Chapter 273: A Saintess’s Revelation, A Lord’s Claim

The days within the fortified haven of the Mystic Ice Sect settled into a deceptive calm for Alaric. While Sect Mistress Meng Yao diligently stabilized her new Martial King aura, her gratitude towards Alaric deepening with every successful consolidation of her power, Alaric found himself with a rare commodity: time.

Time to reflect. Time to plan. And time, most importantly, to extract information.

His attention turned, with a predator’s focused patience, towards Saintess Ceanna. She was a unique asset. Her connection to the wider world, her knowledge of powers beyond Eloriath and its immediate, squabbling neighbors, was invaluable. The ’Radiant God’s Nation’ she had mentioned… it hinted at a scale of power Alaric was eager to understand, and eventually, to dominate.

He found her one crisp evening in a secluded ice-crystal garden within the Citadel, a place where the moonlight refracted into a thousand glittering shards. Ceanna was meditating, her holy aura – his aura, channeled through her – a soft, warm golden counterpoint to the icy surroundings. She looked ethereal, beautiful, her silver hair like spun moonlight, her serene features peaceful.

Alaric approached silently, his [Emperor’s Presence!] a subtle, comforting warmth that preceded him.

Ceanna’s eyes fluttered open, her golden gaze immediately finding his. A soft smile touched her lips, a smile filled with pure, unadulterated devotion. “My Lord Alaric.” She rose gracefully, performing a deep, respectful bow.

“Ceanna,” Alaric greeted her, his voice a low, intimate murmur. He reached out, taking her hand, his fingers lacing with hers. Her skin was soft, cool, yet a faint tremor ran through her at his touch. He gently pulled her closer. “Walk with me. There are matters I wish to discuss.”

She came willingly, her hand held firmly in his, her body subtly leaning towards his comforting presence. The gardens were silent, save for the crunch of their boots on the crystalline snow and the distant sigh of the wind through the icy peaks.

“The world outside this valley is vast, Ceanna,” Alaric began, his gaze fixed on the distant, star-dusted horizon. “You spoke of your former Radiant God’s nation. Tell me more. Tell me of the powers that lie beyond these fractured kingdoms.”

Ceanna hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Her former life, her former faith, felt like a distant, almost alien memory now. Her entire being was focused on her new Lord, the source of her power, the anchor of her devotion.

“Yes, my Lord,” she said softly, her golden eyes reflecting the moonlight. “The world is indeed vast. The Radiant Theocracy of Solara, where I was raised… it is but one power, albeit a significant one, in the western continent of Aethelgard.”

’Aethelgard,’ Alaric committed the name to memory. ’The Radiant Theocracy of Solara.’

“To its north,” Ceanna continued, her voice gaining a thoughtful tone as she accessed memories she hadn’t revisited in years, “lies the Rimefrost Imperium.”

“A harsh land, ruled by ancient dynasties of Ice Sorcerers. Their lineage is said to trace back to the Primordial Frost Giants. They wield a unique form of cryomancy, far colder, far more… absolute… than the ice techniques of the Mystic Ice Sect here.”

“Their capital, Glacian, is a city carved from a living glacier, constantly shifting, reforming. Their Empress, Lyraka the Eternal, is rumored to be an Elder Mage, her lifespan extended by centuries through her mastery of ice magic, her power capable of flash-freezing entire armies.”

’Elder Mage,’ Alaric noted. ’A rank above Archmage. Interesting.’

“The Rimefrost Imperium values strength and cold, hard pragmatism,” Ceanna added. “They are… wary of outsiders. Their borders are guarded by legions of ice golems and frost-wreathed warriors.”

“And further north of them?” Alaric prompted.

“Beyond the Imperium’s northernmost mountain ranges, the Dragon’s Teeth, lies what the Solaran scholars call the ’Sky-Wolf Khanate’,” Ceanna explained.

“A vast, windswept steppe, home to nomadic warrior tribes, fierce and proud. They are united under a Great Khan, a figure chosen through brutal trials of combat and spiritual endurance. Their current leader, Khan Temujin a name not unheard of, is said to be a Martial Emperor, his battle aura capable of shaking the very heavens, his personal guard a legion of wolf-mounted berserkers.”

’Martial Emperor. Two ranks above Martial King.’ Alaric’s interest sharpened. ’So, true imperial power exists in this world.’

