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Chapter 9: Dancing Delights

The sound reached them before the light did.

It came in waves, a deep, pulsing rhythm that wounds through the winding stone corridors of the Gilded Feather like the call of something ancient and untamed. It wasn't music in the polished, courtly sense, but something far more primal. It commanded movement. It demanded blood to stir.

As Axton followed Lyra through the garden's narrow paths, the quiet serenity of spa waters and floral perfumes fell behind, replaced by the hot and heavy scent of wine, roasted spice, and the unmistakable musk of gryphon and human, all pressed into the same charged space.

The path opened.

What greeted them was not just a dance floor, but a storm made flesh and feather.

The open-air courtyard stretched wide, stone underfoot worn smooth by a thousand wild nights. Lanterns swayed overhead, strung between carved marble columns and bronze-wrought archways. Their firelight washed everything in hues of gold and crimson, casting dancers in silhouettes of flickering shadow. Silk banners hung high above, moving not with elegance but with the push and pull of wingbeats and wild air.

Bodies moved in a torrent of motion. Gryphons twisted with predatory grace, wings flaring, paws stamping in heavy rhythm, beaks lifted in piercing trills. Their feathers flashed as they spun and dipped, movements half-dance, half-challenge. Among them, humans wove like ribbons through the fury with laughter and merriment, some carried aloft for a moment in a gryphon's grasp before being dropped back into the whirlwind of steps and pulse.

The band stood atop a raised marble dais at the far end, a mixed ensemble of gryphon and human musicians. The lead vocalist, a sleek, black-feathered gryphoness with silver accents across her chest and brow, sang with the sharp cadence of Common shaped into something rhythmic, carnal. Her voice rose like a war cry wrapped in song, commanding attention and response. A human flutist danced with her, their notes rising high and bright above the steady roar of layered drums.

Laughter echoed from every corner. A tray of drinks was spilled but the server who lost them only laughed harder, spun on his paw, and rejoined the rhythm with a cheer. One gryphon leapt too high, collided mid-air with a leaping wolven, and both tumbled in a knot of limbs and feathers before rising again, grinning like fools.

No one stood still.

It was a tide of light and body, of voice and pulse, Axton found himself standing at the edge, blinking as if waking from a dream.

Beside him, Lyra turned, her feathers catching the lanternlight like polished bronze. Her grin was sharp and unrepentant. She didn't ask. She grabbed his sleeve with her beak and pulled.

“A dance floor this full," she said, voice barely audible above the chaos, “demands sacrifices."

Axton barely had time to stammer before she dragged him forward, into the madness, into the light, into the heart of something he both feared and needed.

“This is a mistake." Axton said, almost managing to dig his heels into the mosaic floor as Lyra pulled him further into the current of dancing bodies. The air was thick with motion, perfumed with spice and sweat, wings brushing too close, laughter crashing like ocean waves over the rhythm of drums.

Lyra didn't slow. She half-glided, half-walked, tail flicking with anticipation. Her feathers shimmered like flames in the lanternlight as she turned her head to look at him over one shoulder, eyes alight.

“Don't worry!" she chirped. “Treat it like casting. You'll love it! It's all rhythm, all flow, just like spellwork, only with hips." She twirled once mid-step, light on her paws, wings flaring briefly as if to demonstrate. “Let the music move through you. Out there, it's not about perfection. It's about freedom. You won't help but smile."

“But I've never—" His voice caught in his throat as his gaze swept the dance floor again. Dozens of people, dozens of eyes, spinning, whirling, watching. His stomach turned. “What if I'm bad at it?"

That made her stop.

Lyra turned to him sharply, ears flicking back, her expression a mix of theatrical horror and mock betrayal. “You've never danced?" she gasped, placing a paw to her chest like he'd confessed to treason. “Never?"

He shook his head mutely.

“Well, that changes tonight," she said with absolute certainty, puffing her chest as if she were preparing to go to war on his behalf. “Once you try it, you'll love it. Always try new things, my father used to say. Life's too short to stay still."

