Faelan | The Elven Monk

It was the height of the golden age, when nature itself seemed to sink into a long, chilly slumber, only to breathe again one day. Much like the Moon Goddess, Hena, who governed the tides, nature knew how to take—and how to give.

As Faelan wandered through the inner gardens of the temple, he often marveled at their beauty, though a quiet melancholy clung to him.

He settled into his favorite spot beneath a towering white oak, watching golden and scarlet leaves dance through the air. Sunlight shimmered along their veins like liquid amber. A book rested in his lap as he drew his knees gently to his chest. His milk-white robe billowed around him, revealing silky slippers and slender, pale ankles.

Faelan immersed himself in the tale of the Triad—a powerful empire where Humans, Elves, and Vampires once lived in harmony, striving toward a common good. He often wondered how their world had come to this. To what it was now.

Public executions. Hangings in the town square. The fires of the Inquisition. The relentless persecution of heretics across the kingdom. Since the Usurper’s arrival, city guards had traded their gleaming white cloaks for obsidian and black leather armor. No one seemed to know the King’s true name. Or perhaps they did—but never dared to speak it aloud.

Without the Usurper, Faelan might have remained in his village, among people he barely remembered, yet still cherished in his heart. He longed for the simplicity of those days: the routine, the vast forest, the river that never ceased its song.

Now he felt like a bird trapped in a beautiful cage filled with incense. His wings clipped. His legs bound.

His only freedom lay in the endless archive of books, accessible to him as a junior lecturer. Yet even after sixty years—a mere blink in an elf’s life—he had read most of them. And when they finally ran out... what then? Would he simply begin again?

Faelan rested his cheek against his palm, a faint frown etched between his thin brows. He pouted, tangled in worries and restless thoughts.

It would be nice if something interesting happened, he thought.

Then the bells began to ring.

He flinched upright, blinking rapidly as he noticed clergy, monks, and servants rushing toward the front courtyard. His breath caught; for a long moment, it felt as though the air had vanished from his lungs. His heart skipped painfully.

Had he caused this with his foolish daydreaming?

Covering his cheeks with his hands, heat rushed to his face. His eyes widened, like a young reindeer frozen at the edge of a cliff—reflecting pure fear and despair.

Oh, Goddess. Damn it... What should I do? What happened?

Had the guards finally come for him—for that incident when he voiced his political views before a senior lecturer and was met with quiet disappointment? Or... what if someone had discovered his nightly thefts from the kitchen?

Faelan exhaled sharply, letting out a thin, high-pitched squeak.

Or worse—what if someone saw him... touching himself, when he skipped morning service and pretended to be sick?

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

“Hey, Faelan!”

A booming voice cut through the air, startling him so badly he nearly fainted. His vision blurred before snapping back into focus on a familiar face.

Hiriel, the archivist.

With a wave, Hiriel beckoned him closer. “Come see who the guards have brought!”

Faelan sighed, steadying himself.

All right... calm down. You’re not in trouble. Not yet.

He rose from the grass, brushed off his robes, and clutched his book as he followed Hiriel through a high stone archway and into a winding tunnel leading to the front courtyard.

The guards often brought new arrivals here. The ancient dungeons beneath the temple were heavily guarded, with secret passages rumored to connect directly to the city guard headquarters.

Every few lunar months, another thief or desperate soul was dragged in for “re-education,” then assigned to labor—quarries, garrisons, or whatever fate awaited them.

But this time felt different.

A chill ran down Faelan’s spine, seeping into his bones. Anxiety twisted with anticipation—a primal fear laced with adrenaline.

The courtyard, paved in gray stone, was already crowded. Faelan, not being particularly tall, rose onto his toes, straining to see.

“Behold, servants of Hena!” a guardsman proclaimed, his crooked grin stark against his obsidian armor. The unusual crest on his helmet made it difficult to tell whether he was even an elf. “A demon, captured on the northern border—in the Moon Forest.”

He yanked on a leash, forcing the creature to the ground.

Faelan couldn’t see its face. Human? Beast? Was it truly demonic? The sound it made—a low mixture of a growl and a heavy sigh—was painfully simple.

It hurt.

Whoever—or whatever—it was, it felt pain.

A pang of sympathy bloomed in Faelan’s chest. He recognized that sound as if it were his own. The cruelty of the world’s laws struck him with numbing force.

