That night, between the second and third watches, Morningstar stood before the great double doors of the Chamber of Sacrifice.

The doors were huge, etched with carvings of the entire history of the Sisters of Sunlight, from their founding as a group of High Priestess Celestia’s friends to their many holy missions across the world, doing the will of Sol and protecting his followers alongside the Holy Guard. Morningstar ran his hand up a few of the carvings, feeling their intricacies even under his glove, his eyes wandering over the heroics of the Holy Guard. Not even a day ago, Morningstar had wanted to be one of those heroes, cleansing the land of chaos in the holy names of Sol and Artemis. But now, all of that seemed so quaint. Now, he was closer to Celestia than anyone in the Holy Guard could ever dream of. He was closer to Sol than anyone in Holy Guard could ever dream of.

It was a closeness that Morningstar knew came with a great debt, upon which utmost secrecy was only the first down payment. What Celestia had alluded to earlier was running through his head a thousand times over by now. Laypeople had tried, and failed, to tap into the magic that he was about to become a part of, and died by the thousands before it was outlawed by holy decree and hidden deep within these chambers. Doubtlessly, she had said the same to Pastel, said the same to many others who had walked through these doors. Morningstar wondered how many had entered this chamber only to never return, how many had been lucky enough to only leave a burnt-out husk of a corpse. The price of failure was heaped high upon his head. But the price of success…

Morningstar swallowed. Celestia wouldn’t have chosen him if she didn’t believe that he was capable of handling this sort of magic. Right?

He heard footfalls behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Another Praetorian, the first one he had seen the entire day, her armor identical to his save a long, purple plume erupting violently from her helm. This one was a woman, almost as tall as Celestia, but she was chiseled and statuesque in a way that would have made many a man jealous of her physique. Upon her tightly packed abdomen was a wide array of tattoos, elaborate and dazzling in such a way that it made Morningstar dizzy to watch them move on her flexing musculature. As she approached, Morningstar could smell the distinct scent of her perfume, a lavender scent that hung in the musty air. There was a lazy sway in her step, and as she approached Morningstar he heard her hearty, chuckling laughter.

“So, you’re the fresh meat, eh?” she said, punching him just a bit too hard on the shoulder. Her voice held the trademark lilt of the faraway Highlands, an accent that Morningstar felt held the delight of living.

Morningstar nodded, turning around to face her and giving her a salute. “If by that you mean the new Praetorian, yes, Ma’am,” he said.

She laughed again, the sound of it scratchy and worn like an rusty, if reliable, sword, and she placed a hand on her hip. “Knew I heard there was gonna be an Initiation today,” she said. “Gotta admit, was thinkin’ they’d be bringin’ in somebody taller.”

Morningstar grunted. Did everybody have to rub it in? “I assure you, I’m Praetorianae material, Ma’am.”

“Ah, I don’t doubt it,” she said. He couldn’t see her expression past her helm, but Morningstar could tell that she was wearing a dry smirk on her face. “I bet yer awful nervous, eh, fresh meat?”

“Not at all,” Morningstar said. “Pastel trusts me, and I trust her. We’re in this together and we’ll exceed all expectations, I’m sure.”

The woman laughed again, heartier than ever, punching Morningstar in the shoulder once more. “Well, that’s certainly a leg up from my first time. Poor girl thought I didn’t have what it took. Literally, of course,” she said, gesturing vaguely to her crotch. “Guess these gals all cooped up in here have never figured there’s more n’ one way to ride a horse. Most of the fellas coming in don’t either, but they learn right quick.”

Morningstar crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. He had figured the other Praetorians would be taking this seriously. This was holy magic, after all. He could feel her grinning behind her helmet, just before she pushed him against the door, summoning a strength Morningstar had rarely seen to press him up against its surface.

“Yer not impressed, huh? Figured I’d be some kinda mystic type? Never was one fer faith, afore Celestia brought me into her Praetorianae. Always liked fightin’, though!”