Axton blinked, unsure whether he was being conscripted into joy or dragged toward doom.

It was all happening too fast. The crowd surged around them, humans laughing as gryphons spun them by the waist, a wolven couple howling with delight as they attempted a stumbling twirl. He tried to pull back, only for his movement to collide with another. Roran and Seraphina slipped into step just behind them, the ceullus mare pressing close to the wolven's arm, grinning with warmth and barely concealed intention. Roran, of course, seemed oblivious and kept smiling like the world made perfect sense and all of it was about dancing.

Lyra leaned in close, her voice a velvet coo. “We'll make Pyretalon jealous." she teased, nipping lightly at his hair.

That did not help. He turned quickly, searching for the tall, dignified silhouette, but a wing blocked his view, her feathers brushing over his eyes like a curtain.

“Oh, he's off preparing something special," she whispered, voice coy. “Checking on it. Which means I get to be your date tonight."

“D-date?" The word stammered out of him.

“Sure," she said with a shrug and a smirk, slipping her wing around him in a graceful arc. “Why not? You're cute. And you're not the first humanoid I've trained."

He blinked, stunned, as her paw gestured to the side.

Roran appeared again, this time spinning Seraphina in an awkward but enthusiastic motion that nearly bowled over a server. The mare only laughed, swatting his arm affectionately as he tried to regain his balance.

“He might be a swordsman now," Lyra said, voice light with mirth, “but that wolven was a disaster on the dance floor. Two left paws. Clumsy as a baby hippogryph."

It was happening. Axton swallowed hard. This was going to happen.

The familiar rise of anxiety coiled in his chest, that tightness that warned of too many people, too many eyes. But Lyra's wing remained firmly around him, anchoring him. Her confidence was like firelight, warm, impossible to look away from. She didn't mock his nerves. She didn't try to explain them away. She simply stood beside him with a grin and a heartbeat that said you are safe.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with drink. But he took a breath and let her pull him into the music.

“Here," Lyra said, her voice calm amidst the swirl of motion and noise. She padded past a spinning pair, a gryphon and a human locked forehead to forehead in a slow, swaying rhythm, before turning and facing Axton, tail flicking behind her. “Place your hands on my neck, here and here."

He obeyed, palms resting just below her feathered ruff, where warmth pulsed beneath his fingertips. Her feathers shifted slightly at the contact, not unpleasantly, and he found himself face to face with the curve of her beak, close enough to feel the subtle flutter of her breath.

“Now focus on me," she said. “Don't look at anyone else."

“But what if they—" The doubt came unbidden, rising like a mist in the back of his throat.

Lyra cut it off before it could take shape. “Everyone starts somewhere, darling. Now it's your turn."

She stepped back, guiding him with her, paws gliding over the stone in a slow retreat. “Good. Now forward, that's it. Watch your step."

He stumbled slightly, but her wing was there, brushing his side with light reassurance.

“Now pull back." she said, and as he obeyed, she guided his hand gently along the underside of her neck. The softness of her feathers surprised him, and the way her eyes lit up at the touch, as though she genuinely felt something, chased the unease from his chest.

For a single breath, he paused there, at the tip of her beak. Then she stepped forward again, returning them to their original place.

“There we go," she said, her wings folding lightly around him as her haunches swayed with the rhythm. “See? Not so frightening, is it?"

“It… it really is like casting," Axton murmured, a grin blooming without his permission. “Once you know where to place your hands, it just sort of… flows."

“Exactly." She beamed, her feathers puffing with delight. “Now, again."

They repeated the motion, his feet still uncertain, but the second stumble didn't bring a blush to his cheeks. Lyra's encouragement never left her body, it was in the way she moved around him, in how her paws glided like a river around a stone, in how her wing would flick lightly against his hip when he faltered. Her joy was infectious, and for once, the knot of anxiety in his stomach had no breath left to rise.

“Don't worry about where your hands go," she told him, circling him with all the poise of a huntress in a ballroom. “Gryphons just like having someone to dance with. The fact that you're trying is more than enough."

