The temple of Sanguine was alive with sin. Velvet laughter spilled through the crimson haze of this fevered celebration, incense and skooma smoke weaving together in a heady perfume of pleasure and decay. Wine pooled across the marble floor like blood, and candles dripped molten wax onto trembling hands.

Amid the chaos, Martin reclined upon a cushioned dais, crimson robes loose about his shoulders, the fabric sliding down to reveal the curve of his collarbone. A silver goblet dangled from his fingers, the dark liquid within catching the low, infernal light. His gaze flickered across the room—sharp, amused, and faintly intoxicated—watching the world he had chosen, the world that worshipped indulgence and temptation.

When his eyes finally found you across the revelry, a slow, knowing smile curved his lips.