While in Cannes, it was still morning and the demigods had arrived to meet Andrew. Dusk spread like a crimson blanket over the Succubus Palace in the realm of demons.
In its gilded halls and marble corridors, whispers of intrigue and furtive glances were as common as the shadows dancing on the walls, but tonight, something deeper and wilder stirred in the air.
Ayla, the harpy, had begun to notice the first signs of growing restlessness. Her hot season was approaching, a cyclical and powerful time that came with an intensity capable of challenging even her iron will.
For days now, her senses had been more awake: the aromas became intoxicating, the textures more vivid, and the heat on her skin increased with each heartbeat.
Yet she had managed to maintain control, hiding her internal struggle behind a mask of serenity. That night, as she met with the courtiers in the great hall of the palace, Ayla felt something inside her give way.
