Above the academy grounds, high enough that the afternoon sun turned the city into a blinding mosaic of gold and chrome, the Consort floated weightless, untouchable, a blade suspended in daylight.
Her kimono—black silk slashed with crimson, cut so low it bared the inner swell of her breasts, high slits parting to expose long, pale thighs—fluttered in a wind that didn't exist down below. Sinful. Deliberate.
Every inch of fabric screamed power and invitation at once, the crimson slashes like fresh blood on midnight.
Her red gaze—slit-pupiled, burning like arterial fire—swept across Paradise in panoramic sweeps: the academy quad pulsing with midday chatter, students sprawled on lawns, luxury cars crawling the streets like beetles, estates glittering like crowns under the sun.
Every heartbeat, every whisper, every secret laid bare before her.
Nothing escaped her eyes. Nothing escaped her master's eyes watching through them.
She didn't notice the small shadow circling her.
