MAEL ITHRAIN
Inside one of the premium rooms in The Gilded Lotus Pavilion, the air was thick with jasmine and a hint of musk. Crimson silk drapes cast a hazy red glow over the lacquered wood walls carved with lotus blossoms.
A large, circular bed dominated the room, piled high with red silk sheets.
On the floor lay a see-through silk garment and a discarded robe, its raven-colored silk embroidered with intricate patterns that screamed the owner was someone to be revered.
A sudden knock echoed inside the room. Then a young man, fully expecting not to receive a reply, spoke in a timid and nervous voice.
"My Lord?" he called before pushing the door open. His face peeked through, the nervousness written all over his features as he moved as quietly as possible, unwilling to disturb his master's sleep.
But as it was his duty, he was forced to step inside the room.
"My Lord, it is I, Albert. I came to inform you that the time has come for your monthly court visit."
The man groaned low in his throat as he dragged himself upright from the silk sheets. His body moved in slow, heavy motions, as if he were rising from the grave. The early morning had turned his hair into a tangled mess.
He sat up in silence, his long raven-black hair cascading over his bare, well-formed shoulder—wild and disheveled, catching the faint morning light that cut through the velvet curtains, glinting against his ink-dark hair. A black so deep it shimmered iridescent purple when touched by the sun.
Mael Ithrain hated mornings.
He always woke with his limbs feeling heavy and his breath stale. He hadn't felt anything close to good in almost a decade. The constant exhaustion and starvation were slowly chipping away at what remained of his sanity.
He grew more desperate with every passing day, trying to relieve that heavy feeling.
More than a decade ago, he had hit a wall—ordinary emotions no longer satiated his hunger. And as someone revered and hated for overwhelming power, he realized how difficult it was to seek genuine emotion.
"Is it already that time of the month?" he grumbled to himself.
The young man's eyes darted at Mael's inner robe, which had slipped open during the night, revealing a pale, sculpted line of skin—porcelain-like, said to be as smooth and cold as moonlight.
"That is right, My Lord!" Albert replied.
Half-awake, Mael ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it with no real care. His purple eyes, faintly glowing in the dark, turned to the young man standing near his bed.
The young man's robes were far too large for his slight frame. It was very apparent that the robe he was wearing wasn't meant for him, but he wore it proudly just the same.
Just being the apprentice of a Mage he respected was enough for him.
His blue hair had been slicked back too neatly, despite waking at the crack of dawn.
There was a kind of reluctant innocence in him, something Mael always found somehow irritating—or perhaps enviable.
"I see," his reply was short as his gaze drifted lazily to the figure lying beside him.
A woman—bare beneath a blanket of vibrant red silk stitched in golden embroidery. Her skin was pink like a rose, parts of her body slipping out from under the blanket. Her breath was even as she continued to sleep deeply, despite everything.
'It must be nice, to sleep so soundly,'
Mael thought as he observed the woman, unbothered by his presence.
She hadn't even stirred when Albert entered the room.
Mael sighed, fingers still in his hair. The pang of hunger sapped his strength, too loud to ignore.
"Anyway, where did you vanish off to last night?" he finally spoke again, his voice a deep, calming rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very bones—a gentle, controlled sound with a slight rasp. Every word carried intentional lethargy, like a man speaking through a dream he wished he hadn't returned from.
The young apprentice, whose name he hadn't even fully remembered, perked up. He could claim to be very responsible for someone he barely recognized, yet he had chosen to follow him anyway.
A smile formed on the young man's lips, as it was the first time his master had even acknowledged his presence.
Mael had rejected him far too many times, as he didn't want an apprentice—but he persevered.
At last, his tenacity was beginning to bear fruit.
"Oh! I was merely organizing your scrolls in the tower, My Lord… and saying my prayers. You know, my daily rites," he replied enthusiastically.
He couldn't say he left on purpose so his Master could indulge himself with a woman, after all.
Mael could feel the happiness spilling from his overly optimistic voice. A misplaced hope, but Mael hadn't bothered to correct him, since he was probably the only person in the world whose presence stuck around long enough that he could now somehow tolerate.
Mael tilted his head, studying him. "I didn't know you were the religious type," he murmured, brushing an errant lock behind his ear.
He shifted his gaze to the woman still asleep beside him, her breathing shallow yet unaware of his true identity.
Then, as if remembering something distasteful, he gestured toward the sleeping woman.
"Did you know this woman tried to disrobe me and offered herself to me outright? Such audacity. I barely had time to absorb her lust before I had to put her to sleep," he complained.
"I'm telling you. Women are dangerous."
Even his complaint lacked fire—delivered in that same lull of voice that was both hypnotic and disinterested.
Then the apprentice, realizing something, peeked at the woman his master had preferred.
He blinked, then frowned. "So… nothing happened, My Lord?"
Mael raised an eyebrow, his expression darkening. "Would it please you if something had?"
"Ye—no, My Lord," the apprentice answered, straightening his back.
Mael rose fully, adjusting the robe that had slipped out of place because of the woman—the one Mael never bothered to fix.
"Her lust was extremely sour," he said over his shoulder. "Like everyone else's."
Mael sighed before stepping to his feet, picking up the outer robe that had fallen to the floor, and putting it on.
The young apprentice scurried after him like a rabbit.
Outside the chamber, a woman waited—if one could call it waiting.
She was perched like a spider in a web spun of perfume too strong for his liking, and her face was painted in makeup too thick for his taste.
Her outfit was barely more than a suggestion, almost half of her breasts about to spill out of her top, and a slit on her skirt was so high it left little to the imagination.
Her lips parted as he appeared outside the door.
"My Lord," she purred.
But Mael didn't care enough to acknowledge her. He walked right past her as if she never existed—a huge blow to the pride of a courtesan of her stature.
The woman's shoulders dropped, but the unpleasant feeling of hunger Mael had tried so hard to bury surged within him. Mael stopped a few steps ahead.
Hope bloomed instantly on the woman's face. He turned slowly, locking eyes with her—a stare that sent shivers all over her, making her knees tremble. She swallowed hard as he began walking back. His every step was like an incantation—drawing her in and breaking her open.
He quickly closed the space between them.
Then, with the barest touch, he ran a single finger from the curve of her neck to her chin. Her skin broke into goosebumps. A sharp breath escaped her lips as her legs quivered.
Then he leaned in, just enough to press a kiss into the curve of her throat.
The essence of her lust seeped beneath his lips, but it wasn't enough to satiate his hunger.
Mael, with lips still on her chin, looked her in the eye. The look of hunger alone was enough to make any woman feel undone.
A moan escaped her lips unintentionally.
Mael stepped back, wincing slightly from nausea. He wiped his mouth with his thumb and turned away.
"Such an unpleasant aftertaste," he muttered.
Together, he and his apprentice descended the stairs of the empty brothel, the wood creaking beneath their feet. Only the faint trace of incense clinging to heavy drapes filled the air.
'Such a nauseating smell.'
The apprentice rushed ahead to open the door.
Mael stopped just past the doorway, eyes narrowing. He turned his gaze to the sky. The light stung his eyes, but that wasn't what bothered him.
Something felt wrong.
A tight, cold feeling twisted in his chest.
"Prepare to take off right away," he said to the young man standing beside him.
"There's a divine disturbance coming from the capital."