Chapter 180 Purification

As dusk painted the Eloriath sky in hues of amethyst and rose, Saintess Ceanna Paxton, her silver hair catching the fading light like spun moonlight, turned to Matriarch Lyra Steele, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “Matriarch Steele,” she began, her voice melodious and warm, “the grounds of your estate are truly… enchanting. Would you perhaps indulge me in a short walk before nightfall? I find myself quite captivated by the tranquility of your gardens.”

Lyra Steele, who had been engaging in polite conversation with Prince Borche, her smile unwavering despite the prince’s somewhat overbearing attempts at charm, turned her attention to the Saintess with an equal measure of graciousness. “Saintess Paxton,” she replied, her blue eyes reflecting the soft evening light, “it would be my distinct pleasure to escort you. Our gardens, while perhaps not as grand as the Royal Parks, do possess a certain… quiet charm, I believe.”

Prince Borche, momentarily deflated at losing the Saintess’s direct attention, attempted to insert himself into the invitation. “Indeed, Saintess,” he boomed, his voice a touch too loud for the tranquil setting, “Steele Manor’s gardens are quite… respectable. Perhaps I could join you and Matriarch Steele? I possess a keen eye for horticulture, you see.”

Before Ceanna could politely deflect the prince’s unsolicited offer, Prince Radoslav interjected smoothly, his voice a silken counterpoint to Borche’s booming pronouncements. “Brother,” he said, his tone laced with faux-concern, “surely the Saintess would prefer a more… intimate stroll with Matriarch Steele. A time for quiet conversation, perhaps? Your… booming pronouncements might disturb the evening’s serenity.”

Prince Krunislav, not to be left out of the escalating princely rivalry, added his own contribution, his voice dripping with saccharine charm. “Indeed, brother Borche,” he cooed, his gaze fixed on Ceanna with an almost unsettling intensity, “the Saintess requires respite from the… boisterousness of courtly life. A peaceful walk with Matriarch Steele would be far more… restorative. Perhaps we could await their return within the manor, and ensure their… comfort?”

Ceanna, observing the predictable princely squabble with a detached amusement, intervened before it could escalate further. “Your Highnesses are most considerate,” she said, her voice calm and authoritative, effectively silencing the bickering princes with a gentle yet firm tone. “However, Matriarch Steele’s company alone would be most… agreeable. A quiet conversation between women, I believe, would be a welcome change of pace.”

Lyra Steele, a subtle smile playing on her lips, inclined her head in agreement. “Indeed, Your Highnesses,” she echoed, her voice laced with a hint of amusement that only Ceanna seemed to detect. “Perhaps you gentlemen would find more… stimulating conversation with my son, Alaric? He possesses a wealth of knowledge on… various subjects, I am sure.” She subtly gestured towards Alaric, who had been observing the princely exchange with an air of detached amusement, his ruby eyes glinting with an unreadable light.

The three princes, momentarily distracted by the prospect of engaging with Alaric, exchanged uneasy glances. None of them were particularly eager to spend time in the company of the Steele heir, especially given their burgeoning suspicion and jealousy regarding his potential influence on the Saintess. However, they also understood Lyra’s subtle dismissal, and were loath to openly defy the Saintess’s expressed preference.

With poorly concealed reluctance, the princes conceded, muttering polite agreements and casting veiled glances of resentment towards Alaric, before reluctantly turning their attention towards the young artificer, who remained impassive, his expression unreadable.

As Lyra Steele led Saintess Ceanna out onto the manicured lawns of Steele Manor, leaving the princes and Alaric behind in the grand hall, a sense of quiet serenity descended upon the pair. The evening air was cool and fragrant, carrying the scent of blooming night jasmine and damp earth. The setting sun cast long, elongated shadows across the meticulously maintained gardens, painting the landscape in soft, muted tones.

For a while, they strolled in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle rustling of leaves in the evening breeze and the distant chirping of crickets. Ceanna, outwardly relaxed and composed, was inwardly keenly aware of Lyra’s presence beside her, subtly attuned to the faint heretical energy that still clung to the matriarch, though significantly diminished compared to the potent aura emanating from Alaric.

