> Mir-Grande-Carta

>

> Type: Proper noun

>

> Translation: Great Continent

>

> Definition: A continent comprising the regions of Faewood, Spiyles, Keblurg, Sogrestein, Skoe Scana, Cragua, Ostesh, and Aspana. It is also referred to as 'the human land,' indicative of its primarily human population and governance.

The remnants of last night's festivity were strewn about the camp like the results of a small but vibrant typhoon. A few Magis snored amid the backdrop of a disassembled stage and emptied barrels of beer. Here and there, a faerie lay tucked beneath benches now cluttered with food crumbs and dishes stained with spilt drinks.

Inside his tent, Yeso was nestled among an indulgent pile of plush pillows. His sleep-addled brain barely registered the persistent nudging against his head. "Five more minutes, my love," he mumbled into the fabric, a sleepy grin curling his lips.

The nudging continued unabated. With a contented sigh, he turned his face, expecting the warm touch of Noctavia—only to be met by the wet slap of a wolf's tongue across his cheek.

"Howl, really?" Yeso sat up and cleaned his cheek with the back of his hand. He blinked away the haze of sleep to find himself alone in the tent with the Howling Night. The wolf had laid himself out in a clear invitation, presenting his belly for a rub, tail wagging expectantly.

"You're the Howling Night! The very essence of the embodiment of time itself!" Yeso exclaimed in mock exasperation. "And you're telling me you want belly rubs?”

The wolf's tail thumped against the ground, its eyes twinkling with a playful mischief.

Yeso shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Then, with a resigned sigh, he gave in to the creature's simple request. As his fingers made contact with the wolf's belly, Noctavia entered their tent.

She returned, balancing two dishes and two mugs of clay in her arms. One was laden with an assortment of colourful fruits; the other held an item that immediately captured Yeso's attention. The familiar, divine aroma of apple pie wafted through the air, invading his senses and making his mouth water. Yeso was a man of simple tastes, content with little. But apple pie? That was his sweet spot.

Setting the dishes down, Noctavia took a seat beside him. Yet, Yeso's gaze was fixated on the golden-brown crust of the freshly baked pie before him.

"Eyes up here," Noctavia said playfully.

His eyes reluctantly tore away from the pie to meet hers, but only for a moment before they darted back down. "That looks..." he began, but words failed him, eclipsed by his near-reverence for the pie.

Chuckling, Noctavia slid the plate toward him. "Here," she said, handing him a fork and a mug filled with steaming tea.

As Yeso cut into the pie and watched as the molten filling oozed out, a sense of simple joy washed over him. Yeso paused, fork in mid-air, as his joy mingled with a pang of guilt.

Noctavia had woken early to make this pie, a labour of love, and here he was, about to savour it alone. He looked over at her as she peeled an orange, and the guilt settled in his gut like a stone dropped into a still pond.

He picked up a small piece. and then moved it toward Noctavia's lips.

"What are you doing?" she asked, eyebrows arching.

"You should be the one to taste it first," he replied.

Noctavia sniffed at the forkful of pie and then took a bite. "Is something wrong?" she asked after savouring the flavours, "I don't taste anything wrong."

He cut another piece with his fork and offered it to her. "You don't like it?" she queried, puzzled by his actions.

"I haven't tasted it yet, but I already love it just from the smell," he confessed.

"Then why aren't you eating it?"

"Because I'm sharing what I love most with you," he said, his eyes locked onto hers.

As she took the second bite, her eyes softened. "Eat, now! It's all yours."

Yeso was a study in contrasts: elegant and precise with a sword but a delightful mess when it came to enjoying his beloved apple pie. He was a messy eater. Crumbs littered his lap, and splotches of caramelized apple decorated his shirt like badges of culinary honour. Yet, the plate before him was wiped clean, unrestrained from his enthusiasm.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Noticing the contrast, Noctavia set aside her own mostly untouched plate and leaned over to him. With a tender motion, she used her thumb to wipe away a stray smudge of filling from his lips.

"Look at you."

"I did nothing!" Yeso grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he leaned back. Seizing the moment, he gently grasped her waist and pulled her closer.

As their lips met, Noctavia felt the soft texture and the lingering taste of pie mingled with subtle hint of lemongrass on her tongue.

Noctavia's lips parted. "Yeso. I'm still bleeding," she whispered, her eyes searching his for understanding as she made a subtle motion to disentangle herself from his arms.

Rather than comply, Yeso's arms seemed to forge a new dimension of closeness as he pulled her even nearer. The muscles in his forearms tensed, but his touch was anything but forceful—almost as if he was cradling something fragile. "If I let a mere pie leave its mark on me, I don't see why my Hexe should be any exception," he murmured, the warmth of his words filling the empty spaces around them with the nibbling of his kisses.

“Besides, I’m a warrior. I’m used to some splashes.”

