"Your Imperial Majesty," a woman bowed low, her tone even, her eyes distant.
The room reeked of perfume. Heady, overwhelming, cloying. The atmosphere was stifling, every curtain drawn tight, every whisper muffled by the decadent walls.
After all, this was a whorehouse, a sanctuary of sin and secrets.
Novan Valtirium frequented it like a man lost in an oasis of fleeting pleasures.
He liked his women, but one in particular held his obsession: Meloris.
Why her? She did not fawn over him. She did not simper, did not gaze at him with the adoration he had grown accustomed to. Her gaze was stern, unflinching. She wanted nothing from him, not his riches, not his favor, not even his touch.
That made her dangerous. Irresistible.
He was the most powerful man in the Empire, sovereign in all but title. Handsome, sharp-jawed, commanding. Yet a secret clawed at him like rot beneath gilded armor - he bore no magic.