“Clearly,” Morningstar said softly, taking ahold of her arm. “F-Frankly, I didn’t really have any expectations. Though I’m a bit… perplexed by your behavior before a ritual such as this.”

“Not like you were prayin’, eh?”

“Did that before I came here.”

“Ah, shite,” the woman said, relenting and letting go of Morningstar, flicking her hand a few times. “Figured Celestia would do better than a freakin’ altar boy.”

Morningstar smirked. “Not impressed, huh?”

The woman undid her helmet, yanking it off of her head, and pushed back her coiffe. Her head was shaved halfway on the right hand side, with a long, violently pink part to the left. Her face was spotted with freckles and covered with scars, and one of her bright green eyes had gone milky and blind. especially seeing that almost every inch of her carried a scar, and most likely a story. She gave Morningstar a wry grin, and offered him her hand, which he gladly took. “Name’s Sword Dancer. Most call my Dancey. Pleased ta meet ya, fresh meat.”

“I’m Morningstar,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Something tells me this wasn’t your first service.”

She already wore a broad grin and a twinkle in her eye, but both seemed to double in size. “Holy Guard, lad. Was a First Pikewoman in the Changeling Wars ‘bout ten years or so ago. Served under Captain Zweihander, toughest motherfucker that e’er walked the earth, not countin’ High Priestess Luna of course. Got roughed up pretty badly after a skirmish, made sure everybody got out save me. Surgeons said they got me pretty good, n’ that I wouldn’t fight again. Celestia offered me a place in her Praetorianae personally, an’ ya don’t turn down a High Priestess, do ya?”

Morningstar’s grip loosened a bit, and his face fell under his helmet. “Zweihander was my father,” he said quietly.

She let go of Morningstar’s hand, placing hers on his helmet. “No shit?”

“No… No shit.”

Her smile was smaller now, but there was something different about it. She pulled up Morningstar’s helm, and that different smile didn’t grow, only… intensified with the sort of queer sadness it had. “Ya look jus’ like ‘im,” she said. “Mayhaps a wee bit younger than when I knew ‘im, but… Gods, that’s uncanny.”

She let his helmet drop back down on his head. “He was a good fella. Fought ‘til the bitter end. Wish I was there ta see him through. Sorry ‘bout… well, y’know.”

Morningstar swallowed. “He fell in battle alongside his comrades. That’s the most we can all hope for.”

Sword Dancer yanked her coiffe back up over her head, and slipped her helmet back on, giving Morningstar a few hearty pats on the shoulder. “Well, yer certainly honorin’ his memory, though prolly not the way ya intended. Catch me after the ceremony, eh? Think I’ve some good liquor stashed away.”

“I don’t really drink,” Morningstar said.

“Well, then, let’s make this a night o’ firsts, eh? Speakin’ of, pretty sure there’s some delightful little morsel of a young lady waitin’ for ya in there. We shouldn’t keep ‘er waitin’!”

“Of course not,” Morningstar said. Gods, Pastel really was waiting, wasn’t she? He wasn’t about to disappoint her, and if things went right, he wouldn’t disappoint anybody else, either.

Dancer laughed, pushing him aside, deftly opening both of the great double doors with one arm, using the other to gesture Morningstar inside. “Well, come on then, fresh meat! Onwards to yer Initiation!”

The Chamber of Sacrifice was massive, the sheer scale of it making Morningstar’s head spin. Though it was deep underground, the ceiling projected the moon and stars as if they were on the surface, undoubtedly an effort of great magic. Candles held by the Sisters and Praetorians who crowded the chamber offered some means of lighting besides the beckoning glow of the altar itself, a long, wide slab covered in runes. Indeed, wherever Morningstar looked, there were runes, a dazzlingly long series of ancient prayers and rituals carved into the very stone, in a language so old that even he, with all of his bookish knowledge on the subject, couldn’t recognize it. There was only one thing missing from the chamber, and that was Celestia herself, who was nowhere to be found. Odd, seeing as the Initiation was surely only minutes away, but Morningstar had little time to contemplate where Celestia was as Sword Dancer led him to a corner of the room where the Praetorians were huddled.