Noctavia laughed. She felt as though her seed was laid bare, every secret and fear exposed, shared. Yet, it was his hand that sent a ripple through her, its movement slow and deliberate. His fingertips grazed her waist, pausing as if asking for silent permission she had already granted. Then, like a hesitant artist touching brush to canvas, his hand slid down the curve of her hip, eventually coming to rest at the end of her skirt.

Yeso's fingers slid deftly past the hem of Noctavia's skirt, making their first contact with the warmth of her skin. The sensation seemed to ignite him from within; a soft, almost involuntary, moan escaped his lips as his fingertips pulled off her panties.

Being a Hexe had its costs. An uninvited waltz with the darker spectrums of mortal experience: pain, sadness, sickness, anger, frustration and others. But there was another side of the coin: an untapped reservoir of sensations so intense they were unimaginable to the average creature.

Pleasure was not simply pleasure; it was something cosmic, bordering on transcendent. It was a clear reflection from Hexe to Hexe. And under Yeso's touch, Noctavia felt as if she were teetering on the precipice of something monumental, and he could feel it until the last detail.

His fingers navigated the hidden, watery geography of her body. For Yeso, the tactile symphony he performed was as intuitive as it was intentional, as if he was coaxing a melody from a string only he knew how to play. Because he knew 'what' and 'how' he should touch, he could feel it as if in his own skin. He knew when to go slow and when not. Diving inside her, even just with his fingers, he could feel her pleasure mounting, her heart racing, the bite on her lower lip to hold her moans.

Noctavia gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, and her wings unfolded completely, opening wide. Her breath became shallow, each exhale a whispered invitation for him to continue, to go deeper, and to not stop.

“Take your clothes off,” she tried to command him.

But Yeso was not one to be told so, and not when her whole being vibrated like a taut string, the frequencies of her pleasure amplified by her Hexe nature. When suddenly, the morning light spilt through the flaps of the tent. A voice shattered their cocoon of intimacy. "Hey guys, we... is that blood?"

As if yanked by the break of his strings, Yeso's wings folded in an automatic reflex, partially enveloping Noctavia's exposed form. Just as Mediah's head poked into the tent, time froze.

The tent fabric ceased its gentle sway, the grains of dirt outside the door hung motionless in the air, and Mediah's expression was locked in a frame of startled curiosity. Noctavia took advantage of the stilled world to hastily redress.

Yeso, immune to her time-stopping capabilities, sighed audibly, his eyes narrowing at the interruption. "What is he doing?" Yeso's voice was tinged with irritation, as if Mediah had committed an unforgivable breach of privacy.

"They need you."

"They always need me!" he retorted, his words frustrated. "You need me too!"

Noctavia’s eyes shimmered with a cocktail of feelings—regret, longing, but also a strange kind of peace. "Yes, I need Yeso, but they need their Commander. I can wait."

His wings slowly relaxed, folding back, even though nothing about this moment felt remotely normal. With a reluctant nod, he gave the sign to Noctavia. Only then did she let the universe resume its rhythmic ticking as if winding an old clock back to life.

Yeso turned toward Mediah. "What's so urgent?"

"We've got a situation, Commander," Mediah began, clearly oblivious to what he just interrupted. "Balenos is here."

With a final glance at Noctavia, Yeso sighed and moved past her, stepping out of the tent and into the urgency of the now. But as he left, his fingers lightly brushed against hers—a silent promise that he would be back soon.

Upon stepping out of the tent, a member of their camp offered him his black robe. He draped it over himself, grateful for its cover, particularly over his stained shirt. But his thoughts were abruptly diverted from personal matters as he caught sight of the monumental figure waiting for him at the camp's entrance—a centaur. Not any centaur, but Balenos himself.

The creature was an awe-inspiring blend of raw power and grace, his lower body equine and as muscular as a prize stallion. His torso was just as imposing, sculpted like a warrior's. His face seemed almost unnaturally perfect, chiselled with features that could belong to a Spirit, and his eyes bore the focused, assessing look of a hunter.

The centaur had come unarmed. In the complex politics of Mir-Grande-Carta, this was a gesture of peace—or desperation. A plea for help, perhaps.

"One of the kings lied," Balenos spoke when he saw Yeso, his voice deep and filled with a resounding gravity that echoed his imposing presence.

"Either the King of Keblurg or King of Spiyles has deceived us, and it's led to an attack on Moonbay. We are asking the Sun to burn the land! We come asking for the Commander's power to end this, once and for all!"

> "The chapter of the Exodus, for the centaurs, was a catastrophic intersection of greed and ambition that almost wiped them from the pages of history. Keblurg and Spiyles, rival warlords kingdoms of formidable power, vied relentlessly for the possession of these noble creatures. Each recognized the centaurs as not sentient beings but as walking arsenals—a confluence of physical strength. As their bitter struggle intensified, the centaurs found themselves ensnared, forced into servitude, and their numbers dwindled alarmingly. All this sacrifice to protect their biggest secret.

>

> ——Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. I by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune