For Sol, the rest of the night blurred into an overwhelming, dizzying fever dream. He had been trained in the theoretical arts of the pavilion, forced to memorize manuals and listen to the muffled sounds of the other rooms, but none of it prepared him for the actual, grounding reality of being wanted. Heena wasn't gentle, but she wasn't cruel, either. She moved with a dominant, unapologetic hunger, guiding his inexperienced hands, completely ignoring his frantic apologies whenever he fumbled, and entirely consuming his senses until he couldn't even remember his own name, let alone the word 'lowly'.
The next morning, the harsh, bright sunlight of the capital pierced through the thin paper windows of the brothel.
Sol woke up with a sharp gasp, his heart hammering in his chest. He bolted upright, clutching the silk sheets to his bare chest, his wide blue eye darting frantically around the room.
It wasn't a dream.
