In one of the sacred chambers of the Crimson Temple—where scented incense forever kissed the air and candle light pushed away the darkness—Sapphira sat within the embrace of a warm, mineral-rich pool.
The water shimmered with faint ripples as her back reclined against the golden edge of the square bath, its filigree engraved with ancient sigils of fertility and grace.
Soft pink petals floated lazily across the azure surface, releasing an intoxicating fragrance that hung like a silken fog above the water. The haze wasn't thick enough to veil her entirely—rather, it lent the moment a dreamlike aura.
Her skin, pale as moon-kissed porcelain, glowed against the water's blue hue, and her hair—darker than obsidian, darker than any in the realm—drifted around her like ink spilling into crystal.
