Future Bride?

Chapter - 32

It had been a week since the ceremony and ball that marked my recovery. The days since had passed in a blur of rigorous training sessions with Sir Edric, honing my swordsmanship, and experimenting with the feythar coursing through my veins. Every swing of my blade felt sharper, every movement quicker, thanks to the extraordinary energy now entwined with my very being. The feythar not only enhanced my physical prowess but also heightened my connection to the unique ability I had gained from binding Cassandra and Nimera.

After binding Nimera, my enhanced eyesight which I had gotten from Cassandra, reached an entirely new level. I could now sustain the ability longer and use it with precision that had previously eluded me. My eyes felt sharper, more attuned to the world. It honestly felt as though time itself and everything around me moved more slowly when I used my ability. 

Feythar manipulation was an art that required relentless dedication to truly master. While the quantity of feythar coursing through one's veins was critical for raw power, it was the quality—the purity and density of that energy—that separated the average practitioner from a true master. I knew that binding monsters to myself increased the overall reservoir of feythar within me, but sheer volume alone was not enough. To wield it effectively, to refine it into a force capable of strengthening my body, I had to devote myself to the grueling yet rewarding practice of meditation.

Meditation was the cornerstone of feythar refinement. It was not merely sitting quietly and focusing one's thoughts; it was an intense, almost ritualistic communion with the feythar itself. Each session required one to retreat into himself, delving into the currents of energy within his body. The process was like sifting through a turbulent river, separating the impurities from the crystal-clear waters hidden beneath.

I would begin by finding a quiet, undisturbed space, often a secluded chamber in the palace or a shaded grove in the gardens. The environment mattered little in practice, but for my focus, it was essential to have an atmosphere that resonated with calm and stillness. Sitting cross-legged, I would center myself, my breathing slow and rhythmic, each inhalation drawing feythar to the surface, each exhalation expelling the residual wastes left behind in the process.

As I delved deeper, I could feel the flow of feythar within me, a vast and shimmering network of energy coursing through my veins. It wasn't a simple, passive process. Feythar, while obedient in combat or magic, had a willful nature when scrutinized too closely. Its raw form was chaotic, almost untamed—a volatile, swirling storm of power that resisted my attempts to impose order. Refining it required discipline and patience, as I visualized the feythar settling, condensing, and aligning into orderly streams.

The act of purification was akin to distillation. In my mind's eye, I could separate the luminous, radiant essence of pure feythar from the muddy, sluggish remnants of impurities. The impurities were stubborn, clinging to the energy as if unwilling to let go, but with steady persistence, I could will them out, guiding them to dissolve with each exhaled breath. The purified feythar that remained was denser, more potent—a refined essence that hummed with concentrated power.

Yet the process was slow, painstakingly so. No amount of willpower could hasten the natural refinement of feythar. It was a gradual, incremental process, one that demanded consistency and unwavering dedication. Every day, I dedicated at least two hours to this ritual.

Some days were more difficult than others. If I were distracted, agitated, or fatigued, the feythar would resist my efforts, its chaotic nature growing wilder. On those days, even maintaining control felt like trying to catch a hurricane in my hands. At times, I was tempted to forego the practice altogether, to rely solely on my increasing reserves from monster bindings. But I knew that without purification, my feythar would remain crude and unruly—a blade with an edge that would dull far too quickly.

---

This afternoon, as the sun dipped slightly in the sky, I found myself sitting beside Lirael in one of her favorite palace courtyards. The air was perfumed with the gentle fragrance of lilies and daisies that bloomed around us, their delicate petals swaying in the soft breeze. A pot of tea sat on the table between us, steaming faintly as we enjoyed the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Lirael, as always, looked radiant, her regal bearing softened by the relaxed atmosphere of the courtyard. She was often busy with her duties in the mornings, just as I was consumed by my training, but we always made time to be together in the afternoons.

As I finished my tea, Lirael turned to me, her blue eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Damon," she began, "have you given any thought to which of the young women at the ball caught your eye? Perhaps one you might consider as your future bride?"

Instead of answering immediately, I set my cup down on its saucer and looked at her with a small smile. "Have you finished your tea?" I asked.

She tilted her head at my diversion but nodded. "Yes, I have."

"Good," I said, patting my lap. "Then come here. I want you closer."

Her lips curled into that sultry, knowing smile that always sent a thrill through me. She stood and stepped around the table, her hips swaying with deliberate allure. Without hesitation, she lowered herself onto my lap, her plump curves pressing against me as she adjusted herself. She wriggled slightly, making herself comfortable while teasing my cock in the process. Her back settled against my chest, her warmth enveloping me.

I wrapped my arms around her slender waist, pulling her tightly to me. My face found its way to the crook of her neck, where her soft, pale skin tempted me beyond reason. Unable to resist, I nipped at her tender flesh, leaving faint red marks in my wake.

"Stop it!" she giggled, wiggling in my lap. "You'll leave marks."

I chuckled against her skin, my breath warm against her nape. "I like marking what's mine."

She tilted her head back to look at me, her smile indulgent. "Now, about those women from the ball?"

I pressed a kiss to her collarbone before answering. "Two of them left an impression on me," I said, my tone thoughtful. "One was Evelyne Marchand, the daughter of Marquis Lestelle Marchand. The other was Rivanna Karvelis, Duke Karvelis's daughter."

Lirael considered my words, her fingers idly tracing patterns on my arm. "Hmm, both are talented Tamers and beautiful women. Either one would make a fine bride," she said, her voice measured. She paused, tapping a finger to her lips in thought. "If you ask me, though, Rivanna is the better choice. Her family's loyalty to us is unwavering. She would likely make a loyal and capable queen by your side."

Her reasoning was sound, as always. I cupped her cheek, turning her face to mine, and captured her lips in a deep kiss. My tongue teased hers, coaxing her into a passionate exchange that left her breathless when we finally parted.

"You'll always be my queen, Mother," I murmured against her lips, my voice firm and sincere. "That will never change."

Her eyes softened, but I wasn't done. "For the position of my bride, though, I've been thinking—why can't I have two? I'm considering marrying both Evelyne and Rivanna. What do you think?"

Her expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she laughed softly. "Ambitious, aren't you, my son?" She studied me for a moment, then nodded, her smile returning. "Alright. If my son wishes to have two wives, he shall have two wives. Leave everything to me—I'll ensure it's arranged."

I kissed her again, this time with a fervent intensity that conveyed my gratitude and affection. 

"I love you, Mother," I said to Lirael.

Her fingers threaded through my hair, a tender smile gracing her lips. "And I love you, my precious boy."

---

The next morning, as Lirael and I sat enjoying breakfast, a firm knock echoed through the door. After Lirael gave permission to enter, the door creaked open, revealing a knight clad in gleaming armor.

He strode forward with measured steps, then dropped to one knee beside the Queen, his head bowed respectfully. In his outstretched hands, he held a sealed scroll.

"Your Majesty," the knight said. "A message of importance from the southern border region."