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 stood alone on the balcony, watching the city glimmer beneath the moonlight. The Court had become quiet. Too quiet.
Footsteps approached. Roderick.
"You wanted to see me?"
I nodded. I took a long, deep sigh. "I owe you an apology."
He frowned. "You never apologize."
"Which makes this even more special."
I turned to face him, fingers curling around the balcony rail. "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. "You nearly got us all killed."
"And you still stood by me."
A pause.
Then he sighed and stepped closer. "You drive me insane."
"Likewise."
And then we were kissing. No ceremony. No teasing.
Just lips on lips, hard and hungry. His hand tangled in my hair, mine fisted in his coat. I gasped as he lifted me with the strength of one unbefitting his feminine figure, spun me around, and pressed me against the 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.
He carried me to my chambers, armor hitting the floor piece by piece. I shed silk like sin, baring bruises and smirks. We fell into bed.
Our bodies moved like arguments and apologies combined. I clawed his back. He bit my throat. I wanted him angry, wanted him loving, wanted him mine.
And when we finished, panting and tangled, I kissed him again, slower this time.
"You're allowed to be mad," I murmured.
"Good," he said. "Because I still am."
A knock interrupted our afterglow.
Salem's voice, muffled: "Cecil. A letter arrived. From the Academy."