The morning after a daring heist, divine combat, and vigorous celebratory debauchery hits different when you wake up on a silk chaise lounge with three femboys tangled around you like designer drapes.
The air still smelled faintly of sweat, incense, and wine, with just a hint of heresy. I stretched luxuriously, wincing as my shoulder throbbed from where Hollow had stabbed me.
"We're going to need more bandages," I muttered, disentangling myself from Lysaria's legs, Elian's arm, and whatever part of Marius was currently drooling on my stomach. I needed a bath, a mirror, and possibly a small army.
Instead, I got Salem.
He strolled in with all the energy of someone who hadn't spent the night moaning into velvet pillows. "You're awake. Good. We need to talk."
"At least let me pee first."
He tossed a scroll at me. It unrolled across my chest like a divine indictment. I recognized the Church's wax seal, now cracked in half.
"You opened my mail."
"You declared war. I figured you'd be fine with a little light treason."
Fair point.
I sat up and skimmed the contents. The letter was as furious as it was predictable. Accusations of blasphemy. Demands for Hollow's return. A vague threat about divine retribution and holy fire raining from the sky.
"They're not actually going to smite us, are they?" Elian murmured, rising from the chaise in only a sheer chemise.
"They can't afford to," Salem said. "Which is why you need to send a message first. Show them you have leverage."
I groaned. "Fine. But only because I look great in political posturing."
The loot from the vault was spread across the War Room table like a banquet of sin. Relics, tomes, memory stones, and at least three pieces of jewelry that pulsed ominously when touched. Marius circled the pile with reverence.
"The Church never meant for these to be seen," he whispered.
"Good," I said. "Let's see what they were hiding."
Salem slid a tome across the table and opened it with a crack of ancient leather. Inside were illustrations—not just scripture, but schematics. Blueprints. Architecture layered beneath the Cathedral. Alongside that lay other important papers detailing records of torture, bribery, and sacrilege.
"A second vault?" I asked, glaring back down at the blueprints.
"No. Something older. Pre-Cathedral. A chamber beneath the ossuary. Possibly a prison. Maybe a throne room. Who knows."
A long moment of silence streamed between us before Salam spoke once more.
"This is why I joined you. Not for politics, not for lust—though, God knows, there's plenty of that—but because you can change things. The Velvet Court can expose what the world was never allowed to see."
Just then, the doors burst open and Roderick stormed in like a divine hangover, armor clinking, eyes dark. He looked like a pissed-off lion who'd just learned someone slept with his favorite cub.
"Another letter, this one from the Arch-Seer himself"
Roderick threw a scroll on the table. I skimmed. More threats. More outrage. They were fuming, furious, and—most importantly—afraid. I picked up a pen and dipped it in crimson ink.
"Dear Self-Righteous Sky Daddies," I began aloud. "I have your little angel boy. He's been thoroughly defiled and is currently resting in a lace nightgown. I also have your vault's contents, which include, among other things, evidence of torture, bribery, sacrilege, and unauthorized divine experimentation."
"Sincerely," I signed, flourishing the quill, "Cecil, Lord of Lace, High Heretic, and Fashion Icon."
Salem sighed. "You do realize this only delays their retaliation."
"Of course. But that's all I need. Time."
That night, I found myself standing alone on the balcony, the cool stone pressing against my palms as the city stretched out beneath me like some glittering confession. The Court had become quiet. Too quiet for a place usually stuffed to the rafters with plotting, laughter, and the occasional sword fight over whose eyeliner was superior.
Footsteps broke the stillness, firm but measured, and I didn't need to turn to know who it was. Roderick. His presence always announced itself with a certain weight, not heavy, not light, just… steady, like the rhythm of a drum you couldn't quite shake.
"You wanted to see me?" His voice was calm, though the edge in it told me he was already bracing for whatever brand of trouble I was about to serve him.
I nodded once, inhaling deeply, the kind of sigh that tried and failed to carry away more guilt than it could handle. "I owe you an apology."
That made him frown, his brow creasing in suspicion. "You never apologize," he said, and it wasn't an accusation so much as a statement of cosmic truth, like "the moon pulls the tide" or "wine disappears faster around you."
"Which makes this even more special," I replied, forcing a ghost of a smile to soften the weight of the moment. My fingers curled tighter around the balcony railing, the metal cool beneath my skin, grounding me against the vulnerability of what I was about to admit. "I've been reckless. Sloppy. I used to have a dozen backup plans for every step. Lately, I've been flying by my corset strings."
He folded his arms across his chest, that familiar mask of frustration settling into place. "You nearly got us all killed," he said flatly.
"And you still stood by me," I countered, meeting his gaze head-on. The words hung there, heavier than I intended, daring him to admit the loyalty he always tried to pretend wasn't loyalty at all.
The silence between us stretched, filled only by the faint whisper of wind tugging at the edge of my hair. Then, finally, he exhaled—long, weary, but not without warmth—and stepped closer. "You drive me insane," he muttered.
I felt my lips curve despite myself. "Likewise."
And then there were no more words. No ceremony. No coy teasing or theatrics, just the sudden, undeniable crash of lips on lips. Hard. Hungry. A collision rather than a kiss.
His hand tangled in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp, while mine fisted into the front of his breastplate as if I could anchor myself against the storm I had summoned. He lifted me as though I weighed nothing, strength thrumming through his deceptively graceful frame, spinning me, pressing me hard against the cold balcony stone.
It was the kiss of war and forgiveness, of passion held back too long. My thighs wrapped around him. My breath hitched.
"Inside," I whispered, the single word as much an order as it was a plea.
He obeyed without hesitation, carrying me through the door to my chambers. His armor hit the floor piece by piece with a metallic clatter, each sound a punctuation mark to our urgency. I shed silk like sin, shrugging off bruises and smirks alike, daring him to see all of me at once. When at last we collapsed into the bed, it wasn't grace that carried us but raw momentum.
Our bodies moved like arguments—fast, fierce, filled with fire—but beneath it, there was apology too, threaded through every touch and gasp. I clawed down the lines of his back, needing to leave proof of this moment on his skin, and he bit against my throat, equal parts punishment and devotion. I wanted him angry. I wanted him loving. I wanted him mine in every contradictory shade I could claim.
When the storm finally broke and left us tangled in the sheets, sweat-slick and panting, I kissed him again. Slower, this time. Not war, but a treaty. My lips against his carried a promise that I would not—could not—say aloud.
"You're allowed to be mad," I murmured, breath brushing his cheek.
"Good," he said simply, eyes half-lidded but burning all the same. "Because I still am."
And then—because the universe has the comedic timing of a drunk jester—a knock rattled against the chamber door, shattering our afterglow like glass.
Salem's voice, muffled: "Cecil. A letter arrived. From the Academy."