“The Sky-Wolf tribes worship the Great Sky-Wolf spirit,” Ceanna continued. “They are masters of mounted archery, whirlwind cavalry charges, and a unique form of wind-aspected martial art that allows them to move like phantoms across the plains. They are… a force of nature, rarely contained, rarely concerned with the squabbles of settled kingdoms, unless their ancestral lands are threatened.”

Alaric nodded slowly. Rimefrost Imperium, Sky-Wolf Khanate. Powerful northern entities. He pulled Ceanna a fraction closer, his arm brushing against hers. She shivered almost imperceptibly, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

He didn’t comment, his focus outwardly on her words. “And to the east, Ceanna? Beyond Jorailia?”

Ceanna’s brow furrowed slightly as she recalled the maps and histories. “The eastern continent of Xylos is dominated by several great powers, my Lord.”

“Foremost among them is the Celestial Dragon Empire.”

“An ancient, sprawling empire, ruled by a Dragon Emperor who claims direct descent from the Celestial Dragons of myth. Their society is rigidly hierarchical, steeped in tradition and ancestor worship. Their power lies in their vast, disciplined armies of martial cultivators, their mastery of unique internal energy techniques, and their formidable battle mages who wield destructive elemental magic.”

“The Dragon Emperor, Huang Long, is said to be a peak Martial Emperor, his personal power capable of leveling mountains. His capital, Tianlong City, is a metropolis of breathtaking beauty and impenetrable defenses.”

’Another Martial Emperor,’ Alaric mused. ’The East seems to favor martial prowess.’ He let his hand slide from Ceanna’s, moving to rest possessively on her slender waist, pulling her gently against his side as they walked. Ceanna’s breath hitched, her golden eyes widening slightly, but she didn’t resist. His touch felt… right. Comforting. A silent assertion of his ownership, his protection.

“Adjacent to the Celestial Dragon Empire,” Ceanna continued, her voice a fraction more breathless now, acutely aware of his hand on her waist, his thumb subtly stroking her hip through her robes, “lies the Kensei Shogunate of Yamato.”

“A land of misty mountains and cherry blossoms, ruled by warrior lords and a reclusive Shogun. Their strength lies in their Kensei – Sword Saints – martialists who have dedicated their lives to mastering the art of the blade, imbuing their swords with spiritual energy, their techniques capable of impossible feats of speed and precision. The current Shogun, Minamoto Yoshitsune, is a legendary Kensei, a peak Martial King whose skill is said to be unmatched.”

“The Shogunate is fiercely independent, often clashing with the Dragon Empire over border territories and honor. They value discipline, loyalty, and the perfection of their art above all else.”

Alaric nodded, his fingers continuing their subtle exploration of Ceanna’s waist. He could feel the gentle curve of her hip, the surprising firmness beneath the soft fabric of her robes.

“And there is the Azure Serpent Republic,” Ceanna added, her voice a little shakier as Alaric’s thumb brushed a particularly sensitive spot. “A powerful maritime nation, a confederation of wealthy merchant city-states built along the eastern coast of Xylos. Their power lies in their vast fleets, their control over sea trade, and their formidable Serpent Mages – elementalists who command the winds and waves, often forming bonds with powerful sea serpents. They are ruled by a council of elected Doges, usually shrewd merchants or retired Serpent Archmages. Their capital, Aquamarina, is a city built on a network of canals and fortified islands.”

’Sea mages… like Kyss’andra’s ilk, perhaps, but more controlled, less abyssal,’ Alaric thought. The scent of Ceanna’s hair, a faint floral fragrance mixed with her own clean scent, was intoxicatingly close. He leaned down, his lips brushing her temple, a fleeting, possessive caress.

Ceanna shivered, a soft gasp escaping her. “My Lord…” she whispered, her cheeks flushing crimson. The touch was so intimate, so unexpected.

“Continue, Saintess,” Alaric murmured, his voice a low rumble against her hair. “Your knowledge is… invaluable.” His hand on her waist tightened slightly, pulling her even closer, until her hip was pressed firmly against his thigh.

Ceanna took a shaky breath, trying to focus despite the storm of sensations his proximity ignited. Her entire being felt strangely attuned to him, her new faith making his touch feel like a divine blessing, a sacred intimacy.

“To the… to the west of Aethelgard, my Lord,” Ceanna stammered, her voice now noticeably breathless, “beyond the Radiant Theocracy of Solara, lie the Primalheart Dominions.”

