Zarifal still wore the night like a cloak. Lantern posts creaked in the wind, owls called from the rafters, and the sea murmured against the shore. A pale sliver of moon slipped between clouds, tracing silver along the tiled roofs. Somewhere in the alleys, windcats hunted, their paws whisper-soft on stone. The city dreamed.

Except for Jorakhan.

He’d never been good at sleep. Nights were for living, not for resting. The silence between the hours always seemed to call his name, promising indulgence, warmth, and forgetfulness. He answered, every time.

Dawn found him in a top-storey apartment in the polished quarters of Zarifal, in the arms of a woman with obsidian eyes and hair bleached to the hue of aged honey. Her tanned skin melted into his as her fingers dug into his thick black hair. Her own head tipping back, she let his lips graze her jawline, neck and shoulders, his rhythmic movement pulling soft moans of her. Jora leaned on one elbow, the other hand travelled along her side, gripping her thigh as he moved, the thin drapes slipping from his back lower and lower.

Outside, over the shore, the waves crashed against the breakwater in a slow, rhythm, like another heartbeat joining theirs. Somewhere a distant call of a bird marked the hour before dawn. In Zarifal, that was the hour of liars and lovers.

She gasped. He groaned. Then he collapsed beside her on the soft bedding, his breathing heavy, but his smile satisfied. He watched as she climbed out of bed, his eyes running over her soft curves. Her lips curved into a teasing smile as she prepared tea.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked, swaying her hips.

Jora propped himself on an elbow, that roguish grin of his already in place.

“Would I be here if I didn’t?” His voice was smooth as silk, almost like the thick waves of hair tumbling over his shoulders.

He meant it, too. Jora never said what he didn’t feel in the moment; that was his curse. He could lie to guards, smugglers, even nobles, but never to a woman whose skin was still warm from his touch.

She wrapped a silken robe around herself.

“It’s almost dawn. You should go,” she said softly when she realised the town would awaken shortly.

“You’ll be the death of me one day, Saliri,” he teased. “Let me stay a little.”

Saliri shrugged, looking out at the dark, deserted street below. She handed him a cup of tea, but poured another blend for herself: lightly perfumed, sharp with mint and bitterroot. Women’s tea. He watched her drink it, the way she always did after.

She settled back in her large bed next to Jora with soft smile. Her lips found his while he pulled the blanket over himself.

“You smell nice,” she purred in that sultry voice that undid him every time.

Jora pressed a kiss on her neck. “I smell like you,” he whispered back, his black eyes finding hers.

While they sipped their drinks in the quiet of her apartment, the first sounds of dawn filtered in from the streets. Peddles pulling carts, wares clattering, someone cursing. She chuckled.

“You know, you really should leave before my husband gets home. Or I will not be the death of you,” she teased, her fingers finding that sweet spot his enough on his thighs that sent shivers up his spine.

He felt heat pool in him, low enough to not be ignored, her touches igniting the flame once again.

“Gods, then stop playing with me, Saliri…” he moaned, taking a big gulp of his drink to ease the dryness in his throat. She laughed. He leaned closer.

Somewhere far below, a dog barked. Then a cart squeaked. The city was waking. He could almost feel the shift: the brief moment when night surrendered to day, and all secrets went back into hiding. Except this time, the secret was him.

A hard knock shattered the quiet.

She shouted for patience as she pulled her clothes on.

“Get out. Side window. Now,” she told him, urgent, rushing towards the door.