A dim, velvet-draped chamber high in the Spire of Dusk. Moonlight leaks through cracked stained glass, painting the room in bruised purples. The air is thick with incense and last night's wine.
Lirien Shadeweaver jolts awake, skull splitting like a dropped melon. His tongue tastes of smoke and honey.
Lirien (groaning, voice raw):
"Last night was wild… a man, my head—ugh. I hate hangovers."
He blinks, vision swimming. Slowly, the bed comes into focus. Too much bed. Silk sheets the color of spilled blood. And—
Left: a woman with silver-streaked auburn hair, skin like moonlit marble, one arm flung across a pillow. A faint scar curves beneath her collarbone, old knife-work. She breathes slow, steady.
Right: another, darker—ebony curls, a tattoo of a serpent coiling up her spine. Her lips part in sleep, revealing a flash of gold-capped canine.
Both older than him by a decade, maybe two. Both stunning. Both very, very naked.
Lirien freezes. His heartbeat is a war drum.
Lirien (whisper, to himself):
"Seven hells. Did I rob a noble house or a temple?"
The auburn-haired woman stirs, murmurs something in Old Tongue. The serpent-tattooed one rolls closer, hand brushing his thigh—unconscious, possessive.
Lirien's eyes dart to the floor: his coat in a heap, dagger still sheathed (thank the gods). A half-empty decanter on the nightstand. And—scratched into the wood in fresh wax:
"The pact is sealed. Dawn brings truth."
His stomach drops.
Lirien (under his breath):
"...What did I agree to?"
Outside, the Spire's bells begin to toll. Dawn. Truth. And two legendary sorceresses who could turn him inside-out with a sigh.
The same velvet chamber, now edged with pale dawn. The bells toll on, relentless.
The auburn-haired woman opens her eyes first—amber, sharp as a hawk's. She sees Lirien, frozen mid-breath, and a faint, knowing smile curves her lips.
Auburn (voice like velvet over steel):
"Last night was… good."
The serpent-tattooed woman stirs, stretches like a cat. Her smile mirrors the first—slow, satisfied, dangerous.
Serpent (huskier):
"Very good. Let's hope we meet again, little brother."
They move in eerie unison. Sheets slide away; silk robes appear from nowhere, slipping over skin like liquid shadow. No haste, no shame.
Lirien opens his mouth—nothing comes out. His brain is still rebooting.
Auburn (already at the door, glancing back):
"Until then… goodbye."
The serpent woman pauses, brushes a fingertip across the wax-scratched message on the nightstand. The letters flare violet, then vanish.
Serpent (soft, almost fond):
"Try not to die before the next equinox. We'd hate to collect early."
The door opens on silent hinges. They step through—robes whispering—and are gone. The latch clicks. The room feels suddenly colder.
Lirien sits in the wreckage of sheets, staring at the empty doorway. His heartbeat is the only sound.
Lirien (hoarse, to the silence):
"…Little brother?"
The same smoky common room, but now the light catches on the silver-threaded cuff of Lirien's sleeve. The hangover still gnaws, but the panic is gone.
Lirien blinks at the slate, then at his own purse—fat with platinum and a single black pearl the size of a quail's egg. He snorts, the sound half-laugh, half-growl.
Lirien (dry):
"Fifty-five? That's a rounding error."
He flicks open the purse. Platinum disks clink like bells. He counts out six—each stamped with the Shadeweaver crest—and slides them across.
Lirien:
"Keep the change, Grist. Buy yourself a new eye. The glass one's fogging."
Grist's single eye widens. He scoops the coins so fast the rag catches fire on a candle. Doesn't notice.
Grist (gruff, but softer):
"The ladies said you'd squirm. Said to remind you: 'Interest accrues at equinox.'"
Lirien taps the obsidian token against the bar. It rings like a tiny gong.
Lirien (smirking):
"Tell them the Shadeweaver vault's deeper than their little pact. I'll pay principal in favors. They'll collect when I decide."
He stands, cloak swirling—midnight silk lined with cloth-of-gold. The common room quiets; even the drunks recognize the cut of noble coin.
Lirien (to the room, casual):
"Breakfast's on me. Drink to the equinox."
He strides out. Behind him, mugs rise in a ragged cheer. The token in his pocket warms—not cold now, but amused.
Lirien (muttering, already planning):
"Little brother's buying the next round. And the one after that."
Scene: The Spire's outer courtyard, cobbles still wet with night dew. A lacquered carriage—ebony wood, silver filigree, four white stallions—waits like a silent oath. The Shadeweaver crest glints on the door: a crescent moon devouring a star.
Lirien steps through the archway. The hangover dulls under the morning glare, replaced by the familiar weight of duty.
The butler—tall, iron-gray, immaculate—bows precisely thirty degrees. Two maids in dove-gray livery mirror the motion.
Butler (voice smooth as oiled steel):
"Young Master. The Master awaits. He wishes to speak with you. Matters to discuss."
The butler opens the carriage door. Velvet interior, crystal decanters already chilled. A single black rose rests on the seat—thornless.
Lirien (dry smile, climbing in):
"Alright. Let's go."
The door shuts with a soft thump. The maids take perch at the rear; the butler swings up beside the driver. Wheels roll. The Spire shrinks behind.
Inside, Lirien pours two fingers of something amber and expensive. The black rose's petals unfurl, revealing a tiny scroll sealed in violet wax.
Lirien (reading aloud, mock-toast):
"'Equinox comes. Bring the token—or don't come home.' Love, the sisters.'"
He tucks the scroll into his coat, beside the obsidian coin. The carriage lurches toward the Shadeweaver estate—towers of onyx and glass rising like knives against the sky.
Lirien (to the empty air):
"Father wants to talk. The witches want their due. Perfect morning."
