The sanctuary looked like a fucking battlefield after the gods had finished toying with mortals.
I stood alone at the epicenter—naked, sweat-slicked, the only vertical figure in a wasteland of beautiful devastation. The obsidian throne lay toppled, its velvet cushions scattered and stained. The cream sectional sofa was a ruin of torn fabric and disemboweled pillows, dark wet patches marking where bodies had writhed and surrendered.
Silk ropes lay coiled like spent serpents across the stone floor, cast aside after fulfilling their sacred, carnal purpose.
The air hung thick with aftermath—musk, salt, crushed roses, and the ozone tang of power expended. Firelight still licked the massive hearth, casting liquid shadows across the carnage, transforming the space into a tableau of some ancient bacchanal that had shattered reality.
