The Sorcerous Seduction

Browser lacks capabilities required to play.

Upgrade or switch to another browser.

Loading…

<img src="images/locations/hall.jpg" alt="The choice" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The grand oak doors of the Aethelgard Academy swing shut behind you with a resonant thud, sealing your fate within these ancient stone walls. Before you, the Great Hall stretches into shadow, its vaulted ceiling lost in a twilight speckled with enchanted constellations that mimic the night sky. The air hums with centuries of tradition, ambition, and something else... a latent, magical energy that prickles against your skin. At the far end of the hall, three towering banners hang motionless, each representing a path, a legacy, and a family you are now destined to join. The air itself seems to crackle with their distinct, intoxicating energies. A hushed, expectant silence falls. Hundreds of eyes watch you, assessing, wanting. The choice is yours. Which allure will you succumb to? <div class="house-choices"> <div style="color: #2ECC71;"><b>[[Start at Green House->green_intro]]</b><br> <em>To the left beneath the Banner of the Verdant Dragon, woven from emerald silk and threaded with gold, stand the heirs of House Viridis. They are the picture of effortless grace and old money. Their uniforms are impeccably tailored, their postures relaxed yet commanding. Whispers of their summer estates in the countryside and their families' influence follow them like expensive perfume. Their world is one of whispered promises, gilded temptation, and connections that can fulfill any desire.</em> </div><br> <div style="color: #3498DB;"><b>[[Start at Blue House->blue_intro]]</b><br> <em>In the center, illuminated by the cool, steady light of a floating crystal, is the Banner of the Cobalt Hydra. The members of House Septenius are instantly recognizable, not by their wallets, but by the intensity in their eyes. They clutch heavy, arcane textbooks or speak in rapid, precise arguments about theoretical magic. Theirs is a realm of deep understanding, sensual mysteries, and the intoxicating pursuit of forbidden knowledge.</em> </div><br> <div style="color: #E74C3C;"><b>[[Start at Red House->red_intro]]</b><br> <em>And to the right, burning with a fierce, inner fire, is the Banner of the Crimson Phoenix. The champions of House Ignis radiate raw, physical power. Theirs is the path of passionate intensity, primal spirit, and glory found in the heat of competition... and release.</em> </div> </div>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Private Valuation</h2></span> Her fingers don't leave your hip as she guides you through an arched doorway, away from the murmuring crowd. The noise of the Great Hall vanishes, replaced by the soft crush of your feet on a plush, moss-green carpet. The air here is warmer, thicker, scented with the same intoxicating jasmine that clings to her skin. <img src="images/green/study.jpg" alt="Study" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The lounge is a study in opulent privacy. Low, deep couches upholstered in velvet are arranged around a fireplace where magicked embers glow without smoke. The light comes from orbs of captured sunlight floating near the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow on shelves lined with rare spirits and ancient, leather-bound books with titles that hint at carnal magic. She leads you to the center of the room before finally releasing you, turning to face you fully. The smirk is gone, replaced by a look of intense, focused appraisal. <br>"Let's be direct. I am Lady Selene, and I identify talent for the House. Your potential is... palpable." She circles you slowly, her gaze a physical weight. "But raw potential is a volatile commodity. It requires refinement. Guidance." She stops in front of you again, so close you can feel the heat radiating from her body. One hand comes up, and her thumb brushes slowly, deliberately, across your lower lip. "My proposal is this: a private tutelage. Under my personal... instruction," she whispers, her voice dropping even lower. "I will teach you the currencies of power that are not taught in any classroom. The art of the deal sealed with a whisper. The magic of a well-placed touch. The economy of desire." Her other hand finds the tie of her robe. With a gentle pull, the silk parts, revealing a breathtaking expanse of smooth skin and the shadowed valley between her breasts. The robe hangs open, an offering and a challenge. <img src="images/green/flashing.gif" alt="Revealing" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> "The first lesson begins now. Your first investment is a show of trust. Are you willing to negotiate?" Her eyes are dark pools of promise, waiting for your answer. <<link "Kiss Her">> <<set $charm += 1>>  <<goto "green_selene_kiss">> <</link>> | <<link "Step Back">> <<goto "green_hesitate">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Initial Analysis</h2></span> A sharp, pleased nod is your answer. "Excellent. A rational choice." With a flick of her wrist, the glowing diagram vanishes. She turns on her heel, her robes swishing around her, and leads you without another word through a seamless archway in the stone wall. The air shifts from the hall's ancient musk to the sterile, ozone-tinged atmosphere of a laboratory. <img src="images/blue/study.png" alt="Study" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The room is a paradox. One wall is a floor-to-ceiling slate blackboard covered in complex runic equations. The opposite wall holds an array of gleaming, polished brass instruments some recognizably like calipers and scales, others bizarre and arcane, humming with contained power. In the center of the room is a large, padded examination table, tilted at a slight angle. "Assume the position on the substrate," she commands, gesturing to the table as she moves to a bench to select a tool. Her tone is so matter-of-fact it makes the situation even more surreal. "Passive observation is insufficient. I require tactile and metaphysical readings." As you lean back against the cool leather of the table, she approaches with a device of interlocking brass rings. It glows with a soft, blue light. "The subject's arousal state is the primary variable. This resonator will measure magical flux," she explains, her voice low and focused. She doesn't ask permission. The cold metal rings hum as she places them around the base of your cock, the sensation a shocking contrast to the heat of your own skin. A low thrum of energy vibrates through you, and you twitch involuntarily against the constraint. "Noted: heightened sensitivity to initial arcane contact." Her clinical note is a whisper, but it feels shouted in the silent room. Her hands, now sheathed in black gloves that enhance rather than diminish the feel of her touch, wrap around your swelling dick. She gives one slow, experimental pump, her eyes locked not on your face but on the resonator, where patterns of light dance and shift. <video autoplay loop muted playsinline width="480" style="display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <source src="images/blue/handjob.webm" type="video/webm"> </video> "Readings are... optimal," she breathes, and for the first time, you hear a crack in her clinical facade a faint tremor of excitement. "Now, for a deeper analysis..." Her other hand moves to a crystal on the wall. The room dims, and the intricate equations on the blackboard begin to glow with the same rhythm as your pulse. You realize they aren't equations at all. They are a magical mirror of your own nervous system, and she is the one conducting the symphony. "Let us proceed to the stimulus phase. Try to remain... vocal. Your auditory feedback is crucial data." Her grip tightens, and her thumb swipes over your tip, spreading a bead of precum that sizzles faintly against the magical resonator. <<link "\"Give in to the sensation\"">> <<set $int += 1>>  <<goto "blue_stimulus">> <</link>> | <<link "Hesitate">> <<goto "blue_hesitate">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Sealing the Deal</h2></span> You don't hesitate. You close the final inch between you, capturing her blood-red lips with your own. The kiss isn't gentle; it's a claim, an acceptance of her outrageous proposal. It tastes of whiskey and dark magic. <img src="images/green/kissing.gif" alt="Revealing" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> A low, throaty hum of approval vibrates from her into you. Her hands come up to frame your face, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. Her mouth is demanding, expertly coaxing your lips apart. The front of her silk robe presses against your clothes, and you can feel the firm peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric. She breaks the kiss, her breath coming in a soft, quickened puff against your wet lips. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, gleaming with triumph and raw hunger. <br>"An excellent opening offer," she breathes. In one fluid motion, she shrugs the robe from her shoulders. It pools at her feet on the lush carpet, leaving her gloriously, utterly bare before you. Her skin is flawless in the golden light, her body a masterpiece of generous curves and taut muscle. "Now," she commands, her voice husky with authority and need as she takes your hands and places them firmly on her full hips. Her skin is warm silk under your palms. "Let's discuss the terms of your exclusive contract. The first clause involves... hands-on learning." She guides your hands, urging you to explore the lush landscape of her body, the dramatic sweep of her waist, the ripe curve of her subtle firm butt. She leans in, her breasts pressing against your chest, and her mouth finds your ear. <img src="images/green/ass.gif" alt="Ass" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> "Your tuition," she whispers, her teeth grazing your lobe, "will be paid in the currency of gasp and moan. Do you find these terms... agreeable?" There is no more pretense of choice. Only the thrilling, decadent inevitability of the lesson about to begin. <<link "\"I accept your terms.\"">> <<set $charm += 1>>  <<goto "green_lesson_begin">> <</link>> | <<link "\"Show me the fine print.\"">> <<set $dom += 1>>  <<goto "green_fine_print">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Cost of Hesitation</h2></span> <img src="images/green/ss.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You take a half-step back, breaking the intense, intimate space she had created. The air, once charged with promise, suddenly chills. The shift in Lady Selene is instantaneous and profound. The smoldering heat in her eyes extinguishes, replaced by a cool, calculating frost. The sensual curve of her lips straightens into a thin, disappointed line. She doesn't step back; she simply lets her hand fall from your lip as if she's touched something uninteresting. The open robe remains, but it's no longer an offering it's a display of her power, a reminder of what you just refused. A faint, almost imperceptible shudder runs through her. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, and when she opens them, the last vestige of that unnatural hunger is gone, replaced by pure, icy clarity. "Negotiate?" she repeats, her voice now flat and analytical, stripped of its husky intimacy. She looks at you, and for a second, it seems she is assessing not just you, but the situation itself, as if surprised by her own previous fervor. "It seems I... overestimated the asset's liquidity. There is no negotiation." She turns her back to you, a deliberate and dismissive act, and casually reties the sash of her robe with sharp, efficient motions, closing off the view of her body with the finality of a vault door sealing. When she faces you again, she is every inch the detached executive, though a shadow of irritation lingers in her gaze directed as much inward as at you. "Potential is worthless without the courage to act on it. Volatility is a risk House Viridis cannot afford. We deal in sure things." She gestures languidly toward the arched doorway you entered. "The common dormitories are down the west corridor, third door on the left. You'll find your uniform there. I suggest you report for the introductory lecture on magical economics. It's mandatory for all... unaffiliated students." The dismissal is absolute. The promise of private, sensual tutelage has vanished, replaced by the bleak prospect of anonymous, common schooling. The door to a world of gilded pleasure and power swings shut, leaving you on the outside. The lesson was indeed your first, and you have just failed it spectacularly. <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> [[Report to the common dorms->common_dorms_intro]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>First Installment</h2></span> A predatory smile of pure satisfaction graces her lips. "A wise investment." She doesn't lead you to a couch. Instead, with surprising strength, she spins you around and pushes you back until your legs hit the edge of a heavy, polished mahogany desk. The cool wood seeps through your clothes. Before you can process it, she drops to her knees before you, the sight of her naked form between your legs utterly arresting. Her hands are at your waist, deftly working open the fastenings of your trousers. "The core principle of our economy is liquidity," she purrs, her breath hot against the fabric of your underwear. "Let's see about converting your... assets." She pulls your trousers and underwear down just enough to free your cock, which springs forth, already fully hard and throbbing with anticipation. Her dark eyes lock with yours as she gives the base a firm, possessive stroke, her thumb smearing a bead of pre-cum over the sensitive head. "Appreciating nicely," she murmurs, her voice thick with approval. She doesn't tease. She opens her mouth, those blood-red plump lips forming a perfect 'O', and takes you in. The heat and wetness are instantaneous and overwhelming. Her tongue is a flat, hot pressure underneath your shaft, swirling as she sinks down, taking you deeper into her throat with an expert, practiced ease that has no gag reflex, only a smooth, swallowing suction. One of her hands cups and gently kneads your balls, while the other grips your hip, her nails digging in just enough to leave a pleasant sting. <img src="images/green/bj2.gif" alt="Blowjob" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> Her head begins to bob in a steady, relentless rhythm. Each time she pulls back, her lips tighten around the head of your cock, her tongue flicking across the slit. Each time she plunges down, her nose buries itself at your base, and you can feel the muscles of her throat working around you. The obscene, wet sounds fill the quiet room, a lewd counterpoint to your own ragged breathing. You look down to see her Lady Selene, a vision of power and beauty on her knees, utterly focused on her task, her breasts swaying heavily with her movements. The sight, the sensation, the sheer decadent wrongness of it all pushes you rapidly towards the edge. Her eyes flutter open, meeting your gaze. She sees your building climax, reads it in the tension of your thighs, the short, sharp gasps tearing from your throat. She increases her pace, her humming vibration traveling straight up your spine. "Your first dividend is payable now," she commands, her voice a husky vibration around your cock that nearly makes you spill. "Don't hold back. Invest it all." <<link "\"I can't hold back...\"">> <<set $charm += 1>>  <<goto "green_climax">> <</link>> | <<link "Try to last longer">> <<set $dom += 1>>  <<set $charm += 2>>  <<goto "green_endure">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Acquiring the Asset</h2></span> A sharp, delighted grin cuts across Lady Selene's face. This is clearly a response she rarely receives, and it intrigues her. "A cautious investor? How... prudent. The fine print is simple: I own you. Your pleasure, your progress, your nights... they belong to the House. To me." You don't flinch. Instead, your hands, which she placed on her hips, tighten their grip, pulling her firmly against you. A slight, surprised gasp escapes her lips a tiny loss of control that you instantly capitalize on. "Then we have a problem," you say, your voice low and steady, contrasting her breathy whisper. "I don't sign contracts without amendments." You lean down, your mouth hovering just beside her ear, mirroring her earlier move but with a new, commanding energy. "The terms are being renegotiated. Right now." Before she can formulate a retort, you spin her around, your body pressing against her back. One arm wraps around her waist, pulling her snugly against you, while your other hand slides up to cup her breast, your thumb circling her nipple. She arches into your touch with a sharp, involuntary moan. <img src="images/green/tits.gif" alt="Tits" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> "You'll still teach me everything," you command, your voice a husky growl against her neck. "But the currency exchange is changing. For every gasp I draw from you..." You let your other hand trail down from her waist, over the smooth plane of her stomach, lower. "...you'll owe me a secret. For every moan you give me..." Your fingers dip between her thighs, finding her already wet and eager. "...a piece of your influence becomes mine." You hold her there, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against your chest. The power dynamic has irrevocably shifted. The teacher is now the tantalizing prize. <img src="images/green/pussy.gif" alt="Pussy" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> "The lesson begins when you say 'yes'," you whisper, your fingers applying just enough pressure to make her knees weaken. "Do you find *my* terms... agreeable, Lady Selene?" <<link "Wait for her answer">> <<set $dom += 3>>  <<goto "green_dominant_accept">> <</link>>

Her command shatters the last vestiges of your control. A guttural groan is ripped from your throat as your hips buck forward involuntarily, driving yourself deeper into that wet, willing heat. Your fingers tangle in her perfectly styled hair, not to guide her, but to hold on as your entire world contracts to the sensation of her mouth. <img src="images/green/bj4.webp" alt="Bj eyes" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> She doesn't pull away. She redoubles her efforts, her humming growing louder, her throat muscles milking you as you pulse violently down her throat. Her eyes remain locked on yours, watching you unravel for her, drinking in every twitch and shudder of your climax. She takes every last drop, swallowing with a soft, satisfied sound that vibrates through your oversensitive flesh. <img src="images/green/cumshot.webp" alt="cumshot" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> When the last tremor subsides, she slowly, delicately, pulls back. A thin string of saliva connects her red-stained lips to your slick, spent cock for a moment before she breaks it with a finger. She looks utterly debauched and entirely in control. "A substantial initial investment," she says, her voice slightly hoarse. She rises to her feet with effortless grace, her naked body glistening in the firelight. She doesn't bother to cover herself. Instead, she traces a finger along your jawline, her touch possessive. "Now that the terms are sealed," she purrs, a new, darker promise in her eyes, "the real negotiation begins. Get on the desk. It's time for your second lesson in leveraged assets." The look in her eyes leaves no doubt that you are now the one being acquired. [[Obey->green_lesson_two]]

