to lift Cyrill to his feet, but at that moment the ship rocked noticeably, and the young man fell back onto all fours, along with the person who was trying to lift him. At that very moment, the waters of the Elven Bay swelled into a huge fountain of spray several hundred metres from the four ships. And from it, a huge, sucker-covered, dark grey tentacle, as thick as a good hundred-year-old oak tree, shot into the sky. And the tip of this giant tentacle wrapped around... a huge piece of rock, in places heated almost to red hot. Steam poured thickly from it, and streams of water running down its surface hissed as they boiled. For some reason, the first thought that came to Cyrill's mind was how it was possible to hold such a thing without getting burned. He did not receive an answer to his question, which he did not regret at that moment or later.

The monstrous tentacle rose a couple of dozen metres out of the water, the water around it continuing to boil and foam, and froze for a moment like a huge, terrifying pillar. Then, with a speed impossible for such a size, it bent and threw a piece of rock upwards with equally impossible force and speed. It flew in a beautiful arc into the sky, still shrouded in volcanic smoke, and a few seconds later landed right in the mouth of the volcano, raising another fountain of lava spray and seemingly chipping off part of the crater's summit.

The tentacle began to rapidly sink back into the water, but Cyrill did not see the end of this process. Because someone literally pulled him to his feet and dragged him away by the scruff of his neck. Somehow wriggling free, the young man saw Diantrel's face. It was pale as chalk, with a trickle of blood running from his nose, and an extremely malicious expression. The mentor practically dragged her student, who was struggling to move his legs, to the stern superstructure of the elven ship; luckily, the doors leading to it were open.

Inside, Diantrel immediately dragged him into the next room, the entrance to which was located on the opposite wall, past a couple of his fellow creatures who were standing with their backs against the wall, clutching their temples with both hands. There was no furniture in it, but a relatively high and wide arch grew directly from the floorboards, formed by densely intertwined tree vines, some of which were even covered with green shoots and leaves.

And there, in the passageway of this arch, Cyrill could see the familiar room of the portal chamber in the Royal Palace. Diantrel had practically thrown her student into it, and someone immediately picked him up. Immediately, there were shouts, someone was giving orders, but Kirill could hardly think straight. His only thought was: home. Finally, home...

* * *

One of the distinctive features of the Vicious Rose, which had recently become, if not the best brothel in all of Morgrave, then definitely the best in Middle Town, was how the ‘roses’ who flourished there in every sense and position were marked. Namely, each representative of the oldest, or one of the oldest, professions had a bright red rose tattooed directly on her pubic area, for which the brothel had a separate specialist. Or rather, a specialist. Moreover, at the request of the secret owner of the Vicious Rose and, more recently, the Night Mistress of Middle Town, the images tattooed were different and depended on the specialisation of each rose. Just a bud, a bud surrounded by thorny stems, surrounded by stems with leaves — there were different options.

But the main thing was that all the workers at the Vicious Rose had them, including the madam of the brothel of the same name. With one exception, namely, the true owner of this place. And it was this flagrant violation of the rules that was pointed out to Anrietta by one of the senior ‘roses,’ who were among the most valuable and highly paid workers in the brothel. Anrietta herself had acquired her at a very young age from her parents, rescuing her from one of the disadvantaged streets of the Middle City, which closely resembled the slums of the Lower City. And she did not lose out. The unremarkable stone, after careful cutting and polishing, turned into a real gem, becoming, without a doubt, a very successful investment for Anrietta.

Good nutrition combined with proper training transformed an unremarkable and shy girl into a very attractive woman. She is slightly above average height, with thick, long, dark hair that falls in a slightly wavy cascade down to the middle of her back, and an aristocratic face. Looking at her, you would never guess that she was born into a family of ordinary townspeople who were frankly not wealthy, if not worse. You would rather believe a fairy tale about the illegitimate daughter of some nobleman. Her appearance was complemented by very seductive and impressive curves, which cost Anrieta several sessions of high-quality alchemy, and equally impressive flexibility, developed through special training that enhanced the girl's natural talent. Few of the ‘roses’ could calmly assume the pose known as the ‘Gate of Love,’ throwing both legs over their heads. Or spread those long, slender legs into either a longitudinal or transverse split. Daara could, for which she was highly valued by a small circle of wealthy clients who paid dearly for her skills.

And also for the fact that, thanks to Anrietta Daara's efforts, they taught her to read, write, and, in general, gave her a fairly good education. So this ‘rose’ could not only be fucked, but also talked to. To relax not only the body but also the soul. And Daara was only too happy about this, skilfully listening and remembering everything that was said, knowing how to keep the conversation going when necessary and when to remain silent. Sometimes these skills brought Henrietta much more money than the body of a cultivated ‘rose’.

And it was during her next report, after a night with one of her regular wealthy clients, that the true owner of the Vicious Rose called Daara into her office and suddenly asked her:

And what kind of ‘rose’ do you have, Mrs. Anrietta? A thorny one, I bet?

Such an unexpected question left the quarter-elf in a state of shock. It was difficult to say what surprised her more. Was it that her subordinate, who knew her place so well, dared to ask such a question, or the question itself? Opening her mouth, Anrietta was about to rebuke the whore who had clearly forgotten her place. Even if she was very expensive and valuable, she was still a whore. But suddenly, instead of doing so, she answered herself, in a somewhat uncertain voice:

"I don't have a ‘rose’... I'm not..."

"Ohh..."

Daara, sitting on a guest chair in Anrieta's private office, raised her eyebrows, and her face took on an expression that was both vulgar and predatory. Standing up, dressed only in a shirt, the employee of the Vicious Rose clapped her hands:

"This is not right! You know that all ‘roses’ must have ‘roses’!"

Looking down from above at her clearly stunned subordinate, Anrieta opened her mouth even wider in surprise. Falling into an incomprehensible stupor, the quarteronka's mind tried to find some explanation, some excuse, but all she could manage to utter was an incoherent:

"But I... I don't sleep with clients... I don't..."

"What difference does it make?" Daara asked with genuine surprise and headed towards Anrieta, walking around the desk.

"Madame Rosetta hasn't slept with clients for a long time either, but she has a ‘rose.’ You work at the Vicious Rose, right? That means you must have a ‘rosebud’ too!"

