Night time
The streets of Valen burned with the color of dusk—not with flame, but with the glow of lanterns, with the murmurs of sin wrapped in laughter.
The city was alive in its hunger, feeding on itself: skin against skin, gold against greed, prayer against desire.
Moans drifted from open windows—low, breathy gasps of "Oh... 'yes'... deeper..." mingling with the slap of flesh on flesh, a woman's sharp cry of "Fuck me harder!" echoing from a shadowed alley where shadows writhed in rhythmic bliss.
Seraphel rode through its heart as if through a graveyard. Every sound felt like mockery—the laughter, the perfume, the low hum of music that seemed to echo from beneath the world.
A distant "Ahhh... 'right there..' trailed after him, a courtesan's voice rising in ecstasy, her partner's grunt answering in raw rhythm.
He had not wanted to come here. —no, Viscount Augustus—had insisted.
