The lounge was what a god decorated the moment he stopped giving a single glittering fuck about subtlety.
Black mirror-stone drank every footstep and spat it back wet and shining, like the floor itself was trying to flirt.
The vaulted ceiling vanished into a lazy constellation of amber light that couldn't be bothered to try harder. Walls of ancient wood — felled in an age that still nursed vendettas — breathed cedar, old smoke, and something darker the mortal mind refused to name without blushing and immediately needing a cold shower.
A hearth large enough to cremate minor dynasties roared at the far end, because of course it did.
Three oxblood couches the size of small boats sprawled in a loose horseshoe, built for sins far too creative for mere seating. A long sideboard glittered with seven decanters of seven impossible hues, each older than most civilizations and twice as arrogant.
