In the ancient past, Central Continent.
Sett knew he was playing with fire. Sweet, wine-scented, dangerously soft fire.
But did that ever stop him?
Not a chance.
The small desert camp was quiet that night, the faint rustling of dry brush and the occasional snort of grazing camels the only sounds beyond the gentle flapping of tents in the warm breeze.
The sand was still warm beneath his bare feet, and the moonlight cast long shadows as he slipped out of his tent, the thin fabric of his boxers clinging lightly to his skin.
He glanced toward his grandmother's tent, its silhouette flickering faintly from the glow within, and made his way across the short distance.
Her tent flap wasn't tied shut.
Sett pushed it aside and stepped in.
The air smelled of spiced wine and faint traces of lotus oil, the scent rich and heady in the cramped space. The tent was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of an oil lamp perched on a low wooden crate.