Standing close to Anrietta, stunned by such pressure from her subordinate, she couldn't even find anything to say in response. Daara's logic was ironclad, one might even say steel-clad, and all the true mistress of the brothel could do was blink her eyes and sit with her mouth open, looking up at her from below. Until Daara, who had finally become insolent, unexpectedly slammed her boss's mouth shut with a deft movement of her hand, stunning her even more with such unheard-of audacity. Then she took Anrietta by the hand and literally dragged her out from behind the table.

This is unacceptable! We need to fix this. Let's go; I'm sure Needle has some free time right now.

Just like that, holding her hand like a little child, Daara led the completely stunned Henrietta, who couldn't find anything to say in her defence, to the tattoo artist working at the Vicious Rose. To be fair, she didn't just tattoo flowers on the pubic areas of prostitutes, but also other images on the bodies of the night workers. These were mainly all kinds of appeals to Lortan or Lady Luck, asking for help in dark deeds, protection from knives in fights, and other such things. However, Needle was also very good at tattooing all kinds of animals and symbols, both schematic and detailed.

Like Daara, Anrieta had spotted her on the streets, not in the Middle City, but in the Lower City, and bought her from her parents for a pittance. And as in the case of Daara, this investment had already paid off many times over. The girl, now grown up, was not particularly attractive, especially compared to the best of the ‘roses’. She was slightly below average height, thin, with short, dark, unruly hair. To bring her up to at least a solid average level, it was necessary to invest in special alchemy. But although she was not particularly beautiful, Igolka turned out to have a good talent as an artist, managing to become an apprentice to the previous master of tattooing all kinds of designs on skin. Years later, she successfully replaced the rather grumpy old man, surpassing her mentor in the opinion of everyone.

Needle, which had hardly left its corner, met her boss, accompanied by Daara with initial amazement, but as soon as it understood what was going on, all its questions disappeared. Unable to find a single argument against this idea, Annrietta was stripped naked by four hands, her expensive dark clothes neatly folded on a stool in the corner, after which she was seated in a special comfortable high chair with footrests so that she could keep her legs spread wide apart. Taking her place between her boss's widespread legs, Needle quickly prepared the tools of her trade. She also had the best paints, bought from patented alchemists, which would not fade even after ten years. With dexterous and sensitive fingers, she carefully rubbed Anrieta's entire crotch with some special ointment, after which she set to work.

As a result, after a while, a magnificent bright red rose surrounded by a wreath of intertwined stems with sharp thorns adorned the smooth skin of the perfectly shaved pubic area of the quarteronka. These stems twisted together and extended straight down to her lower lips, right up to the pearl of the quarteronka. And above the ‘rose,’ at the initiative of the same Daara, an incredibly vulgar and obscene inscription was written in dark burgundy ink in elven letters, which could be translated as ‘The Very Important Cunt.’ Anrieta, hearing this suggestion from a whore who had clearly lost all conceivable restraint, tried to object, but Daara's arguments were once again ironclad. She really was the very important cunt in this whorehouse. So let everyone who needs to not only know it, but see it too. There was no way to refute these arguments, and Anrietta stoically endured the entire procedure, though inwardly she was burning with shame.

When the Needle finally finished her work and lubricated her entire pelvis again, but this time with a pleasant-smelling ointment that relieved all the unpleasant pain, the quarteronka felt real relief. But before she could breathe a sigh of relief, Daara, who had been standing behind her the whole time, massaging her boss's shoulders, her hands occasionally slipping lower, towards her bare breasts, said in a satisfied voice:

"It's excellent ‘rose,’ you are really a master, Needle!"

"I tried my best. I was painting not just a regular cunt, smiled the artist, putting away her tools of the trade."

"Well, now it's time for the most interesting part," Daara sang with a predatory smile.

In response to the surprised look on Anrieta's face as she managed to get to her feet and began to get dressed, her subordinate, who had been devouring the quadroon's naked body with a carnivorous gaze, explained:

"All ‘roses,’ after they have been painted with flowers, are entitled to an initiation ceremony!"

"But..."

"No buts, tradition is tradition," Daara said firmly, taking her boss's hands again and heading for the door.

Anrietta, who knew perfectly well how the existing prostitutes initiated newcomers into her brothel, felt panic overwhelming her and desperately tried to object. She tried to wriggle out of it somehow, to find at least one argument against what was about to happen, but once again, Daara's logic and arguments were impenetrable. Unable to find anything to say, the quietly panicking and red-faced quarteronka allowed herself to be led outside and followed Daara to the upper floors, where the most valuable of the ‘roses’ lived, those who had regular and wealthy clients, whom one could not simply walk in on from the street. A couple of ordinary prostitutes from the middle floors, whom they met on the way, were stunned at the sight of the completely naked Henrietta, with a fresh ‘rose’ adorning her pubic area. Passing by, the quarter-breed, blushing with incomprehensible shame and embarrassment, literally felt their eyes on her back. There is no doubt that in an hour, the whole Vicious Rose will be aware...

"What is this?!"

Lada's surprised exclamation, as she had already caught them on the top floor, dressed as usual in sandals and jewellery, brought Anrietta out of her stupor. For a moment, hope flashed in the quadroon's heart that at least her loyal assistant would come up with a way to get her out of this, but Daara pulled her boss towards her with one movement, hugging her around the waist so that her hand rested precisely on Anrietta's pubic area:

"Our main cunt has also decided to get a ‘rose’! Well, after that, you know, we have to hold an initiation ceremony. Right now, I'm just gathering a couple of girls from the top floor... By the way, don't you want to participate yourself?"

For a moment, Lada stood there with a stunned look on her face, but then, apparently, Daara's arguments got through to her, and Anrietta's loyal assistant nodded briefly, smiling broadly and eagerly:

"With pleasure!"

"Great, let's go then!"

Preparations for the initiation took less than half an hour, during which time a group of five of the most valuable workers at the ‘Wicked Rose’ who happened to be free at the time, plus Lada, gathered in Daara's private room. Unable to find a single argument to get out of the upcoming initiation, Anrieta, burning with shame, was solemnly seated naked on a chair in the centre of the room. At her feet, various items used by the ‘roses’ in their craft were laid out in an even circle on the floor. In the centre of the circle lay a medium-sized lady's saviour, carved from carefully polished wood and more or less straight. With a predatory smile, Daara clapped her hands and said:

" Well, let's begin the initiation of our dearest and very important cunt. Let's draw lots, girls!"

