The living room of the Twilight Sanctum was a study in controlled darkness and luxury.
Obsidian floors polished to a mirror shine. Walls that shifted between solid matter and transparent crystal depending on Dusk's mood, currently opaque and lined with shelves holding ancient artifacts and spell-bound texts.
A massive wall-mounted vision crystal dominated one side of the room, its surface shimmering with broadcast images.
Dusk sprawled across a plush black sofa, one arm draped over the back, the other resting across his bare chest. He'd shed his formal robes hours ago, now wearing only loose dark pants that sat low on his hips.
His wings were half-unfurled, draped over the sofa's edges like a cloak of shadows. One leg bent, foot planted on the sofa, the other stretched out long—the picture of deadly, casual power.
A deity at rest, but no less dangerous for it.