She brushed against him again, feathers against robes, fur against fingers. His hands found her neck once more, steady this time.

The music shifted. The dwarves had taken the stage now, broad-chested, their braided beards swinging as they hammered out something fast and loud with clashing percussion and echoing chords. The pulse of it fed the floor with fire.

“You're a natural," Lyra cooed, voice just audible over the riot of music. “Give it a few more dances, and you'll be showing off like Pyre."

He laughed, and it felt good, not nervous, not forced, but honest enjoyment. They moved together through a few more steps, through turns and simple pivots, his movements growing bolder with each passing pass. Her ease became his.

Then Roran's voice called out across the crowd. “Having fun?"

They turned to find the wolven and Seraphina swaying nearby. The Ceullus mare held his hand with the confidence of a commander leading a soldier, her mane dancing with her steps.

“Not as much as you two." Axton said, breathless from the movement and the wine.

Seraphina laughed, a low knicker of pleasure. “Who knew your paladin had rhythm?"

“I practiced," Roran said with a straight face. “With Theron and Lyra. Said it'd help with combat. Footwork. Flexibility—"

Seraphina silenced him with a sudden kiss. His ears twitched, eyes wide.

“You kissed me." he said, dumbfounded.

“I did," she purred. “Any complaints?"

Roran turned, tail wagging like a banner in a storm. “None at all, my lady. Let me return the favor."

He leaned in, and the two disappeared back into the dance, the world fading around them.

Axton blinked. “Did… did they always have something going on?"

Lyra chuckled, brushing her feathers over his shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe the drinks are stronger than they let on."

As they moved again, Axton tried, and failed, not to replay every past interaction between the two in his mind, dissecting it like a scribe combing through a cipher. A few more steps passed in distracted rhythm before Lyra nudged him with her side and slipped closer once again.

“You're rather oblivious for a mage." she said.

“Am I?" he laughed softly.

“Very," she said, her tone warm and amused. “Did you think about what I said earlier? About having the courage to make what you want into something real?"

He blinked, uncertain. “Lyra, I don't—"

“It's alright," she said gently, and pressed her forehead to his. “You don't have to say it yet."

The sway of their bodies slowed as the music dipped, the moment stretching long. Her feathers brushed his cheek. Her voice dropped just enough for only him to hear.

“But you will." Lyra's forehead lingered against his, soft and warm, her feathers catching the faintest tremble in his breath. They swayed as one, her wings lightly curled near his hips, his hands still resting against her neck. The music faded beneath the thrum of his pulse. “You don't have to say it yet." she'd whispered.

And yet… there was something in her eyes when she pulled back, something half-lidded, playful, but shining with an understanding he hadn't quite caught up to. It wasn't teasing. Not really. She wasn't trying to push. But the message was there, veiled behind a twitch of her tail and the satisfied gleam in her gaze. She knew. Maybe she always knew.

He was still chewing on that thought, lips parting to ask something, anything, when the beat dropped out from the music and the lights in the hall dimmed with sudden ceremony. A hush rippled through the dancers, and a strong, amplified voice broke the quiet.

“Attention, all you feathered friends and fancy freaks! We like to thank you all for your continued patronage, as such we have a special treat for you all tonight." the announcer boomed. “It's Hoof Night!"

The floor nearly shook with the roar of the crowd.

Axton blinked. “Hoof night?"

Beside him, Lyra gasped, her entire body going rigid, then suddenly bursting into a flurry of fluff and glee. “Hoof Night!" she squealed, nearly lifting off the ground in her excitement. “The hoofed strippers, of course!"

“Wait—what?! I thought you said this place wasn't a brothel!" Axton yelped; his voice nearly drowned by the explosion of cheers that followed. The lights shifted, lavender beams sweeping across the ceiling, sparkling over the crowd like a storm of flower petals and stardust.

“Not a brothel," Lyra said sweetly, already dragging him through the crowd, “we're just admiring the merchandise!"

“I don't think that's better!"

But she wasn't listening. Or she was, and simply didn't care.

