Together, we began to search the room.
The pleasure chamber was a cathedral of corruption. Velvet curtains smothered the walls, but their folds were darkened with handprints, the stains glossy in the torchlight like old blood that refused to dry. Low tables ringed the edges of the room, heavy with chalices half-filled with black liquor—some rimmed with red, teeth marks pressed into the metal. Platters of fruit lay in ruin, their sweetness rotted into stench, crawling with flies that glimmered like jewels in the dim.
At the center stood the bed—enormous, obscene, draped in silks that glistened with stains too deep to ever wash away. Shackles were bolted to each carved post, their chains long enough to promise mercy but never freedom. Above it, from the ceiling’s iron beams, hung ropes of velvet and leather—some torn, others stiff with dried sweat and use.
Mirrors lined the walls, catching light and motion in endless, shifting reflection. But the faces that looked back were not ours. Their mouths curled when ours did not. Their eyes glowed red, as though the glass itself remembered the cruelties it had seen and hungered to witness them again.
Incense still burned in cracked braziers, its smoke thick and cloying, threaded with something bitter—sweet perfume turned rancid, the undernote of charred flesh. On carved shelves along the far wall sat jars of oils and balms, their contents once fragrant but now soured into musk and iron. The glass was smeared, the labels long dissolved, the colors inside as dark as blood and pitch.
Beside them lay whips coiled with ritual precision, their tips gleaming with tiny barbs meant to draw both pain and pleasure. And scattered between them, masks carved with grotesque smiles waited in silence—faces without warmth, without eyes, waiting to be worn again.
The air felt alive.
Heavy. Watching.
Even the torches seemed to tremble, as if the room itself knew we didn’t belong here—and feared what we might find.
From the vaulted ceiling hung cages too small for standing, their iron bars streaked with rust and filth. Their doors gaped open, as though the bodies that once filled them had spilled out and vanished into the silks of the bed below. Along the far wall, half-concealed behind drapes heavy with dust and perfume, stood cabinets fitted with narrow drawers. Some were left ajar, revealing glimpses of what they’d kept—folds of black silk, coils of leather, blades gleaming like teeth in the low light.
It wasn’t merely a chamber of torment. It was indulgence turned to desecration—pleasure sharpened into a weapon—every surface smelled of him. Every object reeked of the same hunger that had built this room.
This was no bedroom.
It was a temple.
A shrine to Severen’s corruption.
I tore through it like a storm. Chests overturned. Drawers ripped open. Cabinets flung wide, their contents spilling out—silks, bone charms, silver hooks, and chains. The relics of his madness clattered and rolled across the floor. Dust and incense thickened the air, clinging to my lungs until I could barely breathe.
Still, the flower wasn’t here.
And the longer I searched, the louder the whispers became.
They slithered through the cracks in my skull, soft, coaxing, almost gentle at first—then pressing closer, threading through the sound of my heartbeat.
“Open us. Ask. We will tell you.”
I froze.
The tome burned hot in my grip, pulsing. Its leather throbbed beneath my fingers, whispering against my skin.
“Open us, Lazarus. Ask, and we will give you what you seek.”
My knuckles whitened around the tome. My breath came in short, ragged bursts.
“No.”
The word tore out of me like a wound.
“You are running out of time,”the shadows hissed, their voices coiling through my mind like a thousand serpents.“Severen may return at any moment. Every breath you waste is a step closer to your unmaking. Open us. Ask. We will show you.”
I shook my head violently, the word grinding between my teeth. “No.”
“Open us.”
Their voices pressed harder, pounding against my bones, filling my skull until it felt like they were inside the rhythm of my heart. My chest heaved. My hands shook. My will splintered under the weight of their hunger.
Finally, with a guttural curse, I gave in. I fell to my knees, clutching the tome as though it were a living thing, its pulse thrumming against my palms.
