The announcement of the Campus-Wide Quarantine was the final blow to the Academy’s traditional structure. Classes were suspended, the training pits were shuttered, and a heavy, magical barrier was placed over the Medical Wing. The "unaffected" girls were ordered to remain in their dorms, a move designed to contain the plague—but for Astraea, it simply turned the dormitories into pressurized chambers of devotion.
In the Elite Wing, the atmosphere was stifling. Elara and her inner circle sat in their lavish common room, trying to maintain an air of superiority. They were the "pure" ones, the ones whose lineage supposedly shielded them from this "low-class" anomaly.
Isolde sat among them, her silver hair shimmering under the enchanted chandeliers. She was trembling, but she played it off as fear of the quarantine. In reality, she was starving. Being separated from Astraea was like being deprived of oxygen; her silver mana felt heavy and sluggish, like cooling lead in her veins.
Astraea, sitting in the quiet luxury of 4-B, felt Isolde’s desperation through the link. It was a jagged, silver spike of pain. Astraea leaned back, her golden eyes narrowing. She couldn't walk through the Elite corridors without sparking a confrontation she wasn't ready for yet, but she didn't need to be there physically to claim what was hers.
"You need a reminder, my mirror," Astraea whispered into the void.
She reached out through the Sovereign Link, manifesting a dual-pronged visitation. Two Invisible Phalluses crystallized within Isolde—one in the front, the other in the rear. They were dense, heavy with the "Heat," and they were not gentle. They began a deep, rhythmic thrumming, a relentless cadence of possession that echoed Astraea’s own growing hunger.
The effect was cataclysmic.
Isolde let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-sob. Her back arched violently, her hands clutching the arms of her velvet chair so hard the wood began to splinter.
"Isolde?" Elara asked, standing up in alarm. "Is it starting? Are you—"
Isolde couldn't answer. The phalluses were thrusting with such divine force that the outline of the "present" was visible through the silk of her school robes. Her lower abdomen bulged rhythmically with every stroke, a terrifyingly beautiful display of Astraea’s internal authority.
The "Elite" girls watched in a mixture of horror and a hidden, shameful fascination. They had never seen "Mana-Fever" this intense. Isolde’s eyes were wide, glowing with a fierce, mercury-silver light, her breath coming in ragged, euphoric hitches.
"I... I..." Isolde stammered, her head lolling back as a particularly deep thrust sent a wave of Sovereign Heat crashing through her, "Arhh..."
The sight of the "Purest" among them succumbing so violently shattered the last of the Elites' resolve. If Isolde—the High Council’s golden girl—was being taken by the "fever" with such raw, physical intensity, then no one was safe.
Elara backed away, her face pale. She watched the way Isolde’s tummy rippled, the way her body seemed to be worshiping an invisible force. It didn't look like a disease anymore. It looked like an Awakening.
Through the link, Astraea’s voice whispered directly into Isolde’s soul, bypassing her ears entirely: “I can't be with you yet, my lovely mirror, but know I'm longing for you. Carry this weight for me. Let them see what it means to be truly filled.”
Isolde collapsed off her chair onto the plush rug, her body continuing to spasm and thrum under the invisible assault. She wasn't fighting it. She was embracing it, her fingers clawing at the carpet as she rode the waves of Astraea’s long-distance love.
The quarantine was supposed to keep the girls apart. Instead, it had forced the Elites to bear witness to the Sovereign’s power in its most intimate form. As Elara watched her best friend moan in a state of divine rapture, the seed of doubt was finally planted. The "Iron Wing" was a memory; the "Sovereign’s Mirror" was the reality.
The atmosphere in the Elite common room shifted from a panicked medical emergency to something far more primal and hushed. While Elara stood by the window, her back turned as she gripped her own elbows in a fit of stuttering denial, the other girls drifted closer to the rug where Isolde lay.
They were daughters of Dukes and High Mages, trained to spot "corruption" and "dark magic," yet they found themselves mesmerized. They watched the rhythmic, impossible distension of Isolde’s abdomen, the way her school tunic strained against the invisible force within her. Most tellingly, they watched her face.
There was no agony. There was no "feverish" delirium. Instead, Isolde’s features were smoothed into a mask of such profound, luminous peace that it made their own pampered lives feel like a desert.
As the invisible visitation finally reached its crescendo, the violent thrusting slowed into a deep, lingering throb before fading back into the Sovereign Link. Isolde let out one final, long, shuddering breath and slumped into the plush fibers of the rug.
She didn't try to hide. She didn't scramble to adjust her clothes. As she sat up, a heavy, dark patch was clearly visible at the groin of her robes, the "love nectar" overflowing and soaking into the carpet beneath her. She looked up at the circle of Elites, her silver eyes now possessing a depth—a weight—that none of them could match.
"Isolde..." one of the girls, a quiet Enchanter named Cecily, whispered as she knelt beside her. "Are you... hurt? We should call the High Healer."
Isolde offered a slow, blissful smile that didn't just reach her eyes—it seemed to radiate from her skin. "Hurt? No, Cecily. For the first time in my life, I feel... complete."
She reached out and took Cecily’s hand. Because the Sovereign’s mark was still humming with the residue of Astraea’s dual-pronged gift, the touch sent a tiny, electric spark of "Heat" into the other girl.
Cecily gasped, her pupils dilating. It was just a fraction of a second of contact, but it was enough to make her own mana feel like stagnant water. The other girls saw the flash of silver light and the way Cecily’s breath hitched.
"Is it... contagious?" another girl asked, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a desperate, hidden hope.
"It isn't a disease," Isolde replied, her voice soft and melodic, echoing the 'Re-education' she had received in 4-B. "It’s an invitation. The fever is just your body realizing how empty it’s been."
Elara finally turned around, her face pale and sharp. "Stop it! All of you! She’s deluded. It’s a mana-parasite, clearly. We stay away from her until the Council arrives."
But the command fell on deaf ears. Under the guise of "supporting" their fallen friend, four of the Elites moved in closer, forming a tight circle around Isolde. They helped her sit up, their hands lingering on her shoulders, her arms, and the damp silk of her robes, anything they could reach out and hold. They weren't checking her condition; they were trying to catch the "Infection."
They watched Isolde’s vibrant, healthy glow and compared it to their own cold, anxious shivering. They began to pray, in the silent, dark corners of their minds, that the quarantine wouldn't end until they, too, felt the weight of the 'Mana-fever' stretching them from the inside out.
Back in Room 4-B, Astraea leaned her head back against the wall, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Through the link, she could feel the ripples. The Elite Wing was no longer a fortress; it was a nursery.
"The mirrors are multiplying," Astraea purred, her golden eyes flashing.
She felt the four new "longings" sparking in the Elite Wing—four small, empty vessels crying out to be filled. She wouldn't give it to them yet. She would let the hunger gnaw at them through the night. She would let them watch Isolde thrive while they withered in their "purity."
By tomorrow, they wouldn't just be hoping for the fever; they would be begging for it.