Lyra, for her part, seemed genuinely pleased to be in the Saintess’s company, engaging in light, polite conversation, her demeanor perfectly poised and gracious. “Your journey to Steele Manor was… agreeable, I hope, Saintess?” she inquired, her voice smooth and conversational. “The roads in this region can be… less than ideal at times.”

Ceanna offered a serene smile. “The journey was quite comfortable, Matriarch Steele, thank you for your concern. And the scenery of Eloriath is indeed… quite beautiful. A land of verdant valleys and rolling hills, quite different from the… more austere landscapes of my homeland.”

Lyra nodded, her blue eyes thoughtful. “Indeed, Eloriath is known for its… gentle beauty. A land of peace and prosperity, or at least, it was, until… recent events.” A shadow of concern flickered across her features, a subtle hint of the anxieties that plagued the kingdom.

Ceanna seized the opening, subtly steering the conversation towards more personal territory. “These ‘recent events,’ as you say, Matriarch,” she began, her voice softening slightly, taking on a more intimate tone, “they must weigh heavily upon you, upon all the people of Eloriath. Such… darkness encroaching upon your peaceful land…”

Lyra sighed, her gaze drifting towards the darkening horizon. “Indeed, Saintess. The demonic incursions… they are a source of great worry for us all. We Steeles, while perhaps not as militarily powerful as some noble houses, have always prided ourselves on our… resilience, our ability to weather any storm. But this… this demonic threat… it feels different. More… pervasive, more insidious.”

Ceanna nodded sympathetically, her voice laced with understanding. “I sense your concern, Matriarch. And it is a concern shared by many, I am sure. But fear not, for the Radiant Church stands ready to assist Eloriath in its time of need. We shall stand together against this darkness, and we shall prevail.”

As they continued their stroll, their conversation meandering through topics of shared concern and polite inquiries, Ceanna subtly guided Lyra further and further away from the manor house, deeper into the secluded paths of the Steele gardens. The sounds of the mansion faded behind them, replaced by the increasing chorus of evening insects and the rustling of leaves in the gathering twilight.

Once they had reached a secluded grove, shielded from view by a thicket of flowering bushes and ancient trees, Ceanna deemed the moment opportune. She paused, turning to face Lyra, her serene smile unwavering, her golden eyes meeting the matriarch’s blue gaze with an air of gentle intimacy.

“Matriarch Steele,” Ceanna began, her voice dropping to a near whisper, imbued with a sense of quiet confidentiality, “if you will permit me a moment of… personal inquiry?”

Lyra, sensing a shift in the conversation, a move towards something more intimate, more personal, inclined her head with polite curiosity. “Of course, Saintess,” she replied, her blue eyes widening slightly, a hint of intrigued anticipation in their depths. “What is it that you wish to ask?”

Ceanna reached out, her hand, pale and delicate, gently resting upon Lyra’s arm, her touch light, almost ethereal. “Tell me, Matriarch,” she murmured, her voice soft as a summer breeze, her golden eyes fixed intently on Lyra’s, “do you… feel well? Lately? Have you experienced any… unusual sensations? Any… subtle shifts in your… energy?”

As she spoke, Ceanna subtly unleashed her power, channeling a focused stream of pure, radiant purification energy through her fingertips, directly into Lyra Steele’s being. The divine energy flowed silently, invisibly, a potent force of cleansing light directed with pinpoint precision, targeting the faint heretical taint that clung to Lyra’s aura.

The effect was instantaneous, and utterly profound. The heretical energy, a subtle corruption, a dark echo within Lyra’s life force, recoiled as if burned by holy fire. It flickered, sputtered, and then, with a silent, almost imperceptible poof, it vanished completely, eradicated by the concentrated power of Ceanna’s purification.

The process was so swift, so subtle, so utterly devoid of outward manifestation, that Lyra Steele remained completely oblivious to the divine intervention that had just taken place within her very being. She felt… nothing. No surge of energy, no sudden shift in sensation, no discernible change whatsoever. To her, Ceanna’s touch was merely a gentle, fleeting contact, her words simply a polite, if somewhat unusual, inquiry.