“Oy, Moonblade,” Sword Dancer said, pushing Morningstar towards the other Praetorians, “check out the fresh meat Celestia’s offerin’ us!”

Out of the huddled mass of scantily-armored men and women came one man. He seemed the size of a mountain, his armor elaborately decorated, gold and silver damascene glittering in candlelight. He towered over Morningstar, his fists almost as large as the boy’s head, his body a hulking mass of muscle and discipline. In his right hand was a tremendous staff, with charms and trinkets adorning it by the thousandfold, the ground seeming to shake wherever it touched down. Morningstar did his best to stand his ground, but certainly felt dwarfed in comparison. He puffed out his chest as best as he could, and kneeled before who was, surely, his new commanding officer.

“You must be Morningstar,” he said, his voice smooth as leather and deep as the ocean.

“Y-Yes, sir,” Morningstar mumbled.

“I am Elder Crescent Moonblade. You will call me Elder,” he said. “The Praetorianae has a loose structure, but one of us must speak for all of us, and I speak for all of us at any given time. I trust you understand the importance of our mission?”

“Loud and clear, Elder,” Morningstar said, his fist banging against his chestplate as he saluted.

“Good. Some of us may seem undisciplined,” he said, gesturing vaguely Dancer, “but the Praetorianae Concubini expects the best from you at all times, Son of Zweihander. We will be watching you, especially when it seems we are not.”

“Understood, Elder,” Morningstar said.

The Elder let out a deep breath, the sound of it like a hurricane against Morningstar’s ears. “The Initiation is about to begin,” he said. “The High Priestess’ spirit is high on the winds. If you are not ready, you will be.”

“Not to worry, Elder,” Morningstar said. “I’m ready and able for whatever shall come next.”

“We shall see,” Moonblade said, gripping his staff. “We shall see…”

At that moment, Morningstar felt the wind grow stronger in the chamber. An odd thing, considering that it was sealed and deep beneath the earth. Soon, all the candles had blown out, so that the only light inside the chamber was provided by the stars and moon projected upon its ceiling. Morningstar gazed upward and saw a distant light in the magical horizon, growing and growing as the wind picked up more and more, howling and moaning across his ears, as the sun rose and grew brighter and brighter and brighter until it was blinding. Morningstar shut his eyes tightly, and when that offered little protection from the light’s radiance, he threw an arm over his faceplate as warmth radiated across the entire chamber. There was a deep, loud boom, and the earth itself seemed to shake, and then as soon as it had happened, it was over.

Celestia stood upon the altar, glowing brightly with magic, a hand on her hip and a warm smile on her face. Raising her hands, the candles glowed again, brighter now, as if they themselves were little suns upon wax. “Gathered Sisters, honored Praetorians,” Celestia said, her voice booming across the chamber despite its warmth and elegance, “Blessings of Sol upon you all!”

Cheers erupted across the chamber, and Morningstar, swept up in the excitement, whooped and hollered with the best of them. Celestia put out her hands, and the cheers soon died down to a sacred silence. Sisters of Sunlight and the Praetorianae milled into a ring around the altar, a movement that Morningstar was guided into with silent bumps and tugs on his arm. He stood between two Praetorians at least a head taller than he was, both of whom glanced down upon him and both of whom couldn’t resist a snigger. “Fresh meat,” one whispered, and the other chuckled softly before the both of them were silenced by a leering gaze from Elder Moonblade.

“As we gather here today, we welcome two new souls into our ranks,” Celestia said. “Step forward, young souls, and join me on the altar.”

