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eeks passed and spring arrived to break the siege of frost at Mortos. The ice splintered and released the isle from its lacquered hold, allowing the trees to unbend from their protracted pose; the fish to taste the surface of their rivers.

This was a period of celebration for the denizens of Mortos, heralded by their traditional holiday of Callemas—the birth of Calante’s first son; the sire of the entire Calantis bloodline. It was marked, as with all Mortesian holidays, with feasts and fighting and festivals in the streets.

Laila was in her bedroom sifting through several frocks in search of something to adorn her skin. She was due to watch Dominus participate in the arena games with the rest of the country’s elite warriors and the prospect both intrigued and unnerved her.

Vasilisa had deposited a number of dresses made by her seamstress for Laila’s perusal and she had rummaged through them with increasing disdain before eventually setting them aside, finding them to be too matronly for her tastes. Soleterean fashion could not differ more from the way the occasselle obscured their bodies like shamefully guarded secrets.

“Ugh!” she declared in defeat as she shoved away yet another ill-fitting frock. She collapsed dramatically on the bed and threw an arm over her eyes as though to shun the world in upset.

“Would you like some help?” Léandre asked from the doorway, observing her fit of temper with a rumble of laughter in his voice.

Laila peeked out from beneath her arm and sighed. “I’m supposed to be picking out a dress for tonight’s festivities. The regina suggested wearing something red or green to symbolise fertility. I only wish these weren’t so—” She gestured towards the high necklines and straight silhouettes “—constricting.”

“Let’s see if I can be of some assistance.” Léandre stepped towards her wardrobe to rummage through the frocks. “Well now, this one is pretty.” He retrieved the gown he spoke of—a length of green velvet lush as garden grass embroidered with gold thread.

“Hm.” Laila scrunched her lips to one side. “Perhaps if I lowered the neckline somewhat and slit those sleeves.” She caught her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “And let out that underskirt beneath. Léandre, do we have any sewing tools available?”

She leapt up from the bed and approached her chest of drawers, rummaging through the shelves until she found a small wooden kit.

“Happened to have a spark of inspiration?” he asked.

Laila grinned in triumph as she retrieved a pair of scissors and infused it with an enchantment to make it animate. “Well, it’s as they say.” She turned towards the dress, sticking her tongue out of the side of her mouth. “If you want something done right. You’re going to have to do it yourself.”

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Gravissia truly was a city that never slept. Beneath the ancient and indecipherable veneer lay a breeding ground of constant nocturnal activity that rumbled with the discordance of circus shows and bloodsport. This further sprouted an underworld of vice and vulgarity offered in an enticing exhibition to the corrupted souls that converged. Establishments cajoled on every street corner; both dens and public houses practically perspiring with poppy and cigar smog.

Laila glanced between the red velvet drapes of a black carriage to see the tidal surge of bodies as they flowed, rose and fell back again. Tonight she wore a palette of leaf-green and wheat-gold, the colours that winter craved. Her plump lips were hued berry-red with an artful smudge, ripe as if for eating, for kissing, for all pleasurable pursuits of the mouth and in her hair were the scrunched blushing buds of spring blossoms.

The carriage parted through the sea of the crowd to enter through the theatre’s gates. From there they were escorted before the ghastly leer of the grotesques to a prime seating booth near the very top.

Laila was seated beside Vasilisa who regarded her state of dress with shock. “Goodness! You must be catching a death in that frock. There’s hardly anything to it.”

“Oh, I’m quite well really.” Laila blushed as she became suddenly aware of her exposed collarbone. “I thought seeing as the weather seems to be on the turn I would take inspiration from my hometown’s fashion.”

“I must say, is that truly what they have you wearing down south? I couldn’t imagine being so bold.”

Though it was said gently, there was an edge of disapproval in her tone that reminded Laila uncomfortably of her mother. She almost felt the need to apologise for herself. Physically, Vasilisa couldn’t be more her opposite—where Laila was brown-skinned and brazen, she was the picture of pearlescent poise with skin like the pink-tinged hue of apple blossoms. She had the same imposing build of her son but her bulk, while muscular, was more broad in the hips with a heavy bosom.

“I think she looks exquisite,” Darius interjected with a smile. He wore a red kaftan sprayed with an arterial spatter of rubies that glistened each time he moved.

