The moon hangs heavy over the glowing pond, its silvery light cutting through the canopy in long, dappled columns. Crickets hum softly in the warm forest air. A perfect night, at least according to Mysa, currently buried chin-deep in a mossy bush.
"By the Maidens," she whispers reverently, adjusting the dials of her ridiculous binocular contraption. "The precision. The control. Look at the flex on that pelvic rotation. Raenly, you'll never outdo this. Blackthorn has built a sex-god!"
From behind a gnarled tree, Raenly groans. "Please stop talking," he hisses, voice cracked and hoarse. "I'm begging you, Mysa. I haven't slept in two days. I haven't eaten. My soul is cracking like a kiln-fired glaze. Every sound of satisfaction that woman makes is another chisel to my ribs."