Morningstar swallowed. So it began. He took a step forward, and immediately the Praetorians erupted into even more cheering. Celestia seemed to giggle a bit, raising her hand again for silence, as Morningstar approached the altar, head held high, his body relaxed, his mind clear. Pastel was soon by his side, veiled once more, and he gave her a nod she reciprocated in kind. They were in this together, together in duty and honor, and there was no more time for doubts. When they reached the altar, Celestia took one of their hands each, giving them both that motherly smile Morningstar had sworn to protect.

“This new Praetorian is Morningstar,” Celestia said. “I know some of you may look upon him and scoff, but his faith shines brighter than the hottest of stars, and his body had been honed by the training and discipline to be expected from the son of the great Legate Zweihander. His destiny shines like morning dew, and great things will come to our faith and our nation with him in the Praetorianae Concubini. Hail, Morningstar!”

“Hail!” cried the Praetorians to the west, sending Morningstar’s face bright red to the tips of his ears. Celestia’s warm gaze settled on Pastel, and she seemed to shift a bit on her feet, no doubt feeling a touch nervous. Morningstar took her hand in his, affording her a smile that he knew she wouldn’t be able to see, but that she would hopefully feel. She squeezed his hand tightly, and Morningstar could feel it shake from the strain.

“And we are welcoming Initiate Pastel into the fold of the Sisters of Sunlight,” Celestia said. “Slight as she may be, Pastel glows with a holiness few could ever attain, and though she may be quiet, her voice brings joy to Sol and his fellow Gods. I not doubt that she will go far in her journey towards Motherhood, and the light she shines upon us all shall uplift us and guide us. Hail, Pastel!”

“Hail!” Cried the sisters, their call a far cry from the rough-and-tumble sound of the gathered Praetorians. Out of the corner of his eye, Morningstar saw a half-dozen Sisters of Sunlight and just as few Praetorians rise onto the altar, stepping towards the two of them, carrying baskets of… things. Undoubtedly, these were materials for the Initiation rite, and though Morningstar’s stomach was doing flips, he couldn't help but feel a touch of excitement at what they could be.

“Join me in prayer,” Celestia said, smiling as warmly as ever. “Let us welcome these Initiates to the true path of the Gods!”

Morningstar gasped instinctively when he felt hands grabbing at him, pulling him away from Pastel, into the middle of a huddle with several Praetorians. He couldn’t see Pastel past their bodies as they gently guided him to one side of the altar and laid him down, their grasp rough, but hardly forceful. Morningstar gazed upwards at the moon as they undid his loincloth, his half-hardness now exposed to the cool air of the chamber. His every nerve was now aware, his ears wide open to the sound of many dozens kneeling, as Celestia led them in a chant in the Old Language.

“Hail, Sol, God of the Sun! He, whose rays shine down ‘pon the earth eternal! He, whose holy light guides us together!”

One of the Praetorians began pouring something thick and warm on Morningstar’s abdominals, and with roughly-hewn if not gentle hands, he began spreading it across his skin. Olive oil, judging from the scent, the warmth an added bonus against his wound-tight muscles. As the chanting continued, the Praetorians began whispering a prayer of their own.

Morningstar grunted, as another pair of hands began working the oil into his length, these ones softer, more delicate, pulling him into hardness. “May this sword strike true against the demons who dwell in flesh,” a voice said, and despite its hushed tone, Morningstar recognized it as Sword Dancer. “And may it bring a holy light into the depths of those it slays.” He recognized that one – a rite said before battle, usually, though this time, the context was far, far different. Morningstar almost asked Dancer what was to happen, but as swiftly as he had been laid down, he was brought back to his feet. The Praetorians pulled away his helmet and yanked back his coiffe, and one of them began painting runes upon his face with a grape-smelling paste. These, he knew, were doubtlessly components in some sort of spell, and he shuddered to think of what that spell might be as the chanting stopped and changed.