The music shifted into something thick and pulsing, heavy with bass. Lanterns dimmed further, leaving only the sweeping stage ahead glowing in hues of violet and amber. The dance floor surged forward like a rising tide, patrons shoving and pressing, wings jostling, tails lashing in anticipation.

Axton lost track of Roran somewhere in the crush, the last glimpse of black fur vanishing between two gryphons twirling beers over their heads.

By the time he and Lyra reached the edge of the stage, perfectly positioned before it. The view was good for whatever was going to come, too good. They had front-row seats, and it hit Axton like a cold slap on the face just what that meant.

The crowd was already frothing with anticipation. Hands slapped tables. Feathers ruffled. A centaur near the stage flexed, sending a wave of excited shrieks from a cluster of humans nearby. The air reeked of cinnamon alcohol, warm bodies, and the unmistakable spice of musk.

Axton's heart hammered against his ribs.

He had never done anything like this.

It felt wrong.

It felt… dirty.

It felt like something he should not be enjoying.

A soft, eager talon pressed into his shoulder.

He turned to find Lyra beside him, her eyes half-lidded, wings flared ever so slightly. The heat in her gaze had shifted, no longer the guiding warmth of a dance partner, but the glint of someone who'd done this before. Many times.

“Doesn't Pyretalon worry?" he asked, trying to anchor himself with a question.

“Oh please," she chirped, grinning. “He drools over them too. Loves the ones with the big muddy hooves and an even bigger tool." She giggled wickedly at her own joke.

Axton made a noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp.

“Oh, Axton," she purred, curling a wing around his waist. “Just relax. Enjoy the show."

He barely had time to respond before the lights flared.

The crowd fell silent. And then a single bright light snapped to center stage.

“Welcome tonight, you freaky feathered fiends!" The voice was rich, rolling, almost too enthusiastic. A tall figure stepped into view, auburn-furred, horns gleaming under the lavender lights. A minotaur with a massive grin that split his face as he spread his arms wide. “I'm Theron, and tonight, you're getting the finest hoofed entertainment in all of Lumara!"

The room erupted all while Axton's felt his soul leave his body.

The mage couldn't help but blush, seeing as the minotaur wore only a speedo around his maleness, which of course did nothing to hide his shape or size, and a triangle hat with a luxurious red feather.

“Always a joy to see a delightful crowd tonight for our hoofed heffers and stallions!" He announced with a hollered voice to him, multiple faces drooling at the minotaur's salutary stare and movement of his hips.

“Don't worry you'll get your fill, for tonight we have all of the meat you can stand, and more." He ran a hand along his thigh, a gentle path to his bulge. “Who knows, maybe if you're good, a healthy handful will be getting a private show." He added that with a tilt of his hat and a wink, “Though I warn you ambitious misters and mistresses out there, the bedroom is my battlefield, expect to be left panting, drooling, clearly exhausted, but satisfied beyond your wildest dreams!"

The lights dimmed a second time, not with elegance, but with a slow, pulsing descent into shadow. The din of the crowd shifted, not quieter, but hungrier, a low hum of anticipation that vibrated through the floor.

Violet beams cut through the haze overhead, casting the stage in seductive light. Axton felt his chest tighten, unsure what to expect, only that he was about to be very out of his depth.

The first dancer stepped into the light.

A Ceullus mare, tall and graceful, her body sculpted like poetry in motion. Her chestnut coat gleamed beneath the overhead lanterns, every muscle under her skin flowing as she moved. Her mane was braided tight along her neckline, threaded with copper rings that clinked softly as she walked.

She wore almost nothing.

Thin golden bands looped across her shoulders and under her breasts, accentuating rather than concealing. A gauzy skirt fell from her hips, sheer and split high on either side to reveal the ripple of her thighs, the flex and sway of her every step.

She didn't just walk — she stalked, confident and knowing, with eyes that dared the crowd to look and promised they'd never look away.

And then came the stallions.

