Dawn crept over the Spire like a reluctant witness, painting the towering crystal walls in pale gold and soft rose.
The grand hall, once alive with the heat and clamor of endless nights, now lay in heavy silence.
Servants moved like ghosts, packing trunks and extinguishing the last of the incense braziers. The air still carried faint traces of musk and perfume, but the revelry had ended.
In the private chambers branching off the main spire, the noblewomen stirred slowly. Elara woke first, her body aching with deep soreness that radiated from her core.
She shifted under silk sheets and felt the unmistakable warmth still lingering, a slow trickle that reminded her of every moment from the night before. Across the room, her husband sat by the window, staring at the distant mountains.
His shoulders were slumped, eyes hollow with a mixture of relief and something broken. The rituals were over, yet the marks they left—physical and otherwise—would not fade quickly.