Anrieta's subordinates, who were not shy about making extremely vulgar jokes, which made their boss even more nervous, pulled out the short sticks with numbers on them that Daara had clenched in her fist, determining the order of appearance. And somehow it turned out that Daara was the first, which made her as happy as a child. With a beaming face, she spun the lady's saviour lying on the floor. It spun for a few seconds, then stopped, pointing its head at a small box of ointments in the shape of a double-shelled seashell.

"Oh, yes! My favourite! Well, dear, come here! Oh, don't make that face, I washed myself properly before coming to report to you..."

"And I haven't had time yet, " one of the ‘roses’ smiled obscenely, devouring her boss with a hungry gaze.

Mentally resigned, Anrieta allowed herself to be laid down on a bed that was quite comfortable, though a bit cramped for two people. After taking off her shirt, Daara slowly sat on top of her. Settling comfortably on her boss's face, satisfied like a cat that had eaten too much sour cream, one of the elite ‘roses’ sang in a cheerful voice:

"You can start..."

And Henrietta, burning with shame and humiliation, began to diligently eat out her subordinate. The latter did not hesitate to comment loudly on her boss's skills, to the cheerful laughter of the other whores who were watching from the sidelines, waiting for their turn. A few minutes later, Daara arched her back, cried out in a deliberately loud voice, and flooded her boss's face with love juices. After catching her breath, she slowly climbed off Anrietta, playfully kissing her with her tongue and running her hand over the heavily breathing quadroon's chest and lap. The next ‘rose’ in line had already managed to spin the ladies' saviour, determining the type of bedtime pleasures, and was almost jumping with impatience, waiting for the opportunity to have fun with her boss...

As a result, the initiation ceremony lasted several hours, during which Anrietta licked cunts, sucked tits or ladies' saviours, and was fucked in all three holes by those very ladies' saviours, fingers or other toys for amorous pleasures, the choice of which was more than abundant in the Vicious Rose. Lada was the last to entertain the boss. Pressing herself against Anrietta, who was kneeling, from behind, she brought her to another climax with her personal lady saviour. It was not an ordinary toy made of polished wood, but a rather expensive toy with a magical charm that made the head of the saviour tremble slightly but noticeably, as if a whole swarm of dissatisfied bees were sitting inside.

When Anrietta, having long since given up trying to maintain any semblance of dignity, cried out loud, once again soaking the already thoroughly wet sheets, Lada bit her boss's pointed ear with her lips, continuing to press the quietly humming saviour to her pussy with one hand, while with the other she caressed the quadroon's breast. After that, under approving but extremely vulgar and obscene comments, Anrietta's subordinates congratulated their boss on successfully passing the initiation. Finally, each of them kissed the quadroon. Some did it tenderly, others predatorily, biting Anrietta's lips.

After that, the roses went about their business, and Anrieta, accompanied by Lada, wandered into her office, barely able to move her legs. Her loyal assistant helped her exhausted boss reach the door and, once inside, began to wash and tidy up the quarter-room. Anrieta sat on a small stool in the centre of a wide basin of blackened copper filled with hot water while Lada lathered her hair and scrubbed her body with a washcloth, thinking dispassionately about what had happened. Never in her life, despite what she did for a living, had she had to participate in such orgies, let alone in a passive role. Something about it felt wrong. And while the assistant was either washing her or just fondling her breasts, Anrieta tried to understand what exactly she didn't like. But no matter how hard the quadroon tried to understand, it was all useless...

* * *

In the private chambers of the only son and heir of the venerable Duke August de Mont Ros, which occupied several rooms, expensive and high-quality magical lamps were burning, despite the relatively late hour. And in the bedroom, in front of a full-length mirror in an expensive bronze frame decorated with leafy motifs, stood an elf with long blond hair flowing freely down to the middle of her back. Her light green eyes scrutinised her reflection. And there was something to look at. The elf was dressed in a luxurious gown. The main colour was red, but it was complemented by black and green, as well as gold embroidery. The colours of the Mont Ros dynasty. The dress was sewn according to the latest fashion of the Free Cities and fit the elf perfectly. The master tailors who served the Duke of Mont Ros had done a splendid job. But there was one thing...

Pressing her lips together and frowning, the elf turned to the young human girl standing a little to the side. She was a pretty girl with thick chestnut hair, now also loose, a clean, well-groomed face, and clear grey eyes. Unlike the elf, the girl was dressed only in a white nightgown that reached to the middle of her thighs. The thin, expensive fabric was almost transparent, clearly revealing the dark circles of her protruding nipples and rounded belly. In short, the girl's appearance was openly seductive and, frankly speaking, completely inappropriate for someone of her status. But behind the securely closed doors of her young husband's chambers, such trifles could be disregarded.

"This dress is beautiful, honourable Annabel," said the elf in a polite voice, "but in my opinion, it is overly revealing..."

Which was absolutely true. The deep neckline at the front allowed one to fully appreciate the elf's upper curves, and there was plenty to appreciate. In addition, the dress left a significant part of her arms bare. And, what was particularly piquant, it had slits on the sides of the skirt almost to the waist, so that when she walked, as it fluttered, one could see the long and slender legs of the firstborn. With a heavy sigh and a demonstrative roll of her eyes, Annabel folded her arms across her chest and spoke in a lecturing tone, as if she were talking not to an elf who was ten times her age, but to a child who didn't know any better:

"That's the whole point, Mistra. We discussed everything and agreed on everything, didn't we?"

Taking a step forward, Annabel gestured to stop the elf who was about to object:

"I acknowledge you as Christian's official favourite, and I do not interfere with your relationship. You do not allow other women to approach my husband, and you also look after him."

The elf, who was old enough to be the young girl's great-great-grandmother, suddenly tried to object in a timid voice:

"That's all true, dear Annabel, but..."

"And since you agreed to be the official favourite," Annabel interrupted the elf emphatically, "then be so kind as to live up to this important role. Including your appearance."