The command in her voice is a potent aphrodisiac, but a spark of defiance or perhaps a desire to prove your own worth as a long-term investment flares within you. You won't break so easily. Not for her. Not yet. <img src="images/green/grip.jpg" alt="Knuckle" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> With a grunt of effort, you plant your hands on the desk behind you, your knuckles turning white. You tense your thighs, your abdomen, fighting against the tidal wave of pleasure she's expertly building. You force your breathing to slow, to become deep and ragged gulps of jasmine-scented air instead of frantic panting. She feels the change in you immediately. The subtle clenching, the deliberate resistance. She slows her relentless rhythm, pulling back until just the head of your cock rests on her tongue. Her eyes, dark and gleaming with newfound interest, flick up to yours. "A riskier strategy," she murmurs, her words a hot, wet caress on your most sensitive skin. "Trying to delay your returns. It can lead to... volatile markets." A wicked smile plays on her swollen lips. "But higher potential rewards." Her approach changes. The relentless, skilled fucking of her mouth ceases. Instead, she becomes a torturous artist of sensation. She uses only her tongue, flat and wide, to lick long, slow stripes from your base to your tip, savoring you like a rare delicacy. She takes your balls into her mouth one at a time, sucking gently, her tongue rolling over them until they ache with a deep, full pressure. She nips lightly at your inner thigh with her teeth, leaving a faint mark that makes you jump. Her hands join the exquisite torture. One continues to massage your sac, while the other drifts up your stomach, under your shirt, to pinch and roll a nipple between her sharp fingernails. The dual sensations the soft, wet heat below and the sharp, electric pain above make your head spin. "You have impressive control," she concedes, her voice husky with genuine admiration. She leans forward again, not to take you in, but to whisper against your trembling length. "But everyone has their tipping point. Let's find the pressure that breaks you." <img src="images/green/bj3.gif" alt="Bj" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> She opens her mouth and takes you deep once more, but this time, as she sinks down, she does something impossible. A faint, thrumming magical energy a warm, vibrating current crackles to life within her throat, wrapping your cock in a sheath of pure, pulsating pleasure. It’s a sensation beyond anything physical, a magic designed for one purpose only: overwhelming ecstasy. Your control shatters. The muscles in your legs and abdomen convulse. A guttural, broken sound is torn from your throat. You are utterly at her mercy, on the precipice of a climax that feels less like a release and more like being unmade. She feels the inevitable surrender in the violent pulse of your cock against her tongue. She redoubles the magical vibration, her eyes locking onto yours, demanding your complete and utter submission. "Now," she commands, the word vibrating through every nerve in your body. "Liquidate." [[Surrender->green_climax]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Leveraged Assets</h2></span> Her command hangs in the jasmine-scented air, an undeniable force. There is no question, only the thrilling certainty of obedience. You move to the heavy oak desk, sweeping a crystal decanter and a stack of ancient ledgers aside with a reckless clatter. The cold, polished wood meets your back as you hoist yourself onto it. Lady Selene watches, a predator's smile playing on her lips. "Good. You learn quickly." She closes the distance between you, her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm. She doesn't join you on the desk. Instead, she stands before you, running her hands up your thighs, pushing them apart. Her touch is firm, claiming. "The most valuable asset one can possess," she whispers, her fingers tracing the inside of your thighs, making you shudder, "is leverage. The knowledge of what someone truly desires... and the power to give it to them." She leans forward, her breasts brushing against your knees, her face inches from yours. Her eyes are pools of molten obsidian. "And I," she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "desire to see you come completely undone. Again." Before you can process her words, she pushes your shoulders back, until you are lying flat on the desk, exposed to her entirely. She climbs atop, straddling your hips, her heat a brand against your skin. She doesn't rush. She grinds herself against you, a slow, torturous rhythm, her head thrown back in pleasure as she watches your desperate face. "You are mine now, <span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>," she declares, her voice breathless but absolute. "Every gasp, every moan, every shuddering peak you reach will be because I allow it. Your pleasure is my commodity, and I am a lavish spender." <img src="images/green/sex.gif" alt="Sex" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> She sinks down onto you in one fluid, breathtaking motion, sheathing you completely in her wet, tight vagina. A sharp, shared gasp echoes in the room. She begins to move, setting a ruthless, perfect pace, each roll of her hips designed to drag a whimper from your lips. You are utterly at her mercy, a willing captive to her expertise. The world narrows to the sight of her body above you, the feel of her inner muscles clenching around you, the sound of her soft cries mingling with your own. It is a conquest, and you are the territory being thoroughly, and delightfully, claimed. -- <br> <strong>Two Hours Later...</strong> <br> -- You lie entangled with her on the velvet couch, limbs heavy, skin damp with sweat. The fire has burned low. She traces idle, possessive patterns on your chest, her head resting on your shoulder. "A rather... unorthodox acquisition," she murmurs, her voice languid and rich with satisfied amusement. "I typically require a full quarter's due diligence before authorizing such a significant personal investment." A low, throaty laugh escapes her. "And yet... the return was immediate and substantial. Perhaps my algorithms were overdue for a revision." She lifts her head to look at you, her expression leaving no room for argument, but her eyes hold a spark of genuine, triumphant intrigue. "The dorms for the unaffiliated are for volatile stocks. You are now premium equity. Your things have been moved to the Verdant Dormitories. The west wing, top floor. The room with the gilded serpent on the door." Her finger traces your lips. "It adjoins my own. A necessary convenience for monitoring my new holdings." She rises, pulling her robe back on. The satisfied lover is seamlessly woven back into the formidable Lady of House Viridis. <img src="images/green/selene.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> "Welcome to House Viridis, properly. Tomorrow, your real education begins. You will learn which alliances to forge, which secrets are currency, and which beds hold the most power." She smiles, a sharp, beautiful thing. "And I will be there to ensure you appreciate... wisely." She offers you her hand, not as a lover, but as a partner who has just closed a deal of breathtaking audacity and found it immensely profitable. The path ahead is clear, gilded, and runs directly through her. [[Take Her Hand and Enter House Viridis->verdant_dorm_path]]