“Hail, Artemis,” said Celestia, her lead followed by the dozens surrounding the altar. “She who protects us in the night, she who guides us in the dark and leads us to victory in battle!”

The sisters surrounding Pastel had parted, and Morningstar’s eyes widened as he saw her. Her cloak was pulled back, whatever she had worn beneath it taken away, her skinny little body fully exposed to the air, a light layer of oil making it gleam in the candlelight. What she lacked in fullness, Pastel more than made up for in form, from the subtle curves of her hips to the delightful way those silk stockings clung to her thighs. She looked away from Morningstar, clearly somewhat embarrassed. The Sisters had pulled the hood of her cloak back, and her hair, a delightful shade of minty green, cascaded down her shoulders. Morningstar had thought he had rid himself of his nerves before, but now, they returned in full force, as the sisters painted the runic symbols for love and purity upon her glowing cheeks. Morningstar felt inadequate. He felt undeserving. After all, he had met her but a day ago, and yet here she was, prepared just for him like a roasted duck on his birthday. And yet, Morningstar couldn’t deny that he wanted her, if his throbbing length was any indication. He heard someone giggle to his left, and felt the scratchy voice of Sword Dancer in his ear again.

“Well? Go on, fresh meat. Show us what that longsword can do.”

Morningstar sputtered a bit, stepping forward, offering his hands to Pastel. She took them in his, giving them a squeeze, looking him in the eyes. “Trust me,” he whispered, and she nodded, as the chants changed once more.

“Hail, the All Mother, who gave birth to the Gods, who passed down this rite to her children, who pass down this rite unto us, now and forever.”

Morningstar could feel Celestia’s presence as she passed by him, her smile as warm and guiding as ever, her eyes now twinkling with something more. It was lust, he knew that much, but it was a lust that he had never seen before, something hungry and otherworldly like nothing else. She took Pastel by the shoulders, and whispered something in her ear, guiding her away from Morningstar and directing her to lay down on the altar. Morningstar almost stumbled as he followed them, kneeling down before Pastel, giving himself a few preparatory strokes of his length. The chanting died down, and now, the entire room was silence, save for a few hushed whispers from the crowd around them. The tip of Morningstar’s length tapped against Pastel’s thigh, and she let out a little whimper, prompting him to reach down and place a hand on her oil-slicked belly. Celestia stood over them, her hands on her hips, her cloaked parted to either side, her illustrious body now naked before them, seemingly glowing just a bit with magic.

Pastel began to pray. She took a hold of Morningstar’s length, and lined him up with her quivering slit. Gods, it was slick, and not only from the oil.

“Bless… Bless this union, Sol.”

Morningstar thrusted forward.

He missed. His length slipped against her slickness, and ground against her mound, the rough feeling of shaved pubic hair grinding intolerably against him. Morningstar groaned, pulling back, lining himself up again. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit!

“It’s a-alright,” Pastel said softly.

“Just take your time, Morningstar,” cooed Celestia. “This is your first, after all.”

Morningstar nodded. He wouldn’t miss a second time. Pastel’s hand reached down, and slowly guided him as he ground against her lower lips, gritting his teeth, taking her free hand in his own. “Bless this union, Sol,” she said, and then he was inside, and her words were taken away.

She was tight. She reflexively clung to Morningstar’s length as it slipped past her maidenhead, preventing it from going any further, miring him in the warmth of her first few folds. Gods, was this truly what it was like? It was tough going, so Morningstar took his hand from hers, and began gently massaging her belly, squeezing and rubbing her flesh as gently as he could. “Trust me,” Morningstar said, and Pastel grunted an affirmation, her flesh finally giving way and letting Morningstar slide in deeper, and deeper, the musky scent of fresh sex finally filling the air, intermingling with the sticky sweetness of the olive oil, the runes on her cheeks beginning to glow, and warmth not of embarrassment but of magic growing on Morningstar’s. He bottomed out inside her, hips meeting hips, the entirety of his shaft almost on fire from the warmth, almost crushed by the tightness, almost turned to butter with slickness of it all.

