The dimly lit study within the deepest, most secure wing of the Royal Palace was thick with the heavy, intoxicating aroma of burning myrrh, frankincense, and the undeniable, pungent musk of absolute carnal desecration. The air itself seemed to hum with the lingering vibrations of holy magic that had been violently repurposed for the sake of lust.
Alaric lounged in his high-backed, leather-upholstered chair, the epitome of a dark conqueror at rest. His black robes were open, revealing the sculpted, sweat-sheened muscles of his chest and abdomen. Sprawled across his lap, resting against him like a broken, discarded doll of divine porcelain, was Saintess Ceanna.