Lyra blinked, her blue eyes searching Ceanna’s serene face, a hint of confusion mingling with her polite curiosity. “Unusual sensations, Saintess?” she repeated, her brow furrowing slightly. “Subtle shifts in my energy? I… I am not certain I understand. I feel… quite well, thank you. Perhaps a little… weary, with the recent… anxieties, but otherwise, quite normal. Why do you ask?”

Ceanna Paxton maintained her gentle smile, her golden eyes radiating an air of serene concern, effectively masking the profound relief and quiet satisfaction that surged within her. The purification had worked. The heretical taint, at least within Lyra Steele, was gone. A small victory, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless.

‘She feels nothing,’ Ceanna thought, her mind processing the information, her gaze still fixed intently on Lyra’s face. ‘As I suspected. The heretical energy, in her case, was merely a… residue, a faint echo of Alaric’s power, not deeply ingrained, but something that could be easily cleansed. But Alaric himself… that is a different matter entirely. His aura… it is saturated, consumed by that darkness. Purification through touch alone… it will not suffice for him. A far more… direct approach may be necessary.’

Outwardly, Ceanna’s voice remained calm, reassuring, betraying none of her inner thoughts. “No matter, Matriarch,” she replied, her smile widening slightly, her hand gently releasing Lyra’s arm. “It was merely a… passing thought. A Saintess, you see, is often attuned to subtle energies, to shifts in the… spiritual currents around us. I simply wished to ensure your well-being, in these… unsettling times.”

Lyra Steele, seemingly satisfied by Ceanna’s explanation, offered a gracious smile in return, her blue eyes softening with warmth and appreciation. “How very kind and considerate of you, Saintess,” she replied, her voice sincere. “I am… truly touched by your concern. And I assure you, I am quite well. Perhaps a little… tired, as I said, but nothing that a good night’s rest will not cure.”

As they resumed their stroll, their conversation returning to more mundane topics, Ceanna Paxton continued to observe Lyra Steele, her mind now racing with renewed purpose and a growing sense of urgency.

As the last rays of the setting sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across Steele Manor, Lyra Steele, accompanied by Saintess Ceanna Paxton, returned from their evening stroll. Lyra, with her usual composed grace, bid the Saintess a courteous goodnight at the entrance to her chambers, before retiring for the evening.

Later that night, under the cloak of darkness, a soft knock echoed at Lyra’s chamber door. Anticipation flickered in her blue eyes as she swiftly moved to unlatch the door, revealing Alaric standing in the dimly lit hallway. She was adorned in a diaphanous purple nightgown, the sheer fabric clinging to her curves, hinting at the delights beneath.

“Alaric,” she murmured, her voice a husky whisper, a subtle invitation in her tone as she stepped back to allow him entry.

Alaric entered, his ruby eyes immediately locking onto his mother’s alluring form, a predatory gleam igniting within their depths. He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking softly, sealing them in the hushed intimacy of her chamber. Without a word, he advanced towards Lyra, his presence radiating a potent mix of desire and dominance.

“Mother,” he began, his voice a low rumble, laced with a possessive undertone, “you walked with the Saintess this evening. Tell me, what did she want?”

Lyra met his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in her blue eyes, a subtle undercurrent beneath her composed facade. “She merely requested a stroll through the gardens, Alaric,” she replied, her voice carefully neutral. “We spoke of… mundane matters. The beauty of the estate, the… unsettling atmosphere of the kingdom, the usual pleasantries.”

Alaric’s ruby eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze intensifying, scrutinizing her expression, searching for any hint of deception. He reached out, his hand snaking around her waist, pulling her close, his touch possessive, almost bruising. “Mundane matters?” he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. “Saintess Ceanna Paxton, a figure of such… significance, seeks out a simple stroll and idle chatter with you? I find that… difficult to believe, Mother.”

Lyra maintained her composure, her gaze unwavering, though a faint tremor of unease flickered beneath the surface. “Perhaps,” she conceded, her voice remaining steady, “perhaps there was… more to it than mere pleasantries. She did inquire… about my well-being. Asked if I felt… unwell, or experienced any… unusual sensations.”