Reaching forward with her right hand, the young girl pressed her index finger against the elf's nipple, which was slightly protruding through the fabric of her dress, pushing it into her firm breast. The elf did not react to such unheard-of insolence, standing obediently before Annabel and almost stretching out like a string.

"And this dress," continued the young girl, "made at my request, fits you perfectly! Firstly, everyone can see it is very expensive, made by the best tailors of the honourable Duke Augustus from beautiful red fabric. This is exactly what the dress of his heir's favourite should be like. And secondly, with its revealing cut, it makes it clear to everyone at court that you are indeed the favourite."

Applying pressure to the already hardened nipple, Annabel twisted her index finger several times, then pinched it through the fabric of her dress and twisted it slightly.

"You may be very expensive, but you are the favourite. In essence, you are merely my husband's personal slut. Beautiful, eternally young, even elven, but in essence, just a whore. One that Christian can fuck whenever and however he wants. And such a revealing outfit will show this to those around you better than any words could. What's more..."

Leaving the frozen elf's nipple alone, Annabel slowly walked around the frozen firstborn and hugged her from behind, slipping her hands into the neckline of her dress and pulling Mistra's breast out with one movement. Gently squeezing her breasts, she continued in a seductive voice, whispering the words literally into the elf's long ear.

"After all, no one, not even the most ardent remaining supporters of the anti-elf party, would ever think that you could be anything other than the eternally young whore that August hired in the Forest for his son. That you are definitely not a sharp-eared spy and bodyguard assigned in advance to the future Duke of Mont Ros. It's only to your advantage, right?"

"Yeahhh..."

Mistra's response sounded more like a moan of pleasure, either because Annabel was playing too actively with her breasts, or because she bit the elf's ear with her lips and began to suck it gently. After standing like that for a minute, the young girl opened her mouth slightly and cooed affectionately:

"So, we have agreed, and tomorrow you will appear in public wearing this dress?"

"Yeahhh..."

"Great..."

Gently kissing Mistra's neck as she breathed heavily, Annabel helped her carefully remove her new dress and hang it in the wardrobe. After that, the elf undressed completely, and the young girl sat her down on a chair in front of her dressing table. As we know, beauty requires sacrifice and regular care. And Annabel had recently begun to personally and very closely monitor the beauty of her young husband's personal whore. Taking several carefully sealed vials and bottles of cosmetic alchemy from the locked drawer of the dressing table, the girl spent almost half an hour carefully and accurately mixing several compounds. With one, she diligently smeared Mistra's breasts, which had grown slightly recently, much to Christian's delight. With another, using a special brush, she painted the elf's lips, which had also become a little plumper recently. With the third, she thoroughly applied it to Mistra's lower lips and pubic area, instructing her to stand up, lean forward, rest her elbows on the table, and spread her legs wider for convenience.

All this time, the elf remained silent, her face relatively calm. But inside Mistra, or rather Mistrael, was literally boiling. The insolence of this cheeky girl, who thought she was God's gift to the world, was incredibly infuriating. But the cold mind of the experienced agent, who had served in the Secret Guard for more than a century, was forced to admit that Annabel was right. The arguments of the insolent girl, however unpleasant they might be, were irrefutable. It would indeed be much easier for her to do her job if those around her did not see her as anything other than the very expensive and rare whore of the heir to Augustus. For this, it was worth putting up with such a trifle as her frankly vulgar outfits, even if they were sewn from expensive fabrics by the best tailors of the Duke of Mont Ros. Other agents of the Forest sometimes have to wear even more revealing outfits on their missions, especially honey missions. And they have to share their beds not with very handsome half-breed young men, but with creatures that are much more unpleasant in every sense.

While Mistra pondered the cheeky behaviour and words of the little minx, reluctantly acknowledging that she was right, the latter finished all her beauty treatments on the elf and carefully put all the cosmetic alchemy back in the box. She then thoroughly washed her hands in water with a special additive, which she had added to the jug without even thinking about her actions. Only then, satisfied with the work she had done, Annabel kissed Mistra affectionately on the top of her head and said, turning towards the bed:

"Done, you can have fun with her now."

Christian, who had been lying in wait for a long time, devouring his lover with hungry eyes, jumped to his feet with one swift movement and was next to Mistra in two leaps. Picking up his gasping favourite in his arms, he immediately kissed her passionately and carried her to the bed. The elf, who had previously appeared completely calm, was instantly transformed. Wrapping her legs and arms around Christian, she responded passionately to his kiss, so that the young half-elf could barely carry her to the marital bed. Laying his lover on her back, he entered her almost immediately, fortunately, since the elf, prepared by Annabel, was completely ready.

The young woman herself, ignoring her handsome husband, whose marriage, although political, had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant and even happy, headed for the corner of their bedroom. There, on a small altar, stood an intricately carved wooden statue of a young woman in loose-fitting clothes, heavily pregnant, holding her rounded belly with both hands. Stopping in front of it, Annabel clasped her hands in front of her, closed her eyes, and offered a prayer to the Giver of Life. Since her wedding night, after which the spark of new life had immediately ignited within her, she had done this every evening, in addition to her regular visits to the restored temple of Gaia. If circumstances did not allow it, the new High Priestess of Life, together with her assistant novices, would come to her to perform all the necessary rituals to protect the unborn child and ease the mother's pregnancy.

After finishing her prayer, Annabel felt a warmth spread through her already noticeably rounded belly, and this warmth spread like a wave throughout the rest of her body. Smiling contentedly, the young girl headed for the bed, where Christian had already put his favourite on all fours and was now passionately taking her from behind, holding her by the hips. The position, frankly speaking, was far from the most decent for a noble woman, but for a favourite, that is, a whore, it was just right. And it didn't matter that this whore was an elf. Look how she moans in unison and yields to him, without a trace of her usual haughtiness and arrogance. Smiling even more broadly at the sight, Annabel settled down next to them on her side of the bed and folded her hands on her belly, feeling the faint kick of her unborn child. Thinking about her future son, and she was sure it would be a boy, the young wife of the future Duke of Mont Ros felt a special warmth in her heart.

