The final day of Lost Shame Night came cloaked in gold and ash.
Zarethrone had never been so still in its sin. The flames from a thousand lanterns burned low, flickering against the marble walls like dying hearts. The moans had quieted to whispers. The laughter dulled into murmurs. And the air thick with sweat, perfume, and want had begun to settle.
But not all desires had been quenched.
In the palace square, silks and bodies still moved slowly. More intimate now. Less chaotic. Like lovers clinging to the final hour of a dream before waking.
Couples lingered. Trios tangled. The more daring were still testing limits panting into each other's mouths, pressing into stone walls, skin slick, and raw with the touch of strangers.
But it was no longer a performance.
It was confessional.