<<set $house = "">><span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Unaffiliated</h2></span><<if !$metProctor>><img src="images/npc/proctor.png" alt="A mysterious man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;">A figure steps from the shadows of the corridor a man with a severe face, sharp eyes, and the silver pin of the Arcane Proctors gleaming coldly on his lapel. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>," he says, voice dry as parchment. "Potential you may have, but so far all I see is hesitation. Weakness. That is not the measure of a House initiate." With no further explanation, he gestures you down a plain hallway. His stride is silent, his expression unchanging, until he stops before a modest wooden door marked with a faint warding rune. "Until you prove otherwise, you are unaffiliated," he states flatly. "You will reside here in the common dorms. Consider this your probation." His robes whisper as he departs, leaving you at the threshold of your sparse new quarters. <<set $metProctor = true>><</if>> The proctor's words echo in the silence of your new room. *Unaffiliated.* The word feels like a brand. The chamber is as sparse as promised: a narrow cot, a battered desk, and a single window looking out over the misty, forgotten corners of the academy grounds. The air smells of dust and resignation. A soft knock at the open door breaks your daydream. A lanky student with kind, tired eyes and glasses, leans against the frame. He offers a sympathetic smile.<img src="images/npc/elian.png" alt="Elian" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> "Rough first day? Don't worry, you get used to the disappointment. Name's Elian. I'm the... well, I guess 'caretaker' is too strong a word. I'm the one who shows the new Unaffiliated around the basement." He gestures with his thumb down the dimly lit corridor. "Consider me your guide to a future of glorious mediocrity." He steps into the room, his tone shifting from lightly sarcastic to genuinely informative. "Right. Lesson one. Don't let the fancy banners fool you. Aethelgard runs on one thing: power. The Houses just package it differently." He counts on his fingers. "<strong style='color: #2ECC71;'>Viridis</strong> trades in social and financial power. <strong style='color: #3498DB;'>Septenius</strong> hoards knowledge and magical power. <strong style='color: #E74C3C;'>Ignis</strong> venerates physical and combative power." He shrugs. "We get the scraps. But that doesn't mean you can't find your own way. The academy is old, and old places have cracks. Secrets. Ways for people like us to... not exactly thrive, but maybe survive a little better." He looks you over, assessing you not with the predatory hunger of the Houses, but with a practical eye. "Speaking of surviving, let's see what you're made of. The proctors might have written you off, but I need to know if you're going to be a liability or not. Consider this your real welcome to Aethelgard." Elian folds his arms. "The quickest way to the refectory is through the old scriptorium. It's also the territory of a particularly nasty little dust devil spirit that loves to harass students. How are you going to handle it?"<img src="images/dust.png" alt="Dust Devil" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> [[Use raw force to intimidate or smash it.->dorm_str_check]] <em>("Show me you have the strength to back up your attitude.")</em><br> [[Try to outmaneuver and trick it.->dorm_int_check]] <em>("A clever mind can find a way around any obstacle.")</em><br> [[Command it to stand down with sheer force of will.->dorm_dom_check]] <em>("Some creatures respond only to authority.")</em><br> [[Try to calmly reason with or befriend it.->dorm_charm_check]] <em>("Even spirits can be appealed to.")</em>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Counter Offer Accepted</h2></span> For a long, breathless moment, she is utterly still in your arms, the only movement the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath your lips and the quick, shallow rise and fall of her chest. Then, a shudder wracks her entire body, a tremor of pure, unadulterated surrender. "Yes," she gasps, the word torn from her, raw and honest. "Gods, yes. Your terms... your terms are acceptable." The victory is electric. You can feel the last vestiges of her performative control melt away, leaving only a woman achingly vulnerable and hungry in your grasp. The hand you have splayed across the soft, yielding flesh of her stomach slides lower, through the golden, silken curls at the apex of her thighs. Your fingers part her vagina, finding her core not just wet, but slick and swollen with need. A low, guttural sound escapes her as you trace the length of her slit, from the throbbing bud of her clit down to her entrance, which clenches around nothing, begging to be filled. She grinds her hips back against you, a wordless plea for more. "The first secret," you demand, your voice rough against the shell of her ear. Your middle finger circles her clit slowly, torturously, making her whimper. "It's... Ah!... a binding vow," she pants, her head lolling back against your shoulder. "The Headmaster... he siphoned funds from the... *nngh!*... from the endowment..." Your finger dips lower, pressing just inside her, and her words break on a moan. "...to pay a blood debt to a demon. The contract is in a hidden compartment in his desk." You reward her by sliding your finger deep inside her, the tight, wet heat of her vagina gripping you instantly. She cries out, her inner muscles fluttering around the intrusion. <<set $dom += 3>><br> <img src="images/green/fingering.gif" alt="Fingering" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> "A good start," you purr, curling your finger to find that spot within her that makes her legs buckle. You support her weight easily, holding her upright as you begin a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Now, let's hear that moan you owe me." It doesn't take long. You add a second finger, stretching her, your thumb resuming its relentless circles on her clit. Her breathing shatters into ragged gasps. Her body tenses, a bowstring drawn taut. You feel the exact moment she shatters, her climax rushing through her in a series of violent, exquisite spasms around your fingers. The sound she makes is a raw, unfiltered moan of pure ecstasy, echoing in the opulent room.<<set $dom += 3>><br> As she trembles through the aftershocks, boneless and panting in your arms, you slowly withdraw your glistening fingers. <img src="images/green/orgasm.gif" alt="Orgasm" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> "The first piece of your influence is mine," you remind her, your voice thick with your own desire. "Now, let's discuss the physical signing of this new contract." You turn her in your arms to face you, her expression dazed and utterly conquered. The lesson is underway, and the teacher is learning the most. [[Claim Your Prize->green_claim_prize]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Claim Your Prize</h2></span> Her dazed, conquered expression is the most intoxicating thing you've ever seen. The powerful Lady Selene, reduced to a pliant, breathless mess in your arms. You don't give her a moment to recover. You claim her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, tasting the remnants of her climax on her lips. She moans into it, her body still trembling with aftershocks, her response eager and submissive. You break the kiss, your hands moving to the sash of your own robes. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with desire, watch your every move. You shed the garment, letting it join hers on the lush carpet, and guide her backwards until her knees hit the edge of a low, velvet divan. "On your knees," you command, your voice leaving no room for debate. "The contract requires your signature." A fresh wave of heat floods her gaze. Without a shred of hesitation, she sinks to her knees before you, her head tilted back, her red lips parted in anticipation. Her hands come to rest on your thighs, her touch reverent. You fist a hand in her meticulously golden styled hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to control. To guide. You use your other hand to position yourself at her waiting mouth. "Seal it," you growl. She does not need to be told twice. She takes you into the wet, welcoming heat of her mouth with a practiced eagerness that steals your breath. Her tongue swirls around the head of your cock before she takes you deeper, her moans vibrating through your entire body. Her hands slide up to grip your hips, pulling you closer, urging you to use her mouth for your pleasure.<<set $dominated_selene = true>> <span class="domination-success">A surge of absolute authority washes over you, hot and intoxicating. This isn't just victory; it's a fundamental change. A new thread of power, shimmering and permanent, now ties her essence to yours. You have not just won a battle; you have claimed a throne.</span> The sight of her this proud, powerful woman, on her knees, utterly devoted to your satisfaction sends a surge of raw power through you. This is true currency. This is control. <img src="images/green/bj.gif" alt="Blowjob" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"><<set $dom += 5>><br> You let your head fall back for a moment, lost in the sensation. But you are not finished. This is just the down payment. After a few minutes of her devoted attention, you pull her off by her hair. A thin strand of saliva connects her lips to your shaft. She looks up at you, her expression one of pure worship. "Enough," you state, pulling her to her feet. You spin her around and bend her over the back of the divan, her perfect, slender butt presented to you. You run a hand over one smooth cheek, then deliver a sharp, stinging smack that makes her gasp and push her hips back towards you in invitation. "You've provided the information and the initial service," you say, positioning yourself at her slick, waiting entrance from behind. "Now it's time for the principal investment." In one powerful, claiming thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt inside her. She screams out, a sound of pure, unbridled pleasure and relief. Her inner walls clamp around you, still sensitive from her first climax, making the fit impossibly tight. You set a punishing pace, each thrust jolting through both of you. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, her ragged cries, and your own guttural groans. You lean over her, covering her body with yours, your mouth near her ear. "Who holds the power now, Selene?" you demand between thrusts. "You do!" she cries out immediately, her voice breaking. "Always! Gods, please... don't stop!" <img src="images/green/rough.gif" alt="Rough" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> Her second climax crashes over her almost immediately, her body convulsing around you, milking you toward your own release. You let go, pouring yourself into her with a roar, claiming your prize in the most primal way possible. You stay inside her for a long moment, both of you panting, connected. You have not just passed her test. You have rewritten it entirely. The game has changed. [[Continue->green_new_rules]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>New Rules</h2></span> You slowly pull away from Selene, your body thrumming with power and release. She slumps over the divan, spent and trembling, a whispered "Thank you" escaping her sexy plump lips. You watch her for a moment, a conqueror surveying his spoils, before you calmly begin to dress. She makes no move to cover herself or stand. She simply watches you, her expression a complex mix of awe, fear, and addictive hunger. You have broken her and remade her in the span of minutes. Once you are robed again, you look down at her. "The information. The name." "Alistair Vance," she says without hesitation, her voice hoarse. "He's a third-year in House Septenius. He runs the underground betting ring out of the old scriptorium in the west wing. He's clever. He'll see you coming." "Let him," you reply, your tone leaving no doubt about the outcome. You turn to leave, the taste of victory still sweet on your tongue. "Wait," Selene calls out, pushing herself up on unsteady arms. "What happens now? Between us?" You pause at the archway, glancing back. "Now? You remain my eyes and ears within Viridis. You will report anything of value to me. Our... arrangement continues, at my discretion. Not yours." You don't wait for her agreement. You know you have it. <img src="images/npc/proctor.png" alt="A mysterious man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> But as you step out of the opulent lounge and back into the marginally quieter hall, a figure emerges from the shadows. It is an man with a severe face, sharp eyes, and a pin of a silver scale on his lapel the mark of the Academy's proctors. He has been waiting. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span> he says, his voice devoid of warmth. "That was a... dramatic entrance into academy life." Your mind races. *How much did he see? Hear?* "It seems you possess a remarkable... aptitude for persuasion," he continues, his eyes flicking toward the closed lounge door. "An aptitude that is far too volatile and undisciplined for the delicate ecosystems of our Great Houses. House Viridis operates on subtlety, not scorched earth. What you just did in there was the latter." He gestures for you to follow him. The walk is silent and long, leading you away from the main halls, down less ornate corridors. "Your actions have made you a risk. A fascinating one, but a risk nonetheless. We cannot have an untamed force of nature like you destabilizing the careful balance of power within a house on your first night." He stops before a plain, wooden door, identical to dozens of others in the hallway. He opens it to reveal a spartan room with a simple cot, a small desk, and a single window looking out over the dark grounds. "Until you learn control and prove you can be more than a blunt instrument, you are unaffiliated. You will reside here, in the common dorms. You will attend general classes. Consider it a probationary period." He gives you one last, inscrutable look. <br>"Power is nothing without the intelligence to wield it properly. Perhaps you will learn that here. Or perhaps you will burn this place down, too. I suppose we shall see." The proctor turns and walks away, leaving you standing in the doorway of your new, meager accommodations. The intoxicating high of your victory over Selene is still there, but it's now tempered by a cold, sharp reality. You won the battle spectacularly, but in doing so, you may have lost the war before it even began. The game hasn't just changed. It has become infinitely more challenging. <<set $metProctor = true>> [[Enter the common dorms->common_dorms_intro]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Gilded Cage</h2></span> You take her hand. Her fingers are cool and sure against yours, a silent seal on your new contract. She leads you from the opulent lounge, not back the way you came, but through a concealed door paneled in the same dark wood as the wall. It swings open silently onto a corridor that is nothing like the functional stone of the common areas. This is a world of curated elegance. The air is warmer, scented with citrus and exotic blooms. Emerald-green silk damask covers the walls, and the floor is a mosaic of polished malachite and gold leaf. The light comes from intricate brass sconces shaped like coiling dragons, their mouths holding softly glowing orbs of captured sunlight. You pass a few students. Their uniforms are impeccable, a sharper, more tailored version of the academy's standard issue, accented with subtle gold thread and personal jewels. They don't stare openly. Their glances are calculated, swift assessments. They note your presence, your disheveled state, and most importantly, the fact that you are being personally led by Lady Selene. Their expressions are a complex mix of curiosity, disdain, and a newfound, wary respect. You are not one of them. You are her thing. And in House Viridis, that carries significant weight. She stops before a heavy oak door adorned with a beautifully cast brass serpent, its body coiled around the handle.<<set $house = "viridis">> "Your rooms," she states, releasing your hand. "Make yourself presentable. I will expect you in the conservatory in one hour. Do not be late." She doesn't wait for a response. She turns and glides down the hall, leaving you alone at the threshold of your new life. You push the door open.<img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Study" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The room within is spacious and lavishly appointed. A large four-poster bed with green velvet hangings dominates one wall. A writing desk of gleaming darkwood sits near a window that offers a stunning view of the academy's spires. Your meager belongings look absurdly out of place, sitting neatly in a corner on a chest at the foot of the bed. It seems your things were indeed moved, with an efficiency that borders on terrifying. This is your reward. Your prize. A gilded cage of incredible luxury. You have everything you could want, except your freedom. Every comfort here is a chain, and every chain leads back to her. The question hangs in the perfumed air: was it worth the price? You have one hour to find your answer. [[Get Ready->viridis_conservatory]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Rejected Sample</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/vv.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> A flinch. A moment of doubt. You pull back slightly from her touch, your body tensing against the cold metal and the clinical intimacy of it all. It's a split-second reaction, but in the hyper-focused environment of the lab, it's as loud as a scream. The change in Valeria is instantaneous and absolute. The faint tremor of excitement in her voice vanishes, replaced by a flat, dispassionate tone. The humming of the resonator dies as she deactivates it with a tap, the glowing rings retracting and leaving you exposed. She freezes for a microsecond, her eyes darting to her instruments as if checking a readout only she can see. A flicker of confusion, a rare, unwelcome variable crosses her features before being ruthlessly suppressed. "Subject exhibits inhibitory psychological responses. Contamination of data set is inevitable," she states, but her voice lacks its usual absolute certainty. She pulls off her gloves, discarding them into a bin marked for sterilization with a force that seems almost... personal. She doesn't look at you as you awkwardly get off the table. Her focus is on the blackboard, but her hand pauses before erasing a large section of the glowing equations. "The experiment is concluded. The results are invalid," she says, her tone now carrying a sharp, analytical edge directed inward. "The protocol was compromised by an... external stimulus. Anomalous energy signatures corrupted the baseline. My parameters were not adequately controlled." She finally turns to you, her gaze analytical and utterly devoid of the warmth that had flickered there moments before, but now tinged with a scientist's frustration at a flawed experiment. "House Septenius has no use for data it cannot trust. Fear and hesitation are variables we cannot accommodate for. Nor can we tolerate uncontrolled environmental factors." She points to the archway. "The common dormitories are down the west corridor. You will report for introductory lecture. It is mandatory for all unaffiliated students." The dismissal is cold, final, and worse than any anger could be. You are not a person to her anymore; you are a failed trial, a reminder of her own uncharacteristic lapse in control. The door to a world of deep, sensual mysteries and intellectual passion swings shut, leaving you in the sterile silence of your own regret. <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> [[Report to the common dorms->common_dorms_intro]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Stimulus Phase</h2></span> You surrender to the overwhelming, analytical pleasure. A low moan escapes your lips, and the runes on the wall flare brightly in response, tracing the pathways of your ecstasy. "Fascinating," Lady Valeria whispers, her clinical detachment fully replaced by rapturous inquiry. "The synchronicity between physiological response and thaumic output is... exquisite." Her gloved hand continues its work, a perfectly calibrated instrument of torture and delight. Each stroke is measured, each variation in pressure and speed a new variable in her experiment. The humming resonator around your base makes every nerve ending sing, amplifying sensation into pure, electric data. "You are performing beyond projections," she murmurs, her breath hot against your neck as she leans in to observe the readings more closely. The scent of her ozone and crisp linen fills your senses. "The data is undeniable. Such a potent, responsive subject..." Her free hand slips behind your knee, hiking your leg over her shoulder to change the angle, to deepen the access. The movement is shockingly intimate amidst the clinical setting. <img src="images/blue/hj.gif" alt="Handjob" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Now, subject. I require the peak output. The zenith of the data set. Do not hold back. *Show me* the full extent of your capabilities." Her eyes finally meet yours, and in their deep blue depths, you see not a cold magician, but a brilliant woman witnessing a miracle of her own design. The command in her voice is absolute, a demand for you to shatter for her for her research. <<link "\"For science!\"" "blue_lesson_begin">> <<set $int += 1>>  <</link>> | <<link "\"Stop her and take her instead!\"" "blue_climax_dom">> <<set $dom += 3>>  <</link>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Arcane Application</h2></span> Lady Valeria's eyes gleam with intense focus, not just on your body, but on the magical energy coiling within you. "Theoretical principles must be applied to be validated," she states, her voice a low, mesmerizing hum. "The first lesson: the concentration of thaumaturgical energy through... targeted stimulus." Her hands, now bare and surprisingly warm, slide up your chest. They leave faint, shimmering trails of light on your skin, a simple enchantment that makes every nerve ending sing. She leans forward, and the deep neckline of her robes offers a breathtaking view of her full, pale breasts. "Observe the nexus points," she whispers. Instead of using her hands, she brings her chest to you. She captures your cock between the soft, yielding warmth of her breasts, creating a hot, silken channel. A soft, whispered word from her lips causes a faint, cool mist to emanate from her skin, a stark and delicious contrast to the heat. She begins to move, rocking gently, using the enchanted slickness and the incredible softness of her flesh to create a rhythm that is both soothing and intensely stimulating. <img src="images/blue/tits.gif" alt="Titjob" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "The body is a conduit," she murmurs, her eyes locked on yours, analyzing every micro-expression of pleasure that crosses your face. "The build-up of energy is as critical as the release. Control is the foundation of true power." Just as the sensation becomes almost overwhelming, she changes the stimulus. She rises up, her breasts sliding away with a final, tantalizing squeeze. Before you can protest, her lips, painted a dark blue, part and she takes the head of your cock into her mouth. The heat is divine, but the magic is transcendent. Her tongue, tracing intricate patterns on your most sensitive skin, seems to glow with a faint internal light. Each swirl and flick is not just physical; it's a minor enchantment, a direct siphon of pleasure that feeds back into you, amplifying the sensation without allowing the critical peak to form. It's a loop of endless, rising ecstasy. She pulls back with a soft pop, a thin, shimmering strand of magical energy connecting her lips to your dick for a second before fading. "The body can be taught to sustain," she says, her voice husky with her own focused arousal. "To hold a charge indefinitely. This is the core of many advanced rituals. Now... demonstrate your control. Let me measure your will." Her head dips again, her mouth and hands and breasts working in a coordinated, magical symphony designed to bring you to the very brink of magical and physical release and hold you there. <img src="images/blue/titjob.gif" alt="Titjob" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The pleasure is a rising tide, a storm of sensation you are commanded to weather. <<link "\"I can't hold back...\"" "blue_climax">> <<set $int += 1>>  <<goto "blue_climax">> <</link>> | <<link "Try to last longer" "blue_endure">> <<set $dom += 1>>  <<set $int += 2>>  <<goto "blue_endure">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Reversing the Polarity</h2></span> "Enough." The word is not a plea. It is a command, low and resonant, cutting through the hum of her machinery and the fog of sensation. Your hand snaps up, catching her wrist just as her gloved fingers are about to deliver another calculated stroke. The suddenness of it makes her gasp a short, sharp, and wonderfully unscientific sound. Her head jerks up, her ocean-deep eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock behind her glasses. The clinical detachment shatters. For the first time, you see the woman beneath the Head of House: startled, vulnerable, and utterly fascinated by this unforeseen variable. You. "The experiment is over, Lady Valeria," you growl, your voice thick with a dominance she did not factor into her equations. "My capabilities are not a data set for you to mine." In one fluid, powerful motion, you rise from the chair. The resonator around your base flickers and dies as you break its connection. You don't release her wrist; instead, you use it to pull her towards you. Her other hand, still holding the silver stimulator, falls limp at her side. <img src="images/blue/grab.webp" alt="grab" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "The methodology is flawed," you whisper, your face inches from hers. You can feel her heart hammering against your chest. "You observe. You record. But a true scientist must be willing to be part of the experiment." You reach up with your free hand and slowly, deliberately, remove her sleek glasses, folding them and placing them on a nearby desk. Without them, her gaze is softer, more human. More exposed. "Your hypothesis was that you could control me. Let us test a new one: that our synergy will yield far greater results when the energy flows both ways." A new, fierce light ignites in her eyes. It's not fear. It's intellectual arousal, a thrilling curiosity at this paradigm shift. A slow, intrigued smile touches her lips. "An... audacious revision to the research parameters," she breathes, her scientific jargon a thin veneer over her newfound excitement. "Not a revision," you correct, your hand sliding from her wrist to the small of her back, pulling her firmly against you. "A entirely new thesis. And you will be my subject." You capture her mouth in a searing kiss. It is nothing like her precise, analytical one. This is raw, claiming, and demanding. It is the kiss of a fellow researcher taking ownership of a groundbreaking discovery. <img src="images/green/kissing.gif" alt="Revealing" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #3498DB;"> She melts into it with a moan that is anything but clinical, her body yielding to your control. The stimulator clatters to the floor, forgotten. The observer has just become the subject, and she is discovering that the most intoxicating data is experienced, not merely recorded. <<link "Wait for her answer">> <<set $dom += 3>>  <<goto "blue_dom_table">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Primary Data Set</h2></span> You break the kiss, but your dominance doesn't waver. Silenlty she looks up at you and just nods. Your hands slide down from her back, and you give a firm, appreciative squeeze to the generous, unexpected curve of her ass. A soft, startled gasp escapes her lips another perfect, unscientific data point. Beneath the severe cobalt robes, Lady Valeria is hiding a world of lush, inviting curves, a hypothesis you are eager to prove. <img src="images/blue/ass.gif" alt="Ass" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "You are full of surprises, Lady Valeria," you murmur against her neck, your voice a low rumble. "Such a significant deviation from your austere presentation. A hypothesis I intend to test thoroughly." Before she can formulate a response in her defense, you bend and hook an arm behind her knees, sweeping her off her feet and into your arms with a grunt of effort that is pure satisfaction. She is solid, real weight in your arms, not some theoretical construct. "W-what are you doing? This is highly irregular!" she stammers, but her protest is weak, her arms instinctively looping around your neck. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated. The Head of House Septenius is flustered, and the data couldn't be more clear: she is enthralled. "Gathering primary source material," you state, carrying her the few steps to the broad, polished obsidian observation table. Scattered papers and data-slates skitter off the surface as you lay her down upon the cool stone. She looks up at you, her hair coming slightly loose from its knot, framing her face. Her breath is coming in quick, shallow puffs. You lean over her, caging her in, your hands gripping the edge of the table on either side of her hips. "The initial observation," you begin, your tone that of a lecturer, "is that your physical form presents a significant anomaly. A theory of severe intellect... contradicted by an empirical reality of profound, sensual abundance." Your hands slide under her, gripping the full, round flesh of her ass, lifting her hips from the table to press her core against you. "The data is... compelling." <<set $dom += 6>><br> <img src="images/blue/bigass.gif" alt="Ass" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> A shuddering moan is her only reply. All her clinical analysis, her precise control, has been utterly short-circuited. She is now pure phenomenon, and you are the researcher. "Now," you command, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Let's begin the hands-on portion of this study." Her eyes are dark pools of surrendered curiosity. She is ready for your methodology. [[Take her on the table->blue_dom_final]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Empirical Evidence</h2></span> Her dazed, surrendered expression is the most compelling data you've ever recorded. The brilliant Head of House Septenius, reduced to a breathless, pliant subject on her own observation table. You don't waste a moment. You claim her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, swallowing her soft, shuddering moans. She melts into it, her body arching against yours, her response eager and submissive. You break the kiss, your hands moving to the fastenings of your own clothes. Her eyes, wide and dark with abandoned intellect, watch your every move. You shed the garments, letting them fall to the floor, and guide her up until she's on her knees, turning her to face away from you over the polished obsidian table. "The initial observation requires verification," you command, your voice leaving no room for debate. "Present the anomaly for deeper analysis." A fresh wave of heat floods her gaze. Without hesitation, she bends forward, arms braced on the cool table, offering you the breathtaking, round curve of her ass. The sight is a scientific marvel a theory of severe intellect utterly contradicted by this empirical reality of profound, sensual abundance. <img src="images/blue/bass.gif" alt="Ass" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You run a hand over one smooth, generous cheek, feeling her tremble at your touch, then deliver a sharp, stinging smack that echoes in the chamber. The skin flushes a perfect, rosy hue. She gasps, a sharp, inelegant intake of breath, and pushes her hips back in silent, desperate invitation. "The data is... robust," you growl, positioning yourself at her slick, waiting entrance. "Now for the core experiment." In one powerful, claiming thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt inside her. She cries out, a sound of pure, unbridled pleasure and relief, her inner walls clamping around you with shocking intensity. The fit is perfection tight, wet, and overwhelmingly warm. <img src="images/blue/sex.gif" alt="Sex" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You set a rigorous, punishing pace, each thrust a jolt of raw data that short-circuits her higher reasoning. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, her ragged, pleading cries, and your own guttural groans. You lean over her, covering her body with yours, your mouth near her ear. "Who is conducting this study now, Valeria?" you demand between deep, measured thrusts. "You are!" she screams out immediately, her voice breaking. "You are! The hypothesis was flawed! Please... continue the stimulus!"<<set $dominated_valeria = true>><span class="domination-success">A surge of absolute authority washes over you, hot and intoxicating. This isn't just victory; it's a fundamental change. A new thread of power, shimmering and permanent, now ties her essence to yours. You have not just won a battle; you have claimed a throne.</span> Her climax crashes over her, her body convulsing around you in a series of intense, rhythmic spasms that milk you relentlessly toward your own release. You let go, pouring your results into her with a roar, claiming your prize in the most primal way possible. You stay inside her for a long moment, both of you panting, connected. You have not just participated in her experiment. You have seized control of the entire laboratory. The thesis has been proven. <<set $dom += 3>> <br> [[Continue->blue_new_rules]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Breach of Arcanic Conduct</h2></span> You slowly pull away from Lady Valeria, your body humming with the raw, magical energy of conquest. She slumps over the obsidian table, her breath a faint mist in the cool air, a whispered "...remarkable..." escaping her lips. You watch her for a moment, a mage who has just rewritten the fundamental laws of her ritual, before you calmly begin to gather your robes. She makes no move to cover herself or stand. She simply watches you, her expression a complex tapestry of awe, shock, and a deeply intrigued hunger. You have unravelled her primary enchantments and introduced a thrilling new variable: you. Once you are dressed, you look down at her and ask "How can you be of use to me?" "Compartment seven-alpha, behind the Tapestry of the Weeping Sage," she says without hesitation, her voice hoarse from incantations and cries. "Within a lead-lined box, you will find the scroll detailing a demonic contract. It is sealed with a blood lock. The passphrase is 'Ouroboros'. The Headmaster he's paranoid. The wards are... potent." "Let them be," you reply, your tone implying that no ward could possibly hold against your newfound authority. You turn to leave, the taste of arcane victory like lightning on your tongue. "Wait," Valeria calls out, pushing herself up on trembling arms. Her glasses are still on the rune-etched desk, her eyes unfocused. "The research... what is the next phase? What are your parameters for us?" You pause at the chamber's archway, glancing back. "The next phase? You will remain my asset within Septenius. You will provide unfettered access to the house's grimoires and artifacts. Our collaboration continues, at my discretion. Not yours." You don't wait for her consultation. You know it is a foregone conclusion. <img src="images/npc/proctor.png" alt="A mysterious man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> But as you step out of the ritual chamber and into the silent, blue-lit corridor, a figure detaches from the deeper shadows near a suit of animated armor. It is an man with a severe face, sharp eyes that see too much, and a pin of a silver, unblinking eye on his lapel the mark of the Arcane Proctors. He has been observing. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span> he states, his voice as dry as ancient parchment. "That was a significant breach of approved thaumaturgical conduct." Your mind races, calculating possibilities. *How much did he scry? Hear?* "It seems you possess a potent... and volatile... magical signature," he continues, his gaze flicking toward the chamber door. "A signature that disrupts enchantments and violates containment protocols. House Septenius operates on precision, not uncontrolled magical feedback. What you just catalyzed in there was the latter." He gestures with a long-fingered hand for you to follow. The walk is silent, leading you away from the upper dormitories, down increasingly plain and dusty corridors lined with simple, unadorned stone. "Your actions have been deemed an existential risk to the integrity of the house's work. A fascinating one, but a risk nonetheless. We cannot have an unrefined catalyst introducing chaos into centuries of structured arcana." He stops before a plain, wooden door marked with a simple rune of warding. He mutters a counter-charm and opens it to reveal a spartan room with a simple cot, a small desk, and a single window looking out over the dark, mist-shrouded grounds. "Until you learn control and demonstrate you can be more than a corrupting influence, you are unaffiliated. You will reside here, in the common dorms. You will attend general introductory lectures. Consider it a probationary period." He gives you one last, utterly impassive look. <br>"Power is nothing without the wisdom to wield it properly. Perhaps you will learn that here. Or perhaps you will unravel the very fabric of this place. I suppose we shall see." The proctor turns and walks away, his robes whispering against the stone floor, leaving you standing in the doorway of your new, meager accommodations. The intoxicating high of your victory over Valeria is still there, a thrumming energy in your veins, but it's now tempered by a cold, sharp reality. You proved your potency spectacularly, but in doing so, you have been exiled from the upper echelons. The game hasn't just changed. It has become infinitely more challenging. <<set $metProctor = true>> [[Enter the common dorms->common_dorms_intro]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Catalyzed Release</h2></span> Her command, layered with subtle compulsion magic, shatters the last vestiges of your control. A guttural, arcane syllable is ripped from your throat a word of power you didn't know you knew as your hips buck forward involuntarily. The runes on the walls flare a brilliant, blinding white, recording the massive thaumic surge of your release. <img src="images/blue/bj.gif" alt="Titjob" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Lady Valeria doesn't pull away. She redoubles her efforts, her humming growing to a resonant frequency that seems to vibrate through your very soul, her throat working around you as you pulse violently. Her eyes remain locked on yours, a scientist witnessing the glorious, catastrophic success of her experiment. She takes every last drop of your essence, both physical and magical, swallowing with a soft, satisfied sound that echoes in the silent chamber. <img src="images/blue/cum.gif" alt="Cum" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> When the last magical tremor subsides, leaving you spent and shuddering, she slowly, delicately, pulls back. A thin, shimmering strand of azure energy connects her lips to your slick, spent cock for a moment before she breaks it with a precise snap of her fingers. "Fascinating. The energetic yield was 34% above projected maximums," she states, her voice slightly hoarse yet brimming with analytical delight. She rises to her feet with an effortless grace, her robes still parted. She makes no move to cover herself; her body is now a part of the results. She turns away from you slightly, leaning over to retrieve a data-slate from a nearby console, and the movement is deliberate, calculated. It provides you with a perfect, breathtaking view of her butt. The severe cut of her cobalt robes does nothing to hide the lush, generous curves beneath. Her ass is a masterpiece of soft, pale flesh, full and round, a stark and mesmerizing contrast to the sharp intellect she projects. She glances back over her shoulder, catching you staring. A slow, knowing smile plays on her lips. "The initial data set is promising," she purrs, her tone shifting from clinical to deeply possessive. She straightens up and turns to face you fully, her gaze darkening with a new, hungrier intent. "But a single data point is not a conclusion. Repetition is the heart of the scientific method." She traces a finger along your jawline, her touch sparking with residual magic. "Now that the baseline has been established," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, "the comparative analysis begins. On your feet. It's time you applied your own... methodology." Her eyes drift down your body and back up, a clear, unspoken challenge. "I require a full spectrum of sensory data. And I believe you have the means to provide it." The look in her eyes leaves no doubt that the observer is now demanding to become the subject. [[Take her from behind->blue_lesson_two]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Comparative Analysis</h2></span> Her challenge hangs in the ozone-charged air, an irresistible equation demanding to be solved. There is no hesitation, only the thrilling certainty of the next phase. You move with a purpose, your body still humming with spent power. You guide her to turn around, bending her forward over the polished obsidian table. Scattered data-slates and crystalline calipers skitter across the surface. Lady Valeria offers no resistance, only a sharp, intrigued intake of breath as her palms flatten against the cool stone. "Excellent. Initiative is a variable I wished to test." "The most critical component of any experiment," you growl, your voice thick with a newfound authority that surprises even you, "is hands-on verification." Your hands grip the lush, unexpected curves of her hips, squeezing the soft flesh beneath the severe fabric of her robes. "The theory of your form requires... empirical confirmation." You push her robes up to her waist, revealing the pale, perfect swell of her ass. The contrast between her sharp intellect and this profound physical generosity is utterly intoxicating. You lean over her, your chest against her back, your mouth near her ear. "And my methodology," you whisper, the words a promise, "involves a rigorous and thorough application of stimulus." <img src="images/blue/hass.gif" alt="ass" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't rush. You take your time, exploring every inch of her with hands and mouth, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her fingers claw at the table. You find her already slick and swollen with need a data point of her own arousal she could not conceal. When you finally sheath yourself inside her, it is with a slow, deliberate thrust that wrings a choked, unscientific cry from her lips. The fit is perfection tight, wet, and overwhelmingly warm. You set a relentless, analytical pace, each movement a test, a variation in pressure and angle, observing her reactions with intense focus. The room fills with the sound of her ragged, pleading cries, the slap of skin on skin, and the low hum of still-active enchantments recording it all. "You are performing beyond projections, Lady Valeria," you murmur, throwing her own words back at her, a conqueror using the language of the conquered. Her only reply is a shattered moan as her climax crashes over her, her body convulsing around you in a series of intense, rhythmic spasms that pull you relentlessly toward your own peak. You follow her over the edge, your release a second, powerful thaumic surge that makes the runes on the wall flare a brilliant, satisfied blue. <img src="images/blue/hsex.