venusianmuse



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    Daenys was not sure how she ended up at the Tower of the Hand. She had been walking, and then climbing, and then she was in a corridor with finer tapestries and better torches, and a door that was ajar, spilling warm light into the hallway like a stream of Arbor gold.

    She should have turned around. She knew that. A bastard girl from a minor lord's household had no business in the Tower of the Hand at any hour, much less barefoot in the middle of the night with a rat in her robe and a man's seed drying on her belly.

    But the door was open.

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    28 Mar 2026