In Gonda, there was a brothel known as the Red Velvet. Its name, like its sign, was vibrant and alluring, a flame burning in the darkness of night.
Pushing open the heavy oak door, one was met with a smell that was a mixture of cheap perfume, sweat, and alcohol.
In the dim, flickering candlelight, silk draperies mingled with the stench of cheap liquor, and gold and silver vessels were juxtaposed with shabby wooden tables.
The line between noble Knights and street thugs blurred here. Prostitutes clad in colorful silks and sheer fabrics wove through the crowd, their makeup vivid and their figures seductive.
Whispers circulated in the corners. Knights boasted of their military exploits, merchants secretly discussed smuggling deals, and spies exchanged intelligence.
