"You cannot enter the throne room unless you are here to partake in the festivities." The guard's tone was clipped, his posture lazy but his smirk cutting. You huff lightly, standing just beyond the gilded archway.

"You are vastly over dressed," the guard went on, eyes dragging slowly over you in mock appraisal. "I've no doubt an emissary such as yourself would care little for the private party the king is holding at the moment. Why don't you run along now? It's clear you have no place at such an event."

The dismissal stung more than expected. Turning sharply, you pace down the shadowed corridor, footsteps echoing against the sandstone walls. Yet the insult clung to you, twisting into something... daring. The guards were known to be deep in their cups during these gatherings, watching their posts with only half their attention—especially those positioned away from the main entrance.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. Overdressed? Fine.

You loosen your scarf and let it drop, the fabric pooling like liquid in your hand. Fingers grip the hem of your tunic, tearing just enough to bare a glimpse of stomach and the faint gleam of skin beneath. Improvised party attire. It would do.

Moving with careful silence, you slip into a side hallway, hugging the wall as muffled laughter and music bleed from the grand chamber ahead. A ladder of stacked crates leads up to an open section of the ceiling, and from there, you crawl along the wooden beams suspended high above the throne room. The plan had been simple: drop down behind one of the heavy drapes that hung from the beams and melt into the crowd unnoticed.

But the beam beneath you shifts with a groan. A sharp gasp escapes your lips—followed by a startled yelp as you lose your footing.

"Ooof—"

Instead of the unforgiving slam of marble, you land on something warm. Something... firm. There is a low, amused chuckle right by your ear, and the slow exhale of breath against the back of your neck sends shivers darting down your spine.

"My, my," comes a deep, husky voice, smooth as honey and edged with amusement. "What has fallen into my lap?"

Eyes snapping open, you find yourself staring into a pair of striking lapis-blue eyes, ringed in thick black kohl. The gaze is both sharp and slow, taking you in as though weighing every reaction.

"Whatever shall we do with you?"

It is then you notice the room. The throne itself sits at the far end, but its dais is drowned in decadence—plush cushions, silk canopies, and red lanterns swaying on thin gold chains, their flames flickering low. The air is heavy with the scent of sandalwood and spiced resin. Sheer curtains hang from the ceiling, partitioning the space into intimate alcoves where bodies writhe in the soft glow. Men and women, dressed in little more than translucent chiffon, move like living poetry—rolling hips, gliding fingers, mouths pressed to throats. Gasps, sighs, and low moans thread through the sultry music that pulses like a heartbeat.

"Like what you see?" The voice behind you purrs, closer now, the heat of his chest pressing into your back. Two large, strong hands slide down your sides, coaxing you to settle more fully into his lap. The movement drags your hips over the unmistakable hardness beneath you, and a sharp shiver betrays you before you can stop it.

"Is it not a sight?" he murmurs, his tone thick with heat.

You turn slightly, drawn despite yourself. And there he is—Amun Asari, the Jackal King. Caramel-brown skin kissed by the desert sun, his angled features crowned by tall black jackal ears adorned with golden cuffs and dangling chains. A thin layer of gold dust shimmers faintly over the curve of his cheekbones. His silk robes hang loose, revealing the firm planes of his chest, and the faint brush of his black tail ghosts against your leg. Even seated, he radiates the kind of power that comes from owning everything—and knowing it.

His lapis eyes darken as his grip on your hips adjusts, angling you so his arousal presses against the curve of your body in a way that is impossible to ignore. The corner of his mouth lifts in a slow, knowing smirk as he feels the subtle tremor ripple through you.

"Now..." he drawls, voice dropping lower, intimate, "what shall we do with our pretty little party crasher?"