“Thank you, Prefect,” Laila said, finding it hard to meet his gaze with how intensely it fixated on her. Nonetheless she was ever hungry for praise no matter the source, it nourished her better than mother’s milk. She took her seat between Vasilisa and Darius, feeling warm upon his proximity to her. He exuded a darkly alluring aroma of rose, oakmoss and ambergris that persuaded her body to lean closer. “You’re not participating tonight?”

“I prefer to watch,” he said. There was something tigerish in the curve of his smile. One could imagine him as a spectator, with the same inquisitive detachment as a child frying worms through a magnifying glass.

The arena came alive before them with a blaring of horns, followed by fire dancers swinging their poles of flame in mechanical synchronicity—a herald to the arrival of the umpire on his bronze chariot.

The umpire stood with arms raised, beckoning the uproarious cry of the crowd as he descended from his chariot and made the first round of announcements.

Laila was transfixed as the games unfolded and the occassi poured in from the skies on their black hippogriffs, performing acrobatic feats she would never have thought possible on a mount, let alone airborne. Her hand gripped her seat in horror several times as she watched warriors perform stunts that seemed practically unfeasible—only for them to accomplish it with untroubled skill.

As the events progressed her heart became a gymnast of its own calibre: belly-flopping with dread at the airborne mounted archery, somersaulting with delight at the levitating ring jumps.

Just when Laila thought her heart could take no more excitement—there was Dominus riding in on his tar-coloured steed, clashing with his opponent as they attempted to wrestle each other to the ground.

There was a subtle throb in her chest at the sight of him in his element, oil-slicked and sweat-sheened as he tussled in the sky with his competitor. It reminded her of times she’d watched Lyra dominate the arena back in Soleterea with that same vigorous bravado.

The throb blossomed the more she watched him, sliding southward to take root in her stomach before seeping further down between her thighs. She squirmed in her seat, her breaths quickening, an unbearable heat puddling deep within her core. She felt flushed and exhilarated.

“You seem to be enjoying the show,” Darius whispered low in her ear and it travelled right to her toes like a bolt. She looked at him and he looked back. The tiger look was emphasised. It amused him to see what this was doing to her.

Her eyes travelled back to Dominus who had emerged victorious, knocking his opponent to the floor with a well-aimed strike. He fell to the floor with an echoing crackle, bones dislocating and raising up like spines through the skin. She couldn’t tell if the sight horrified her for how much it thrilled her or thrilled her for how much it horrified her.

He was not dead. His body had already engaged a skeletal hex to slide each dismantled jigsaw bone back into place—though this process was exceedingly more painful and nauseating to watch. Dominus swooped down beside him once he’d healed. They shook hands.

The umpire announced Dominus champion and presented him with the champion’s ribbon that hung a solid gold eagle egg—a symbol of Callus. He was next presented with a wreath of Mortesian Beauties, which he hooked on his arm as he swung his leg back over his hippogriff and took to the skies.

The audience suspended their breath as he ascended and there was nothing audible but the laceration of the hippogriff’s wings as it slashed the open air, bringing him right to her. Dominus hovered before Laila with a smile as he took down the wreath and presented it for the taking.

Laila bowed her head, stretching the swan arch of her neck forward as he crowned her. The audience erupted.

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She found Dominus on a street corner after the excitement died down.

He had refreshed himself backstage, newly showered and oiled, his hair a dark slick against his velvet-covered shoulders. His emerald-green kaftan was practically bursting at the seams of him, the velvet rippling like water each time he moved.

Laila ran to him, her wreath dripping petals of black rain as she launched herself into his arms and crushed their mouths together. His lips were full and soft, his beard a pleasant tickle against her cheek as she inhaled his scent of cedar and pine.

His hold on her back was near spine-crushing but to him he was using no more force than a feather in the breeze. He was more cautious with his mouth, ghosting every shadow-movement of her lips against his as though he were always a little uncertain of it.

She sucked lightly on his bottom lip. “Let’s go somewhere.”

He set her down before they weaved through the thickness of the crowd in search of a covert location. He pivoted direction towards his carriage which was stationed on a much less cramped, crowded area of the street and slammed her up against the door with enough force to shift it onto two wheels.

He kissed her more forcefully this time, taking initiative as she hooked her legs around him for something steady to grip. He was like an iron hull against her soft beach sand. She wanted to pin him down and grind on him into oblivion.

