A knock came first. Then a young man, in a voice timid and nervous, spoke. His face peeked through the door, almost unwilling to disturb his master's sleep.
"My Lord, it's time for your monthly court visit."
Mael Ithran groaned low in his throat, dragging himself upright from the silk sheets like a man rising from the grave, his body too heavy. He sat up in silence, his long raven-black hair cascading over bare shoulders—wild and disheveled, catching 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.
His limbs were heavy, and his breath stale. He hadn't felt anything close to good in nearly a decade. The constant exhaustion slowly chipping away at his sanity.
The young man's eyes darted at his robe that had slipped open in the night, revealing the pale, sculpted line of his chest—skin smooth and cold as moonlight.
Half-awake, Mael ran a hand through his hair, taming it with no real care. His violet eyes, faintly glowing, turned to the young man now standing near the foot of his bed. The boy's robes were too large for his small stature—something clearly not meant for him. His blue hair had been slicked back too neatly for how early it was. There was a kind of reluctant innocence in him, one Mael found somehow irritating. Or maybe enviable.
Mael's gaze drifted lazily to the figure lying beside him.
A woman—bare beneath a blanket of blood-red silk stitched with gold thread, her skin rose-toned and smooth, parts of her body the blanket failed to hide. She slept deeply, her breath even. Without a care in the world. The kind of sleep that did not wake for sound, movement…
She hadn't stirred since the man entered.
Mael sighed, fingers still in his hair. The pang of hunger was too loud to ignore.
"Where did you vanish off to last night?" His voice broke the quiet, his tone low, rich, and dangerous. Every word slurred with intentional lethargy, like a man speaking through a dream he wished he hadn't returned from.
The young apprentice—whom he hadn't properly recognized yet but chose to keep anyway—perked up. A smile forming in his lips, as it was the first time his Master asked about his business.
"Oh! I was organizing your scrolls in the tower... and saying my prayers. You know, my daily rites."
Mael could feel the happiness seeping in his voice, a misplaced hope but Mael didn't bother to correct himself. He was probably the only person in the world whose presence Mael could somewhat 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. Mael didn't even remember when that kid had started following him, but he wasn't that tall the last time he checked.
He shifted his gaze to the woman still asleep beside him, her breathing shallow with no plan of waking, still unaware of the weight of the person that slept beside her.
Then, as if remembering something distasteful, he gestured toward the sleeping woman. "Did you know this one disrobed and offered herself to me outright? She practically jumped me. I barely had the time to absorb her lust before I had to silence her."
Even his scolding lacked fire—delivered in that same lull of voice that was both hypnotic and disinterested.
The apprentice peeked at the woman Mael had preferred, an innocent curiosity visible on his face. Then as if to realize something the apprentice blinked.
Then frowned. "So… nothing happened?"
Mael raised an eyebrow, his expression darkening. "Would it please you if something had?"
"Ye—no, My Lord." the apprentice answered, his back straightening.
He rose fully, adjusting the heavy black robes etched with arcane sigils that had slipped out of place and which he never bothered to fix.
"Her lust was sour," he said over his shoulder. "Like everyone else's."
Mael sighed before stepping to his feet, letting the robe fall fully over his frame. The fabric shimmered with protective sigils, stitched in threads that glowed faintly like dying stars. As he walked, the symbols shifted, whispering softly under their breath.
The young apprentice—whose name he didn't remember—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 desperate hunger. Her outfit was barely more than a suggestion: a low-cut corset in vibrant red, sheer panels, and a slit so high it left little to the imagination. Her lips parted as he appeared.
"My Lord," she purred.
But Mael couldn't be bothered. He walked past her as if she were a breeze.
The woman's shoulders drooped, but that unpleasant feeling of hunger—one he tried hard to bury—surged within him. Mael stopped a few steps ahead, hope blooming instantly in the woman's eyes. He turned slowly, locking eyes with her. She shivered, her knees already trembling. She swallowed hard the moment he began walking back, his every step an incantation—drawing her in, breaking her open.
His presence swallowed 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—soft and damning—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 enough to make anyone unconscious.
The woman crumpled to her knees, a moan escaping without meaning to.
Mael stepped back, wincing slightly from nausea. He wiped his mouth with his thumb and turned away. "Such an unpleasant aftertaste."
Together, he and his apprentice descended the stairs of the brothel, the wood creaking beneath their feet. The hallway was empty now, drained of laughter, music, and perfume. What had been heat and revelry only hours before now felt hollow—just the faint trace of incense clinging to heavy drapes, and the ghost of perfume soaked into velvet cushions. A shaft of pale light spilled through a crack in the shutters, dust drifting like tiny motes of magic in the air.
Such a nauseating smell.
The apprentice rushed in front of him to open the door.
Mael stopped just past the doorway, eyes narrowing. He turned his gaze to the sky. The light stung—not just his skin, but something deeper.
Something felt wrong.
A tight, cold feeling twisted in his chest.
"Prepare to take off," he said to the young man standing beside him. "There's a divine disturbance coming from the capital."