Chapter 3
1335words
With a languid gesture toward your deliberately tattered dress, you begin the transformation.
Dark purple energy crackles as the torn fabric mends itself, revealing the true elegance of your attire. Silver-threaded runes along the hem pulse with power before fading to a subtle glow.
Your deliberately tangled hair rises and settles like black water, arranging itself in its true form. Color returns to your artificially pallid cheeks. The wide-eyed innocence you've worn like a mask dissolves, revealing the calculating gaze of a witch who has seen centuries pass.
The very light in the room dims in response to your unleashed aura.
You lift your gaze to meet his, braced for the usual reactions—fear, disgust, perhaps even a hasty retreat. After centuries, you're well acquainted with how the "light races" respond to your true nature.
But Arion simply watches you.
Not a flicker of fear crosses his face. No disgust twists his features. Instead, that curious interest in his eyes deepens into something more intense—something almost like… reverence.
He studies you as one might gaze upon a masterpiece finally freed from centuries of grime. After a long silence, he speaks, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of admiration:
"This version of you," he says softly, "matches my paintings far better than that lost little girl."
His words strike like lightning, shattering the final walls around your heart and sending shockwaves up your spine.
This sensation—being truly seen yet wholly accepted—is entirely foreign to you, despite your centuries of existence.
You've had countless admirers who worshipped your beauty or feared your power. But never has anyone seen through every layer of deception to embrace what lies beneath—your true self, that complex blend of darkness and beauty.
That night requires no more words.
A tidal wave of emotion sweeps away all rational thought. Hunter and prey cease to exist—replaced by two ancient souls recognizing each other after eons of solitude. When his lips meet yours, your response isn't calculated seduction but raw, genuine desire. And what he offers isn't pity for some lost waif, but pure admiration for Lilith, the powerful witch you truly are.
Under the watching moon, your bodies and souls intertwine, reaching heights neither of you has known before.
For the first time in your long existence, you dare to hope. Perhaps you've finally found someone who can embrace your true self—not despite your fire, but because of it.
In this moment of perfect union, with all barriers dissolved between you, something ancient awakens. The Elven "Mate Mark"—a bond older than written history—forms silently in the depths of your souls. Like countless golden threads, invisible yet unbreakable, it weaves your essences together. Neither of you notices its formation.
Lost in ecstasy, you remain oblivious to this profound change. All you know is the perfect harmony resonating between your souls—a connection deeper than anything you've ever experienced.
The months that follow are a fever dream of happiness unlike anything in your centuries of existence.
You have a perfect partner who understands you without words. The games and pretenses fall away—you no longer perform tricks, and he no longer feigns ignorance about your true nature.
He watches with fascination as you brew potions that glow with otherworldly light. You rest your head in his lap while he tells you the age and personality of each ancient tree in his forest.
Together, you bathe in the silver lake and dance across branches that should be too slender to hold your weight. He teaches you to hear the wind's whispers; you show him how to capture starlight in his palms.
Free from all masks, you can finally be yourself. You unleash your power without restraint and reveal your vulnerabilities without fear.
Because you know he loves all of you—the real Lilith, neither angel nor demon but something gloriously in between.
You believe you've found eternity. You even dare to think that your restless nature—always tiring of the familiar, always craving novelty—has finally met its match in this extraordinary soul.
But nature remains nature because it never truly changes; it can only be briefly forgotten.
When did the first crack appear?
Perhaps it was that morning when you woke to find Arion bringing you the same dew-fresh berries, and something in your heart whispered: Haven't we done this before?
Or maybe it was when he showed you that same field of moonflowers for what felt like the hundredth time.
The beauty remained flawless, but your eyes wandered to the hazy horizon beyond the forest. You found yourself longing for crowded city streets—dirty and chaotic, yes, but gloriously unpredictable.
You began to crave imperfection—the delicious danger of deception, the thrill of never knowing what comes next.
The forest's peace is genuine. His love is true. But for you, they've become a beautiful prison—a torture of endless perfection.
How did paradise become a cage?
You realize with growing horror that your love for Arion has soured like wine left too long in the sun.
You force yourself to kiss him, to respond to his touch, desperately trying to rekindle what once burned so brightly between you.
But when he gazes at you with those still-pure eyes, you feel only a bone-deep weariness that no amount of passion can cure.
You finally admit the truth: you're bored. Bored of this unchanging forest, this flawless lover, this perfect, stagnant love.
You can't bear it another day.
Lying to others brings you joy; lying to yourself brings only pain.
You decide to stop pretending.
One morning, you don't wake him with a kiss. Instead, you dress silently and perch on the edge of the bed, waiting for his eyes to open.
When Arion finally stirs and finds you watching him—fully dressed, face set in grim resolve—sleep vanishes from his eyes in an instant.
"Arion," your voice is unnaturally steady, "I'm leaving." You meet his gaze unflinchingly. No lies this time. No gentle excuses. Just the brutal truth.
He's been expecting this.
Long ago, he'd heard tales from a heartbroken kinsman about witches—how they forever chase novelty, inevitably tiring of what once enchanted them.
He understood from the beginning but hoped you might stay just a little longer.
Arion says nothing—no questions, no pleas for you to stay. A heavy silence blankets the room, broken only by distant birdsong filtering through the window.
Guilt keeps you rooted in place, waiting for whatever words he might offer.
After what feels like eternity, he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper, containing just the faintest tremor.
"Is it because my world is too small," he asks with quiet resignation, "that it can no longer hold you?"
You have no answer. How can you explain that the problem isn't his world's size, but your soul's insatiable hunger?
Without another word, you rise, eyes fixed on the floor, and turn toward the door. Each step feels like walking on white-hot coals. You don't dare look back—one glimpse of his face might shatter your resolve.
And so, heart heavy with guilt, you flee from the Tree House and the Elf you once believed might be your forever.
As you cross the forest's boundary, the familiar scents of the outside world bring no relief. Instead, excruciating pain explodes in your chest, as if an invisible hand is crushing your heart!
A scream tears from your throat as you plummet from the sky. You crash to the ground, magic spilling from your body like water from a shattered vessel.
The Mate Mark. It must be.
Horror dawns as you realize what's happening.
Beyond your physical agony, something worse floods through your soul connection—a tidal wave of grief so profound it makes your own pain seem trivial. Arion's sorrow.
Through fading consciousness, your awareness drifts back to the Tree House, where Arion hasn't pursued you. Instead, he weeps alone, silent tears falling like rain.