Alaric’s grip tightened imperceptibly, his ruby eyes burning into hers. “Unusual sensations?” he echoed, his voice now laced with a sharper edge. “What precisely did she mean by that, Mother?”

Lyra hesitated for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible pause before she continued, her voice carefully measured. “I am… not entirely certain, Alaric. She spoke of being… attuned to subtle energies, spiritual currents. Something about ensuring my… well-being in these ‘unsettling times’.” She paused again, her brow furrowing slightly, a hint of genuine confusion clouding her blue eyes. “And… and there was something else. A strange… sensation, just after she touched my arm, during our walk. A… fleeting feeling of… lightness, almost… dizziness. It was… quite wonderous, and yet… strange.”

As Lyra recounted her experience, Alaric’s mind raced, attempting to decipher the Saintess’s actions, to unravel the potential motives behind her seemingly innocuous inquiries and subtle touch. ‘Lightness? Dizziness?’ he thought, his ruby eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘A spell, then. She used some form of magic on Mother. But to what purpose?’

He considered the possibilities, his mind sifting through scenarios, discarding the improbable, focusing on the potentially relevant. ‘Could she suspect something? Our… relationship? Mother’s… altered state? Is that what she was probing for? Testing for?’ The thought lingered, a seed of unease taking root in his mind. It was conceivable. The Saintess was clearly perceptive, possessing an aura of… unusual awareness. Perhaps she had sensed something amiss, something… unconventional in the dynamic between him and his mother.

‘But surely,’ Alaric reasoned internally, his thoughts becoming more analytical, ‘if she suspected our… arrangement, she would have been more direct, more accusatory. A Saintess of her stature, with the backing of the Radiant Church, would hardly resort to subtle probes and veiled inquiries. She would act decisively, condemn us outright, unleash her divine wrath.’

He dismissed the notion, at least for the moment. It seemed… premature, unfounded. More likely, the Saintess’s actions were driven by something else, something he was yet to comprehend. But the unease remained, a subtle prickle of caution at the back of his mind.

“Light-headed, you say?” Alaric murmured aloud, his voice regaining its seductive undertone, his hand sliding from Lyra’s waist, tracing the delicate curve of her neck, his fingers toying with the silken strap of her nightgown. “A ‘wonderous and strange’ feeling? Perhaps, Mother, you simply require… further ministrations to alleviate this… lingering dizziness.”

His ruby eyes gleamed with predatory intent, his gaze dropping to the exposed expanse of her cleavage revealed by the plunging neckline of her nightgown. “Perhaps,” he purred, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I possess certain… techniques, certain ‘spells’ of my own, that can banish any lingering… discomfort you may be experiencing.”

Lyra’s breath hitched, a flicker of anticipation igniting in her blue eyes, a familiar thrill of mingled apprehension and desire coursing through her veins. She knew precisely what Alaric implied, what ‘ministrations’ he had in mind. And despite the lingering unease sparked by the Saintess’s unusual inquiries, despite the subtle prickle of uncertainty at the edge of her awareness, a primal part of her, the part that had become irrevocably bound to Alaric, yearned for his touch, craved his dominance, surrendered willingly to his will.

“Perhaps, Alaric,” she whispered back, her voice laced with a breathy anticipation, her hand rising to trace the strong line of his jaw, her fingers lingering on the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “Perhaps your… unique remedies are precisely what I require.”

And with that unspoken consent, the subtle anxieties, the lingering questions, faded into the background, eclipsed by the immediate, overwhelming reality of their intertwined desires. Alaric’s lips descended upon hers, his kiss possessive, demanding, a prelude to the night of sensual domination that lay ahead.

The night unfolded in a familiar rhythm of dominance and submission, pleasure and humiliation. Alaric, fueled by a potent cocktail of lust and a subtle undercurrent of unease, subjected Lyra to his desires with unrestrained fervor. He explored every inch of her body, his touch both demanding and exquisitely sensual, pushing her to the brink of ecstasy and beyond, claiming her again and again, marking her as his own in the language of the flesh.

