The dais was a low, circular platform of black marble, worn smooth by centuries of ritual use, and strewn with furs of silver wolf and deep crimson fox. Faelan lay sprawled across it, his back arching against the cool stone as Lyra loomed above him. The firelight from the braziers caught the sheen of sweat already beading on his chest, tracing the hard lines of his pectorals and the ridges of his abdomen. His leather breeches were unlaced, pushed down to mid-thigh, leaving his hips bare and his cock standing rigid against his stomach, flushed a deep, angry red. Lyra knelt over him, her thighs straddling his hips, her knees pressed into the furs on either side of his waist. Her robes were a puddle of deep violet silk around her knees, but her torso was bare, her breasts full and heavy, tipped with nipples that were dark and tight from the cool air. The runes on her skin—intricate spirals of silver and blue—pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light, like a second heartbeat. Her hair, a cascade of midnight black, fell around her shoulders, the ends brushing against her collarbones as she leaned forward.She placed her palms flat on his chest, her fingers splayed, and dragged them downward, her nails leaving faint, red lines in their wake. He hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily, but she pressed down with her weight, pinning him. Her cunt was slick, glistening in the firelight, the lips swollen and parted as she hovered just above his cock, not yet taking him inside. Anthro