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> -- <br> <strong>Some Time Later...</strong> <br> -- You stand together amidst the gently humming arcane equipment, the air still crackling with residual energy. Valeria fastens her robes with hands that are no longer perfectly steady, her usual clinical precision replaced by a thoughtful, deeply analytical calm. She looks at you not as a subject, but as a fascinating outlier. A significant deviation from the mean. "A statistically improbable event," she murmurs, more to herself than to you, her gaze distant as she processes the data. "The energy expenditure, the synaptic feedback loops, the convergence of variables... it should not have been possible. And yet, the data is irrefutable." She focuses on you, and the look in her eyes is one of intense, rapturous curiosity. "You are an anomaly. And anomalies must be studied, not discarded." "The common dorms are for control groups," she states, her voice regaining its analytical tone, but now layered with a possessive, almost hungry curiosity. "You will be moved to the Septenius Dormitories. The east wing, chamber eight-alpha. It is adjacent to my private section." She steps closer, adjusting the collar of your robe not with affection, but with the focus of a researcher securing a prized specimen. "The conditions for our research must be optimal." "Your tutelage begins at dawn. We will attempt to replicate these results under controlled conditions. We will quantify this power, decrypt its arcane source, and document the full spectrum of... intimate data exchange." A faint, intellectual smile touches her lips, devoid of warmth but full of promise. "And I will be there to observe every reaction." <img src="images/blue/valeria.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> She turns toward the chamber's archway, the blue light glinting off her recovered glasses. "Come. The house will be... curious about the new variable I've introduced to our work." She doesn't look back, expecting you to follow. The path ahead is a hypothesis waiting to be tested, an equation waiting to be solved, and it runs directly through her research. [[Follow Her and Enter House Septenius->cobalt_dorm_path]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Chamber Eight-Alpha</h2></span> You follow Lady Valeria out of the experimental chamber and into the heart of House Septenius. The corridors here are a stark contrast to the rest of the academy wider, quieter, lit by the cool, constant glow of enchanted blue crystals set into the walls. The air hums with contained magical energy and the faint scent of ozone and old parchment. Students in deep blue robes pause their conversations to watch you pass. Their gazes are sharp, analytical, and deeply curious. They note your presence, your proximity to their Head of House, and file the data away for later analysis. You are a new, unclassified variable in their structured world. Valeria stops before a door marked with a complex, glowing rune. She traces a pattern in the air, and the door silently swings inward.<<set $house = "septenius">> "Your accommodations," she states, stepping aside to let you enter. "The wards are keyed to your magical signature. They will admit no one else without your express permission. Even I would require... significant effort to bypass them." <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The chamber is less a dormitory and more a submerged observatory. Every surface except the floor is formed of a seamless, transparent dome of enchanted glass, holding back the crushing depths with effortless grace. Beyond it, the world is liquid twilight an endless cathedral of water lit by drifting clouds of bioluminescent fungi and the slow pulse of unseen leviathans gliding in the murk. Inside this crystalline cocoon, the furnishings are minimal but purposeful. A low platform bed rests on a smooth stone dais, its enchanted mattress adjusting to the perfect contours of your body. A pristine desk gleams beside it, equipped with a self-cleaning inkwell and a data-slate that streams ethereal script across its surface. The simplicity of the interior only heightens the surreal luxury of the view, as though you sleep and study inside a private sanctuary suspended in the abyss. Your meager belongings from the common dorms are already there, looking absurdly out of place on a sleek shelf next to a stack of pristine, blank grimoires. "Familiarize yourself with the systems," Valeria instructs, her tone once again that of a professor. "The syllabus for your independent study is on the slate. I expect you to have memorized the first three protocols by dawn." She makes to leave, then pauses in the doorway, a final, loaded piece of data offered almost as an afterthought. "And <span class='player-name'>$name</span>... do not be late. Punctuality is the first principle of a rigorous methodology." The door whispers shut behind her, leaving you alone in the silent, humming room. The sense of isolation is gone, replaced by the immense pressure of expectation. You are no longer an outsider. You are her experiment, her investment, her... partner. The game has not just changed; it has evolved into an entirely new, more complex equation. [[Review the Syllabus->septenius_syllabus]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Sustained Energy</h2></span> Gritting your teeth, you focus your will. You grasp the rising tide of pleasure not as something to be released, but as a current of raw energy to be contained and cycled. You remember her words*"The body can be taught to sustain... to hold a charge indefinitely."* You envision a runic circle in your mind, a containment ward holding back the storm. Lady Valeria's eyes widen slightly behind her glasses, a flicker of intense professional admiration replacing pure arousal. Her movements become more deliberate, more challenging. Her tongue traces a new, more complex pattern, and you feel a fresh wave of enchantment try to breach your mental defenses. The cool mist from her skin intensifies, a tantalizing contrast that makes you shudder. "Remarkable," she murmurs against your flesh, the vibration a test in itself. "The subject is attempting voluntary flux stabilization. Resistance is... formidable." She increases the frequency of her ministrations, her hands joining to add their own enchanted caresses, determined to break your control and record the moment of catastrophic release. The air hums with the power you're both generating and containing. The runes on the walls, which had calmed, begin to glow again, pulsing in time with your hammering heart. You hold on. Sweat beads on your brow. Every muscle in your body is taut as a bowstring. You are a dam holding back a lake of pure ecstasy. For glorious, agonizing moments, you succeed. You prove your will is stronger than her art. But she is the master of this art. And a master knows that every dam has its weakness. She looks up, her deep blue eyes locking with yours. She doesn't increase her pace. Instead, she opens her throat and takes you deep, and at the exact same moment, she utters a single, forbidden syllable of power. <img src="images/blue/limit.gif" alt="Titjob" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> It's not a physical touch. It's a psychic key that unlocks the core of your being. Your mental ward shatters. The contained energy you've been holding back doesn't just release; it detonates. [[Surrender->blue_climax]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible</h2></span> She shoves open a heavy, iron-banded door, revealing a cavernous, torch-lit chamber the House Ignis training grounds. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, smoke, and ozone from recently cast battle-magic. The floor is hard-packed earth, scarred by countless bouts. Weapons racks line the walls, and in the center, a circle is painted in what looks like dried, dark blood. <img src="images/red/crucible.png" alt="arena" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> She releases you with a final, challenging shove that sends you a step into the room. "Welcome to the Crucible, new blood. This is where we separate the sparks from the true fire." With practiced ease, she unbuckles her leather cuirass, letting it fall to the ground with a heavy thud. The simple, tight tunic she wears underneath does nothing to hide the powerful, voluptuous shape of her body the heavy swell of her breasts, the hard plane of her stomach, the formidable strength in her arms and shoulders. She is a masterpiece of warrior's physique. She kicks off her boots and strides into the center of the blood-red circle, rolling her shoulders. "Rules are simple. You pin me, you win. You yield, you fail. No weapons. No magic. Just strength, skill, and will." Her emerald eyes gleam. "Or are you all talk?" She doesn't wait for a ready signal. She moves. It's not a run; it's a predator's lunge, shockingly fast for her powerful build. She closes the distance in a heartbeat, one hand shooting out to grab your wrist while her leg sweeps to kick your feet out from under you. It's a classic, brutal takedown meant to end the fight before it begins. <<link "Meet her force with your own">> <<set $str += 1>>  <<goto "red_fight">> <</link>> | <<link "Hesitate">> <<goto "red_hesitate">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Unworthy Spark</h2></span> <img src="images/red/nn.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> A flinch. A moment of doubt. You freeze for a critical second, your body bracing against her lunge instead of meeting it. In the Crucible, hesitation is a death sentence. The change in the Ignis captain is instantaneous and absolute. Her powerful lunge becomes a contemptuous shove, sending you stumbling back onto the hard-packed earth. She doesn't follow up. She just stops, standing over you, her hands on her hips. The fire in her emerald eyes dies, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated disgust... which then flickers into something else brief, sharp confusion, as if she's surprised by the intensity of her own reaction. "Pathetic," she spits the word like a curse, but it sounds more like she's trying to convince herself. She shakes her head, not just at you, but at the situation. "I felt it. No fire. No fight. Just cold fear." She clenches her fist, looking at it as if it belongs to someone else. "What in the hells was I thinking? Trying to spark a fire with wet kindling." She retrieves her cuirass and buckles it back on with sharp, angry motions, her frustration now clearly directed inward. "House Ignis has no use for those who flinch. Strength isn't just in the muscle; it's in the will. You have neither. And I... I wasn't thinking straight." She gestures a thumb over her shoulder toward a narrow, dark archway. "The common dormitories are through there. You'll find a cot with the other rejects. Report for introductory conditioning at dawn. It's mandatory for all... unaffiliated students." The dismissal is brutal and final. The promise of glory, passion, and raw power is gone, replaced by the grim reality of anonymous, basic training. The door to a world of legendary spirit and heroic victory slams shut, leaving you in the dust of your own failure and her moment of confused clarity. <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> [[Report to the common dorms->common_dorms_intro]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Forged in Fire</h2></span> You don't hesitate. You meet her lunge with a roar, your body moving on pure instinct. Instead of pulling back, you surge forward, your own leg hooking behind hers to counter her sweep. Muscle strains against muscle. For a breathtaking second, you are locked in a perfect, powerful stalemate, her emerald eyes wide with surprise and dawning respect. "Finally, a spark!" she grunts, a fierce grin splitting her face. The stalemate breaks. The fight dissolves into a brutal, beautiful dance of leverage and raw power. You trade blows that would break bones on a lesser opponent, heavy, open-handed strikes to ribs, lightning-fast grapples for dominance, desperate throws that send you both crashing to the hard-packed earth only to scramble apart and charge again. The air is filled with the sound of ragged breathing, impact, and her throaty laughs of approval. You manage to get an arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet in a display of strength that makes her shout in triumph, not protest. She answers by twisting like a viper in your grip, her legs scissoring around your neck to try and bring you down. You drop, rolling with the momentum, and suddenly she is beneath you, pinned by your weight, her wrists captured in your hands above her head. The fight leaves her body all at once. She goes still beneath you, her chest heaving against yours. A trickle of blood paints a thin line from her split lip, but her grin is wild and victorious. "You win," she breathes, her voice husky with exertion and something else entirely. "You have the fire." She doesn't wait for you to get off. Her hips buck against yours, a deliberate, grinding motion that leaves no doubt about her meaning. The heat of her sears you through your clothes. <img src="images/red/grind.webp" alt="grind" style="max-width:80%; height:auto;; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "The real price is just beginning," she challenges, her eyes dark with promise. "I will make you yield." <<link "Enjoy your reward">> <<set $str += 1>>  <<goto "red_lesson_begin">> <</link>> | <<link "Claim her instead">> <<set $dom += 3>>  <<goto "red_victory">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Absolute Victory</h2></span> A sharp, predatory grin cuts across your face. This is a challenge you were born for. "You don't make me do anything," you growl, your voice thick with the adrenaline of the fight and rising desire. "I take what I want." Her eyes flash with fierce delight. This is the response she craves. <img src="images/red/rip.gif" alt="ripping" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't wait for her next move. You shift your weight, keeping her wrists pinned with one hand while the other tears at the laces of her tunic. The fabric gives way with a satisfying rip, revealing the heavy, sweat-sheened swell of her breasts, full and proud, their peaks already hardened into tight buds against the cool air of the chamber. Glinting with slivers of silver. A raw, hungry sound escapes her. <img src="images/red/tits.webp" alt="tits" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "You fought well," you concede, your voice a low rumble of approval. "A worthy opponent. But the fight is over." Your free hand closes over one breast, your palm engulfing its generous weight. You squeeze firmly, making her gasp as you roll her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, teasing it into an even stiffer peak. She arches her back off the ground, pressing herself more firmly into your rough caress. "Now, you're the prize." Before she can retort, you release her wrists and maneuver yourself to kneel over her hips. She makes a half-hearted attempt to push you off, but her strength is now a pretense, a last echo of the battle already lost. You lean down, capturing her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, swallowing her moans. As you kiss her, your hands find her breasts again, kneading and molding their full, soft weight, your thumbs circling and flicking over her nipples until they are aching, sensitive pebbles. You break the kiss, trailing your lips down her neck, over her collarbone, until your mouth closes over one taut nipple. You suckle deeply, your tongue lashing the sensitive peak while your hand continues its work on its twin, pinching and rolling it with just the right edge of pain to make her cry out. Her hands, once meant for fighting, now tangle in your hair, holding you to her breast as her hips begin to move in helpless, grinding circles beneath you. <img src="images/red/sucking.gif" alt="suck" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "You yield," you command against her damp skin, your voice leaving no room for argument. It is not a question. "Yes," she gasps, her head thrashing from side to side. "Gods, yes... I yield..." But yielding is not enough. You intend to claim every inch of your victory. <<set $dom += 3>> <br> [[Take it further->red_dom_penetrate]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Total Conquest</h2></span> Yielding is not enough. You intend to claim every inch of your victory. With a final, possessive squeeze of her breast, you move down her powerful, sweat-slicked body. Your hands hook into the waistband of her trousers, and with a single, brutal tug, you rip them from her, along with her panties, baring her completely. <img src="images/red/ripd.gif" alt="panties" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> She is magnificent. A warrior's body, stout muscles and soft, powerful curves. A thatch of dark curls crowns the apex of her thighs, and beneath, her folds are already glistening with her need, slick and swollen from the fight. A low, animal sound rumbles in your chest. "You yield with your words," you growl, positioning yourself between her powerful thighs. "Now yield with your body." You don't prepare her. You don't tease. You guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your cock pressing against her wet heat. Her eyes, glazed with lust, lock with yours. You see a flicker of challenge there still a dare. You take it. In one powerful, claiming thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt inside her. Her back arches off the hard earth, a raw, guttural scream tearing from her throat a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and conquest. Her inner walls clamp around you, impossibly tight, a silken, muscular sheath molded perfectly to your shape by the tension of the fight. "Gods..." she gasps, her nails digging into your forearms. You don't give her a moment to adjust. You set a punishing, relentless pace, each deep thrust jolting through both of you. The air fills with the primal sounds of your bodies meeting, her ragged cries, and your own guttural groans. This is no tender lovemaking; this is a continuation of the battle, a physical domination as raw and honest as the fight that preceded it. <img src="images/red/rough.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You lean over her, your face inches from hers, your breath mingling. "Who won?" you demand, driving into her with deep, deliberate strokes. "You! You did!" she cries out immediately, her voice breaking as another wave of pleasure crashes over her. "Say my name," you command, your rhythm never faltering. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span>!" she screams, her body beginning to tremble beneath you. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span>! You conquered me! Now make me yours completely!" <img src="images/red/beg.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her climax hits her like a warhammer. Her body convulses around you, her inner muscles milking you with violent, exquisite spasms. Exhausted from the pleasure the mighty Knight Nyx begs you to finish. "Cum in me! Please! <<set $dom += 6>> <br> [[Claim your victory->red_victory_end]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Victory's Due</h2></span> Her plea is the final command you needed. With a final, brutal thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt, roaring your release as you pump your seed deep inside her. The mighty Knight-Captain screams your name one last time, her body seizing around you in a final, violent climax that milks your cum into her. For a moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the crackle of distant torches. You collapse on top of her, your sweat-slicked bodies pressed together on the hard earth. Her powerful arms, which moments ago were trying to throw you off, now wrap around you, holding you close as you both shudder through the aftershocks. You don't give her time to recover. Rolling off her, you pull her up with you to her knees. Her eyes are dazed, her body still trembling, but a fierce, satisfied smile plays on her bruised lips. You fist a hand in her sweat-damp hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to claim. To own. "Open," you command, your voice a hoarse growl. <img src="images/red/knee.gif" alt="bj" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Without a shred of hesitation, she obeys, her mouth falling open. You guide yourself between her lips, still slick with her own essence. She takes your cock in with a hungry moan, her tongue swirling around your sensitive flesh, cleaning you, worshipping you, tasting the proof of your shared victory. The sight of this powerful warrior on her knees, devoted to your pleasure, sends a final, powerful thrum of dominance through your veins. After a moment, you pull her off. A thin strand of saliva connects her lips to you. She looks up, her expression one of pure, battle-forged devotion. That innocuous look stirs your blood yet again. "On your feet, Captain," you order, pulling her up. You turn her around and bend her over once more, presenting her magnificent, well-marked ass to you. Your handprint is already blooming on one cheek. You deliver another sharp smack, making her gasp and push her hips back in eager invitation. <img src="images/red/slap.gif" alt="slap" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "You yielded in the ring," you say, positioning yourself at her well-used entrance, still dripping with your cum. "Now yield again." In one smooth, claiming motion, you penetrate her vagina once more. She cries out, a sound of pure, overwhelmed pleasure, her body accepting you with a familiar, perfect tightness. You set a relentless, possessive pace, not for your climax, but to brand the lesson into her very soul. Each thrust is a reminder of your victory, of her surrender. "Who owns your victories?" you demand, gripping her hips. "You do!" she cries out, her voice breaking as another, softer climax shakes her. "My strength is yours to command!"<<set $dominated_nyx = true>><span class="domination-success">A surge of absolute authority washes over you, hot and intoxicating. This isn't just victory; it's a fundamental change. A new thread of power, shimmering and permanent, now ties her essence to yours. You have not just won a battle; you have claimed a throne.</span> <img src="images/red/hard.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You finally still, buried deep within her, both of you panting and spent. You have not just won a fight. You have conquered a legend, and in doing so, begun to forge your own. Your legend begins now. <<set $dom += 3>> [[Continue->red_new_rules]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>An Uncontainable Flame</h2></span> You slowly pull away from the Knight-Captain, your body thrumming with power and the raw energy of conquest. She slumps against the hard-packed earth, spent and trembling, a whispered "By the gods..." escaping her bruised lips. You watch her for a moment, a warrior surveying the field of a hard-won victory, before you calmly begin to pull on your clothes. She makes no move to cover herself or stand. She simply watches you, her expression a potent mix of awe, fierce pride, and addictive hunger. You have met her challenge and surpassed it, forging a new bond in the heat of battle. Once you are dressed, you look down at her. "Your strength is mine to command. Prove it. Give me something I can use." "Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw," she says without hesitation, her voice raw but strong. "He's the weaponsmaster for House Ignis. He runs an underground fight club for the nobles in the city. The entrance is through the smithy, behind the anvil with the wolf's head sigil. He's brutal. He won't respect you until you break his nose." "Fun," you reply, your tone leaving no doubt about the outcome. You turn to leave, the taste of victory like iron and fire on your tongue. "Wait," she calls out, pushing herself up onto her elbows. The movement makes her wince, but her eyes are alight. "What happens now? Between us?" You pause at the heavy door, glancing back. "Now? You remain my fist within Ignis. You will ensure my voice is heard. Our... training continues, at my discretion. Not yours." You don't wait for her agreement. You know you have it. <img src="images/npc/proctor.png" alt="A mysterious man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> But as you step out of the Crucible and back into the torch-lit hallway, a figure emerges from the shadows. It is an older man with a severe face, sharp eyes, and a pin of a silver scale on his lapel the mark of the Academy's proctors. He has been waiting. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span> he says, his voice devoid of warmth. "That was a... forceful audition." Your mind races. *How much did he see? Hear?* "It seems you possess a formidable... capacity for violence," he continues, his eyes flicking toward the closed door of the Crucible. "A capacity that is far too raw and undisciplined for the structured trials of our Great Houses. House Ignis channels its fire; it does not let it rage unchecked. What you just did in there was a wildfire." He gestures for you to follow him. The walk is silent, leading you away from the training grounds, down into colder, quieter corridors deep in the academy's foundation. "Your actions have made you a danger. An impressive one, but a danger nonetheless. We cannot have an unbroken stallion kicking down the stable doors on its first night." He stops before a plain, wooden door. He unlocks it with a heavy key to reveal a spartan room with a simple cot, a small desk, and a single window looking out over the dark, mist-shrouded grounds. "Until you learn control and prove you can be more than a weapon, you are unaffiliated. You will reside here, in the common dorms. You will attend general conditioning. Consider it a taming period." He gives you one last, evaluating look. <br>"Strength is nothing without the discipline to direct it. Perhaps you will learn that here. Or perhaps you'll get yourself killed. I suppose we shall see." The Proctor turns and stalks away, leaving you standing in the doorway of your new, meager accommodations. The intoxicating high of your victory is still there, a fire in your blood, but it's now tempered by a cold, sharp reality. You won your bout spectacularly, but in doing so, you have been deemed too wild for the house of warriors. The game hasn't just changed. It has become infinitely more challenging. <<set $metProctor = true>> [[Enter the common dorms->common_dorms_intro]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Payment in Full</h2></span> A fierce, triumphant grin splits her face. "A victor's reward!" She doesn't lead you to a bed. With a powerful shove, she spins you around and drives you back until your legs hit a heavy, scarred training bench. The rough wood bites into your thighs. Before you can process it, she drops to her knees in the hard-packed dirt before you, the sight of the powerful warrior on her knees utterly arresting. Her hands are at your waist, tearing open the fastenings of your trousers with brutal efficiency. "The only principle that matters in the Crucible is strength," she growls, her breath hot against the fabric. "And strength deserves its tribute." She yanks your trousers down just enough to free your cock, which springs forth, already fully hard and throbbing from the fight. Her calloused hand wraps around the base in a firm, possessive grip, her thumb smearing a bead of pre-cum over the sensitive head. "A worthy weapon," she grunts, her voice thick with approval. <img src="images/red/hj.gif" alt="hj" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> She doesn't tease. She opens her mouth and takes you in. The heat and wetness are a shock, a searing contrast to the cool air of the training grounds. Her tongue is a rough, flat pressure underneath your shaft, massaging as she sinks down, taking you deep into her throat with a warrior's disregard for limits. One of her hands cups and firmly kneads your balls, while the other grips your hip, her nails digging in hard enough to promise bruises. Her head begins to piston in a steady, relentless rhythm. Each time she pulls back, her lips tighten around the head of your cock in a punishing ring. Each time she plunges down, her nose buries itself at your base, and you can feel the raw power in her throat working around you. The obscene, wet sounds of her efforts fill the torch-lit chamber, a lewd counterpoint to your own ragged breathing and the distant crackle of torches. You look down to see her the captain of House Ignis, a vision of battle-hardened power on her knees, utterly focused on claiming her prize. The sight, the sensation, the sheer, brutal wrongness of it all pushes you rapidly towards the edge. <img src="images/red/bj.gif" alt="bj" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her eyes, blazing with emerald fire, snap open to meet your gaze. She sees your building climax, reads it in the tension of your thighs, the short, sharp gasps tearing from your throat. She increases her pace, a guttural hum of satisfaction vibrating straight up your spine. "Your tribute is due now, victor," she commands, her voice a husky vibration around your cock that nearly makes you spill. "Don't you dare hold back. Give me everything you've earned." <<link "\"I'm gonna burst...\"" "red_climax">> <<set $str += 1>>  <<goto "red_climax">> <</link>> | <<link "Try to last longer" "red_endure">> <<set $dom += 1>>  <<set $str += 1>>  <<goto "red_endure">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Victor's Tribute</h2></span> Her command shatters the last vestiges of your control. A raw, guttural roar is ripped from your throat as your hips buck forward, driving yourself deeper into that searing, claiming heat. Your hands fist in her short, sweat-dampened hair, not to guide her, but to anchor yourself as your entire world narrows to the feeling of her victorious mouth. She doesn't pull away. She meets your thrusts, with her own powerful neck muscles working as she takes every violent pulse of your release. A low, approving growl vibrates from her chest into yours, the sound of a warrior claiming her spoils. Her eyes, blazing with triumph, remain locked on yours, watching you completely unravel for her. She swallows every last drop, a final, firm suction that wrings the last shudders from your body. <img src="images/red/cum.gif" alt="cum" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> When the last tremor subsides, she slowly pulls back. A fierce, proud grin is smeared across her face. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, her eyes never leaving yours. "A worthy tribute," she rasps, her voice rough and satisfied. She rises to her feet with a powerful, fluid motion, the muscles in her thighs and stomach flexing. She makes no move to cover herself or pull up her tunic; her body is a testament to your victory. She steps forward into your space, her scent of sweat, leather, and woman utterly intoxicating. She traces a calloused finger along your jawline, her touch possessive. "Now that the tribute is paid," she purrs, a new, hungrier fire in her emerald eyes, "the real victory lap begins. On your back. The Crucible isn't done with you yet." She shoves you backward onto the training bench with surprising strength. The wood groans under your weight. "The first pin was for my pleasure," she says, her voice dropping to a challenge as she climbs over you, straddling your hips. The heat of her core presses against you through her trousers. "This one is for yours. Let's see what kind of endurance you really have, victor." The look in her eyes leaves no doubt that the fight has simply moved to a new, far more pleasurable arena. [[Meet her challenge->red_lesson_two]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Victory Lap</h2></span> Her challenge hangs in the sweat-and-smoke-charged air, a gauntlet thrown you are more than ready to pick up. A fierce grin splits your face. You surge up from the bench, your arms wrapping around her powerful waist and flipping her onto her back on the hard wood in one fluid, dominant motion. The bench groans in protest. "The Crucible yields to me tonight," you growl, pinning her wrists above her head. A look of pure, unadulterated thrill lights her emerald eyes. "Prove it!" You don't need further invitation. Your mouth crashes down on hers in a searing, possessive kiss that tastes of blood, sweat, and victory. It's a battle of tongues and teeth, a claiming as raw and primal as the fight that preceded it. Your hands release her wrists to tear at the laces of her trousers, yanking them down her powerful thighs. She kicks them off with a frustrated, eager snarl. Her own hands are just as frantic, claws scrabbling at your clothes until you are both naked, skin sliding against sweat-slicked skin on the hard bench. The heat of her core is an inferno against your stomach. "You want my endurance?" you rasp against her neck, your hand sliding between her legs to find her dripping wet and throbbing vagina. "Then scream for it." You plunge two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that makes her back arch off the bench with a guttural cry. You set a punishing rhythm with your hand, your mouth silencing her cries with bruising kisses, showing no mercy. This is the victory lap, and you are setting a record pace. When you finally sheath yourself inside her in one powerful thrust, it feels like coming home to a warzone. She screams, her nails digging bloody furrows into your back, her legs locking around your hips to pull you deeper. The pace you set is relentless, each thrust a conquest, each gasp from her lips a trophy. The bench slams against the stone floor with the force of your joining, the sound echoing through the cavernous training grounds. <img src="images/red/sex1.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You are both warriors, and this is the most primal battle of all. There is no submission, only a fierce, shared climb toward a shattering peak. When it comes, it's with the force of a collapsing star. Her scream of release is a raw, triumphant thing, met by your own roar as you cum inside her, your bodies convulsing together in the aftermath of mutual conquest. -- <br> <strong>Later, by the Dying Torches...</strong> <br> -- You lie together on a pile of discarded training furs, limbs tangled, breathing slowly returning to normal. The scent of sex and sweat is thick in the air. She traces the fresh scratches on your chest with a possessive finger, a low chuckle rumbling in her chest. "Never seen a recruit like you," she says, her voice a satisfied growl. "Something in the air today. Felt like a damn lightning strike. Would've put money on myself to crush you... glad I didn't take that bet." She grins, a fierce, wild thing. "Turns out the best kind of fire is the one that surprises you." She sits up, the firelight glinting off the powerful muscles of her back. "The common dorms are for the untested and the weak," she states, the command returning to her voice. "You won't be seeing them. Your gear is already being moved to the Ignis Dorms. The south wing, chamber near the forge. It's next to mine." <img src="images/red/nyx.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> She gets to her feet with a warrior's grace and offers you a hand up, her grip like iron. "Training begins at dawn. You will learn to channel that fire, to swing a blade that sings, and to understand that the greatest strength is found in the heat of battle... and after." Her fierce grin returns. "And I'll be there to make sure that spark turns into a goddamn inferno." "Come. The house will be eager to see the new fire I've stoked in our ranks." She doesn't wait for an answer, turning to lead the way. The path ahead is fierce, demanding, and runs directly through her forge. [[Follow Her and Enter House Ignis->crimson_dorm_path]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Endurance Test</h2></span> The command in her voice is a challenge that ignites your very blood, but a spark of defiance, a refusal to be broken so quickly flares within you. You are a victor. You will not be spent like a common coin. With a guttural roar of effort, you plant your feet wide in the hard-packed dirt, your muscles coiling like steel springs. You tense your entire body, fighting against the tidal wave of raw, physical pleasure she's building. You force your breathing into deep, controlled bellows breaths, the air burning in your lungs. She feels the change in you immediately. The deliberate resistance, the iron-clad tension in your thighs and abdomen. She slows her relentless rhythm, pulling back until just the head of your cock rests on her tongue, slick and throbbing. Her eyes, blazing with emerald fire and newfound, savage interest, snap up to yours. "Trying to last, victor?" she grunts, the words a hot, wet challenge on your skin. "Trying to prove your stamina matches your strength? A dangerous game." A fierce, approving grin splits her face. "I like it." Her approach changes. The brutal, skilled fucking of her mouth ceases. Instead, she becomes a torturous drill sergeant of sensation. She uses only her tongue, rough and flat, to lick agonizingly slow stripes from your base to your tip, as if testing the weapon she's honing. She takes your balls into her mouth, not gently, but with a firm, sucking pressure that makes them ache with a deep, full promise. She nips at your inner thigh with her teeth, leaving a faint mark that stings and makes you jump. Only time you get any reprieve is when she lets her magnificent bossom envelope your dick instead. <img src="images/red/titjob.gif" alt="tj" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her calloused hands join the torture. One continues its possessive grip on your hip, her nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. The other drifts up your stomach, under your torn shirt, to find a bruise from your fight and press down on it with her thumb, sending a sharp jolt of pain-pleasure through your core. The dual sensations the wet, searing heat below and the sharp, grounding pain above make your vision swim. "You have an iron will," she concedes, her voice thick with genuine, battle-forged respect. She leans forward again, her breath ghosting over your slick dick. "But every will breaks. Let's find the weight that shatters yours." She opens her mouth and takes you deep once more, but this time, as she sinks down, her body seems to grow hotter. Magically, with the intense, focused heat of a forge. The wet, tight heat of her mouth becomes an inferno, a glorious friction that threatens to melt your very soul. Your control begins to fracture. The muscles in your legs and abdomen tremble violently. A broken, animal sound is torn from your throat. You are at the very edge of the precipice, clinging to your victory by your fingernails. She feels the inevitable surrender in the violent, helpless pulse of your cock against her tongue. She redoubles her efforts, the heat intensifying, her throat working around you with ruthless efficiency, her eyes locking onto yours, demanding your complete and utter capitulation. <img src="images/red/bj1.gif" alt="bj" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Now," she commands, the word a vibration that shakes the last of your resolve. "Claim your tribute." <<link "Surrender" "red_climax">> <<set $str += 1>>  <<goto "red_climax">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Forge's Heart</h2></span> You follow Nyx out of the training grounds and deeper into the territory of House Ignis. The air shifts from the scent of sweat and ozone to the overwhelming heat of the forge and the tang of molten metal. The corridors are hewn from rough, dark stone, lit by the relentless glow of forge-fires that burn in great pits along the hallways. The sound is a constant, rhythmic cacophony the clash of steel on steel, shouted orders, and the deep, satisfying ring of hammers on anvils. Warriors in scorched leathers and light armor pause their sparring or their weapon maintenance to watch you pass. Their gazes are appraising, they are simple, direct challenges. They see your bare chest, the fresh scratches, your proximity to their Captain, and they nod a gesture of respect earned through proven strength. You are not a variable; you are a contender. Nyx stops before a heavy iron door marked with a brand of a flaming phoenix. She shoves it open with her shoulder without breaking stride.<<set $house = "ignis">> "Your forge," she states, gesturing you inside. <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Spartan Ignis Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The room within is Spartan, functional, and intensely personal. The bed is a solid wooden platform piled with thick furs. A simple, sturdy desk holds a whetstone and a few pots of weapon oil. But the centerpiece is a personal, cold forge and anvil in one corner, along with a rack for honing your weapons. The heat from the main forge below seeps through the stone floor, making the air warm and dry. One wall is open to a cavernous view of the academy's volcanic vents, which periodically blast plumes of fire into the chasm below, lighting the room with a dramatic, hellish glow. Your meager belongings from the common dorms are already there, a small pile in the corner next to a set of pristine, unworn Ignis leathers. "Get familiar with your tools," Nyx instructs, her tone that of a commander giving orders. "Your blade is your soul here. A dull edge is a sign of a dull spirit. I expect yours to sing by dawn." She makes to leave, then pauses in the doorway, a final, smoldering look thrown over her shoulder. "And <span class='player-name'>$name</span>... don't be late. Lateness is a weakness. And we burn weaknesses out of our ranks." The door clangs shut behind her, leaving you alone in the rumbling, fiery heat. The sense of isolation is gone, replaced by the palpable pressure of constant, fierce expectation. You are no longer an outsider. You are her recruit, her champion, her... equal in the making. The game has not just changed; it has been thrown into the fire and is being reforged into something sharper and harder. [[Inspect your new blade->ignis_blade]]

