The obsidian hall no longer felt like stone. It breathed.
Overnight the Spire had remade itself again. A colossal chandelier of black-iron links—each segment mirroring the brands now fused into every husband's flesh—had descended from the vaulted ceiling. It hung directly above the circular platform, swaying gently despite the absence of wind, its glow pulsing in slow, deliberate rhythm.
The walls themselves thrummed like the skin of a living drum; faint veins of crimson light raced beneath the surface in perfect time with an unseen heartbeat.
Aiden stood at the exact center beneath the chandelier, arms spread wide, both cocks already thick and glistening with pre-cum that caught the light like molten silver. Every branded husband remained spreadeagle at the platform's rim, faces outward, cocks locked in perpetual semi-erection by the rune-forged rings now part of their shaft brands.