After all, it is well known that the duty of a good wife is to bear her husband's children. And she will certainly fulfil her duty; she will bear Christian children as long as Gaia is gracious to her. And considering who her husband is, there is no doubt that she will be able to bear children for a very long time. With these thoughts and the loud moans of Mistra and Christian, Annabel quietly fell asleep...

* * *

"Who is my dearest? Who is my beloved?"

The answer to two rhetorical questions, asked in a voice full of maternal love and tenderness, was a joyful cooing. And also splashes of water in a large basin of pure silver, in which stood a little tot with short dark hair and large bright green eyes. However, he was not standing on his own, being still too small, but was supported by his mother's hands as she carefully washed him. The baby clearly enjoyed bathing. He enjoyed splashing and splashing around in the warm water even more. Fortunately, the basin in which he was bathed was not ordinary. Covered with beautiful embossed ornamentation depicting various birds and animals, it was not only a true work of art, but also a high-quality artefact that maintained the water poured into it at a set temperature. In this case, comfortably warm. It also continuously purified and filtered the water poured into it, removing any impurities.

To be fair, using such a high-quality and complex artefact to bathe a small child who regularly soils their nappies was somewhat wasteful. After all, this artifact was primarily created for complex alchemical work. But for this particular toddler, happily cooing and kicking his legs in an attempt to splash his bathing mother, the Coven of the Daughters of the Desert spared no expense. Literally nothing. Because the most powerful coven of witches on the entire Southern Continent had very big plans for this baby. Smiling broadly, Ashuir made sure that her most precious treasure was completely clean, leaned forward carefully, and kissed her son affectionately on the top of his head. Picking him up in her arms, she carefully transferred the child to the neighbouring table, where clean nappies had been laid out in advance. The simplest gentle touch instantly dried all the water from the little one's body, and the sorceress began to swaddle her actively kicking child.

Some might say that this occupation is for all kinds of nannies and maids, but certainly not for a skilled sorceress. And he would hear many interesting things addressed to him, not only from Ashuir herself, but also from her sisters and aunts in the Coven. Given the circumstances of their departure from Sakhib-Nere, the witches took the most serious measures to protect the sorceress. And after a successful but very difficult birth, these measures became naturally paranoid. No one was allowed anywhere near the baby and his mother except for the leaders of the coven and servants who had been checked and rechecked three times, whose families had lived with the coven for generations. But even they, bound and constrained by numerous oaths, seals, suggestions, and prohibitions, were not allowed to come into direct contact with the child. The separate house provided to Ashuir and her son was under round-the-clock and constant guard by at least a dozen Sakharibs. These special white-eyed warriors, trained by the witches, not only guarded all the entrances and approaches to the house, but at least four were constantly with the sorceress and her child.

But even these only added a few layers to the various magical protections that literally covered and permeated the walls, floors, and ceilings of the building, as well as the foundation, several metres deep. And all this was covered by a separate dome-barrier. At the same time, the witches' abode itself, located in an ancient city half-buried in sand, standing near an oasis lost in the sands of the Great Desert, was well protected along its entire perimeter in various ways. If there was one thing the witches knew better than anyone else, it was how to control and protect the land where their coven had lived for centuries. To this, one could and should add the numerous spatial anomalies, most of them deadly, with which the entire Great Desert was generously filled after the War of God's Wrath.

But even so, the Matriarch of the coven considered these measures insufficient and continued to strengthen and reinforce the protection of the most valuable asset of the Daughters of the Desert. Some of the witches tried to point out to Mother Ayar that this was excessive and that all the new levels of magical protection were beginning to consume too many resources. But the ancient witch was adamant and categorical! At the next general meeting of the coven, attended by the entire leadership along with their students, essentially the cream of the organisation, the Matriarch categorically stated that now, for the first time in several centuries, they had a real chance to penetrate the Dark Tower of the Apostate and subjugate it. And therefore, she would not tolerate even the slightest, even the most phantome, potential, theoretical, minimal, any threat to this chance. Which was the child of Ashuir. A descendant, albeit infinitely distant, of Reistar, whose blood was free from the curse of Black Blood.

None of the Daughters of the Desert argued or objected to Mother Ayar. They all agreed that for such a goal, it was possible and necessary to endure any difficulties and inconveniences. The house provided by Ashuir was separated from the other buildings by a separate wall, which became the foundation for another dome-shaped barrier. In front of the wall, they dug a moat and filled it with water from the oasis. They also populated it with several very dangerous and predatory creatures raised by witches. The entire space in front of the moat was literally littered with tracking, scanning, search, and signal amulets. Some were separate, some were complex. And, of course, there were all kinds of traps, not only magical ones, but also completely devoid of magic, such as classic traps. Moreover, they were invisible to magical vision, but no less deadly for that.

The protection afforded to the child and his parents was such that even the Emperor of the distant Eastern Empire would have envied it, not to mention the lesser rulers of the Free Cities. A wide variety of protective barriers blocked all entrances and entire walls. Closed fields continuously filtered and purified the air of even the smallest dust particles, not to mention any poisons or simply foreign impurities. Duplicated complexes of various amulets. The most powerful artefacts that were in the hands of the coven. The most skilful decoys, designed to draw any hostile magic onto themselves.

And, the cherry on top, there was almost a state of siege imposed on the Coven's Abode. Any witch who had left for the outside world and her companions were checked three or four times upon their return, literally stripped naked and examined in the centre of a special ritual circle designed to search for and detect any traces of witchcraft, even the smallest ones. The same procedure, down to undressing, was carried out on everyone who entered the designated Ashuir house. Even Mother Ayar herself, setting an example for her sisters in the coven, meekly underwent these checks. When someone stammered that this was surely unnecessary, the Matriarch immediately reminded them how the accursed murderers had infiltrated Ashwir's grandmother's house in Sakhib-Nere by planting a vial of blood on one of the guests, which had tricked the security systems. And what if it wasn't a fake vial, but an explosive amulet? Exactly!

