Girl surrounded Calvus.
One on him, bare.
She managed to get her nipple into his mouth.
Teasing and laughing, they crowded around him, each one trying to capture his attention as if he were the most important patron in the tavern that night. Warm hands brushed his arms, soft voices coaxed and flirted, perfume and heat rising all around him.
But Calvus felt none of it.
Every touch slid off him like water on stone.
Every laugh sounded distant, hollow.
Even the press of bodies—so eager, so insistent—meant nothing.
Because his mind, traitorous and relentless, kept circling back to one person.
Aurelia.
Her name burned in his mind, sharper than any ale, hotter than the flesh surrounding him.
He tried to forget her, to drown in this indulgence, but he couldn't. Nothing could pull him from the memory of her violet eyes, the way she had moved, the fire she carried.
"Calvus."
Amora's voice slipped through the golden curtains like a whisper meant only for him.
Amora stepped deeper into the private alcove, the golden fabric brushing her shoulders. The lanternlight painted her features in warm bronze. She looked unimpressed… and tired of this his character.
"Pay them," she murmured, low enough that only he could hear. "We're leaving."
Calvus blinked through the haze of drink, his expression unreadable. The girls around him giggled, leaning into him, their hands tracing his arms—still desperate for his attention.
But he wasn't even looking at them.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, he pulled a pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the cushions. It hit the floor with a heavy clatter, spilling silver coins across the fabric.
The women dove for them instantly, laughing, scrambling over each other—but Amora ignored the frenzy completely.
She hooked her fingers around Calvus's wrist and tugged gently but firmly.
"Come on," she said, voice softer now, almost pitying. "You've had enough."
Calvus rose without resisting, his gaze distant—tangled somewhere between the drink and the image of the girl he couldn't force from his mind.
Aurelia.
Amora guided him through the heavy curtains, her hand firm around his wrist. The deeper they walked, the quieter the noise became—until the tavern's chaos faded into a muffled heartbeat behind the walls.
This place was hers.
The narrow corridors, the dim lamps, the velvet-draped doorways.
Amora had grown up in this hallot palace—its secrets, its shadows, its rules carved into her from childhood. She walked with the confidence of someone who knew every hidden turn.
When they reached her room, she pushed him inside gently.
Click.
The door shut behind them, sealing out the riot of voices and music.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Calvus leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, jaw tight. The drunken haze couldn't mask the storm in his eyes. Amora watched him carefully—too carefully—her own expression unreadable.
"You're worse tonight," Amora murmured, her voice low, flat, almost tired.
Calvus dragged a hand over his face. "I can't stop thinking about her… I believe she's Aurelia."
Amora stiffened. Just a flicker—but he caught it.
"You worry too much," she said, forcing a careless shrug. "The girl is no one."
"No," he breathed, shaking his head as if refusing the world itself. "I know she's Aurelia."
"Marcus confirmed she and her father died in the war," Amora reminded him, her tone sharp now. "Let go of ghosts, Calvus."
"I do not trust that fool," he snapped, trying to push himself upright.
His knees buckled.
He crashed back to the floor, hands gripping the edge of a chair to steady himself. The drink fogged his vision, but not enough to blur the truth burning inside him.
"She looks like her," he whispered. "She moves like her. She—"
"Calvus," Amora cut in, jaw tight, "Aurelia is dead."
Silence cracked between them, heavy and unforgiving.
But Calvus only stared at the floor, chest lifting and falling with the quiet, violent tremor of a man who'd just realised that hope could wound more deeply than loss.
"You trust that human more than my own words," he said at last, voice low, almost shaking with anger he was too drained to fully show.
Amora's jaw tightened.
"Marcus is in the human world," she replied. "He has done a great deal for us. This… alliance did not begin yesterday. It took years to build."
"Years?" Calvus scoffed, pushing himself to sit straighter. "Years of what? Lies? Half-truths? Convenient information?"
"Calvus—"
"No." His hand struck the table, not hard, but sharp enough to cut through her words. "You think loyalty comes from years. It doesn't. It comes from truth. And Marcus has never spoken a truth without hiding three more behind it."
Amora's eyes narrowed, her calm cracking.
"And you believe a girl you barely saw? A slave brought from the ruins? A replacement chosen by your lord?"
Calvus lifted his gaze at that—slowly, as if the movement itself cost him strength.
"I believe my instincts," he said. "And I believe what I saw in her eyes."
Amora's jaw tightened, a subtle tremor in her fingers she refused to acknowledge.
Instincts, he said. Eyes. As if I don't deserve to claim even a fraction of what you've given her attention in years.
Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp, assessing, calculating.
"You trust your instincts because of what?" she asked, voice low but edged with steel.
"Because of a glance? A movement? Calvus… I've been at your side far longer than this girl and I mean it when I said Marcus is to be trusted. I've earned your counsel, your plans , your—"
She stopped herself, swallowing the bitterness that burned like poison.
Amora chest tightened. She would not beg. She would not plead. But the heat of jealousy coiled inside her like a living thing, ready to strike.
Calvus didn't answer immediately. His eyes, dark and stormed with confusion, finally met hers. And in that look, Amora realized how fragile his conviction was.
"Be careful," she murmured, leaning slightly closer than necessary, letting the weight of her presence press against him. "The past you trust can kill you… and the future you ignore may burn you."
Her words were soft, almost a whisper, but they cut sharper than any sword.
Calvus flinched, just slightly, the edge of Amora's words grazing him—but the alcohol dulled the sting. He didn't respond. He didn't even lift his head.
Instead, with a soft groan, he let himself fall back onto the bed, sprawling across it like a man too heavy for his own body. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the tremor of his pulse barely noticeable beneath the haze of drink.
Amora watched him, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Weakness, she thought, but there was more than that.
Vulnerability. And she would remember it. She would use it to win back Calvus.
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To be continued...