The throne felt warmer tonight.
Leonhardt sat alone, fingertips brushing the smooth armrest of the bone-forged seat, his mind far from the dungeon walls around him. The magical lights above flickered with low flame, casting amber shadows that danced across the black veins of crystal embedded in the floor.
The envelope was gone—burned.
But its weight still lingered.
"Zafira," he said, voice low but resonant.
A moment later, her presence bloomed behind him.
The air thickened with her scent—sweet spice, a trace of strawberry, and something darker, more indulgent as her presence grew his skin tingled with small bumps.
"Master," Zafira purred as she stepped down the curved stairway from the back chamber. Her heels tapped against the polished stone. Her tail trailed behind her, flicking once. "You finally called."
She wore no armour tonight—just a slit robe of deep black, split high at the thigh, her skin glowing faintly under the dungeon light. But her smile wasn't teasing.
