While waiting for the estimated arrival of the Monochara bastion, the night pressed quietly against the chambers of Vaingall as Kivas and Samael lay upon the ceremonial bed.
The ceremonial canopy above them draped soft linen scented of incense and wood oils, woven with sigils that glowed faintly in the lamplight.
Kivas traced light patterns across Samael's shoulders, her fingertips dancing along the edge of divine plate and woven cadence.
Her lips curved into a grin half-served in teasing warmth, half carved by fatigue and clarity.
"You look formidable," Kivas whispered from above, her tone laced with playful authority. "All power, authority, and forbodding pressure—yet shy, reserved, conservative when someone is on top of you."
Kivas brushed a fingertip beneath Samael's jaw, amused by how the tension softened in the other's features.
Samael's face shifted, lips twisting into an expression rare to Kivas, an innocent surprise. The faintest flush stained her cheeks.
