The moon hangs heavy over the glowing pond, its silvery light cutting through the canopy in long, dappled columns. Crickets hummed softly in the warm forest air. A perfect night, at least, according to Mysa, who is currently buried chin-deep in a mossy bush.
"By the Maidens," she whispers reverently, her voice barely audible as she adjusts the dials of her ridiculous binocular contraption. "The precision. The control. Look at the flex on that pelvic rotation. Raenly, you absolute fool, 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 she makes is another chisel to my ribs."