“A vast, untamed wilderness, populated by powerful Beastmen tribes – Lycans, Minotaurs, Harpies, Centaurs. They are fierce, territorial, deeply connected to the primal spirits of nature. They have no single ruler, but powerful Chieftains and Shamans, often possessing strength equivalent to Martial Kings or Archmages. They despise ’civilized’ races and guard their lands jealously.”

Alaric’s hand moved from her waist, sliding slowly up her back, his fingers tracing the delicate line of her spine through her robes. Ceanna arched slightly into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. “Ah… Lord Alaric…”

“The Primalheart Dominions,” Alaric prompted gently, his voice laced with amusement at her reaction. His fingers reached the nape of her neck, gently massaging the sensitive skin there.

“Y-yes…” Ceanna gasped, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “And further west still… the Sunken Sands Caliphate. An ancient empire… now mostly ruins… buried beneath endless deserts. Ruled by a reclusive Sorcerer-Caliph from a hidden oasis-palace. They command powerful sand elementals, ancient desert spirits, and possess forgotten lore of star-magic and djinn summoning. Their power is waning, but their secrets are still… dangerous.”

Alaric’s hand slid from her neck, down her arm, his fingers tangling with hers again. He lifted her hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. Ceanna’s heart hammered against her ribs. His touch was so possessive, so… claiming.

“And the Radiant Theocracy of Solara itself, Ceanna?” Alaric asked, his gaze intense, his thumb now stroking the back of her hand. “You said it was a significant power. How significant?”

“It is… vast, my Lord,” Ceanna replied, her voice trembling. “One of the oldest, most powerful nations on Aethelgard. The Radiant God’s influence is absolute there. The entire kingdom is governed by the High Council of Archbishops, with the Pope as its supreme spiritual and temporal ruler. They command legions of fanatically loyal Crusader Knights, powerful Battle-Priests, and Inquisitors who hunt down heresy with ruthless efficiency. Their capital, Luminara, is a city of breathtaking white towers and golden domes, a fortress of faith.”

“Their strongest warriors are the Seraphim Paladins, elite holy knights whose strength can reach the Martial Emperor rank, their bodies infused with divine power. And their most powerful mages are the Solar Archons, Elder Mages who command the very essence of sunlight and celestial fire. The Pope himself, Pontifex Maximus Tiberius, is said to be an Elder Mage of immense power, his connection to the Radiant God absolute.”

’Elder Mages and Martial Emperors… in numbers,’ Alaric noted. ’The Radiant Theocracy is indeed a superpower. No wonder they felt confident enough to interfere in Eloriath.’ He recalled his overheard conversation between Ceanna and her former God. Tiberius. He would remember that name.

“But even Solara is not the only such power,” Ceanna added, her voice barely a whisper as Alaric’s hand, still holding hers, began to gently pull her closer, turning her to face him fully. He released her hand, only for both of his hands to settle on her waist, drawing her flush against his body. Her breasts pressed against his chest, the heat of his powerful frame radiating through her robes.

“There are… other ancient empires, my Lord,” Ceanna stammered, her golden eyes wide, fixed on his handsome face, so close now. Her mind struggled to recall the names, the details, lost in the overwhelming sensations his proximity evoked.

“The Valorian Empire, to the far north-east of Xylos, beyond even the Dragon Empire. Ruled by a lineage of God-Emperors who claim divinity themselves, their legions clad in black steel, their mages wielding forbidden shadow and blood magic. They are ancient, ruthless, and constantly seeking expansion.”

“The Sylvandell Enclave, deep within the primordial forests of central Aethelgard. Reclusive Elven Archmages and ancient Treant protectors, guarding secrets of nature magic that predate human kingdoms. They are neutral, but fiercely protective of their sacred groves.”

“The Windrider Clans of the Great Plains, nomadic humans who have mastered taming and riding massive storm eagles and desert rocs, their warriors raining death from above. They answer to no king, only to their Sky-Chieftains.”

“The Veiled Hand,” she shivered slightly, “a shadowy organization of assassins and spies, their tendrils reaching into every kingdom, their loyalty only to their hidden Grandmaster, whose identity is unknown. They deal in secrets, sabotage, and death.”

“The Eternal Archives, a neutral sanctuary of knowledge hidden somewhere in the World’s Spine Mountains, guarded by ancient golems and scholar-mages who dedicate their lives to preserving lore from all ages, accessible only to those who prove worthy.”

