A Kingdom of Knees and Candlelight
Another followed.
Then another.
Not together. Not in unison
Each surrender unfolding at its own fragile pace.
Soon, soft sounds filled the chamber.
The rustle of cloth.
The whisper of silk sliding over skin.
The faint hitch of nervous breaths that tried—and failed—to remain steady.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Gowns slipped from shoulders.
From arms.
From waists.
One by one.
Not rushed.
Not theatrical.
Natural.
A practiced ritual stripped of ceremony, reduced to its rawest truth.
The silver-haired girl lifted her gown carefully over her head, as though afraid of tearing something precious. Pale skin caught the candlelight like moonlight on still water, luminous and almost unreal. Her bare shoulders tensed, her posture straightening by instinct, training holding her upright even as vulnerability crept into her eyes.
The crimson-haired woman let her dress fall in one smooth motion.
No hesitation.
No flinch.