<div id="stat-display"> <div class="stats-title">POWER STATS</div> <div class="stats-values"> <strong>Dominance:</strong> <<print $dom>> | <strong>Charm:</strong> <<print $charm>> | <strong>Intelligence:</strong> <<print $int>> | <strong>Strength:</strong> <<print $str>> </div> </div> <div id="promise-counters"> <div class="promise-title">HOUSE FAVOR</div> <div class="promise-row"> <span class="promise-name">SELENE</span> <div class="promise-visual"> <span class="promise-bars"><<= "■".repeat(Math.max(0, Math.min(3, $promise_selene))) >></span> <span class="promise-bars negative"><<= "■".repeat(Math.max(0, Math.min(3, -$promise_selene))) >></span> </div> <span class="promise-value" data-value="<<print $promise_selene>>"><<print $promise_selene>></span> </div> <div class="promise-row"> <span class="promise-name">VALERIA</span> <div class="promise-visual"> <span class="promise-bars"><<= "■".repeat(Math.max(0, Math.min(3, $promise_valeria))) >></span> <span class="promise-bars negative"><<= "■".repeat(Math.max(0, Math.min(3, -$promise_valeria))) >></span> </div> <span class="promise-value" data-value="<<print $promise_valeria>>"><<print $promise_valeria>></span> </div> <div class="promise-row"> <span class="promise-name">NYX</span> <div class="promise-visual"> <span class="promise-bars"><<= "■".repeat(Math.max(0, Math.min(3, $promise_nyx))) >></span> <span class="promise-bars negative"><<= "■".repeat(Math.max(0, Math.min(3, -$promise_nyx))) >></span> </div> <span class="promise-value" data-value="<<print $promise_nyx>>"><<print $promise_nyx>></span> </div> </div>