“And… and the Coral Throne Archipelago, a confederation of island kingdoms far to the south-west of Aethelgard, ruled by Merfolk Priest-Kings and Kraken-Priestesses who command the spirits of the deep sea and ancient leviathans. They are isolationist but possess immense naval power.”

Alaric listened, absorbing the names, the descriptions, his mind a vast repository of strategic information. His hands, however, were not idle. They moved from her waist, sliding up her back, then around to her front, his fingers finding the simple clasps of her white Saintess robes.

“Such a vast, dangerous world, Ceanna,” Alaric murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble, his ruby eyes burning into hers. “Filled with so many powers, so many potential threats… and so many… opportunities.”

His fingers deftly undid the clasps of her robe. Ceanna gasped softly, her body trembling, but she made no move to stop him. Her new faith, her burgeoning devotion to this magnificent, terrifying man who was now her Lord, her God… it overwhelmed any lingering sense of impropriety, any echo of her former vows. His touch was a divine blessing. His desire, a sacred command.

The white robe slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her standing before him in the simple, thin linen undergarment she wore beneath. It was chaste, unadorned, yet it clung to her magnificent, mature curves, revealing the full swell of her breasts, the gentle curve of her belly, the enticing flare of her hips. Her silver hair cascaded around her bare shoulders, her golden eyes wide, luminous, filled with a mixture of awe, fear, and undeniable, burgeoning desire.

“You are so beautiful, Ceanna,” Alaric breathed, his voice thick with lust. His gaze roamed over her, devouring her form. “So pure. So… untouched.” He reached out, his hand gently cupping one of her breasts through the thin linen. She shivered, a soft moan escaping her lips as his thumb brushed against her nipple, which hardened instantly beneath his touch.

“My Lord…” Ceanna whispered, her voice trembling. She felt a strange, intoxicating heat spreading through her veins, a sensation she had never known, yet her body seemed to recognize it, to crave it.

Alaric’s hands moved to the hem of her undergarment, slowly, deliberately, drawing it upwards. Ceanna’s breath hitched as the linen slid up her thighs, her hips, her waist, revealing the pale, flawless skin beneath. He drew it over her head, tossing it aside, leaving her standing before him completely, gloriously naked in the soft moonlight of the ice garden.

Her body was a masterpiece of divine femininity. Full, high breasts, tipped with delicate rose-pink nipples that were now taut with arousal. A surprisingly slender waist, dipping invitingly towards the gentle swell of her hips. Long, elegant legs. And between them, a neat triangle of soft, silver-blonde curls, guarding her most sacred, untouched treasure.

She stood trembling, her golden eyes wide, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She was beautiful. Divine. And utterly vulnerable to the will of her new Lord.

Alaric let his gaze roam over her, savoring the sight. “Perfect,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe and possessive desire. “Absolutely… divine.”

He reached out, his hand gently cupping one of her breasts, feeling its weight, its softness. Ceanna shivered, a soft moan escaping her lips as his thumb brushed against her nipple, sending shivers of exquisite pleasure down her spine.

“You are exquisite, Ceanna,” he murmured, his other hand moving to her waist, pulling her closer, until her naked body was pressed against his clothed form. “So much hidden fire beneath that holy facade.”

He leaned down, his lips finding hers, capturing them in a deep, possessive kiss. Ceanna gasped into his mouth, her initial shock melting into an overwhelming surge of desire. Her arms came up, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, her body instinctively responding to his dominant touch. This was not a violation. This was… communion. A sacred offering to her Lord.

The kiss was long, passionate, a claiming. Alaric’s tongue plundered her mouth, tasting her sweetness, igniting a firestorm of sensation within her. Ceanna kissed him back with a surprising ferocity, her millennia of suppressed passion, her hidden desires, her unwavering new faith, all finally unleashed.

He broke the kiss, leaving her breathless, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed with desire. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, her naked body cradled against his chest. Ceanna wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to him, her heart pounding, her body already trembling with anticipation for the divine union to come.

He carried her towards a secluded alcove within the ice garden, a place shielded by shimmering ice formations and fragrant, moon-kissed snow blossoms. He laid her gently upon a bed of soft, thick furs that seemed to materialize from nowhere, a testament to his casual power.

He stood over her for a moment, his ruby eyes devouring her naked form, his own erection straining visibly against his trousers.

“Now, Ceanna,” Alaric purred, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Let your Lord Alaric initiate you into the true mysteries. A lesson in pleasure. A lesson in submission. A lesson in divine ecstasy that you will never forget.”

