The morning after the Claiming Circle, the Spire smelled of sex and roses—thick, heady, and unmistakable.
The scent clung to every stone, every silk sheet, every inch of skin. Women woke sore and leaking, thighs sticky with dried cum that had leaked from well-used cunts throughout the night.
The fractures had spread further overnight, no longer subtle silver threads but bold, branching veins of anti-magic that now covered torsos, brushed cheekbones, and licked along collarbones like living tattoos.
They pulsed visibly with every heartbeat, reacting to every vivid memory of Aiden's thick cock stretching them open, every deep thrust, every hot flood of seed.
Isolde gathered her closest allies in a shadowed alcove before the sun had fully risen, her voice low and urgent.