<center> <span class="big-title letterborder"><em>The Sorcerous Seduction</em></span><br>author: Yaccoss </center>V0.01 <span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Summons</h2></span> <img src="images/letter.png" alt="A mysterious letter" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The ragged parchment felt heavy in your hand, far heavier than mere paper had any right to be. The wax seal, a complex sigil of a tri-pointed crown encircled by a serpent, was broken, but its magical impression still tingled against your thumb. It had arrived not by courier, but by a wisp of shadow that coalesced on your doorstep at the stroke of midnight. You read the flowing script for the hundredth time, your heart hammering against your ribs. First of: Who are you? <span class="letterborder" style="color:purple;font-family:mv boli">Enter your first name:</span> <<textbox "$name" "">> <span class="letterborder" style="color:purple;font-family:mv boli">Enter your last name:</span> <<textbox "$lastname" "">> "To the young Master By the unseen currents of fate and the recommendation of powers best left unnamed, you are hereby summoned to Aethelgard Academy. Your... unique potential has not gone unnoticed. Within these walls, the mundane world falls away. Here, power is not a whispered secret but a currency. Desire is not a weakness but a syllabus. You have spent a lifetime feeling the itch of magic under your skin, the hunger for something more. We offer the scratch, the feast. Come. Take your place. Claim the legacy that a stagnant world has denied you. The doors open at dusk. Do not be late." There was no signature. None was needed. Every soul for a thousand leagues knew of Aethelgard, the magic university where the world's most dangerous and exquisite magics were nurtured. A place of legend. And now, you stand on the precipice. Before you, at the end of a winding path through a mist-shrouded forest, the academy rises, a monstrously beautiful edifice of gothic spires and ancient stone, piercing a sky where the stars already seem too close. This is your chance. To escape the grey tedium of your former life. To unravel the mystery of your own strange abilities. To seize power, pleasure, or knowledge beyond your wildest dreams. To finally belong. You take a final, steadying breath, the letter crumbling to enchanted dust in your fist. Your future lies beyond those doors. <img src="images/locations/castle.jpg" alt="A mysterious castle" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> A dry chuckle rasps from the shadows near a towering, dormant rosebush just inside the gate. An old man, his back bent from years of labor, steps into the faint light of the twin moons. His face is a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes are sharp, missing nothing. He leans on a weathered rake, its wood smoothed by countless grips. "Eh, they always get that look," he grumbles, his voice like grinding stone. "The 'what-am-I-doing-here' look. Don't overthink it, pup. The letter called you for a reason. It smelled the truest part of your bones." He gestures with a gnarled hand toward the looming main doors. "The first day here... it's a test you don't know you're taking. Everyone's sniffing around, figuring out the new pack. Leaning into your natural gift right off the bat? That's how you make a mark they won't forget. Lets 'em know where you might fit." He squints, looking you up and down as if assessing a new sapling. "So, what was it? What's the strength they saw?" His eyes go distant for a moment, clouded as though something unseen whispers through him. "No one walks all paths at once," he mutters, voice strange. "Every step closes a door, even as it opens another. To know the academy’s true face, you’ll need to return. Again. And again." He blinks, the haze gone, and scowls. "Bah. Forget my rambling. Choose, pup. What’s in your bones?" <img src="images/npc/groundskeeper.png" alt="A mysterious old man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <span style="color: #8e44ad;">[[Natural Rebel->set_dom]] <em>"You command respect without asking. Your will is a force others naturally follow."</em></span> The old man falls silent, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looks you over more intently. The casual gruffness leaves his voice, replaced by a low, gravelly seriousness. "Ah. That one. They haven't seen a will like yours in a long time. Not one so... untamed." He glances warily toward the towering spires of the academy. "This place... it runs on intricate games of power. Nyx in Ignis respects raw strength. Selene in Viridis admires the strength to command. Valeria in Septenius will see it as a variable to be calculated. They'll all test you, push you, try to see if your will can be bent to serve their games." He looks back at you, and for a moment, you see something ancient in his gaze. "But mark this: what they call a 'rebellion' might just be the only thing that can break the cycles of decay festering in these old stones. The future closing in on this place doesn't need another player. It needs a ruler. Show them your spine. Don't just meet their challenges, redefine them. They might not be ready for you, but that is precisely why you are needed." <span style="color: #2ECC71;">[[Silver Tongue->set_charm]] <em>"You can talk your way into or out of anything. Your words are your sharpest weapon."</em></span> A dry, knowing smirk cracks the old man's weathered face. "The true currency of this place isn't magic, pup. It's influence. And you? You've come to the mint with a silver tongue." He gestures with his chin toward the grand windows of House Viridis. "Selene's lot trades in secrets and favors. They'll see you as a valuable tool, a key to unlock any door." His smirk fades into a look of caution. "But be warned: every word here is a transaction, every smile a negotiation. The web of alliances is old and frayed, held together by lies and promises. A voice that can weave new truths or unravel old ones... that is a power that terrifies them. They will try to own your voice. Don't let them. Make them need it." <span style="color: #3498DB;">[[Brilliant Mind->set_int]] <em>"You see patterns others miss and solve problems that stump everyone else."</em></span> The groundskeeper's bushy eyebrows rise in genuine interest. "A mind that sees the world not as it is, but as it works." He nods toward the observatory towers of House Septenius. "Valeria and her scholars will appreciate that... or see you as the ultimate puzzle to be solved." His voice drops. "This academy is a machine with hidden gears, pup. Some are failing. Others are being turned toward dark purposes. A mind that can diagnose the rot, that can see the flaw in the grand design... that is a dangerous thing to those in power. They have built their reign on secrets. You have the gift to uncover them. Don't just solve their puzzles, find the ones they've hidden." <span style="color: #E74C3C;">[[Raw Power->set_str]] <em>"You possess an innate, physical or magical strength that cannot be taught."</em></span> The old man lets out a harsh, approving bark of laughter. "Finally! Something you can't argue with!" He jabs a thumb toward the roaring sounds of the Ignis training grounds. "Nyx and her warriors understand one language: force. They'll respect you for it, even if they test you every second." His expression sobers. "But strength like yours is a beacon. It draws both loyalty and fear. The fragile alliances here are cracking under their own weight. When they finally shatter, it won't be the cleverest or the richest who decides what comes next. It will be the strongest. They will try to use your power as their weapon. Decide for yourself what or who is worth fighting for." <span style="color: #BDC3C7;">[[Well-Rounded->set_balanced]] <em>"You are no master of one, but a capable jack-of-all-trades."</em></span> The old man hums, a sound of deep appreciation. "The flexible one. In a place where everyone is a specialist, a master of one single game, they will underestimate you. They always do." He sweeps his arm to take in the entire academy. "You see the whole board, not just one square. That is a rarer gift than any raw power or sharp mind. The path will be harder at the start, no House will immediately claim you. But when the walls between these factions begin to crumble, as they inevitably will, it will be those who can adapt, who can speak every language and walk every path, who will not just survive, but lead. Your weakness is your greatest strength. Remember that." <span style="color: #7F8C8D;">[[The Blank Slate->set_blank]] <em>"Your potential is utterly unformed, a mystery even to the ones who summoned you."</em></span> The old man goes completely still. The air around you seems to grow colder. His eyes, sharp and ancient, hold yours. "Ah," he whispers, the sound like dry leaves on stone. "The wild card. The void. They fear what they cannot categorize, and you... you are a question mark." He looks at the academy not with weariness, but with a strange pity. "They will not know what to do with you. Their games are for players with defined pieces. You are clay, yet to be shaped." A faint, almost sad smile touches his lips. "The hardest road, by far. But this institution was built on forgotten magic and buried truths. It has secrets that only a truly empty vessel can contain. They look for a master of games... but destiny may have sent them a master of change. Forge a path where none exists. Your very emptiness is what makes you infinite." He pushes himself upright with a grunt, turning back to his roses. "The choice is yours. Now quit lollygagging. Your future's waiting inside, and it won't wait long." <<if !$dom>><<set $dom = 0>> <<set $charm = 0>> <<set $int = 0>> <<set $str = 0>>  <<set $promise_selene = 0>><<set $promise_valeria = 0>><<set $promise_nyx = 0>> <</if>>