Two Ceullus males followed her — tall, powerful, impossibly fluid. Their chests were bare save for decorative leather harnesses pulled taut across their shoulders. Below the waist, the coverings were a formality — thin, draped cloth tied at the hips, designed not to hide but to draw the eye. Their sheaths were barely obscured by the fluttering fabric, prominent against their muscular, athletic frames. Every movement was a suggestion, every sway a silent beckoning.

They moved like dancers, like warriors, like gods. Their hooves struck the stage in rhythm with the rising beat. They spun together, alternating turns as the mare rejoined them, the trio locking into formation, bodies shifting like wind-cut waves. One of the males rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate motion, his tail flicking once across his flank. The crowd erupted in shrieks and stomps of approval.

Axton stood frozen. His heartbeat too hard. Too loud. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, and he couldn't even pretend to look away. He should look away.

But he didn't.

Another stallion emerged — darker than the others, his coat a deep, smoky grey, his mane long and unbound, trailing over one shoulder like liquid ink. A centaur. Taller than the others, even broader. The stage shuddered beneath his hooves as he entered.

He wore a wide chest harness of braided bronze, polished and decorative, fitted snugly over his muscular upper body. Below, a ceremonial cloth was tied across his underbelly — intricately knotted but resting just beneath the swell of his sheath. The sway of it, the power in it, made Axton's breath catch in his throat.

The centaur danced with precision; every motion deceptively restrained. A single buck of his hips sent another cheer crashing through the crowd. His tail swayed in time with the drums, and when he turned — slowly, deliberately — he flexed one arm with a grin that was all teeth and promise.

Axton felt a heat flare in his ears, then sank like firewater into his chest. His legs twitched. His throat tightened. He had never seen anything like this.

He wasn't sure if he should be ashamed or stunned or something else entirely — but the moment one of the stallions turned toward their section of the crowd and winked, Axton knew he was in trouble.

Beside him, Lyra leaned in with a devilish purr.

“You're staring."

“I am not." he whispered.

“You are." Her wing curled around him like a net drawing closed. “And it's adorable."

He swallowed, eyes flicking back to the stage against his better judgment.

The mare had mounted one of the stallions now — not with vulgarity, but with the practiced flair of a seasoned performer, straddling his broad back as he spun beneath her, both moving in perfect synchronicity. The sheer strength in it — the balance, the control — made something inside him twist.

He imagined what it would feel like to be that close. To be caught in arms like that. To feel those hips rock forward against his own, pinning him down while those breathless, practiced movements continued until—

“I think," Lyra whispered into his ear, “you're drooling again."

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Among the lineup of hoofed beings, one caught the eye like a flame in still water. He was different. He strode from the wings like a storm given form.

A Carabara — it was unmistakably — his blood born of Azemeth's frost-laced highlands, where the wind carved muscle and the snow honed grace. And gods, what a specimen he was.

Tall. Towering. A mountain in motion.

His coat was a rich almond-dark, velvet-smooth beneath the lantern light, drawing gold from every curve of muscle stretched over his frame. He stood easily a full eight feet, the anthropomorphic caribou man, with a kind of stature that didn't just demand attention, it took it, ensnared and never let go. Long limbs moved with deliberate control, every step of his broad, gleaming hooves striking the stage with rhythm that seemed older than the drums.

His shoulders were broad, his chest full, built not for vanity, but for power. Arms corded with strength, veins visible beneath short, shorn fur. A black leather harness wrapped over his torso, ornamental yet snug, silver rings glinting across each crossing strap. From his hips hung a silken loin wrap of deep navy and wine-red, layered and swaying — designed not to conceal, but to frame. The swell of his sheath rested prominently behind the fabric, heavy, veiled in suggestion rather than mystery.

His head was noble — elongated, graceful, and crowned by a majestic rack of antlers that curved like the sweep of carved ivory. Bells and etched bands adorned them, each step sending a ghostly ring through space. His eyes were dark and sharp, rimmed in lighter fur, with a gaze that didn't flick or dart — it held.

He didn't dance like the others. He commanded. Every shift of weight, every lean forward or backward was measured, intentionally rolling his hips with the slow, unrelenting precision of a hunter that had already caught its prey.

