Jean D'Liore's kitchen-laboratory was a sanctuary of heat, aromas, and hidden enchantments, where fire and magic intertwined like old lovers. It occupied a circular wing of volcanic stone, covered by greenish moss that glowed faintly at night, tracing arcane symbols along the curved walls. The ceiling was an irregular vault, open to the sky through a narrow fissure that allowed pale beams of light to enter—or, on the darkest nights, the silent gaze of the stars.
On cold stone counters rested rows of translucent vials, each containing powders fine as stardust, dense liquids that changed color depending on the angle of the light, or small preserved organs from magical creatures: salamander glands, wyvern livers, petals from carnivorous flowers. Above them, hanging from cypress shelves, lay enchanted knives, spoons carved from chimera bones, marble pestles, and enchanted mortars that ground ingredients on their own, humming nearly inaudible melodies as they worked.
— Wow. — Khaled was stunned. It had been ages since he felt curious about alchemy. A master of alchemical arts, he had once sought lost ingredients. Yet, his focus had always been the purity of magic and the creation of new foundations. Therefore, he had set aside his passion for potions, concentrating on ancient scriptures, new runes, and perpetual languages. He was fascinated by how Jean approached alchemy—not merely as potion-making, but as the art of magical cuisine, so forgotten and underestimated.
On the opposite side, a long rotating grill was ready to roast mythical creatures: pheasants with prismatic feathers, boars with silver tusks, and even the occasional dragonfish, whose scales needed to be seasoned with enchanted salt to prevent them from exploding under the heat. Jean seasoned each piece with delicate hand movements, chanting spells of flavor and texture that sealed the meats with a perfect crust, releasing aromas that could intoxicate even a troll.
On the upper shelves, which Jean could only reach with the aid of a levitation spell, were stored the most dangerous seasonings: fae-fire pepper, whose powder could incinerate an unprepared tongue; medusa salt, which slightly petrified any meat, giving it a unique crunch; and lunar bee honey, capable of sweetening even the bitterest of poisons.
— I'm glad you liked it. I read your grimoire and it was incredibly revealing. I admit that most of the spells and magical circles are beyond my power, but your way of writing is so curious and sublime. — Jean said, tapping around the room as if dancing to an imaginary song playing in her head. She never looked directly at her visitors, merely gliding her fingers, their tips slightly darkened by alchemical practice, though most of the time she kept her hands protected by thick dragon leather gloves.
— Jean, how did you obtain my grimoire? — Khaled asked, curiosity permeating his voice. He was used to underestimating sorcerers, but the half-elf before him made it clear: she was not someone to be underestimated.
— It was difficult, I spent days studying the rune. Actually, the grimoire itself didn't interest me, it was just the fact that it had so many protections and illusions that intrigued me. So, for almost a year, I kept noting, unraveling, and simply letting myself go—I spent days deep in it, trying to understand how the mechanism worked, every detail of the arcane weave involved. My mind could only think about the words, about the scriptures, so old, so rudimentary, that they were only seen in the world of elves, so familiar and at the same time distant. I knew I had to remove it, or it would consume me. I neglected my career for a time, spending days immersed with the silent guardians. — She recounted with a certain pride in her accomplishment.
Khaled smiled, imagining her dedicated for months to that silent quest—focused, determined, driven by a pure desire to drink from a knowledge that might not even bear any future fruit. That thought warmed his chest; it had been centuries since he had seen someone consumed by such hunger for knowledge.
He approached the cook with the discretion of a master observing, attentively, the precise gesture of his apprentice. He let his hands rest behind his back while his eyes scanned, admiring, what she kept on her shelves. Potions with unusual labels: Essence of Draconic Smoke, Lunar Mist Liqueur, Ghost Pepper Tonic, Solar Saffron Elixir, Star-Shadow Infusion.
Jean, unaware of the elf's presence, simply extended her hand and retrieved the dusty grimoire—as one who picks a rotten fruit, as one who no longer hungers for it.
— After I took it, I lost interest. But I realized that, due to the extent of its power and protections, I couldn't leave it in the tower. So, I decided to take responsibility and keep it safe. It was twelve years of waiting for its owner to arrive. Funny.