<<set $dom = 5>> <<set $charm = 0>> <<set $int = 0>> <<set $str = 0>> <<goto "Choice">>

<<set $dom = 0>> <<set $charm = 5>> <<set $int = 0>> <<set $str = 0>> <<goto "Choice">>

<<set $dom = 0>> <<set $charm = 0>> <<set $int = 5>> <<set $str = 0>> <<goto "Choice">>

<<set $dom = 0>> <<set $charm = 0>> <<set $int = 0>> <<set $str = 5>> <<goto "Choice">>

<<set $dom = 2>> <<set $charm = 2>> <<set $int = 2>> <<set $str = 2>> <<goto "Choice">>

<<set $dom = 0>> <<set $charm = 0>> <<set $int = 0>> <<set $str = 0>> <<goto "Choice">>

<div id="age-verify-overlay" style=" position: fixed; top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; background-color: #000; color: #fff; z-index: 10000; display: flex; flex-direction: column; justify-content: center; align-items: center; text-align: center; font-family: sans-serif; padding: 2em; box-sizing: border-box;"> <h1 style="color: #8e44ad; font-size: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1em;">The Sorcerous Seduction</h1> <div style="max-width: 600px; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; padding: 2em; border-radius: 10px; background-color: rgba(30, 0, 40, 0.8);"> <h2 style="color: #ff3860;">ADULT CONTENT WARNING</h2> <p>This game is intended for a mature audience aged 18 years and older. It contains explicit content of an adult nature, including but not limited to:</p> <ul style="text-align: left; display: inline-block;"> <li>Graphic sexual content and descriptions</li> <li>Themes of power, dominance, and submission</li> <li>Strong language</li> <li>Magical and sensual themes</li> </ul> <br><br> <p>By proceeding, you confirm that you are at least 18 years of age and consent to view such content.</p> <div style="margin-top: 2em;"> <<button "I AM 18 YEARS OR OLDER AND WISH TO PROCEED">> <<remove "#age-verify-overlay">> <<goto "Start">> <</button>> <br> <a href="https://www.google.com" style="color: #ccc; text-decoration: none; display: inline-block; margin-top: 1em;">I AM NOT OF AGE. I WILL EXIT.</a> </div> </div> </div>

<img src="images/power/str.jpg" alt="power" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $str gte 7>> You square your shoulders and let out a guttural roar, charging straight at the whirling cloud of dust and ancient parchment. The spirit, surprised by the direct assault, shrieks and dissipates against your form, its malice unable to find purchase on your resolve. Elian raises an impressed eyebrow. "Well. Maybe there's some Ignis spark in you after all. Not subtle, but effective. Come on, let's eat." <<set $str += 1>> [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You charge, but the dust devil easily dances away from your clumsy assault. It gathers itself and rams into you, sending you sprawling into a bookshelf and covering you in a fine layer of dust and humiliation. Elian sighs, helping you up. "Okay, maybe not strength. We'll find your thing. Let's take the long way." [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <</if>>

<img src="images/power/int.jpg" alt="power" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $int gte 7>> You watch the spirit's pattern. Noting it always recoils from a specific rune etched on a nearby archway, you grab a piece of chalk and quickly replicate the pattern on the floor, herding the spirit towards it. As it crosses the line, it lets out a confused whine and vanishes. Elian nods appreciatively. "Clever. Very Septenius. Maybe you're not a lost cause." <<set $int += 1>> [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to devise a plan, but the spirit's movements are too chaotic. Your attempts to outthink it fail, and it puffs up triumphantly before pelting you with bits of eraser. Elian gives a sympathetic wince. "Overthought it. Happens to the best of us. The long way it is." [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <</if>>

<img src="images/power/dom.jpg" alt="power" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $dom gte 15>> You plant your feet, your voice dropping into a tone of absolute command. "**Enough. You will stand down.**" The authority in your voice is palpable, a force of will that strikes the chaotic spirit. It wavers for a moment, its form flickering, before it shrinks down into a meek little pile of dust on the floor. Elian blinks. "Whoa. Okay. I've never seen that work. Maybe you just ended up here by mistake." <<set $dom += 1>> [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to command it, but your voice lacks conviction. The spirit seems to grow larger, almost laughing at your feeble attempt at authority before it blasts you with a gust of musty air. Elian shakes his head. "You've got to really believe it for that to work. Let's go." [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <</if>>

<img src="images/power/charm.jpg" alt="power" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $charm gte 7>> You hold up your hands in a peaceful gesture, offering a charming, disarming smile. "Easy there. No need for trouble. We're just passing through." The dust devil's agitation slows. It swirls curiously around you before nudging a lost, shiny button into your hand as a gift, then peacefully drifts away. Elian laughs. "Unbelievable. You charmed a cleaning spirit. That's a new one. The Viridis kids would be jealous." <<set $charm += 1>> [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to be friendly, but your words come out awkward and insincere. The spirit interprets it as mockery and responds by dumping the contents of a nearby wastebin over your head. Elian tries to hide a smile. "Yeah, they don't really go for small talk. Come on." [[Continue->dorm_refectory]] <</if>>

<img src="images/locations/refectory.png" alt="refectory" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;">Elian leads you to the cavernous, noisy refectory where Unaffiliated students eat at long, plain tables far from the elevated sections reserved for the Houses. "Remember what I said about cracks," he says, lowering his voice. "Eyes open. Ears open. Just because we're at the bottom doesn't mean we can't learn to play the game." He leaves you with your thoughts and a plate of surprisingly decent food. Your journey at Aethelgard hasn't begun the way you'd hoped, but it has begun. The path ahead is unclear, but it is yours to forge. [[Explore the common areas->common_explore]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Forging Your Own Path</h2></span><img src="images/locations/explore.jpg" alt="explore" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;">The common area is a stark contrast to the opulent halls above. It's a vast, vaulted cellar with mismatched furniture, worn tapestries, and the constant low hum of conversation from other Unaffiliated students. Some look resigned, others determined. Elian's words echo in your mind: *"The academy is old, and old places have cracks."* Where do you want to start looking for those cracks? [[The Rustic Library Nook->common_library]] <em>A collection of discarded and donated books. Maybe there's something useful the Houses overlooked.</em> [[The Training Yard->common_yard]] <em>A dusty, open space where Unaffiliated students practice away from the judging eyes of House Ignis. A place to hone raw power.</em> [[The Common Grounds->common_grounds]] <em>The social hub. Here, alliances are formed, secrets are traded, and reputations are built on whispers.</em> [[Your Quiet Dorm Room->common_room]] <em>Perhaps the best path right now is solitude. To plan, to meditate, to gather your will. And just end this long day.</em>

<img src="images/locations/lib.jpg" alt="lib" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $int gte 6>> The nook is a chaotic mess, but your keen mind quickly spots a pattern. Tucked behind a unstable stack of botanical guides is a single, thin volume bound in faded blue leather: *"A Primer on Peripheral Thaumaturgy."* It seems to be a basic guide to magic that operates outside the mainstream disciplines taught to the Houses perfect for an Unaffiliated. It's a start. <<set $int += 1>> [[Return to your room->common_room]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You spend an hour sifting through treatises on irrelevant history and crumbling books on obsolete magic theory. It's overwhelming and disorganized, and you find nothing of immediate value. Frustration is the only thing you gain. [[Return to your room->common_room]] <</if>>

<img src="images/locations/training.jpg" alt="ground" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $str gte 6>> You find a worn practice dummy and lose yourself in physical exertion. Your strikes are powerful, precise. You attract the notice of a few other students who pause their own training to watch. One of them, a broad-shouldered woman with a scarred lip, gives you a nod of respect. "Not bad. You can train with us, if you want." You've earned a measure of respect through sheer force. <<set $str += 1>> [[Return to your room->common_room]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> The training yard is humbling. The equipment is heavy and awkward. Your form is off, and your strikes lack power. A few Ignis initiates passing by the gate laugh at your efforts, their scorn a bitter reminder of your place. You leave feeling weaker, not stronger. [[Return to your room->common_room]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>First Night</h2></span><img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The noise from the common area eventually fades as students retreat to their rooms. The day's failures and small victories swirl in your mind, a chaotic jumble of frustration and nascent ambition. The cot is hard and the blanket thin, but exhaustion claims you quickly, pulling you down into a deep, unnatural sleep. Your dream is not your own. The world resolves into a place of shimmering, impossible geometry. You stand on a platform of light suspended in a starless void. The air is cold and silent, yet hums with a power that makes your skin prickle with arousal and fear.<img src="images/purple/dream.webp" alt="dream" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> From the swirling shadows, a figure materializes. She is the most devastatingly sensual being you have ever conceived. Her form is both utterly real and dreamily ephemeral. Her skin is gleaming with a faint, internal luminescence, as if a galaxy of tiny stars is trapped just beneath the surface. She is voluptuous beyond measure. Her hips are a generous, sweeping curve that speaks of primal fertility, leading down to powerful, sculpted thighs. Her waist is a narrow taper, emphasizing the lush, heavy swell of her breasts, each tipped with a nipple the color of dark amethyst. They rise and fall with a breath she does not need to take. Her face is a mask of elegant, severe beauty, with high cheekbones and a full, cruel mouth painted the violet of a dying star. Her hair is a living cascade of liquid shadow, twisting and curling around her shoulders and down her back, occasionally forming into tendrils that caress her own skin. She is naked but for a gossamer film of dark energy that clings to her curves, hinting at rather than concealing the breathtaking body beneath. She glides toward you, and the scent of ozone, night-blooming jasmine, and pure, raw magic washes over you. She does not speak, yet her voice echoes directly in your soul, a sound like a lover's whisper and a sovereign's command.<img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="dream" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><blockquote> "<strong>They have cast a priceless jewel back into the mud.</strong> Their loss will be my exquisite pleasure." </blockquote> She circles you, her gaze a physical caress that feels like it strips away every layer of pretense. You feel her attention on you like a touch, lingering on your lips, your chest, lower. <blockquote> "<strong>I have tasted your potential,</strong> little spark. The hunger in you... it calls to my own. It is a delicious ache." </blockquote> She stops before you, so close you can feel the cool energy radiating from her skin. One hand, tipped with claws like shards of onyx, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest, and a jolt of agonizing, ecstatic energy arcs into you, making your back arch and your breath catch. <blockquote> "<strong>The Houses play at power,</strong> fucking in silk sheets and thinking it makes them gods. I offer you the real thing. The void. The ecstasy that comes from true domination." </blockquote> Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach, promising a pleasure that would unravel your very mind. <blockquote>"<strong>Prove you are more than they believe.</strong> Find the key hidden in this gilded prison. When you are ready to kneel before a true throne... I will be waiting." </blockquote>The world shatters. You jolt awake in your cold, dark room, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm. A cold sweat coats your skin, and a powerful, aching throb echoes in your core, a phantom sensation of her terrifying promise. The first grey light of dawn filters through the small window. The echo of her voice and the feeling of her impossible body are already fading, leaving only a deep, restless hunger behind. Was it a dream? A seduction? A threat? <<if $dom gte 20>> But something is different. The air in your room is still cold, still charged. The fading image of her isn't fading. It's coalescing. The shadows in the corner of your room deepen, pulling themselves together into a familiar, devastating shape. <br><br><strong>She is here.</strong> <br><img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="real" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><br>The Phantom Lady stands at the foot of your cot, a smile of genuine, shocking approval on her cruel, beautiful lips. She looks... impressed.<br><br><blockquote>"<strong>Such a will...</strong> to not only withstand my presence but to anchor me here, to your world, for a moment longer. That is not potential. That is power awakening."</blockquote>She takes a single, gliding step toward you. The room feels smaller, the air thinner. <blockquote>"<strong>You have earned a glimpse behind the curtain,</strong> little spark. Ask me one question. One truth, before the dawn claims me back." </blockquote>She is offering you a priceless treasure: knowledge. <br><br> [[Ask her name->phantom_name]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Only one thing is certain: your path at Aethelgard has just become infinitely more dangerous and alluring. <br><br> [[Begin Day Two->day_two_morning]] <</if>>