Days passed, one after another. Faelan returned to routine: preparing lectures, proofreading for his senior lecturer, dusting endless shelves in the archives. Yet every night, lying in his small room with lamplight pooling across his desk, he replayed that day in his mind.

His heart would pound as images of the unseen creature filled his thoughts. That aching sigh... It had begun with empathy. Then came curiosity.

He collected rumors throughout the temple, eavesdropping on cooks preparing meals for dungeon prisoners. He even tried discreetly questioning a guardsman he knew—but learned nothing.

The lack of answers only fueled his imagination.

Sometimes he pictured the creature with long, sharp claws—dangerous, yet only defending itself. Other times, he imagined soft wolf ears, aching to be stroked, to ease its suffering.

The shame of such thoughts made his cheeks flush, and he didn't realize his hand had crept under his nightgown...

"Ugh-" he let out a thin sigh, turning his face into the pillow to hide, even though he was completely alone.

Fantasies flashed before his eyes one after another. Like this beast... This demon breaks out and chews its way to freedom through all the guards and servants. And Faelan... An innocent and defenseless Faelan stands in the middle of the Great Hall, hiding behind the altar, clutching a book to his chest...

"Damn," he whispered in a trembling voice, his hand squeezed his hardening cock, his thumb slid over flushed head, as he couldn't hold back a small, sweet moan.

The demon, in his head, he didn't even have a face... But in a fantasy, he was beautiful. Whatever it is. Dangerously handsome. He rushed through the hall right towards Faelan, pounced on him, pinning him to the floor with his strong arms... With those sharp claws. And Faelan felt tears rolling down his cheeks from utter fear...

"Yes," he breathed softly, stroking his erection faster and faster, puffing.

The demon ran its nose over his neck, sliding down... And lower... Until his head was under Faelan's robe, and sharp fangs sank into his soft thigh... He whined, both in fantasy and in reality. And the demon licked the bite wide with his tongue, not stopping there, but aiming right at that forbidden place between his legs...

"Forgive me, Goddess, I have sinned," he whispered as if in a fever, as his whole body shuddered, and his seed spilled over his fingers, he was all wet, sticky, his skin covered in heat. But his hand couldn't stop. Spreading his legs wide, Faelan gathered his release and smeared it around his tight hole.

"There... Right there," his fingers pushed inside in a tentative way, he didn't even know what he was trying to do, he just pushed his own seed deeper, pretending it was the Demon who filled his hole.

With a shuddering, pathetic groan, he turned and flopped on his stomach, pressing his face fully into the pillow, feeling incredible, deeply ashamed. And aroused. His feet were kicking in the air, hands clenched into fists and attacking his pillow in frustration.

He didn’t sleep at all that night.

The next morning, exhausted and detached, Faelan sat at the breakfast table, staring blankly into a bowl of bland porridge. Voices and clattering dishes blended into meaningless noise.

“Faelan!”

What if the demon has two cocks—

“Faelan.”

He winced inwardly. What strange thoughts. I really should pray more.

And then—

He yelped as a hand landed on his shoulder. His face and neck burned with embarrassment, and laughter rippled from the far end of the table.

Runa, one of the cooks, stood beside him, arms crossed. “I’ve been calling you. We need help—short on hands in the kitchen.”

Faelan wanted to refuse. He had far more important plans. Like an afternoon nap. But lacking the energy to argue, he nodded.

He followed her with his head lowered, fingers nervously tugging at his robe.

Stop it. You’re pathetic. What will people think?

The kitchen greeted him with familiar warmth and the sound of splashing water. Cooks hurried about, and when his gaze landed on a cherry pie cooling on the windowsill, his mouth watered.

“Here,” Runa said, handing him a tray with porridge, bread, and a clay mug of water. “Nothing complicated. Take it downstairs. Furthest cell.”

Faelan nodded absently, already thinking of pie.

The path to the dungeon twisted downward, lit by glowing turquoise crystals instead of candles. Only once he passed through the iron doors did he stop.

He froze.

His breath caught. His hands trembled, sweat beading at his brow.

“Where are you going?” a guard asked sharply.

Faelan hesitated—realizing too late that he hadn’t thought this through.

“The cooks told me to take food to the far c-cell,” he said, lifting the tray, his confidence faltering at the end.

The guard grunted and stepped aside. “Go on.”

Faelan swallowed hard.

His steps were small and hesitant. He should hurry. Drop the tray. Leave. Escape. His heart thundered.

There.

He stopped before the steel bars.

The figure remained hidden in shadow—hunched deep in the corner of the cell...