Deep beneath the veil of light and mist, the waters of Lurienne rippled like a seductive sigh. The river didn't rush. No—it coaxed, purred, posed. And atop it stretched the infamous Illusion Bridge, ancient, pale, and glittering faintly like a drunk noblewoman at a masquerade.
Perched among silken vines and crystal branches, the cursed ones waited.
They were beautiful—of course. Too beautiful, if you asked anyone still capable of rational thought. Skin like moonlight, cheekbones sharp enough to slice guilt, and voices dripping with velvet arrogance.
But don't be mistaken. They weren't lustful in the sweaty, alleyway kind of way.
They were refined predators. Like opera singers with a taste for rare meat.
"Someone's approaching," purred one, a male with eyes the color of regret and lips that had lied to empires. He twirled a shimmering flute of illusion wine, though he hadn't drunk in centuries. "Mmm… her soul smells feral."
