As the sun peeked over the horizon, it cast its golden gaze upon the palace, bathing the grand edifice in hues of amber and rose. The regal stone walls, usually as welcoming as a tax collector, softened under the morning light, almost managing a cozy vibe.

In the royal bedchamber, Burn and Morgan had apparently taken the term 'royal entanglement' quite literally. They were artfully draped in a blanket from the waist down, their bodies doing a convincing impression of a pretzel knot, minus the obnoxious loops.

Ah, they were as serene as the palace's treasury during tax season.

Outside, the palace grounds were waking up. Birds chirped their morning gossip, the castle kitchens clanged with the symphony of breakfast, and the palace staff began their daily dance of duties.

Yet, within the royal bedchamber, time seemed to be on a coffee break. It was as if the world had taken a collective pause, allowing Burn and Morgan a couple of bonus snooze button hits before the day barged in, with its endless to-do lists and unavoidable obligations.

So there it was, a new morning, a new beginning. But within the palace, there was a distinct whisper in the air that the status quo had been tweaked, and not so subtly at that. Morning had broken, and apparently, so had a few conventions.

“Mmh—”

Morgan roused from her slumber, her eyelids weighed down by the remnants of dreams and the lure of sleep.

Her hair, a river of liquid gold, cascaded around, conveniently doubling as a drape for her upper body that was comfortably nestled against Burn's chest. Peeks of her alabaster skin played hide and seek from within his embrace, her chest snugly pressed against his.

It was a scene straight out of a classic painting, minus the fig leaves.

"Awake?" Burn's voice, hoarse from sleep or perhaps emotions, nudged her from the edge of consciousness.

Before her eyes even had the chance to flutter open, she found her slender arms winding their way around his shoulders, pulling herself closer as he shifted to face her.

Burn had been on the edge of suspicion for a while now. When she didn't bolt after he locked the door, his eyebrows had twitched in curiosity.

When she playfully sprawled on his sheets, the suspicion had a slight growth spurt. And when he discovered the absence of undergarments beneath her white lace dress, suspicion graduated to full-blown skepticism.

He was suspicious, and then—

"You're giving me your virginity for a resurrection spell?"

Now, a resurrection spell wasn't your run-of-the-mill spell. It held its own special niche in the magical world, accessible only to a select few.

Priestesses, for instance.

It was typically used to mend the wounds of those who walked the righteous path – paladins, holy knights and the like. The procedure was sacred, the spell a divine blessing.

The typical way to carry out this divine transaction was within the sanctity of a church, under the vigilant eyes of priests and steeped in hallowed rituals.

The offering of virginity was more symbolic than carnal. The wounded man would remain as still as a statue, his eyes closed, oblivious to the world, while the woman would carry out the act of penetration.

This was no passionate tryst; it was a sacrifice, a solemn pact sealed without the summit of pleasure. They would then sleep side by side until the morning light, bodies close but worlds apart.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

This sacred ritual was less about the meeting of bodies and more about the merging of souls. It was an act of love, but not in the way one might expect. It was love for duty, love for the divine, love in its purest, most selfless form.

"But it still worked, right? It’s a good use for this mortal vessel’s virginity," Morgan blinked at him, her blue eyes shimmering with a hint of mischief.

"You're not a priestess, you're a witch. I was the one who... fucked you, and we both found the summit of pleasure. Closing my eyes? I don't remember even blinking once. And this definitely isn't a church—"

"Caliburn," Morgan interjected, nipping his indignant tirade in the bud, her voice a soft but firm counterpoint to his heated assertions.

It seemed that the traditional rules of the game had been thrown out the window, replaced by a new playbook written by Morgan herself. And to her credit, it appeared to be working just fine.

They fucked, and climaxed. That wasn’t sacred at all.

It was anything but sacred!

"Yes, I'm not a priestess, Caliburn," she said, her voice carrying an undertone of amusement. "But I am a holy woman. I'm a saint. This title has been mine for so long people have forgotten. I must admit, it's rather convenient at times like these..."

"Also..." Morgan continued, brushing past Burn's wide-eyed surprise as if it were an inconsequential detail. "Because I'm a saint, wherever I go becomes holy ground. We don't need a church."

Burn regarded her, his gaze searching for further explanation in her eyes. But all he saw was a glow of innocence that made the passionate escapades of the previous day seem like a distant, impossible memory.

They fucked all day yesterday, lost in each other—yet there she was, looking as if she'd spent the day at a tea party instead.

"Anddd, actually," Morgan began again, her voice slightly shaky as she cleared her throat. "That vampire church… I founded it a few hundred years ago. Master Vlad's my cardinal."

Burn's forehead furrowed into a deeper frown, the pieces of this complex puzzle starting to fall into place.

"Those rules you mentioned about the resurrection spell," Morgan's voice began to fade, her pompousness faltering. "It was me, along with other religious leaders, who established them.”

“They were put in place to enforce order, to prevent young, impulsive individuals from misusing it to satisfy their lustful desires."

The revelations hit Burn like waves crashing upon a shore, each one more surprising than the last.

"Actually, also—"

"What? What again? Is there more?" Burn interrupted in disbelief.

Morgan’s courage deflated. Her face reddened, and she seemed to shrink in his embrace. “...Never mind.”

Burn felt his veins pop in anger, but not that kind of anger. He grasped her body forcefully, making her squeal in surprise. Her excitement was palpable as she giggled sweetly in his ears. “Miss Momo, tell me.”

“No~!” she laughed, her beautiful face twisting in joy as she realized how much she had stirred him. Her laugh was so sweet—so beautiful and crisp—his deep and low chuckle complimented it perfectly.

He knew she had done it for him. He suspected it was her intention from the beginning. Even when she was angry at him for accusing her of betrayal, she remained in his room.

His soul had been ripped apart by the curse, and she had jumped in headfirst to heal him.

"My... Burn..."

"...Caliburn..."

Her voice from yesterday echoed in his mind—

"Dear Divine, unto Thee—I offer this sacred gift of chastity, a sacrifice of my own purity—Humbly, I beseech Thee... ngghhh!”

Now that he remembered it again—even he blushed.

“Extend Thine celestial mercy to heal the soul of my... soul, that lies within mine own—hh… My beloved son of man, Caliburn—!"

It was only a prayer for the spell… yet—

KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Ahem, ahem, Your Majesty, the preparation for the strategy meeting is complete."

Burn was yanked back into reality like a fish on a hook. He glanced down at the woman nestled in his arms, his brow furrowing. What was this Déjà Vu?

It was Galahad’s voice through the door—oh, how nostalgic.

Burn sighed. He rose from the bed and pulled his house robe to put on. He didn’t realize how Morgan still tried to hold her giggles when he opened the door and saw Galahad stared back at him in complete shock.

“Y-Your Majesty…?!”

“What?” Burn frowned.

Galahad pointed at his head in panic, and it prompted Burn to turn to his mirror. The man in the mirror was—

“Wh—”

Blonde.