Khaled finally held his grimoire. He let his hand touch the black leather cover, marked by ancient cracks, as if time had left its claws but failed to erase it completely. The embossed runes, which once shimmered with the vigor of living magic, were now dull, dormant, yet still imposing—waiting only for the touch of their true owner. His fingers hovered over the rough surface, and he felt a subtle shock coursing through his skin, like the electric memory of a life he had thought dead. For a moment, he stood still, eyes locked on that object that had been his greatest creation... and his most bitter loss.
Two hundred years. Two hundred years exiled from his own power, separated from the magical currents that once flowed through his soul like an untamable river. Now, before the grimoire, the emptiness that had consumed him since the betrayal finally showed cracks.
He inhaled deeply, and the smell of the old leather, mixed with the faint metallic aroma of the runes, made his chest shudder. As he slowly opened the tome, the pages breathed, releasing a warm breath of accumulated energy. The inscribed symbols, which only he could decipher, began to pulse, gaining color and shape as his eyes traced each line, as if the magic itself recognized its rightful master.
Khaled's chest filled with something he hadn't felt in centuries: power, yes... but also vertigo, fear, and a fierce, brutal joy, capable of wounding. His fingers trembled, not from age or weakness, but from the awareness that here, in this moment, he was regaining not just his magic, but also his identity, buried beneath layers of resentment and isolation.
He closed his eyes for a second, allowing the dormant power to infiltrate his soul once again, like blood resuming its flow after a long numbness. When he reopened them, a bluish spark silently and vibrantly flashed through his iris.
— Look, I don't mean to say anything, but I think something's going on with your mage. — Tilka said from a bit further away, sitting on a bench, eating some suspicious little fruits strategically placed on a black platter that emitted a soft, fragrant blue smoke.
— Yeah... I don't know. — Liandre replied, but in truth, the throbbing vein at the side of his head betrayed the tension spreading through his body. He kept his arms crossed, the austere posture of a soldier, his back rigid, aligned with military precision, while his eyes remained fixed on the scene before him: the two playing with arcane arts. Khaled spoke with rare enthusiasm, his gaze lit, vibrant, as if rediscovering the world with each word, and Jean, fascinated, followed his gestures with an almost ethereal lightness, dancing through the space as if finally encountering her kindred spirit.
Liandre didn't like that. He didn't like the evident compatibility, the spontaneous and natural way they interacted. He felt his chest fill, not with admiration... but with jealousy. A silent, bitter jealousy that corroded him from within, as he wondered: why was the other displaying such a deep connection?
They were both arcanists, after all. Two lovers of what they did, two devourers of knowledge, consumed by their own obsession, so focused, so turned towards each other and what they sought, that it seemed there was no room for anyone else.
Liandre remained there, motionless, like a wall, while within him pride and resentment silently dueled.
— Khaled, we need to go. Find an inn and spend the night. — The warrior finally stepped forward, driven by the sensation of helplessness.
— Of course. — Khaled finally seemed to have awakened. After experiencing the sensation of filling the emotional voids, having a well-deserved rest and finally reading each page of his grimoire once again would bring the feeling that magic coursed through his blood.
— You can stay here if you want; I have two rooms available. Tilka is also invited. — Jean wanted to know more about the powerful mage before her, stripped of titles, devoid of any fame. The one who had been her fascination for so many years.
Before Liandre could object, he heard Khaled's enthusiastic voice abruptly agreeing without asking his opinion. He clenched his fists tightly, feeling the leather straps pressing into his rough skin. He gritted his teeth firmly. The silent protest didn't last long. Tilka gave a few pats on his leg, reading all the mercenary's expressions as if he were an open book she could flip through at any moment without much effort.
Liandre climbed the stairs with heavy, intense steps, his boots making a dull, muffled sound, but the only noise that caught attention was the clinking of his armor. Jean provided clean sheets and clothes.
"They were my brother's." — Jean gifted Liandre with new clothes, chosen with silent, almost ritualistic precision, as if knowing that garments, more than fabric, also shape the spirit. They weren't glamorous—and she knew he wouldn't tolerate that—but carried a discreet, practical beauty, marked by details that only attentive eyes would notice.
The thick linen shirt, in a bluish-gray tone, hugged his torso firmly, while the dark leather vest, filled with small aged brass buckles, adjusted at the waist, giving an air of restraint and strength. Over the shoulders, a waxed fabric jacket, resistant to weather and dust, with visible seams and bronze reinforcements along the edges, as if prepared to withstand both tempests and battles.
The trousers were of thick cotton, in a dark moss-green tone, snug enough not to hinder movement but loose enough for the comfort of a traveler. The well-worn leather boots rose to mid-calf, fastened by diagonal straps and small ornamental gears, discreetly evoking the aesthetic of the new age, without ever slipping into excess.
He remembered Hector, his older brother—big, strong arms, a burly body—yet the kindest and most attentive person he had ever known. He fought for the revolution, and as a consecrated hero, gave his life for the cause.
Liandre, upon receiving the clothes, said nothing, merely nodded with that dry and restrained demeanor—but Jean noticed, in the brief stroke of his hands over the seams, that he had approved.
She approached Khaled, the package in hand, offering it to the mage with more timidity than when approaching the mercenary, as if the striking presence of magic left her both intimidated and euphoric at the same time.
— They're clothes... mine — she said, with that economical, contained, but steady voice. — I think they'll fit.
Khaled slightly furrowed his brow, as if weighing the delicacy of the gesture, then set the grimoire aside and untied the ribbon. He carefully unfolded the fabric and, inside, found simple yet elegant pieces in their own way: a soft linen shirt, dyed a deep wine color that, under the light, took on purple reflections; a fine, flexible leather vest with reinforced stitching at the shoulders; and black cotton pants, fitted to the body, designed for agility and comfort.
Beside them, precisely folded, a light overcoat made of the same waxed fabric she wore—resistant and silent, like the two of them.
— Sizes... compatible — Jean said, shrugging, as if it were a mere calculation, but deep down there was something more: a silent sharing, a permission for Khaled to also occupy that intimate, almost domestic space among her things.
The elf smiled faintly, discreetly, accepting the gift as one who perfectly understands what has not been said. He ran his hand over the fabric, feeling its texture, and responded with a respectful nod.
— They're perfect.
Jean just nodded and turned away, returning to the steaming cauldrons. No more words were necessary.
— What was that? — Liandre asked once they were alone in the room. There was only a small bed, but the extra mattress on the floor would allow them to sleep more comfortably. Even though both knew they would share the same bed that night.
— Nothing, just mutual admiration. — Khaled commented, although he wanted to say more, he noticed the other's impatient voice, so it wouldn't help to lay out his emotions about the moment or the grimoire.
He abruptly closed the distance, grabbing the mage's nape and pulling him close, crushing his mouth in an impulsive, dense kiss, as if pouring out, without filters, everything he didn't know how to say. It was a rough, intense gesture—their lips suddenly pressed together, imposing in that pressure all the feelings that had long been silently simmering.
Gradually, the kiss deepened, seeking passage, fumbling with urgency, until it softened upon realizing Khaled was yielding, surrendering to the advance, still confused, not fully comprehending what was happening, but sensitive to the anxiety overflowing in that gesture.
He then felt the mage's hand slide up his arm, slowly reaching the curve of his neck, a touch that made his skin shiver and deepened his urge. He licked his lips, then his tongue, savoring him as one finally tasting the long-desired nectar—and in that moment, there was no spell, curse, or vengeance: only the heat of their bodies and the silent complicity of the kiss.
— Take off the armor. — Khaled said, breathless, managing to pull away briefly from a kiss he didn't know how long had lasted.
He growled, irritated at having the armor on his own body, preventing him from fully feeling the mage. He tore off the metal, letting it fall to the floor; the metallic thud might have drawn attention at another time, but now, he was just staring at the other's body, determined to have more than just caresses. And apparently, Khaled felt the same, for he was gradually shedding his own clothes, revealing his perfect, unmarred olive skin. The sublime delicacy matched his appearance.
They had spent days together without being able to enjoy intimacy. And now it was boiling over, not just with desire, but with jealousy that was corrupting his perceptions. He wanted to claim Khaled, to show everyone who he truly belonged to. The mark might have contributed, but he believed the possessive feelings would've come anyway. He had never been in a relationship where he surrendered emotionally, and now he had to deal with the nuances of feelings for which he wasn't prepared, and because of that, he exploded in a latent insecurity. "You belong to me", his expression and his need screamed at that moment.
As soon as he managed to get rid of his own clothes, which now looked like rags, he hugged Khaled like a bear. Enveloping his entire body, laying the mage on the bed without much delicacy due to the urgency he felt in the moment. His body excited and hot. Even the other was flushed and feverish. The delicate, soft hands touched his beard, his face, and slid down to his neck, gripping and pulling him, finally kissing his lips again; his hands gliding over the almond skin, squeezing every part.