And that prey… was Axton. The moment their eyes met; the crowd blurred. Noise fell away. The buck's lips curled in a smirk that could have stripped paint from the walls — all confidence, all claim. With a slow lift of one arm, he pointed.

Directly. At. Him. The mage froze.

Heat crashed through his cheeks, down his neck, into his chest, his stomach — gods, he was burning. The crowd whooped around him. People were already cheering. Envious. Hungry. He laughed once — high and panicked — and took an unconscious step back.

Only to feel Lyra's wing catch him.

“Axton!" she chirped, delighted, scandalized, proud. “You lucky bastard."

“Lyra, I—I can't—"

But he made the mistake of looking again. The Carabara hadn't moved. He didn't need to.

His gaze alone pulled Axton forward like a rope tugging at his spine. The air felt thick. The light is too warm. His legs moved before his brain could stop them. And then—he was standing there. Below that towering shadow. Staring at a chest like carved stone and a face that smiled as if it already knew every sound he'd make.

“Hey there," came the low, velvet voice. “Heard you've been a good little doe."

The heat that erupted across Axton's face might as well have ignited his clothes. But he didn't correct him. In truth, the name sent a shiver down his spine — not of shame, but of something darker, deeper. Something that made his knees want to buckle.

His eyes met the buck's again, and in that gaze, he saw nothing but command, and desire, wrapped in amusement, lust cloaked in confidence. One thick-fingered hand slipped firmly around Axton's waist, hoof-tipped digits pressing close with unashamed strength. It wasn't painful — it was possessive. A claiming.

The crowd howled.

Axton didn't hear them.

He only felt the strength guiding his body, the warmth of breath near his neck, the heat rolling off the dancer in waves. The stage beneath his boots might as well have vanished. His chest rose and fell with fast, shallow breaths, each one steeped in the buck's scent — wild herbs, cedarwood, something crisp and sweet like snow and fire.

Moved and maneuvered, spun and dipped. Every motion deliberate, every touch designed not to flatter but to unmake.

“How do you know me?" he managed to ask, barely above a whisper. The buck turned him again, effortlessly pulling him close, their bodies pressing tight.

The shape of him — his sheer presence — made Axton dizzy. Beneath that silk, the buck's anatomy was unmistakable. Bigger than any human. Bigger, he suspected, than most Ceullus. His brain barely had room to process it before another stroke of his palm brought him back into the now.

“Friend of yours clued me in," the buck murmured, his voice low and heavy with approval. “Said you were shy. Sweet. A little slow to admit what you want… but once you do?" He chuckled a deep, chesty knicker that sent a thrill through Axton's stomach as his fingers lifted, curling under Axton's chin to tilt his face up. “You'd melt."

The crowd was alive, but distant now, their cheers fading behind the rush of blood in Axton's ears. Their lips touched.

And then it wasn't just a kiss. It was a consuming. The Carabara's mouth moved with expert slowness — deep and assured — tilting Axton's head to guide the rhythm, never asking, simply taking. His tongue teased and tasted, making the mage's knees go weak, his thoughts scatter like dry leaves in the wind.

A groan escaped him, helpless, involuntary, as one strong hand traced lower, gripping him with primal appreciation. The contact wasn't obscene, but it was undeniable. It told him everything about what this buck could do to him. In that moment, time stretched beyond its boundaries. He didn't care that the crowd could see. He didn't care about anything.

The kiss left him breathless.

And when it broke, the silence inside him roared louder than the crowd's cheers. He swayed where he stood, dazed, lips tingling, mind spinning like a storm-tossed compass.

“There he is," the buck said, voice like velvet over stone. “The little doe who needs a buck."

He leaned in again, letting his lips brush Axton's ear. The contact alone made the mage shiver, his hands clutching at the Carabara's side as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.

“After the show," the buck whispered, dragging his voice low and warm, “come to my room." A tongue flicked behind the words, teasing, promising. “I'll ruin you for anyone else."

Axton's breath caught in his chest. His eyes fluttered shut. His heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way free. He didn't answer. He couldn't. But gods help him — he wanted to.