Interspersed with their passionate encounters, Alaric subtly, almost casually, continued his interrogation, probing Lyra for any further details about her walk with the Saintess, any nuances she might have overlooked, any subtle hints of Ceanna’s true intentions. But Lyra, still blissfully unaware of the true nature of the Saintess’s actions, could offer little more than her initial account, her descriptions of polite conversation and fleeting dizziness.

Alaric, despite his relentless questioning, remained unable to decipher the Saintess’s motives. The pieces of the puzzle remained frustratingly elusive, the Saintess’s actions shrouded in an enigma he could not yet penetrate. He could only surmise, speculate, and wait, allowing events to unfold, while remaining vigilant, ever watchful for any further clues, any indication of the Saintess’s true agenda.

As dawn approached, painting the horizon with streaks of pale gold and rose, Alaric lay beside Lyra, their bodies entwined, their breaths synchronized, a sense of weary satiation settling over them both. He had fucked her relentlessly throughout the night, climaxing within her countless times, seeking a release, a distraction, from the subtle unease that lingered at the edge of his awareness. Twenty-seven times, by his own count, a testament to his stamina, and to the enduring allure of his mother’s milf body.

‘Well,’ Alaric mused internally, his thoughts drifting towards the Saintess’s request, ‘I suppose I should humor her. Developing these artifacts… it is hardly a hardship. Especially if it keeps her… occupied, and distracted from… other matters.’

He knew, with a pragmatic certainty, that fulfilling the Saintess’s request for holy energy artifacts was not merely a matter of royal decree or political expediency. It was also a strategic maneuver, a way to keep Ceanna Paxton close, to observe her actions, to decipher her true intentions, while simultaneously leveraging her influence and resources for his own purposes.

‘Iridelle,’ he thought, his mind already formulating a plan, ‘she is the perfect candidate to spearhead this project. Her expertise in magical constructs, her… meticulous nature, her unwavering dedication… she will excel at developing the blueprints. And Natasha,’ a faint smile touched his lips at the thought of his spirited friend, ‘Natasha’s… unconventional creativity, her unique perspective… she will be invaluable in adding… innovative features, in pushing the boundaries of what is possible.’

He envisioned the three of them working together, a triumvirate of magical ingenuity, crafting artifacts of unprecedented power, all under the watchful, yet hopefully distracted, gaze of Saintess Ceanna Paxton. It was a plan that appealed to his strategic mind, a way to turn a potentially problematic situation to his advantage, to leverage the Saintess’s presence for his own gain.

True to the princes’ extravagant promises, the resources began to flow into Steele Manor with astonishing speed and abundance. Royal caravans arrived daily, laden with chests overflowing with rare ores, shimmering crystals, enchanted components, and arcane texts, a veritable treasure trove of materials for artifact creation. The princes, eager to impress the Saintess and demonstrate their royal munificence, had indeed spared no expense, fulfilling Alaric’s initial requests with almost comical alacrity.

Alaric seized this windfall with both hands. While diligently allocating resources for the Saintess’s holy energy artifacts, he also discreetly diverted a portion of the influx towards his own personal projects, projects that required even rarer, more esoteric materials, items he had long coveted but had previously deemed unattainable.

‘Adamantine ore,’ he mused, examining a lustrous ingot of the legendary metal, its surface shimmering with an inner light, ‘perfect for reinforcing the chassis of the Void Engine. And these Blazing Eagle Feathers,’ he murmured, delicately handling a bundle of iridescent plumes, radiating a faint warmth, ‘are ideal for imbuing the Celestial Fire Cannon with even greater potency.’

He meticulously cataloged each resource, each component, his mind already envisioning the countless possibilities, the myriad artifacts he could create, the boundless power he could wield. The Saintess’s request, initially perceived as a potential complication, had inadvertently become a catalyst, a catalyst for accelerating his own ambitious projects, for pushing his artificing skills to new heights.

In the days that followed, Steele Manor transformed into a hive of focused activity. Workshops were converted into laboratories, humming with arcane energies, filled with the clang of hammers, the hiss of forges, and the crackle of magical discharges.

