The air in the Imperial Study was not just hot; it was thick, shimmering with a heavy, iridescent steam that clung to the mahogany walls like a physical weight. The scent of ozone and spilled ink was overwhelming—a sharp, metallic tang that signaled the violent release of the Sun-curse. Kassian sat in his high-backed leather chair, his silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes still glowing with a dim, dying orange light.
Vera was no longer under the desk. She was draped across his lap, her silk gown rumpled and clinging to her damp skin, her legs wrapped firmly around his waist. She could feel the steady, thunderous drum of his heart against her chest, the rhythm slowing but still echoing with the residual force of his "Supernova."
The shattered inkwell lay on the floor, a dark, spreading pool of night across the white marble. Before either of them could draw a truly steady breath, the heavy double doors groaned open.