And, of course, the person responsible for all these unprecedented efforts was never allowed to leave the house, which had been transformed into a magical fortress. Neither were his parents. The most they were allowed to do was walk around the inner courtyard. The three-story building, which was built before the War of God's Wrath, was square in shape, with a central courtyard where a small but carefully tended garden had been laid out. This, too, had been diligently transformed into another element of defence. Although the coven of witches was not a circle of druids, the Daughters of the Desert knew very well how to grow and adapt magically active plants for protection. So the tree growing in the centre of the garden, with its large, succulent leaves, and the neatly trimmed bushes with pink flowers planted around the perimeter, along with some of the other plants, could give a very serious rebuff to any enemy who broke through.

And it was under these conditions that Ashuir and her son would spend the next few years. Someone else might have been plunged into melancholy and despondency by such a situation. But the sorceress took it relatively calmly. Mainly because she simply had no time to feel bored now. All the responsibilities of caring for the child fell on her shoulders. She immersed herself in this task with a pleasure that was quite unexpected for her. Spending time with the baby, whose name would only be given at the age of five according to a special naming ceremony decided by the coven, was not a burden for Ashuir, but a joy. A skilled sorceress, a recognised master of Mind Magic, she herself did not expect that she would enjoy caring for her child so much, a child who seemed to have drained all her strength during pregnancy.

But look how strong and healthy he was born! He's still just a baby, but you can already see he has a very strong gift for magic, and his subtle bodies are forming perfectly. And best of all, he sleeps peacefully through the night until morning! It's just a miracle! Once again experiencing a surge of maternal tenderness, Ashuir, having finished swaddling her son, leaned forward and kissed the little one, eliciting another round of joyful cooing. Taking him in her arms, she carefully transferred her treasure to a special wooden cradle, made by the craftswomen of the coven and covered with three layers of protective carvings. Without exaggeration, this masterpiece of artefact craftsmanship hovered in the air a metre and a half above the floor, swaying gently from side to side.

As soon as the baby was placed in it, he fell asleep very quickly, and the protective carving of the cradle covered him with a solid protective barrier that could withstand even an attack by a master of combat magic. Ashuir smiled contentedly, satisfied that all the weaves were working perfectly, and at that moment, there was a short knock at the door of the baby's bathing and changing room. One of the four Sakharibs, standing in different parts of the room in full combat gear so as to control all areas of it, approached the door after a couple of seconds' delay and opened it.

A young man entered the bathing and changing room. He had pale skin, straight dark hair, eyes as blue as a baby's, and an aristocratic face. He was dressed in an exquisite robe, tailored in the latest Caliphate fashion, made of fine light-coloured fabric. Upon seeing her lover and the child's father, Ashuir smiled sadly and asked briefly:

"That's it?"

He nodded briefly in response:

"Yes. I packed everything yesterday. The honourable Gülanar has just sent word that everything is ready and she is waiting for me at the portal."

"I see..."

An awkward pause hung in the air. Over the past year or so, Ashuir... no, she hadn't fallen in love with the young man the Coven had chosen for her as the father of her future child. But she had grown quite attached to him. Cyrus turned out to be... a good man. She felt very comfortable and at ease with him. And that made her three times more sad about the reason they had to part. The Coven found the young man when the Black Blood curse had already begun to kill him, reacting to his awakened magical gift. The witches made every effort to minimise and eliminate negative effects. And in many ways, they succeeded. From the moment the deal with the Coven was made, Cyrus experienced virtually no pain or other ailments. But even the Daughters of the Desert were powerless to save Cyrus.

The curse slowly but surely continued to kill the young man. Its effect was partially weakened by the fact that the rituals performed by the Coven, aimed at maximising the power of the unborn child, had almost completely depleted Cyrus's magical gift, which had already been severely damaged by the curse. This deprived the curse of a significant portion of its ‘fuel,’ which, according to the witches, gave the young man approximately one additional year of life.

But after another examination, conducted in the presence of Mother Ayar, the witches came to an unequivocal conclusion: Cyrus's continued presence near Ashwir, and especially near their child, was undesirable. Cyrus had already given his son everything he could as a father. And as the curse progressed, there was a small but real chance that it could spread to the baby, despite all the precautions taken by the Coven.

Therefore, the witches decided to move Cyrus to Sahib-Nere, where he would live out the rest of his days in Ashwir's father's mansion, with all the amenities and comforts. And also under supervision. Given that Cyrus's blood was cursed, using it to harm Ashwir's child, whose blood was pure, became a very difficult task. It was practically impossible even for a very skilled malefic, despite the fact that they were close relatives. The curse had contaminated the blood of the Apostate's descendants too much, making it completely different from the clean blood of the sorceress's child.

Of course, someone could have decided that it would be easier to simply get rid of the young man who had lost all value. But even if Ashuir had not taken a liking to him, most of the coven's leadership, including Mother Ayar, were categorically opposed to such a thing. Not out of compassion, but because the witches had very big plans for their child. And it would be very bad if, when the child grew up, someone told him how badly his father had been treated. Of course, the possibility of this happening was negligible, but the Matriarch did not want to take even the slightest risk that someone would turn their key to the Dark Tower against the Coven.

Therefore, Cyrus will spend the few years he has left in Ashuir's father's mansion in complete comfort. But they will most likely never see each other again. This made the sorceress genuinely sad.

"Well, then, is it time to say goodbye?" Ashuir smiled sadly.

"It's time," Cyrus nodded and affectionately embraced his lover and the mother of his child.

He immediately moved his hands from her waist to her firm buttocks, burying his face in her chest. Fortunately, she was slightly taller than her lover, and there was plenty to bury himself in. Ashuir was wearing only a loose-fitting dressing gown. Rolling her eyes, the sorceress sighed demonstratively, but did not object, allowing Cyrus to fondle her. She was not at all embarrassed by the Sakharibs standing next to them, perceiving the warriors trained by the coven more as elements of the interior.

"I will miss you," whispered the young man.

"I'm sorry it has to end this way, Cyrus," Ashuir replied sadly, running her fingers through his hair.

At the same time, she was never deceitful. She genuinely felt sorry for the young man, who had much stronger feelings for her than she did, which she, being a very skilled practitioner of Mind Magic, could see perfectly well. During the time they spent together, he truly fell in love with her. And she did not use any mental or love magic to arouse his feelings. As a woman, she found this a little flattering, but still flattering nonetheless.

"Me too," sighed the young man sadly.