He began to undress, his movements slow, deliberate, savoring her wide-eyed anticipation. Ceanna watched him, her breath catching in her throat as his magnificent, sculpted physique was revealed. Broad shoulders, a powerful chest, a lean, muscular abdomen, strong arms and legs. He was, she realized with a jolt that was both spiritual and intensely physical, a perfect vessel of masculine power and divine beauty.

And then, he was fully naked.

Ceanna gasped, her golden eyes widening in utter, shocked disbelief. She had seen statues of ancient gods, read descriptions in holy texts of celestial beings. But nothing… nothing… could have prepared her for the reality of Lord Alaric Steele’s divine manhood.

It was… colossal. Impossibly thick, impossibly long, jutting proudly from a nest of dark blonde curls. It pulsed with a life of its own, veins standing out in sharp relief along its impressive length. The head was blunt, almost brutal, yet with a strange, alluring curve. It looked like a weapon of creation, a pillar of raw, masculine divinity.

’By the… by my Lord’s grace…’ Ceanna’s mind reeled. ’It’s… it’s a monument! A sacred pillar! How… how can a mortal vessel possibly receive… such divine endowment?’ A wave of awe, profound and absolute, washed over her, mingled with a terrifying, exhilarating anticipation. This wasn’t just a man; this was a god, and this was his divine instrument. Her body, despite her peak Grandmaster Cleric spiritual strength, felt suddenly, wonderfully, terrifyingly fragile and receptive.

Alaric saw her shock, the reverent awe in her golden eyes. He merely smirked, a predatory glint in his own. “Impressed, my Saintess?” he murmured, his voice laced with divine pride. “Or perhaps… overwhelmed by the glory of your Lord?”

He knelt on the furs between her parted legs, his presence overwhelming. “Do not fear, Ceanna,” he purred, leaning down, his lips brushing hers. “Your Lord will be… gentle. At first. He will initiate you into the sacred rites… slowly.”

He kissed her deeply, his tongue tangling with hers, distracting her, soothing her momentary awe with a fresh wave of intoxicating sensation. His hands began to roam her body, caressing her breasts, tracing the curve of her hips, sliding down her thighs.

“You are so beautiful, Ceanna,” he whispered against her lips. “So pure. So… ready to receive your Lord’s blessing.”

His fingers found her core, already slick and swollen with anticipation and holy fervor. He stroked her gently, expertly, finding her sensitive nub, teasing it until she moaned softly, her awe melting away under the rising tide of divine pleasure.

“Open for your Lord, my devoted Saintess,” Alaric commanded softly, his voice a hypnotic caress.

Ceanna’s legs parted further, almost involuntarily, her body responding to his touch, his divine command. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his massive cock pressing against her entrance. She tensed, her breath catching.

“Easy now,” Alaric murmured, then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, he began to enter her.

Ceanna cried out, a sharp, tearing sensation lancing through her as her virgin passage was breached. Tears of pain and ecstasy sprang to her eyes. It hurt. A deep, stretching, burning pain. But beneath the pain, there was also an incredible, overwhelming fullness, a sense of being utterly, completely filled by her Lord’s divine presence.

Alaric paused, buried deep inside her, letting her adjust. He kissed her gently, murmuring soothing words. “Shhh, my Saintess. It is done. The first rite is complete. Just breathe. Receive your Lord’s essence.”

He held himself still, feeling her body tremble around him, feeling the slick warmth of her virgin blood mingling with his divine seed. He waited patiently, until her initial pain began to subside, replaced by a dull ache and a strange, tingling awareness of his divine presence within her.

Then, he began to move. Slowly. Deliberately. Each thrust was a sacred exploration, a careful stretching, letting her holy vessel accommodate his immense divine instrument. Ceanna moaned softly, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her body slowly, tentatively, beginning to respond to the divine rhythm.

He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, his touch tender, adoring. He whispered praises in her ear, telling her how beautiful her devotion was, how tight her faith, how responsive her spirit.

The initial ache began to morph into a strange, coiling divine pleasure. With each slow, deep thrust, the sensation intensified. Ceanna found herself arching her back, meeting his movements, a primal, spiritual instinct overriding her centuries of chaste devotion to a lesser god.

“That’s it, Ceanna,” Alaric encouraged, his voice husky. “Feel your Lord. Receive His power. Become one with His will.”