Iridelle, with Natasha as her enthusiastic and equally brilliant assistant, immersed herself in the task of blueprint creation, her meticulous mind dissecting the Saintess’s vague descriptions, translating them into precise schematics, elegant equations, and intricate diagrams.

And amidst this flurry of creative activity, Saintess Ceanna Paxton became a regular presence in Alaric’s workshops, her serene figure a constant observer, her golden eyes keenly watching the artificing process unfold. She would sit beside Alaric, Iridelle, and Natasha, engaging in polite conversation, asking insightful questions, her demeanor outwardly curious and appreciative.

“Master Steele,” she would inquire, her voice gentle yet probing, “the intricacies of artifact creation are truly… fascinating. Tell me, what is the… driving force behind your remarkable talent? What is it that allows you to conceive of such… ingenious designs, to imbue inanimate objects with such potent magical energies?”

Alaric would respond with carefully crafted explanations, his voice calm and measured, his words deliberately vague, revealing nothing of his true nature, nothing of the heretical system that pulsed beneath the surface of his genius. “Saintess,” he would reply, his ruby eyes meeting hers with an air of disarming candor, “it is simply a matter of… dedication, I believe. A relentless pursuit of knowledge, a tireless experimentation, a… passion for the art of creation itself.”

He would elaborate on the technical aspects of artifact creation, the principles of magical resonance, the intricacies of energy conduits, the delicate balance of arcane components, skillfully deflecting any direct inquiries about the source of his talent, subtly steering the conversation away from the potentially dangerous territory of his growth ability system.

Ceanna would listen intently, her expression serene, her golden eyes unwavering, attempting to discern any hint of deception, any flicker of heretical energy that might betray the true source of his genius. But Alaric, ever the master of deception, remained an enigma, his outward demeanor perfectly composed, his inner darkness carefully concealed.

As days turned into weeks, however, a subtle shift began to occur in Ceanna Paxton’s perception of Alaric Steele. Despite her initial apprehension, despite her ingrained suspicion of the heretical energy she sensed within him, she found herself increasingly… impressed by his intellect, by his sheer, undeniable brilliance.

She observed him closely, scrutinizing his every action, his every word, as he worked alongside Iridelle and Natasha, guiding them, collaborating with them, pushing them to explore new frontiers of magical artifice.

She witnessed his meticulous attention to detail, his encyclopedic knowledge of arcane principles, his breathtaking creativity in conceiving novel solutions to complex problems.

And slowly, gradually, a realization began to dawn within her, a surprising, almost reluctant conclusion that challenged her initial assumptions, that forced her to reconsider her preconceived notions about Alaric Steele and the nature of his power.

The genius she witnessed, the brilliance she observed, it was not merely a byproduct of his heretical growth ability system.

It was something… more fundamental, more innate, something that resided within the very core of his being, a spark of pure, unadulterated intellect that transcended the boundaries of mere magical enhancement.

‘It is his mind,’ Ceanna thought, a sense of awe, mingled with a touch of wistful regret, washing over her. ‘His genius… it is genuine. It is his own. Not merely a product of that… heretical system.’

The realization was both surprising and… profoundly disappointing.

If not for the darkness that clung to him, if not for the unsettling aura of corrupted divinity that surrounded him, Alaric Steele would have been a paragon, a beacon of intellect and innovation, a soul she would have eagerly sought to recruit to the Radiant Church, to harness his extraordinary talents for the greater good.

But alas, the heretical taint remained, a dark stain upon his brilliance, a shadow that obscured his potential, a barrier that ultimately separated him from the light.

And Ceanna Paxton, Saintess of the Radiant Church, knew, with a heavy heart, that her mission remained unchanged, her duty undiminished.

She still had to confront the darkness within Alaric Steele, to find a way to either purify him, or, if necessary, to contain him, to prevent his heretical power from unleashing its full, destructive potential upon the world.

Even if it meant extinguishing a spark of genius that, in another life, under different circumstances, could have illuminated the world with its brilliance.