“Comfortable?” Celestia asked, as casually as can be. Pastel was silent, but nodded simply, her eyes never leaving Morningstar’s, her body quaking underneath him. “Good,” Celestia said, her hands on Morningstar’s armored shoulders, her lips pressing against the back of his head. “Say the rite with me, Pastel, as this boy drives you towards the Gods.”

Celestia’s hands slid down and laid on Morningstar’s hips, as a prayer filled the air, Celestia’s angelic voice and Pastel’s soft, mewling whispers following along as she guided him back out of her. “We give ourselves to the Gods, so they may bring us close to them in the Heavens...”

Morningstar’s cockhead slipped out of Pastel’s cunt with a sloppy-sounding pop, a string of her arousal linking their organs together before falling away onto the now-soaked stone of the altar. He thrusted forth, missing again, sliding against her thigh, her hand taking his once more, Celestia clucking in his ear and ceasing her prayer for just a moment.

“I knew you’d be enthusiastic, Morningstar,” she said. “You’re doing very well.”

“I-I…”

“Don’t say a word, now,” Celestia said. “Listen to my voice, okay?”

“....Yes, your Holiness.”

“It’s just Celestia, now,” she cooed, her hands running up and down his sides. “Now, line yourself up, boy. And once your aim is true, give her one good thrust, with a bit of force this time. Don’t be afraid… she’s tougher than she looks.”

Morningstar swallowed. He guided himself true once more, peering down at Pastel’s pussy, the head of his length sliding up against it. As Celestia had asked, he gave it a bit more force, swiftly slipping into Pastel, those same feelings of warmth and tightness and that same lurid smell filling his nostrils once more. Pastel groaned, but her prayers continued almost unabated, her eyes closed now, a little button of nerves grinding against the base of Morningstar’s cock.

“Good boy,” Celestia said softly, giving Morningstar’s hips a good squeeze. “Now, listen to her prayers, Morningstar. Find the rhythm in her words.”

Morningstar did as he was bidden. “M-May this horn prove bountiful…” he pulled back, just a touch, and thrusted forth again, forcing a demure squeak out of Pastel’s mouth. “M-May this… this tree bear fruit…” another thrust, this time making her sigh, and soon another, and another. Pastel’s prayer was now a song, and Morningstar was now playing her like an instrument, and he was proving a mischievous bard. With every plunge into her, Pastel nearly lost her breath, almost always lost her place, her body twitching and twisting underneath Morningstar as he leaned forward, his face mere inches from hers, the runes glowing, and glowing, the room becoming brighter, and brighter. Gods, she was even tighter like this. She was even more delightful under him, his bountiful balls bouncing off her rear, the percussive sound of their union echoing against the chamber’s smooth walls, her eyes no longer squeezed shut and instead gently closed as she let go of Morningstar’s hand and rested hers upon her chest.

She hardly had a bust to be bouncing, but to watch her chest was still hypnotic. The way it rose and fell with her shaking breath, the way the entirety of her dainty, pale body shook with every single lurid thrust. Morningstar felt another pair of hands slide against his shoulder, these ones cold, cold enough to feel through solid steel, and he glanced up to see the spirits that filled the room, that watched them as they consummated something greater than he could have ever imagined, the candles blown out, the sky gone, the runes on the walls glowing a cool, ominous blue. Was this the magic Celestia had spoken of? Was this what was brought about by the prayers and the… and the…

Gods. She couldn’t say anything to him with a mouthful of prayers, but Morningstar knew Pastel was enjoying this. As he found his rhythm, she followed suite, squeezing and clenching and moaning against him, her arms draping lazily over his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his middle. Celestia giggled, and Morningstar’s cock throbbed at the sound of her voice. Gods, he wanted her, too. Was this the work of the spirits? To make him desire that which he could never have?

