That night, for the first time, Mahir saw a different version of Elara.
He had served her for years. He knew the rhythm of her breathing, the flat cadence of her voice in council, and the unhurried way she used his body when the northern nights grew long.
He had never seen her angry. He had never seen her show a flicker of raw emotion.
Even now, her face remained smooth, like carved ivory under the low amber light of the wall sconces. Yet something behind her glass-bead eyes had shifted. The air in the chamber felt heavier, charged with a silent, sharp pressure that made the coarse fur along the base of his tail bristle.
"Knees," she said.
Mahir dropped at once. The cold flagstones bit into his bare kneecaps, a stark contrast to the heat pooling in his groin.
He waited for her to reach for the hem of her skirt. Usually, she would hike the dark fabric up to her waist, bare herself just enough for his use, and take what she required before returning to her ledgers.