He handled her with ease as he manoeuvred to open the door with one hand, tossing her inside the carriage with the other and closing the door behind them.

She’d never taken a male lover before. She had never felt inspired to in the past. And though she was no untouched flower in the ways of intimacy, there was a little shiver that crept down her spine as he slid on top of her, his mouth ravenous against her neck and jawline.

Dominus’ face had changed; his true monster visage rose from the abyssal depths to claim possession of his features. He tugged at the front of her dress, tearing away the fabric, too eager to reveal her body to him.

Laila felt a small rise of affront develop at his carelessness. That soon dissolved when his mouth was on her neck again, leaving a trail of raspberry welts that bloomed into violet bruises as he descended down her collarbone to her sternum.

She flipped their positions so he was lying beneath her on the seats, the carriage swaying unsteadily on its wheels. She stripped away his clothes with the same carelessness as he did her dress and ran her lips along his chest.

It was only when they had each other bare and vulnerable beneath the moon’s all-seeing eye did they stop to stare at one another, a softness dulling their savage lust from before.

Dominus raised a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb sliding across the curve of her bottom lip. His thumb slid down her chin and over her throat, pressing into the fluttering pulse there as the rest of his hand cradled her neck. He slid his hand down the front of her chest before it moved to grab her hip. Large hands, strong and bestial, how easily they fit in a waist, a breast, a throat.

He pulled her to him by the hips and settled her atop his pelvis.

Laila bit her lip as she took in the sight of his arousal, about as large and intimidating as the rest of him. Her body tensed as he began to push himself into her bit by bit.

Dominus released a noise as he entered her. She was warm and tight in a way that made him shudder with anticipation, hips thrusting upwards with impatience. He paused when he noticed her discomfort, his eyes questioning.

“Let me,” Laila said, grabbing his shoulders to try and ease him in. Though whether it was the tension of her mounting anxiety or some physical mismatch, she simply could not make it fit right. She closed her eyes again and exhaled, her face contorting with pain she was not accustomed to receiving. She was used to eager fingers and mouths, or a body part to move herself against.

Dominus watched the tension in her face with uncertainty. He hadn’t expected her to be so new at this. He took her chin in his hand and shook his head. No?

She nodded back at him. “Let’s try something else.”

She decided to try an alternate part of his body that was less unnerving and settled on his thigh. She managed to discover an optimal position wherein he ended up pressed against her stomach as she grinded on him with abandon.

Her earlier anxiety melted away from her shoulders as she established a rhythm, a moan working its way up her throat as the firm sinews in his muscle slid over her exactly right.

He palmed his shaft in his hand, stroking himself, and just briefly did their eyes meet when there was a pulse; a surge of some powerful source that she realised had originated from her power. He slid his hands between her legs to feel how slick she was, coating his shaft with it, his other large, calloused hand curving against the small of her spine. He brought her close to latch his teeth onto her shoulder, his fangs descending into a bite.

Laila gasped in surprise as his fangs sunk further and further in before it was soothed by the feel of a tranquilising substance entering her bloodstream. Occassi venom. She heard him groan as he bit her, his body trembling with relief. Her muscles wilted before the poison in her veins, her initial shock quieting to calm.

Her head felt lighter than a cloud as he rocked against her, his tongue gliding over her shoulder before he bit down again. The next bite brought him over the brink as he climaxed and Laila clutched at him, raking her nails over his spine. He pulled away, his mouth and beard gold-smeared with the stain of her ichor.

She staggered off of him still disoriented, looking at her tattered dress on the floor with a sigh. She used a renewal enchantment to repair it. “A little forewarning would be nice in future, if you decide you wish to mishandle my garments.” She touched her wounded shoulder and examined the bite. She’d never been treated roughly during intimacy before but figured it to be another among occassi’s bestial habits. “And savage me like an animal.”

He at least had the grace to look apologetic but she held her princess pout firmly until he dragged her down to his chest and kissed the top of her head. She was too serene from the venom to scold him further as she nuzzled his chest and stroked the dense sprawl of hair there.

“Will there be a future?” he asked.

She tilted her head up to face him before shifting to cradle his face in her hands.

“I have to go back to Soleterea for some time,” she said, for she would need to deliver the news of Lanius’ final decision regarding trade, whatever it may come to. “But I would like for you to come with me, if you’d like. Soleterea is unearthly in the spring.”

He kissed the edge of her wrist. “I would like that.”