The Faithful Touch

Shadowheart turned without another word and walked silently towards her edge of the camp. I followed.

Her tent was quiet, draped in dark fabric embroidered with faint silver lines that shimmered like moonlight. A soft lantern cast a warm glow, making the space feel more like a shrine than a shelter. She moved with her usual grace, calm and precise.

She stood with her back to me for a moment. Then, softly: “Do you ever think about the things you’re supposed to forget?”

I didn’t answer right away.

She turned to face me, her eyes glinting with something between doubt and defiance. “Shar teaches that forgetting is a kind of mercy. That pain is something we shed, like skin.”

I stepped closer. “That sounds lonely.”

“It is.” She hesitated. “But it’s also liberating. You don’t have to carry the weight of everything you've done, or everything you’ve lost. You just... let go. Trust her to take it.”

“And has she?”

A pause. Her expression flickered. “Some of it. The rest... she reminds me of. Especially when I stray.”

She raised her hand, showing me the old scar across her palm. “Sometimes it stings. A message, I think, or a warning. I don't know why exactly, but It happens when I feel something I shouldn’t.”

“Like mercy?” I said.

“Or pleasure.” she replied, quiet

She lowered her hand. “But I remember what you gave me. How you made me feel. I can’t forget that. No matter how much I think I should.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Not with me.”

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she gave the smallest nod.

“I want to return the favor. But don’t expect romance. I’m not... built for that.”

She stepped closer, her fingers moving to unbuckle my belt with calm, focused hands. “Let me give you something clear. Something you won’t forget either.”

She dropped to her knees with quiet efficiency, her movements fluid, like a priestess beginning a rite. Her hands, cool and steady, freed my cock, already hard from earlier. She didn’t look up for permission—she just began, her lips parting to take me in with deliberate intent.

Her mouth was warm, her lips sealing around me with precise pressure. Her tongue moved in steady strokes, measured and firm. Her lips slid down my length, sucking with calculated intensity, it wasn’t teasing, wasn’t playful. This was service—deliberate and controlled.

Her hands braced against my thighs as she worked, keeping a steady pace. There was a rhythm to it, practiced and composed. Her breaths were quiet, only the wet sound of her mouth filling the tent.

I watched her, the lantern light catching in her hair, her eyes still closed. Her face didn’t flush with lust, but with concentration. She wanted this to mean something—not as intimacy, but as an act of gratitude. Not for saving her life or keeping her from turning, but from giving her something to cherish. Something to remember.

My hand slid into her hair. She tensed, just slightly, then allowed it. I traced down her front, to the firm swell of her chest. I found her nipples through the soft cloth and pinched both.

Then I started the magic—two Alluring Blasts, one into each nipple, sharp jolts of pleasure surging through her chest.

Her whole body jerked. Her mouth clamped tighter, her breath stuttering. A low sound, half-swallowed, escaped her. Her thighs shifted, opening slightly, her hips tilting forward.

She didn’t stop.

Her rhythm faltered, then redoubled, faster now, needier. Not for herself, but to finish what she started.

Two more blasts. Her frame trembled, muscles tensing, a subtle twitch in her legs signaling she was close. Her breath grew ragged, her sucking more urgent, yet still controlled, each motion a testament to her will.

Two more. Her orgasm struck without noise—just a long, shaking exhale through her nose, her whole frame frozen for one perfect second.

I followed, my release crashing in sharp waves, spilling into her mouth. She took it all, swallowing without flinching, her tongue gliding over me one last time to clean the last drops.

When she pulled back, she licked her lips slowly, then looked up.

“Thank you,” she said again, voice low. “That was... more than I expected.”

“You’re welcome.”

She stood, adjusted her top, smoothing the fabric with careful hands. Her movements were composed again, ritual complete.

“I should rest,” she said.

“Shadowheart,” I said, stopping her before she stepped away. “That pain you feel—It's proof that Shar cares, she holds you in high regard.”

She didn’t smile. But her eyes softened.

“To subject yourself to losing memories and withstanding the pain..., that kind of devotion is truly... Admirable.” I shamelessly flattered.

[Shadowheart: Approval +5]

She gave a quiet exhale, then nodded. “I was right in trusting you.”

She pulled the tent flap aside, paused, and glanced back. “Same time tomorrow?"

[Shadowheart: Corruption +2]

I stepped outside. The air was cooler now, crisp with night.

Karlach’s snores hummed softly from her corner. Steam still curled from the cauldron.

Across the fire, Lae’zel stood like a statue, her gaze already fixed on me.

I met it head on.

Her ritual would be next.