Without forgetting to caress his lover's buttocks with his hands and rub his face against her breasts, he practically threw open her robe. Beginning to cover the sorceress's exposed breasts with tender kisses, Cyrus continued:

"But I don't regret anything. The time we spent together was the best of my life. Thank you and your sisters for that..."

Closing her eyes, Ashwir enjoyed her lover's caresses one last time. Over time, he had become quite skilled in bed, having thoroughly studied the sorceress's preferences. Cyrus gradually lowered his lips lower and lower, finally opening his lover's robe wide, until he knelt before her, pressing his mouth to her lower lips. Biting her lip, Ashuir threw back her head, burying both hands in Cyrus's hair. Pausing for a few seconds, they moved to one of the free tables, where the young man laid the sorceress down on her back and pressed his lips to her flower again. Ashuir wrapped her legs around him, continuing to hold his hair with one hand, while the other began to caress her breasts.

A couple of minutes later, her loud moan echoed through the bathroom. Fortunately, the enchantress did not need to restrain herself — the enchanted cradle protected the baby not only from possible threats but also blocked out extraneous sounds, allowing the little one to sleep undisturbed. While Aushir, brought to climax by her lover's skilled tongue, was breathing heavily, coming to her senses, Cyrus, standing in front of her, gently ran his hands from her hips to her chest, caressing her. For a few seconds, he admired the sorceress's body, then kissed her on the lips with longing in his eyes. She willingly responded to his caress, pressing the young man close to her.

When the kiss ended, Cyrus whispered:

"Goodbye..."

"Goodbye..."

With these words, the young man, accompanied by a couple of Sakharibs, left. He left, as Ashuir clearly understood, forever. At best, they would be able to see each other through enchanted mirrors. And the mind of the sorceress, who continued to lie on her back on the table in a frankly indecent position, understood simple things perfectly well. The coven needed a gifted descendant of Reistar, free from the curse of Black Blood, to finally penetrate the Black Tower of the Apostate. Cyrus helped them get him, in exchange for several years of life without constant excruciating pain and in complete comfort. As any merchant would say, whether from the Confederation, his native Caliphate, or even the Eastern Empire, it was a fucking great deal! It was a deal. One in which, in essence, there should have been nothing personal. The same marriage of convenience, only with a special twist.

But then why the hell is she feeling so awful and sad that she wants to howl at the top of her lungs? Could it be that she has become so attached to this boy, whom she would not even have looked at under different circumstances? That's nonsense... If she weren't a master of Mind Magic, even if she had temporarily given up active practice, she would suspect that the boy had cast a spell on her. Which was patently absurd. But then why? Why...

For several minutes, Ashuir lay on the table, her legs dangling, staring at the ceiling. She didn't want to do anything. She wanted to just lie there. And she wanted the boy, who was like a son or younger brother to her, to be nearby. Then, with an effort of will, the sorceress forced herself to get to her feet and headed for her chambers on the top floor of the house assigned to her, without even bothering to put on her robe or make herself look presentable in any way. Who was there to be shy in front of? The ever-silent Sakharibs? A few maids who were so tightly bound by all sorts of oaths and suggestions that they couldn't do anything that could harm Ashuir or her baby, that they were now more like meat golems than living people? Ridiculous...

The cradle with the baby floated smoothly through the air beside her. Glancing at her peacefully sleeping child, the sorceress felt her heart grow lighter, and she smiled. He was so cute, she wanted to hug and cuddle him all the time, listening to his joyful cooing. But she couldn't, a child was not a toy. Unlike someone else...

Feeling her smile widen, Ashuir entered her chambers, accompanied by her Sakharibs, who followed her everywhere. And as soon as she stepped inside, she sang cheerfully, looking at her favourite toy:

"Are you having fun, Bibi?"

A young and very pretty girl, one might even say without exaggeration, a true island beauty, did not answer him. This was because her mouth was gagged, and her slender and completely naked body was bound with rope made of specially enchanted silk so as not to chafe her delicate skin. And not just any old ropes, but intricate love knots, in particular, entwining her luscious breasts with protruding nipples in such a way that they appeared even larger. The helpless girl was only able to move her toes, tied to a special massage table. Or rather, a young man, who, thanks to the efforts of Ashuir herself and a couple of her sisters in the Coven, now looked like a very beautiful girl.

But despite all the changes that had happened to him, he still had the most important and valuable thing. And credit must be given to Bibi, whose real name was Balibir, who made every effort to keep his best friend and favourite toy. Since his capture, he had become an exemplary servant, worthy of a position in the palace of the Most Illustrious Caliph. Ashwir found his efforts and endeavours extremely amusing, especially since she had not altered the islander's mind. It was extremely amusing to read his various indecent thoughts about her, which he tried with all his might to drive away, knowing that she could easily read them. It was even more amusing to constantly tease the boy with her body, while at the same time persuading him to finally give in and allow himself to be turned into a full-fledged ‘girl.’

Reading Bibi's thoughts during those moments of bathing together was a pleasure. How he trembled as he washed her body, torn between desire and fear, was simply delightful. After all, he knew not only that Ashuir could see all his thoughts, but also that the enchantress who had captivated him could literally do whatever she wanted with him on a whim. And Ashuir did, openly amusing herself with the boy, using his desperate desire to preserve his male dignity.

But it was important not to go too far, so that Bibi would not forget why he was trying so hard and enduring such humiliation. Therefore, Ashuir periodically threw her pet a ‘bone.’ Just like now. One of the maids allowed to work in the sorceress's house was sitting completely naked on top of the bound and helpless young man. She was no less pretty than Bibi, but while Bibi had been transformed by Ashwir's efforts into a very beautiful islander, the maid's beauty was different. Like most members of the servant dynasties who lived with the Coven, some of her ancestors were from the Caliphate, and some were from the far South of the mainland, where black-skinned peoples lived. The mixture of different bloodlines resulted in the maid having dark skin, and although her hair was dark, it was not nearly as curly as that of the purebred natives of the far South.

With an indifferent expression, she rhythmically moved her hips, rising and falling on Bibi's cock. Apparently, during Ashuir's absence, her favourite toy had already ejaculated several times inside the maid. Approaching the head of the massage table, the sorceress mentally commanded the dark-skinned girl to stop and gently ran her hand over Bibi's cheek. Removing the gag from his mouth, Ashuir asked kindly:

"Did you like it, my dear?"

