My Taboo Harem!

From above, the forest had no end.

Hell’s Paradise Island’s second geography ran unbroken from the quiet rim of the Legacy city southward until the land itself forgot to continue — sixty-foot boles standing shoulder to shoulder in their uncounted thousands, canopies interwoven so densely that moonlight reached the moss in thin apologetic filaments, the whole great green mantle older than the concept of its own surveying.

Cartographers who had tried had come away calling it indefinite and wisely stopped trying.

Tonight it was quiet.

The obscene quiet of a forest that had registered something in its interior and was choosing, across all its uncounted acres, not to comment.

But then a wave passed through it.

The first pulse originated from a single hollow twenty miles from the nearest legible trail — a silent hard displacement expanding through the canopy in a perfect ring, and a hundred thousand branches curtseyed simultaneously in the direction of its travel.

Leaves peeled forward, shuddered, settled. Not a crack. Not a rustle. Not one startled animal cry.

The forest had clenched its teeth.

A second wave. Harder. The trunks themselves swayed at their bases, roots tightening in their millennial beds. A third — musical in its violence, rolling along the moss floor faster than the canopy wave travelled along the tops, and a deer in a distant clearing lay down in the leaves and refused to rise for the remainder of the night.

The waves were gathering pace each second. Wider, heavier, more petitioning — as though something deep in the forest’s heart were demanding audience of the air above it, and the air were dutifully carrying the summons outward in concentric silent rings.

Past the high canopy and down through the tiered dark, past vines and hanging mosses and the black-barked mother-oaks whose root-systems drank whole acres dry — down to the mossy floor of the originating hollow, where two bodies lay side by side in the leaf-litter.

Phei on his back, amethyst eyes closed, arm extended, his index finger pressed unerringly to the centre of Kyle’s forehead.

Kyle beside him, unconscious, his young face untouched… healed by Eira — every other wound the duel had written stayed in the realm, in the soul, in the interior geography where the violence had been transacted.

Over them both hovered Eira.

Small. Crystalline. Wings held with exquisite stillness.

And pouring from her in slow continuous torrents was frost.

Not Phei’s Void-Ice but older than that. A disciplined, high-cold light — pale blue-white, issuing from her tiny palms in measured streams and settling around the two unconscious forms in concentric bands of containment. A dome, perhaps eight feet across at the base, six feet at the crown.

Each successive band colder than the one beneath, each humming at a frequency a half-octave sharper, the whole construction a working of the sort that existed in no surviving Earth record.

Her small hands moved along the dome’s outer skin in patient patterns, sealing seams, thickening walls, reinforcing whichever face the next ripple would strike.

Another wave.

The inside of the dome flared incandescent blue-white. The outer shell bowed two inches, settled. A thin filament of red-black escaped the upper curve and dissipated harmlessly into the canopy above.

Residuals. Only residuals.

The main force stayed bound inside the frost.

A progenitor even unawakened did not concede to a cosmic-level enslavement without a fight.

The red that had lashed out of Kyle’s chest had told her everything: Cosmic Dragon Face was soul-level slave mark, and the progenitor’s soul sleeping in Kyle Abrams-Manson was not a being that accepted sovereign imposition without its own attempted counter-claim.

That argument could only be had in one place; Kyle’s soul realm.

The window was brief and precise. Attempt too early — the progenitor slept too deeply to hear the enslavement.

Attempt too late — the progenitor rose fully embodied and the enslavement failed against its full cosmic weight.

Attempt now, while the old thing stirred but had not yet claimed its full reircanation in entirety, and the progenitor would manifest at a thin fraction of itself, wearing the interior of a realm the progenitor was still too half-awakened to properly inhabit.

Phei, by comparison, had already awakened.

Full Cosmic Dragon capacity, channelled into a contest against a being stretched thin across its own insufficient vessel.

Her master would have the upper hand. Obviously. But only inside the realm. Only within the window. And only if the window remained held open while the work was transacted — and so she had taken her master’s hand and guided his index finger to the exact place on Kyle’s forehead where the summoning of the progenitor’s soul would be cleanest and pure.

The Eternal Prison’s binding rules on a familiar of her tier were precise: she could not direct her master, could not command, could not impose strategic judgement.

The rules said nothing about pressing a finger. A small physical courtesy. A solicitous gesture. The Prison could not prove intent.

She had made the choice for him without, technically, having made the choice for him.

The Prison and its binding rules could go sit on an especially pointed stone.

The work was simple for her. Tedious, but simple.

The two of them, between them, were not drawing even one percent of their true capacity. Phei was exerting Cosmic Dragon power at the ceiling of his current awakening. Kyle’s progenitor was pulling only what the realm could pass through from its half-roused extent.

One percent was well within her containing.

Five percent, she could still manage.

Ten?

She preferred not to contemplate.

Another wave arrived. She turned her hand and reinforced the western face an instant before impact. The dome held.

Had she left them in the prison cell, the consequences would have been regionally disastrous — guards unconscious before the first pulse fully propagated, seismographs in three countries lodging reports that someone would have read.

She cared nothing for the collateral on its own merits; her master’s women were seven hundred miles away in Hell’s Paradise Island, insulated from the shockwave entirely.

But witnesses from other legacy families were a different matter.

No one was supposed to know what was happening

Especially, not Danton Maxton, with Jörmungandr half-awake and wholly arrogant inside him, would have felt it more viscerally. No one could be permitted that information tonight.

And so here she was.

Endless silent forest.

Frost dome.

Two unconscious boys on the moss — one quietly taking possession of a foreign soul, the other being asked a question he had no mechanism to refuse.

Another wave arrived.

Eira reinforced the northern face.

She settled in to wait.