The air at the summit of the central spire didn't just turn cold; it turned ancient.
As the violet glow of the ritual faded into the grey morning, the reality of the flesh settled over Vera like a heavy, velvet shroud. She was no longer a phantom of amethyst smoke. She was a woman of bone and blood, shivering in Kassian's arms, her skin sensitive to the slightest brush of the wind. The "hollow" space in her chest remained—a silent, aching void where her love for the Emperor used to burn—but the hunger he had ignited with a single, deep kiss was very much alive.
Kassian held her, his hands hot enough to leave faint red marks on her pale skin. His eyes were still burning with that predatory, orange light, his breath ragged against her neck. The promise he had made—to "burn the frost out of her soul"—vibrated in the air between them like an unsheathed blade.