She had long since referred to her toy exclusively in the feminine gender. Licking his lips, which had become noticeably juicier thanks to Ashuir's efforts, he said in a slightly hoarse voice:

"Thank you, mistress, for such a generous reward..."

At that moment, he looked away for a second from the almost naked body of the sorceress, who still hadn't put on her robe, but then he kept staring at her bare boobs from below. Smiling, Ashwir touched the tip of Bibi's nose with her index finger and pressed it a little:

"It's so funny to read your thoughts, Bibi... And yes, you're right, if you looked away, I would think that you don't like my beautiful body. And I would be very offended..."

Leaning forward, the sorceress gently moved her shoulders. Her breasts, which had never been small to begin with and had grown slightly larger after giving birth, swayed directly above Bibi's face, almost touching it, so that Ashuir could feel his breath on her bare skin. For a few moments, he lay motionless, then raised his head slightly, as far as the silk bonds holding him allowed, wrapped his lips around the nipple of the sorceress's left breast, and began to caress it with the tip of his tongue.

Well, he finally dared. Closing her eyes tightly, Ashwir arched her back even more and literally laid her chest on Bibi's face. For a long time, he had been afraid to even glance at her, let alone touch her. It was so amusing. And even now, she still hadn't changed the boy's mind. Only all kinds of prohibitions, restrictions, suggestions, and even a real stigma were placed on him, and not by Ashwir herself, but by her sisters and aunts in the coven. It was not easy to persuade them to leave her living toy alive without turning it into a full-fledged doll, as some of the witches from the top of the Daughters of the Desert were categorically against it.

But Ashuir was already bored in what was essentially forced confinement, and at least Bibi provided some entertainment. It would be at least a year, if not a year and a half, before she could return to normal practice and development of her magic. Pregnancy had exhausted her, not nearly as much as Cyrus, but still very noticeably. The gifted child she carried under her heart drew strength from her mother for three. So, ideally, she needed to take her time to recover, perform a few appropriate rituals, and, ideally, she would be able to return to active practice after she finished breastfeeding. But until then, the sorceress had nothing much to do in the coven's abode. Therefore, Ashuir entertained herself as best she could. Including Bibi.

After enjoying his lips and tongue, the sorceress decided she had had enough and sat up straight. With a quick movement of her hand, she pulled a free chair towards her and sat down on it, leaning over the bound Bibi again. But now, his head was pressed against her breasts, and Ashuir's face was directly above him. Smiling, the sorceress looked into his eyes for a few seconds, easily reading his thoughts. Then she began to lean forward slowly, opening her mouth, and... at the last moment, instead of kissing him, she reached out with her right hand and pinched Bibi's right nipple, causing him to squeal in fright.

Laughing, the sorceress leaned back in her chair and grabbed her living toy by the cheeks with both hands, beginning to squeeze them:

"You're so funny, Bibi... Reading your thoughts is a pleasure..."

Leaning forward again, Ashuir whispered directly into his ear:

"Especially your fantasies about me, which you try so hard to suppress, you little minx... All right, I'll indulge you a little more..."

Leaving Bibi's cheeks, who was trying with all his might to think about anything but not what he had just been thinking about, Ashuir sent a short mental command. The maid, sitting astride Bibi all this time, carefully climbed down from him. But only to immediately wrap her lips around the boy's dick and begin to suck it diligently, causing him to gasp convulsively. Ashuir had pampered her living toy with oral caresses from the maids only a couple of times over the past year. After waiting a few seconds, she leaned towards him and whispered in his ear:

"If you dare to imagine me in her place, I will be upset..."

The boy flinched at these words and tried to say something, his eyes wide with fear, but Ashuir stopped him by placing her finger on his lips and continued:

"And if you imagine someone else instead of me, I will decide I am not attractive enough for you. And I will get very angry..."

For a few seconds, the sorceress enjoyed the panic on Bibi's face and in his mind, while the dark-skinned maid continued to methodically pleasure him with her mouth. Then Ashuir laughed loudly and kissed Bibi tenderly on the forehead:

"I'm just kidding, my dear! You can think about anyone you want!"

Leaving the unfortunate young man in a state of extreme agitation and complete confusion, Ashuir briefly ordered the maid:

"When he cums, tidy yourself up and do your household chores."

The maid did not react to her words, but Ashwir could clearly see that her mind had accepted the new command. The sorceress, having finally taken off her robe, lay naked on her wide bed, covered with pillows, and stared at the ceiling. Oh... It's boring to sit within four walls all the time... And now that Cyrus is gone, it will be even more boring. Playing with Bibi is fun, of course, but you can't do that all the time... Hmm... Should she ask Mother Ayar for some new books? She had already read all the ones in the coven's monastery over the past year. Well, not all of them, of course, just the ones that interested her. The Daughters of the Desert had an excellent library, which contained knowledge on a wide variety of schools and branches of magic. But Ashuir would not be returning to active practice anytime soon, and without it, dry theory was of little use; she was not some student just learning the basics of witchcraft. So lately she had been reading mostly various tales and legends of the past, telling of the exploits of great heroes and, of course, of love.

The latter was particularly interesting. Ashuir herself did not expect that reading the memoirs of life in the harem of the Apostate, left by her long-deceased mother Saahat, would be so interesting. And not only for her. Cyrus also learned with interest some rather spicy details from the biography of his distant ancestor. And then, together with Ashuir, they wondered which of the Apostate's concubines or younger wives was his ancestor. Cyrus...

Feeling sadness wash over her again, Ashwir rolled onto her side and buried her face in the pillows, wrapping her arms and legs around one of them. She didn't feel like doing anything at all, so she decided to take a nap for an hour or two. Fortunately, the weaving surrounding the cradle with the baby, which hung in the centre of a special small ritual circle in the corner of her bedroom, would let her know as soon as he woke up and needed food.

Even before the sorceress finally fell asleep, her bed was covered by a protective dome-shaped barrier, supported by another ritual circle drawn directly on the floor beneath the bed. And the silent sakaribs stood motionless by the cradle and bed, still with their weapons at the ready and looking in all directions with their white eyes.

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/588706

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP