Morning light pierced the high windows of the imperial palace's private solar, gilding the marble floors and the remnants of last night's chaos. The green glow from the dungeon below had long faded from their skin, but the memory of it lingered in every aching muscle, every faint bruise, every lingering pulse of pleasure between Elizabeth's thighs.
They ascended the spiral stairs in regal silence—Pope Lucifer in full crimson and gold papal regalia once more, midnight-black hair neatly combed, crimson lenses firmly in place, staff of light tapping rhythmically.
Empress Elizabeth walked beside him at a careful, imperial distance: chin high, auburn hair pinned in elegant waves, purple gown immaculate and freshly changed. Courtiers and guards bowed deeply as they passed, sensing nothing amiss—only the Prophet of the Light and the Empress in solemn conference.
Yet the moment they turned a corner into an empty corridor, Elizabeth's mask slipped.