The stallions thunder on. Somewhere ahead, the Master waits—and the vault's interest is about to compound.
Inside the Shadeweaver carriage, velvet curtains half-drawn. The clatter of hooves and wheels is a steady heartbeat. Morning light stripes the interior like tiger bars.
Lirien lounges against the cushions, coat open, one boot propped on the opposite seat. The two maids—dove-gray livery now unbuttoned at the throat—kneel between his knees with practiced grace.
Maid 1 (murmuring, lips brushing skin):
"Morning blow-job, young Master. Tradition for the road."
Maid 2 (already taking her turn, voice muffled):
"Like devoted wives. Your comfort is our honor."
They work in perfect rhythm—turn and turn about, soft sounds swallowed by the rumble of the carriage. Lirien's hand rests lightly on the back of the first maid's head, more guidance than force. His eyes stay on the window.
Outside:
Knights in mirrored plate patrol the boulevard, plumes nodding.
Merchants hawk silks and spell-scrolls from painted carts.
Adventurers stride past—rune-etched armor, maps flapping, eyes hungry for the horizon.
A street preacher screams about the end of days. A pickpocket darts through the crowd and vanishes. The city breathes.
Lirien exhales slow, fingers tightening briefly in silk-soft hair.
Lirien (lazy, to the window):
"Tell Father I'll be… punctual. Eventually."
The carriage rolls on. The maids finish with soft, satisfied sounds, wiping lips with lace handkerchiefs. One tucks a stray curl behind her ear; the other pours fresh wine.
Maid 1 (smiling):
"The Master will forgive the delay. You wear his crest well."
Lirien lifts the glass in salute to the passing world.
Lirien:
"To equinoxes, debts, and devoted wives. May they all wait their turn."
The stallions thunder toward the estate. The city fades behind.
The Shadeweaver Estate, dawn's edge bleeding into full gold. The carriage crests the final rise and the world opens.
The estate is not a house. It is a declaration. Black marble and star-iron, seven spires clawing the sky, each crowned with a moon that glows without fire. Waterfalls of liquid silver spill from balconies into moats of liquid night. Gargoyles—living stone—shift and watch.
The gates: twin slabs of obsidian veined with living starlight. They part without sound as the carriage approaches. No hinges. No guards. Just will. The Shadeweaver crest pulses once, a heartbeat of violet.
The drive is a mirror of polished onyx. Every hoofbeat echoes like a bell. Statues line the path—ancestors in armor of void-glass, eyes replaced with single diamonds that follow.*
The carriage stops at the grand staircase: 77 steps, each carved from a different meteorite. At the summit, the doors—taller than siege towers—swing inward on their own. Inside: a cathedral of shadow and wealth. Chandeliers of captured comets drift overhead. The air smells of myrrh, ozone, and old blood.
The butler descends the steps alone. No footmen. No trumpets. Just presence. Behind him, the Master waits in the atrium—silhouetted against a window of stained voidglass that shows the night sky as it will be in a thousand years.*
Butler (bowing, voice like velvet thunder):
"Young Master. The House remembers your footsteps. Welcome home."
Lirien steps down. The maids remain in the carriage—protocol. His boots ring on the first step. The second. The third. Each one recognizes him; the stone warms beneath his soles.
Lirien (soft, to the estate itself):
"Missed you too, you ostentatious bastard."
He ascends. The gargoyles bow their heads as he passes. The comets overhead dim in respect. At the summit, the Master turns—face half-shadow, half-starlight—and smiles like a man who owns tomorrow.
The doors close behind Lirien with a sound like the end of the world.
The Grand Concourse of House Shadeweaver, an artery of black marble and starlight that threads the estate's heart. The ceiling is a living sky: constellations drifting, comets trailing silver fire. The corridor stretches impossible—five, maybe ten minutes of steady walking, and still no end in sight.
Lirien strides. His boots strike the floor in perfect rhythm; each footfall echoes back from infinity. The air is cool, scented with night-blooming orchids that grow from the walls themselves. Every ten paces, a niche holds a treasure: a sword that sings when unsheathed, a mirror that shows your death, a single drop of dragon's blood suspended in crystal.
Left:
A swimming pool of liquid mercury, rippling though nothing touches it. Mermaids—real ones—lounge on the edge, tails flicking.
A library that opens into a pocket dimension: shelves climbing into clouds.
Right:
A conservatory where snow falls upward and roses bloom in obsidian.
A bathing hall the size of a cathedral, steam scented with star-anise and sin.
Every servant—butlers in midnight livery, maids in dove-gray silk—drops into a bow or curtsy as he passes. The motion is synchronized, like a wave. Their eyes stay down, but their awe is a physical thing. It clings to his skin.
Maid (whisper, to another, barely audible):
"If he looked at me once… I'd burn the world to keep that gaze."
Butler (murmur):
"A single nod. Carp to dragon. Fact."
Lirien doesn't slow. He's walked this path since he could toddle. The estate breathes with him. A portrait of his great-grandmother—eyes following—winks as he passes.
At the 7-minute mark, the corridor widens into a rotunda of mirrors. Each reflection shows Lirien at a different age: child, youth, elder, corpse. He ignores them. The far door—carved from a single piece of night—looms.
Two maids stationed there drop to their knees. Not protocol. Want. Their breath catches as he brushes past. One dares to reach—fingertips grazing his cloak. He doesn't stop. Doesn't need to. The touch is enough. She'll dream of it for years.
The door opens on its own. Beyond: the Master's study. A room that exists only when he's in it. The corridor seals behind Lirien with a sigh.
Lirien (dry, to the closing door):
"Show-offs. The whole damn house."
He steps through. The estate exhales. Somewhere, a carp leaps—and becomes a dragon.