He picked up the pace slightly, his thrusts becoming firmer, deeper. Ceanna’s moans grew louder, less inhibited, her body moving with his in a rhythm that was both ancient and entirely new to her divine understanding.

He changed positions slowly, carefully, always mindful of her sacred initiation. He rolled her onto her side, facing him, entering her from that intimate angle. He laid her on her stomach, lifting her hips with pillows, taking her from behind, his hands caressing her magnificent, holy backside. He sat her on his lap, facing him, guiding her movements as she rode his massive, divine cock, her full breasts bouncing enticingly.

Each new position brought new sensations, new depths of divine pleasure. Saintess Ceanna, the beacon of the Radiant Church, found herself crying out her new Lord’s name, begging for more, her body completely consumed by the holy fire he had ignited within her. Her lifetime of suppressed passion, her hidden desires, her absolute new faith, all finally unleashed, and the divine inferno was breathtaking.

She climaxed again and again, each orgasm more intense, more shattering than the last, her Lord’s divine essence flooding her womb repeatedly. He was tireless, relentless, his divine stamina seemingly eternal.

He pushed her past her limits, breaking down her last vestiges of former faith, remaking her in the crucible of their shared divine passion. She clung to him, sobbing his name, her body a vessel for his pleasure, her mind lost in a haze of divine sensation.

She discovered desires she never knew her holy spirit possessed. She craved his roughness, his divine dominance, the feel of his teeth on her sacred skin, the possessive grip of his hands on her consecrated form. She begged him to be rougher, to use her harder, to treat her like the divine slut she was rapidly becoming for him.

And Lord Alaric, ever obliging, delivered. He spanked her reddened holy buttocks until she screamed, he bit her sensitive neck and breasts, leaving marks of his divine ownership. He filled her sacred mouth with his divine cock, fucking her throat until she gagged, then commanding her to swallow his holy seed. He used her in every way imaginable, his divine dominance absolute, his divine pleasure paramount.

As the evening turned into night, and the night bled into the early hours of the next day, their divine union continued unabated. Saintess Ceanna was initiated into every sacred rite of pleasure, her body and soul offered up to her magnificent, terrifying Lord.

She rode him like a Valkyrie, her silver hair flying, her golden eyes blazing with a mixture of divine ecstasy and absolute submission. He took her from behind, his hands tangled in her hair, his thrusts brutal and possessive, her cries echoing through the silent ice garden. He laid her on her back, her legs wrapped around his neck, exposing her completely to his divine gaze, his divine assault.

He lavished attention on her magnificent breasts, sucking, biting, pinching, until they were exquisitely tender and swollen, her nipples raw and hypersensitive, yet aching for more of his divine touch. He explored every inch of her sacred body, leaving no part unclaimed, no sensation unexplored.

He made her call him God, her voice hoarse with passion and unwavering faith. He made her swear eternal devotion, eternal submission, not just to his System, but to him, Alaric Steele, her one true Lord and Master. And she did, eagerly, desperately, her words a fervent prayer amidst her cries of shattering pleasure.

He came inside her more than twenty times throughout that long, glorious night and into the following afternoon, his divine seed flooding her sacred womb, marking her, claiming her, forging an unbreakable bond between them. Each release was a divine sacrament, a brand of his ownership, a testament to her complete and utter surrender.

Finally, as the sun of the next day began to dip towards the western peaks, painting the sky in fiery hues, Alaric delivered one last, deep, possessive thrust. He roared, his body convulsing, his divine essence erupting within Ceanna for the final time in this marathon session.

Ceanna cried out, her own climax ripping through her, a shattering wave of divine ecstasy that left her boneless, breathless, utterly spent, yet strangely, profoundly, spiritually fulfilled.

Alaric collapsed beside her on the fur-strewn ice, pulling her trembling, naked body close. He held her, their breathing slowly evening out, the scent of their mingled sweat and divine passion heavy in the cool air.

Saintess Ceanna Paxton, formerly of the Radiant God, now lay utterly claimed, body and soul, by Lord Alaric Steele. Her virginity was a forgotten relic. Her old faith, a distant memory. Her entire being was now dedicated to him, her new God, her magnificent, terrifying, and utterly irresistible Master. The icy reception had indeed given way to a fiery, divine surrender. And Alaric, savoring his conquest, knew his Harem God System had just acquired its most potent, most devoted, and most beautiful Saintess yet. His path to Archmage, and beyond, was clearing beautifully.