— Liandre. — The mage's voice came out like a sigh, wrapped in the pleasure of feeling his body so thoroughly cherished. — You know... I'm not attracted to women. So, you don't need to worry.
His face turned completely red when he realized he had been transparent about his feelings. An open book, huh? He felt stupid for being so jealous but wouldn't back down. He held the small body firmly, gripping his skin. He pressed his lips to the delicate neck, biting, sucking the skin until he left a mark. As if leaving a message to anyone: Khaled belongs to me. Even knowing it wasn't true, even knowing that, unfortunately, it didn't work that way, his chest was slowly crushed by the thought that he'd never truly have him. But at that moment, he left his insecurities behind; he needed to satisfy his object of affection and desire. He slid his mouth down his chest, across his belly, until he reached his hardened member. Licking the glans, enveloping it with his lips. Making the elf's back arch with the sudden pleasure flooding his body. He withdrew his mouth slowly, just to lick his fingers, then slid them inside the other.
He could tell that Khaled simply opened up, letting the mercenary do whatever he wanted. He sank his mouth at the same time his fingers maintained a deep, intense rhythm. The other didn't resist, letting himself be carried away by the ecstasy until orgasm. And at that moment, he knew he could go further. He positioned himself in front, still admiring the delicacy and softness of the man before him. He slid his fingertips along his large ears, a particularly sensitive part of his body, and noticed when the smaller man curled up beneath him, letting out a soft, enthusiastic moan, saying without words how much he liked the caresses. Brutality was part of his nature, and he knew the mage liked that part. He gripped his hair firmly, pulling him closer, kissing his mouth with more hunger and imposition. Entering him without shame. Their muffled moans blending as their lips remained glued in exhaustion.
He would never say loving words during the act—of that he was sure. Even as his own emotions overflowed with every thrust he kept steady against the mage's small, fragile body. He enveloped him in his arms, pulling him onto his lap, surprising Khaled, who let out a soft sigh and instinctively clung to his broad chest, moving slowly, breathless, their movements sliding, eager, almost desperate.
— You're beautiful... — Liandre couldn't hold back, his voice hoarse and broken by effort and desire, as he admired that face marked by pleasure: flushed cheeks, hair clinging to damp skin, and the way he tried, in vain, to maintain composure despite being so physically delicate.
Easily, he held his waist, pulling him even closer, resuming the firm, rough rhythm, pressing him against himself as if he wanted to mold him to his own body. He kissed his mouth, then slid to his neck, licking the warm skin, and bit intensely, marking his shoulders and the side of his neck—he wanted everyone to know: the mage had an owner... and it was him.
— L-Liandre... I... — Khaled barely managed to whisper, his voice failing.
But they didn't stop there.
Liandre, possessing impressive vigor, prolonged the moment, unhurried, as one who savors something rare and precious. Khaled didn't mind; on the contrary, he let himself be enveloped, let himself be pampered, receiving every gesture, every thrust—more than that: accepting the affection, the attention, the raw and absolute desire that only Liandre seemed capable of offering.
He felt the mage's nails digging into his back, firmly, as if trying to anchor himself to reality, but already intoxicated by the pleasure dragging them deeper and deeper. And while the body was overtaken by heat and exhaustion, Liandre's intense gaze pierced his with disconcerting ease, conquering him, dominating him, as he always did.
The possessive way he was touched, marked, almost claimed as property, made Khaled question whether he should allow it. But it was useless: the intoxicating pleasure dominated his senses, drowned out reason, filled his mind with sensations ever deeper and more addictive.
Liandre's lips took his with savagery, and he responded as much as he could, breath faltering, surrendered. He wanted more. Always more.
The night was long... intense.
Liandre didn't let him rest, drinking from his pleasure as one who quenches an ancient and insatiable thirst, lost in a desire that made time distort, becoming a continuous thread where beginning and end blurred.
When everything finally ceased—too long and too brief at the same time—Khaled still wanted more, even knowing his body could no longer endure.
Liandre...
He wanted his obsession, his possession, wanted to be loved and adored by him... but at the same time, he knew: he shouldn't. He couldn't allow himself to feel.
And yet, he couldn't help it.