The elven delegation arrived at court on the first warm day of spring, cherry blossoms drifting like pale snow through the open colonnades.
High Ambassador Lyralei Sylvandor stepped from her silver carriage as though the very wind bowed to her. Three hundred years old and not a day over twenty-five in human terms: skin like moonlit porcelain, waist-length hair the color of fresh snow, and ears so long and delicately pointed that every courtier in the first life had whispered filthy things about what else on an elf might be similarly sensitive.
In his previous timeline, Lyralei had been a distant ally at best—cool, untouchable, signing treaties with the same detached grace she used to parry marriage proposals. Kairos had respected her mind and feared her tongue.
Now he intended to taste both.
She found him in the Moonlit Garden after the banquet, where the palace's enchanted lanterns floated like fireflies and the scent of night-blooming jasmine hung heavy in the air.
"Your Highness," she greeted in that bell-like voice, inclining her head just enough for courtesy. "You requested a private audience."
Kairos dismissed his guards with a flick of his fingers. The moment the doors closed, the masks came off.
"I remember you, Lyralei," he said quietly, stepping close enough that the silk of her emerald gown brushed his boots. "I remember the night after the Treaty of Three Rivers. You drank three glasses of starwine and told me—in the common tongue, no less—that you wondered what a human tongue would feel like on elven ears."
Color rose beneath her flawless cheekbones—rare for an elf.
"I was… indiscreet."
"You were honest." He lifted a hand, slowly, giving her every chance to retreat. When she didn't, his fingertips traced the outer shell of her left ear—light as a breath.
Lyralei inhaled sharply, the sound trembling into a soft, involuntary moan. Her ears flushed a delicate pink that spread down her throat.
"Still sensitive, I see."
"Kairos—"
He silenced her with the gentlest stroke along the pointed tip. Her knees buckled; he caught her by the waist, drawing her flush against him.
"Fifty years," he murmured against that trembling ear, lips barely grazing the skin. "I have regretted not taking you up on that offer for fifty years."
She melted. Three centuries of iron control shattered with one careful touch.
Her arms wound around his neck, body pressing instinctively closer. "Then take me now, human. Before I regain my senses."
He kissed her—slow, deliberate, tasting starwine and wintermint on her tongue. She kissed back like a woman starved, long fingers threading through his hair, hips rolling against the hard line of his cock.
Kairos walked her backward until her spine met the smooth trunk of an ancient cherry tree, petals drifting down around them like soft rain.
He did not rush.
He spent what felt like hours on her ears alone—lips brushing, tongue tracing every delicate ridge and hollow until she was shaking, thighs clenched, whispering pleas in the high elven dialect that translated roughly to *more, please, I'll sign anything, just don't stop*.
Only then did he sink to his knees.
Her gown parted like water under his hands—elven silk designed to be removed with a thought. Beneath, nothing but smooth, hairless skin and the glistening pink of an elf who had not been touched in decades.
He licked a slow stripe up her center. Lyralei's head thudded back against the tree, a broken cry echoing through the garden.
Elves, he remembered, tasted like frost and honey.
He ate her slowly—tongue delving deep, nose brushing her clit, fingers curling inside to stroke that spot no human lover had ever found. She came with a sound like wind chimes shattering, gushing over his tongue, thighs clamped around his head so tightly he saw stars.
When he stood, she was already fumbling with his laces, freeing his cock with reverent hands.
"Gods below," she breathed, stroking him once, twice, eyes wide at his size. "Human indeed."
He lifted her easily—she weighed nothing in his arms—and pinned her against the tree, her legs wrapping around his waist.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
Violet eyes met storm-gray.
Then he slid home in one slow, relentless glide.
Lyralei's back arched, mouth open in a silent scream. She was impossibly tight, impossibly hot, inner walls rippling around him like silk over steel.
He fucked her against the cherry tree—deep, measured strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her, petals clinging to their sweat-slick skin. Her ears twitched with every thrust; he caught one between his teeth and tugged gently.
She came again instantly, harder this time, pussy clenching so tight he had to fight not to follow.
"Inside," she gasped against his neck, nails raking his shoulders. "Mark me, Kairos. Let every elf at court smell you on me for weeks."
He did.
Buried to the hilt, he spilled pulse after thick pulse deep inside her, filling her until it leaked down her thighs in creamy rivulets.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, blossoms drifting around them like a blessing.
Eventually Lyralei cupped his face, kissed him slow and sweet.
"Your treaty terms are… acceptable," she murmured against his lips, a hint of her old hauteur returning. "Ten thousand archers. The forest roads opened. And…" She clenched deliberately around his still-hard cock. "Monthly… diplomatic summits."
Kairos laughed, low and rough, already moving again.
"Monthly," he agreed. "Starting tonight."
Under the cherry tree, the High Ambassador of the Silverwood learned exactly why humans called regression a second chance.
And Kairos added another unbreakable ally to his growing collection—one who would fight for him, bleed for him, and spread her thighs for him whenever he asked.
The war hadn't even begun yet.
But he was already winning.