The crowd roared its approval as the centaur stripper spun his hips with practiced flourish, tossing sweat-slick mane and confidence in equal measure. Somewhere behind him, a wolf whistle pierced the noise, followed by the unmistakable sound of a hand-meting cloth-clad rear.

Axton stumbled backward onto the stage stairs, his cheeks a violent crimson, lips still tingling from the bold kiss planted moments earlier by the Carabara buck. A firm slap to his backside had sent the young wizard reeling, both in body and mind, and now here he was, swaying slightly, blinking dumbly, heart racing.

A wing wrapped around him like a blanket of mischief. “Looks like someone made an impression," Lyra chirped, green eyes glittering with amusement. “Lucky buck. Shame he beat me to it."

“I—he said I should... come by his room later," Axton stammered. The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth, as though he were describing someone else's adventure. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, lips half-laughing, half-pleading for clarity.

Lyra's feathers fluffed, her crown plumes rising like amused eyebrows. “Ooooh," she crooned, voice dripping with scandalous delight. “So, what are you going to do, sweet doe? Invite the stud in for a tumble?"

“I don't know..." Axton's gaze slid toward the edge of the crowd, where the Carabara lingered just long enough for a suggestive flick of his snowy tail before disappearing into the corridor. His heart did something strange, tight and fluttering, like a spell trying to fizzle and fire at once.

“It's not really... me, is it?" he murmured. But even as he said it, he shifted into place, mind betraying him with vivid, carnal images.

Lyra tilted her head, following his gaze. Her talon gestured lazily toward the fading figure. “If that sway in your step is anything to go by, you're warming up to the idea."

“Lyra!" Axton hissed, voice high and scandalized. His cheeks were aflame now.

She smirked, nudging his side with her wing. “You've got excellent taste in men, darling. Can't fault you there. And trust me, I've seen that wandering eye of yours. Especially when a certain tiger-striped gryphon struts through a room."

He looked away sharply, eyes refusing to meet hers. Did she know? Could she tell? “Well... it doesn't matter," he muttered, voice smaller. “He only flirted because someone paid him. Probably just part of the performance."

“Oh no," Lyra groaned, rolling her eyes as a minotaur couple strolled past, fingers interlaced. “Someone wants to give you a good time, and your first instinct is to spiral into a guilt-ridden morality tale?"

Axton looked sheepish. He was good at that. “I just... I don't want my first time to be with someone who was paid to talk to me. If it's not real, it's just—" He hesitated, voice softening. “—meaningless."

For a long beat, Lyra said nothing. Then she padded around him slowly, the way a curious lioness circles a hare caught between bolts. “Well, now," she said at last, “that's not the answer I expected… especially since I'm the one who paid him."

The young man blinked. Then his mouth moved, betrayed by his brain's slow descent into stunned horror. “You what?"

“I paid him to flirt with you," she said, nonchalant. “You needed a spark. A reminder you're desirable." She grinned, eyes glinting. “Besides, he's a friend of ours. A reliable buck. He usually asks for a fee, but this time?" She gave a low chuckle. “He took one look and said: 'That's a fine little doe. Let's see how deep I can make him moan.'"

Axton made a sound between a cough and a squeak. His heart tried to escape his ribs. “He—he said that?"

“Among other things," Lyra said brightly. “They involved the wall, the bedpost, and a rather inventive use of antlers."

“Stars above..."

“So?" Lyra leaned in, feathers brushing his cheek. “What's it going to be? Are you going to chase him down and see if he lives up to the poetry?"

His mouth opened, closed. He stared toward the corridor again, where the Carabara had vanished. His mind swam with impossible questions, none of which had answers. Was he actually considering it?

“I... I just need a little more liquid courage." he whispered, already half-turned toward the bar.

She trilled with triumph, practically dancing in place. “That's the spirit! Go get 'em, sweet doe! Don't keep him waiting, he might start thinking you're shy."

As he vanished into the crowd, heart hammering and ears burning, her parting laugh followed close behind, light, knowing, and far too pleased with herself.