No. He would have it one day. He was sure of that. But he had a duty to this girl, this girl who had put her trust in him, who squeezed and clenched and moaned and begged, whose prayers, he realized, where now over as the wind was filled with the noise of the spirits, of their groans, of their chuckles, of their lurid comments in a thousand ancient languages. Celestia smirked, gripping Morningstar’s hips, whispering in his ear.

“The spirits are pleased,” she said. “Are you getting close?”

Morningstar groaned. Gods, was he ever. His entire body was tingling with this sort of energy that he had only ever dreamed of feeling before. He knew what would happen should he fail to pull out, should his seed spill into Pastel, should he finish this rite with a promise. But he didn’t know if it was a promise he wanted to make. He leaned down, and whispered to Pastel.

“S-Sister,” he said, softly. “I…”

“Do it in me,” she mumbled, her hand against his glowing cheek.

“Are… Are you sure?”

“It will please the G-Gods,” Pastel moaned, her hand running down his face, across his neck. “It will please me…”

Morningstar groaned, his thrusts slowing, his breath ragged, his body quivering. It was almost over. The spirits were growing restless, their blue glow turning purple, slowly morphing towards red, his eyes squeezing shut against the violent hues before him. “I-I’m honored, Pastel,” he said, softly. “I…”

“Shhh,” Celestia said, kissing Morningstar’s cheek. “You talk too much. Do it. Cum inside her.”

Morningstar groaned, his vision turning white, the runes turning white, everything turning white, a shock going up his spine, his entire body clenching as he let loose, as promised, inside her. He could hear Pastel squealing, feel the vicelike group of her own orgasm, feel Celestia’s grip into his hips, every feeling amplified, every emotion growing as his lips met Pastel’s, as his tongue wrestled with hers, as his body tensed in one glorious moment, sighs and groans of spirits and Gods filling the air. This was magic, he knew that much. This was glory beyond compare. The last thing he heard before he fell faint was Celestia’s airy laughter, and Pastel’s ragged breath against his ear.

It took Morningstar a few minutes to get his bearings back.

Pastel laid against him, her covered head resting on his breastplate, panting softly. He was still inside her, though he was far from hard any longer. The smell of sex was still strong in the air, and as his hearing returned, Morningstar heard moans, and groans, and laughter, and the sounds of feasting and fucking and the music of flutes and harps. Celestia sat not too far from the both of them, gazing over the orgy that surrounded them, a warm smile on her face.

“Ah, so you’ve come to,” she said. “How do you feel?”

Morningstar smacked his lips. They were dry as a desert, as was his mouth. “Thirsty.”

Celestia giggled. “That’s normal. The spirits do like to take the water out of you. Sister Marigold?... Ah, she must be somewhere in the tangled mass of the orgy. Ah, well,” Celestia said, rising to her feet. “Welcome to the Holy Fold, you two. Please, come and join us for some food and drink once you’re situated. And if you’d like to go for another round… well, nobody’s stopping you.”

Morningstar groaned, his softened shaft slipping out of Sister Pastel as she raised her hips. “I… I might need a minute, your – Celestia.”

“Of course,” Celestia said, smiling. “That was quite the Initiation. I’m impressed with your resilience, as is my father.”

“You’re not the only one,” Pastel mumbled, pecking Morningstar on the lips.

“I’ll leave you two be,” Celestia said, walking away towards the intermingling crowd, leaving Morningstar and Pastel to their own devices. Morningstar sat up, watching her leave, his eyes fixed on her swaying hips. Gods, he had certainly sworn to protect the right High Priestess. Pastel placed her hand on his cheek, smiling at him.

“She’s beautiful,” she said softly.

Morningstar smiled. “Happy we can agree. Glad you trusted me?”

“Glad I still do.”

He smirked, giving Pastel a loose hug. “Another round once we’re back on our feet?”

“Absolutely.”

Author's Note