The dress draped over Taira felt like an extension of nature itself, woven from the earth, shaped by the land. It moved, breathed with her, cascading with every step. Her fingers brushed over the delicate clasp on her shoulder, tracing the intricate design. A single motion— and the fabric slipped down, pooling in a soft wave, baring her back.

The coolness of the sheets did nothing to soothe her. The fabric was soft, yet against her skin, it felt foreign. Distant. She ran her hands over her body— as if to remind herself that it was still hers. That it still belonged to her. That it was still alive.

They waited outside. They listened.

She would make sure no one doubted. No one dared to say she was broken. That she had lost. Taira closed her eyes. She inhaled— a deep, greedy breath, filled with fire. Her people waited. And then she exhaled. A sound slipped from her lips—the first, barely audible, trembling sigh. Her heart pounded.

She began the Rite of Union.

Her movements were like the wind brushing against cliffs, like the first raindrops before a storm. Slow. Gentle. But carrying the force of an approaching hurricane. Like the smooth, patient glide of a falcon— sensing its prey, but not yet diving, not yet surrendering to the madness of the fall.

Her hands skimmed over the curves of her body, over the silk that slid away, inch by inch, revealing more with every breath. As if she were dancing. This was not just desire—this was defiance. This was fury. This was resistance. Her breath hitched. Eyes closed. Head tilted back, lips trembling. The first quiet, drawn-out sigh. Her fingers trailed lower. Her breathing deepened. Her body arched, tension rippling through her spine, her thighs, her shoulders. Her chest rose. Her skin burned. Her muscles trembled.

She could hear them.

Her people.

A low, rising hum, slow, rolling like the tide before a storm. It wrapped around the tent, seeped through the walls, reached into every inch of her skin. It was the rhythm waiting for her. The sound that echoed in her blood. And then the fires, the voices outside—gone. There was only her breath. Only the pounding of her heart. Deep. Resonant. Like thunder before the lightning strike. She moved like the tide—slow, rhythmic, inevitable. Her hands glided over her skin, hot, insistent, soft but commanding. They knew what to do. They knew how to seize this moment, how to turn it into triumph. Her body danced with nature itself.

The tribe felt it.

The hum grew louder.

Taira heard it—and yet, in the same breath, she heard nothing. There was only her body. Her skin. Her breath. Her fire.

She arched, fingers clutching the sheets, lips parting.

The air turned sharp, cold—piercing, as if the night itself was breathing against her. She was not alone. She knew.

In the darkness of the tent, she was being watched. Tall, motionless, carved from ice.

White. Cold. A shadow of the moon in the night.

Eiris.

She stood frozen, and Taira did not see the way her fingers twitched—did not see the way her gaze locked onto her and did not move. But Taira knew. And yet—she could not stop. Her chest rose. Her breathing stuttered. Her movements deepened, grew more relentless. The fire surged. Power pulsed inside her. She was a storm, a force of nature, a wildfire—untamed. Unbound. Nothing could chain her now. Wind. Storm. Fire. Her head tilted back, lips parted, eyes hazed. Her breath—too loud. The world unraveled. There was only rhythm. Only a body that moved, that pulsed, that chased its peak. She knew she shouldn’t. But her body had already decided for her. Heat spread inside her, wildfire starved of air. She wasn’t supposed to move. But her muscles already trembled. Her skin burned beneath her own touch. Her fingers sank into warmth, into softness, into the pulse of life beneath skin. Her heart pounded in a frantic rhythm, too fast, too loud, drowning out the rest of the world. She should have stopped. She couldn’t. She heard Eiris’s breath. It had become part of this moment, woven into it, something inescapable. Something Taira could not ignore.

Heat and ice.

They were too close.

She felt her own fingers tighten. Felt everything. The tension coiled in her muscles, the molten heat pooling low in her belly, the ragged gasps, the impossibility of pulling away. Taira knew Eiris felt it too. But she could not see. Could not see the way Eiris’s pupils had blown wide, the way her hands had twitched, the way her body had tensed. But not to retreat. She was registering. But not yet understanding. She was here. But not yet feeling. Taira knew this. Eiris’s body was breathing beside her. Her chest rose—slowly. Too slowly. Taira was still moving. And she could not stop. The moment stretched.

Too long. Too thick. Too real. And then… She opened her eyes. Their gazes met.

Steel gray and golden honey.

Sharp. Unyielding. On the edge. Eiris’s silver eyes locked onto her—motionless, unblinking, stripped of their usual impassivity. They did not waver. Did not retreat. Did not hide behind a mask of indifference. They held her. They captured her. And Taira felt that gaze—everywhere. Her breath faltered, caught between her lips. But her body did not stop. Heat rippled down her spine, through her thighs, over her chest. Cascading, consuming, claiming. Time slowed. As if the night itself had held its breath. As if the fires had stilled. As if everything around them had frozen in the purest moment of tension. Only their eyes. And then something inside Taira surged. The heat inside her flared, sharper, deeper—as if that gaze had poured oil into the fire, had torn her open, had made her more alive.

More aware. More exposed. Her jaw clenched, lips parting, breath shuddering too fast, lashes trembling, vision blurring— she was drowning in it. This impossible, unrelenting pull. And still Eiris did not look away. But then—something shifted.Her pupils flickered.Her breath stilled—just for a fraction of a second. And then…Her gaze dropped. Slowly. Too slowly. As if being pulled downward—as if surrendering to something ancient, inexplicable, wrong. Taira felt it. Felt the silver eyes of Eiris—dragging over her.

Down the curve of her neck. Over the sharp lines of her collarbones. Across the rise and fall of her chest. Her gaze moved. Lingered. Studied. It was not deliberate. It was instinct. Taira knew this. And in that moment—she closed her eyes. She did not want to see Eiris realize what she was doing. Did not want to witness the moment she forced the mask back into place. Did not want to shatter this fleeting second—the only moment where they were both defenseless against what was igniting between them. Her lips curved into a slow smile. Calm. Knowing. A hint of amusement—but without challenge. Only the pure satisfaction of triumph.

I see you.

I know what you just did.

I know you’re watching.

*****

📌 Curious about what really happened during the Rite of Union?
🔥 A more intense, unfiltered version—overflowing with passion, heat, and forbidden emotions—is waiting for you."
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