Beneath a sky stained blazing-fierce in Ishtar’s name, a priestess wagers her soul against a trader’s touch. A geisha’s whispered illusions cleave a samurai’s heart, leaving echoes of rusted honour. And in the coal-choked grip of Victorian London, an orphan’s stolen glance ignites forbidden embers within a master’s haunted grief.
These are hymns to love’s jagged edges, wounds etched in the old tongues of honour and ruin. Oaths betrayed, alliances fractured, and souls reshaped in the crucible of silent rebellion. From sun-baked ziggurats to manors choked in gaslight, a question bleeds through: what lingers when devotion turns teeth-sharp defiance?
No balm. No easy cartography of the heart. Just the visceral whispers of choices seared onto flesh. And the livid glint of hearts that won’t unclench, won’t beg for absolution.
Embrace the ache. This is romance devoured alive.
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