The morning sunlight spilled through silk-draped windows, golden and warm against bare skin.
Overon blinked.
Then blinked again.
He was in a bed—an absurdly soft, overly perfumed bed. Velvet pillows piled high around him, silk sheets tangled around his legs. The room was painted in decadent reds and warm golds, with heart-shaped lanterns hanging from the ceiling and a mirror on the ceiling overhead.
And there were women.
Three of them. All asleep. One curled against his side, another draped across his chest, the third snoring lightly on his arm. All beautiful, all barely clothed.
"...Shit," Overon whispered.
His head throbbed, not from alcohol—he knew that feeling well—but from something else. Something deeper, like a magical backlash. He sat up slowly, trying not to disturb the women, and rubbed his temples.
The last thing he remembered was stepping out of the inn. He had told Deserter he needed air. That part was true—but what he hadn’t told him was the rest. The reason he couldn’t sleep.
Diana.
Overon rolled his eyes, pulling his legs out from under the covers. "She’s just a kid," he muttered to himself. "Why does it bother me?"
It wasn’t her, not really. It was the way she looked at Deserter. The way she clung to him, like he was the center of her world. Deserter never seemed to care, never even blinked. But Overon noticed.
He always noticed.
Ever since Diana joined them, Deserter had changed. A little softer. More grounded. And for some reason, that shift sat in Overon's chest like a stubborn ember he couldn’t snuff out. He wasn’t jealous of the girl—not really. It was what she represented. Something Overon hadn’t had since they got trapped in this damn world: connection.
"I’m just being dramatic," he muttered again, standing. "Should’ve just slept."
But he hadn’t.
Instead, the night before, he had stepped outside. The city was quiet—at least, quieter than he expected for a place so big. Carriages passed in the street, drawn by sleek swamp beasts. Lamplighters wandered with enchanted wicks, humming spells under their breath. Nothing out of place.
Except...
Overon had felt it.
A pressure in the air. A tug. Like an old dream brushing the back of his mind. Something familiar and foreign all at once. He had stopped in the alley beside the inn, eyes scanning the street. No shadowy figures. No sudden spells. Just the low buzz of street life.
Still, the feeling was there.
He followed it.
At first, it led him down winding streets, past bars and bakeries, magic shops and shady taverns. He passed cloaked strangers and gaudy nobles, ducked under hanging signs and drifted through the crowds like smoke.
Then the crowds thinned. The buildings grew taller, more private. Lanterns turned rose-colored, the music from the streets more sultry. A thick perfume hung in the air—incense, honey, and something a little too sweet to be innocent.
He turned a corner and saw it: a tall building with heart-shaped shutters and a carved wooden sign of a reclining nymph. The name, in curly gold letters, read: The Velvet Whimsy.
He stopped.
His feet didn’t.
He stumbled up the stairs, dazed. The doorman gave him a knowing smirk. A lady at the desk gave him a wink. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but only managed, "Uhh... I think I’m lost."
The lady giggled. "Oh, honey, everyone who comes here is."
Moments blurred together—satin hallways, laughter, flirtation, a strong drink he didn’t remember ordering. The room. The perfume. The warm hands guiding him in like he’d been expected.
And then—
"Overon, darling. You’re awake."
The voice purred beside him.
He flinched, turning to see the closest woman blinking sleepily, her long lashes brushing her cheek as she smiled at him.
He opened his mouth.
No words came out.
She stretched like a cat and leaned into him. "You disappeared on us last night. Then came back with that look in your eye. We had to help."
The other two were waking now, giggling softly, whispering. One reached for his hair.
"You’re lucky, you know," she said. "We usually charge more for adventurers. But you—well. You seemed like you needed it."
Overon stood abruptly, pulling on his coat. "Yeah. Uh. Thanks. I think."
He stumbled toward the door, ignoring their soft laughter behind him. His head still throbbed, the magic aura still clinging to his senses.
Something was wrong.
Not with the women. Not even with the night.
But something had led him there.
As Overon made his way back to the inn he was greeted by Deserter and Diana who sat at the inn's breakfast table when the door creaked open.
Overon stumbled in.
Covered in lipstick kisses.
Neck. Cheek. Forehead. A faint heart stamped on his collarbone.
Diana stared.
Deserter blinked slowly. "You look like you lost a duel to a makeup kit."
Overon collapsed into a chair. "I don’t wanna talk about it."
Diana poked his cheek. "Why does your shirt smell like flowers and shame?"
Deserter crossed his arms. "You disappear for one night and return like a rejected bard."
"I said I don’t wanna talk about it!" Overon groaned, slamming his forehead onto the table.
But even as they teased him, something deep in Overon's mind turned. A foggy sensation. A pull that hadn’t left him since he followed that strange sensation in the air. Something—or someone—had drawn him in.
And not just into trouble.
Into something bigger.
He just didn’t know what yet.