<img src="images/locations/ground.jpg" alt="ground" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $charm gte 6>> You circulate through the groups with easy grace, offering a witty comment here, a listening ear there. You soon pick up on the gossip: talk of a secret gambling ring run by a Septenius student, the name of a Viridis heir who might be swayed by a handsome face, and whispers of a hidden passage behind the kitchens. You've turned whispers into weapons. <<set $charm += 1>> [[Return to your room->common_room]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Your attempts to mingle are awkward. Jokes fall flat, and conversations die quickly. You overhear snippets of interesting gossip, but no one seems interested in sharing the details with you. You end up sitting alone by the fire, feeling more isolated than ever. [[Return to your room->common_room]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Dawn's Reflection</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The first true light of dawn filters through the small window of your dorm, pulling you fully from the remnants of sleep and dream. The memories of the night solidify, cold and heavy in your gut. <<if $dom gte 20>> The pendant rests against your chest, its weight both alien and comforting. Ethera's name echoes in your mind, a key to a lock you didn't know you possessed. It wasn't a dream. It was a proposal. The academy, the Houses, their petty squabbles for power it all seems suddenly small. You have drawn the gaze of a goddess, and her attention is a more potent currency than any they trade in here. A slow, confident smile touches your lips. Let them play their games. You are now playing a different one entirely. <<elseif $dom gte 15>> The memory of your conquest is a fire in your blood. You recall the feel of <<if $dominated_selene>>Selene's<<elseif $dominated_valeria>>Valeria's<<else>>Nyx's<</if>> surrender, the taste of their power on your tongue. You proved your strength, even if their rules couldn't contain it. This exile isn't a failure; it's a testament to your potency. They cast you out for being too much for them to handle. The thought fuels a defiant pride. You will find a way to turn their rejection into your advantage. <<else>><span class="failure-text">The cold certainty from last night has crystallized into a sharp shame. You hesitated. You failed. You were found wanting by the elite of this academy and deemed unworthy of their ranks. The memory of their dismissal whether a cold glance or a furious exile stings worse in the light of day. You are in the common dorms because you did not measure up.</span> <</if>> A soft, almost hesitant shuffling at your door breaks your daydream. You look up to see a young woman standing in your doorway. She is a vision of serene beauty, a stark contrast to the academy's overt power. She moves with a fluid, silent grace, more like a gentle shadow than a person. Her jet-black hair falls like a silken curtain around a heart-shaped face with delicate features. Her eyes, the color of rich, dark earth, are deep and knowing, studying you not with assessment, but with a deep, quiet empathy. Their gaze lingers on the tense line of your shoulders before meeting your own, as if they'd already sensed the night's passions and turmoil within you. <img src="images/black/naomi.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She doesn't lean confidently against the frame but seems to hover within it, one hand nervously tracing the wood grain. There is a palpable vulnerability about her a sense of profound, willing submission that is not weakness, but a strength turned inward. "Oh," she says softly, her voice a gentle, melodic contrast to the sharp commands and hungry whispers you've grown accustomed to. A faint blush colours her cheeks as she seems to realize she's been staring. "I didn't mean to intrude on your... thoughts. I just... I know the first morning down here, after everything, can feel very isolating. My name is Naomi." She offers a small, warm smile, her full lips seeming to soften the dim light of the room. "Elian shows people where things are. I suppose I try to help with the... well, the *weight* of it all." Her eyes flick down for a brief, telling moment, not judging, but acknowledging the physical memory of whatever happened last night. "Would you like to talk? Or perhaps just... not be alone with it all for a little while?" Her presence is not a challenge; it's an offer of quiet, understanding solace that feels intimately different from the demanding energies of the Houses. [[Accept her offer and suggest getting breakfast->naomi_breakfast]] <br><<if $dom gte 15>> [[Invite her into your room->naomi_stay]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Conservatory</h2></span> An hour later, you find the conservatory a breathtaking glass-domed structure overflowing with lush, unfamiliar flora. The air is thick, humid, and sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Lady Selene is there, as promised, standing beside a fountain where water trickles from the mouth of a jade lion. She has changed into a gown of deep emerald that seems to drink the light, its cut even more daring than her robe. She doesn't look at you as you approach, instead examining a bloom with razor-sharp black petals. "Punctual. A good start." Her voice is cool, a teacher addressing a new student. "The first lesson is observation. We are surrounded by the most potent social ecosystem in the academy. Watch. Who holds influence? Who seeks it? Who is one misstep from ruin?" She finally turns her gaze to you, and it's utterly analytical. "Your task is to secure an invitation to Lady Briar's salon tomorrow night. She is a key node in this house's network. Succeeding will grant you access. Failing will mark you as irrelevant." She expects you to simply nod and obey. This is the dynamic she established: master and apprentice. But the memory of your earlier victory is still fresh. Perhaps a different approach is warranted. [[Nod obediently.->viridis_obey]] | <<link "Smile. \"And what do I get if I succeed on my own terms?\"" "viridis_charm_check">> <<set $charm += 1>> <</link>>

You give a slight, obedient nod. "As you wish." A flicker of something, disappointment? Boredom? Passes behind her eyes before her expression smooths back into polished marble. "Good. We understand each other. Now, go. Your hour begins now. Do not return empty-handed." The weight of the command is absolute. You have accepted your role as her instrument, for now. The task ahead is daunting, and you will have to rely on your wits alone. [[Begin the task->viridis_salon_task]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Web We Weave</h2></span> You are dismissed from Selene's presence, the weight of your task settling on your shoulders. An invitation to Lady Briar's salon is no small thing; it's a token of acceptance into the innermost circles of House Viridis. The question is how to acquire it. Do you use the direct influence Selene's name provides, or do you find a more subtle path? [[Leverage Selene's Name->viridis_leverage]] <em>Use the fear and respect your patron commands as a blunt instrument.</em> | [[Find a Personal Angle->viridis_personal]] <em>Discover what Lady Briar truly wants and offer it to her.</em> <<if visited("viridis_charm_check") and $charm gte 6>>| [[Discover a Secret->viridis_secret]] <em>Unearth a piece of leverage that can't be ignored. Prove your new value.</em> <</if>>

You offer a confident, disarming smile, the same one that has gotten you out of and into trouble before. "And what do I get if I succeed on my own terms?" Lady Selene goes perfectly still. The hum of the conservatory seems to fade. Her sharp eyes narrow, not in anger, but in recalculating interest. You've thrown a new variable into her equation. "That depends entirely on the terms you propose," she says, her voice a low, intrigued purr. "Bargaining requires leverage, pet. What could you possibly offer that I have not already accounted for?" This is the critical moment. You must offer something she wants but wouldn't think to demand.<<if $charm gte 6>><br>"Access," you say smoothly, stepping closer. "You see the networks, the overt power. I can see the cracks between them. The servants' whispers, the jealousy in the corners. Let me be your eyes in the places your reputation can't go. I'll get you the invitation, and I'll bring you a piece of gossip so valuable it will make Lady Briar's salon look like a child's tea party."<br><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><br>The silence stretches. Then, a genuine, surprised laugh escapes her, a rich, beautiful sound. "Audacious. I admire audacity." She closes the final distance between you, her scent enveloping you. "Very well. New terms. Succeed in your task, and you may call me Selene. Fail..." Her smile is all sharp edges. "...and you will learn the true cost of overreaching."<br><br>It's a gamble, but you've just turned a command into a partnership. A precarious one, but a partnership nonetheless. <<set $charm += 2>> [[Begin the task->viridis_salon_task]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span><br>You falter. The right words don't come. You mumble something about increased privileges, something weak and predictable.<br><img src="images/green/ss.png" alt="no" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><br>Her intrigued expression cools into one of utter disdain. "I misjudged you. I thought I saw a spark of ambition, but it was just a flicker of foolishness." The warmth vanishes from her voice. "You have no leverage. You are mine. Remember your place. Now, get out of my sight and do not return until you have that invitation."<br><br>The rebuke is brutal and absolute. You have not only failed to change the dynamic, you have reinforced your subservience. [[Begin the task->viridis_salon_task]] <</if>>

<img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $dom gte 6>> You find Lady Briar holding court in a sunlit alcove. You don't ask. You inform. In a tone that brokers no argument, you state, "Lady Selene expects my presence at your gathering tomorrow. I trust the invitation is merely a formality." The use of her name is a weapon. Briar's eyes flash with annoyance, but it is quickly buried under a healthy layer of fear. She doesn't smile, but she gives a sharp, conceding nod. "Of course. Tell Lady Selene she honors me." The invitation is yours, extracted through pure intimidation. <<set $dom += 1>> [[Return to Selene->viridis_report]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to emulate Selene's commanding presence, but your delivery lacks her terrifying conviction. Lady Briar sees through the bluff immediately. She lets out a derisive laugh. "You? *You* are Selene's new creature? How... amusing. She must be desperate. The answer is no. Now, run along, little pet." The humiliation is public and crushing. You have failed, and weakened Selene's standing in the process. [[Return to Selene->viridis_report_fail]] <</if>>

<img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<if $charm gte 4>> You observe Lady Briar from a distance. You note the way she looks at a certain portrait, the slight frown when a specific name is mentioned. You approach not as a supplicant, but as a kindred spirit. You compliment her taste, lament the vulgarity of others, and casually mention a rare vintage you "happen to know" Selene has in her private cellar a vintage she would be willing to part with for such a discerning host. You're not demanding an invitation; you're offering her a coveted prize and the chance to be seen as Selene's equal in refinement. She preens, and the invitation is offered with a genuine smile. <<set $charm += 1>> [[Return to Selene->viridis_report]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Your attempt at flattery comes off as clumsy and transparent. Lady Briar looks at you with icy contempt. "I see Selene has taken on a project. How quaint. I don't accept charity cases, and I certainly don't trade invitations for the simpering praise of one." She turns her back on you. The dismissal is absolute. [[Return to Selene->viridis_report_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Art of the Whisper</h2></span><img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't approach Briar directly. Instead, you work the room like a master musician, playing each conversation as a note in a grand symphony of gossip. Your charm disarms the wary, your smile loosens tongues. You listen not just to words, but to hesitations, to glances exchanged across the room, to the subtle boasts and carefully hidden anxieties. With effortless grace, you steer a servant into complaining about the unusual frequency of letters from Briar's estate. You coax a jealous rival into revealing her obsession with a certain wealthy patron. You piece it together: Briar's family is quietly facing financial ruin, and she's using the salon to attract Lord Valerius without revealing her desperation. Armed with this, you approach her. You don't threaten. You offer a dazzling, sympathetic smile. "My dear Lady Briar, I couldn't help but notice the guest list. It would be such a shame if Lord Valerius were to miss it. I have Lady Selene's ear; I could *ensure* his attendance. I understand his support would be... particularly meaningful for you right now." The blood drains from her face, but your charming demeanor frames it not as an attack, but as a generous and unrefusable offer from a new ally. The invitation will be in your hands within seconds.<<if $charm gte 9>> Your performance is flawless. She is cornered, but your delivery is so smooth, so seemingly helpful, that she is almost grateful for your intervention. You have not just found a secret; you have weaponized charm itself. <<set $charm += 2>> [[Return to Selene->viridis_report]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You have the right information, but your delivery is off. The smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, the sympathy rings hollow. She sees the manipulation underneath and her fear curdles into rage. "You dare?" she hisses, low enough for only you to hear. "I see what you are. A venomous little snake Selene has unleashed. Get out. Speak a word of this to anyone, and you will find out how deep my resources truly run." You have not only failed but made a powerful and vengeful enemy. [[Return to Selene->viridis_report_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Test Passed</h2></span><<set $invitation_briar = true>> You return to the conservatory. Selene is there, waiting. You wordlessly present the invitation. She takes it, her fingers brushing against yours, a spark of static energy jumping between your skin. She examines the card, her expression unreadable. "It seems you managed the basic task," she says, her voice cool. The look in her eyes is one of assessment. "Adequate." <<if visited("viridis_charm_check") && $charm gte 8>> "However," she continues, her gaze sharpening. "We had new terms. You promised me more than mere adequacy. You promised me a spectacle. You promised leverage that would make Briar's salon look like a 'child's tea party'." She lets the silence hang in the air, the weight of your unmet promise pressing down on you. <<if visited("viridis_secret")>> <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>><<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> "And yet..." A slow, approving smile finally graces her lips as she presumably senses the secret you now hold. "It seems you are a student who delivers on their... extravagant promises. I am impressed." <<else>><<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> "You return with the invitation, but your hands are empty of the true prize. A partial payment on a bold promise." Her smile is thin, a calculated thing. "Do not make a habit of underdelivering, <span class='player-name'>$name</span>. It is a... costly habit in this house." <</if>> "Still," she purrs, stepping closer until the intoxicating scent of her is all you can breathe. "A deal is a deal. You may call me Selene." Her hand comes up, not to strike, but to cup your cheek, her thumb stroking your jawline. "Consider this a lesson in the value of exceeding expectations." <img src="images/green/kissing.gif" alt="Kissing" class="story-gif" style="border: 2px solid #2ECC71;"> <<if $charm gte 15>> <br>But then her sharp eyes narrow, seeing something more in you. A potential so radiant it demands immediate, personal investment. Her calculated smile softens into something genuinely hungry. <br><br>"Although..." she whispers, her voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial level. "For a asset of your apparent value, perhaps a more... substantial down payment is required to secure your loyalty." <br><br>She doesn't wait for an answer. Her other hand tangles in your hair, pulling you into a deep, claiming kiss. It tastes of expensive wine and dark ambition. When she breaks away, her lips are parted, her breath slightly quickened. <br><br>"Follow me," she commands, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turns and leads you not out of the conservatory, but through a second, hidden door behind a large tapestry, into a private, opulent suite that smells intensely of her perfume. This is her inner sanctum. <br><br>She turns to face you, her eyes blazing with possession and desire. "The lesson now is hands-on economics. The currency is pleasure. And tonight, I intend to make a very significant investment." <br><br>With a fluid motion, she lets her robe fall to the floor, revealing her devastating body in its entirety. She steps forward, pushing you back onto a plush bed, her expression one of a predator claiming its prize. <br><br> <img src="images/green/reward.webp" alt="Selene's Reward" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <br><br> [[Receive your substantial dividend->selene_chamber_reward]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> She doesn't wait for an answer. Her other hand tangles in your hair, pulling you into a deep, claiming kiss. It tastes of expensive wine and dark ambition. It's not a kiss of affection, but of consummation a seal on a partnership that now has a noted flaw. When she finally breaks away, her lips are parted, her breath slightly quickened. <br><br> "The dividend has been paid. Now, I suggest you find a way to complete the full transaction. Am I understood?" <br><br> [[Continue->viridis_next]] <</if>> <<else>> <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> "You have proven you can follow orders. That is the foundation upon which everything here is built. Do not forget it." [[Continue->viridis_next]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Costly Failure</h2></span> You return to the conservatory empty-handed. Selene doesn't need to ask; your failure is written plainly on your face. The air grows cold. "I see," she says, her voice dangerously soft. "It appears my investment was a miscalculation. You haven't just failed a task; you've embarrassed me in front of a rival. That is a currency I do not spend lightly."<<if visited("viridis_charm_check") && $charm lt 8>> "You gambled and you lost. You reached for a crown and proved you have neither the head nor the wit to wear it." <</if>>She turns her back on you, the ultimate dismissal. "You are of no more use to me here. Your presence in House Viridis is a lingering stain on my reputation. Get out. The common dorms will suffice for someone of your... limited capabilities." This is it. Exile. You are being cast out of the gilded cage. But perhaps there is one last card to play. One final, desperate appeal to the only thing she respects: audacity. <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>>  <<link "\"This wasn't a failure. It was a strategic retreat.\"" "viridis_last_chance">> <<set $charm += 1>> <</link>> | [[Accept your fate.->viridis_exile]] <em>(Head to the common dorms.)</em>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>First Night in Viridis</h2></span> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="bedroom" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The door to your lavish room clicks shut, sealing you in a world of emerald silk and deep shadows. The day's triumphs the subtle shift in power, the taste of Selene's kiss thrum through your veins like a fine liquor. The bed is impossibly soft, a cloud of velvet and down. Yet, sleep claims you with surprising speed, pulling you down into a deep, unnatural slumber. Your dream is not your own. The world resolves into a place of shimmering, impossible geometry. You stand on a platform of light suspended in a starless void. The air is cold and silent, yet hums with a power that makes your skin prickle with arousal and fear. <img src="images/purple/dream.webp" alt="Dream Void" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> From the swirling shadows, a figure materializes. She is the embodiment of exquisite, devastating temptation. Her form is both utterly real and dreamily ephemeral, as if sculpted from desire itself. Her skin has the flawless, pearlescent sheen of the most precious magically-woven silk, glowing with a soft, golden luminescence. She is voluptuous in a way that speaks of decadent luxury and lavish indulgence. Her hips are a graceful, inviting curve, leading down to sleek, powerful thighs. Her waist is a narrow taper, emphasizing the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, which seem to defy gravity with their lush fullness. They rise and fall with a breath she does not need to take. Her face is a vision of captivating beauty, with high cheekbones and a full, cunning mouth painted the deep crimson of ancient wine and spilled wealth. Her hair is a cascade of spun gold and shadow, intricately braided with jewels that glitter with their own inner fire, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She is clad not in mere darkness, but in a gown of living, shifting emerald silk and gold thread that moves like smoke, clinging to every curve one moment and flowing away the next, perpetually offering and denying a view of the breathtaking body beneath. She glides toward you, and the scent of aged whiskey, night-blooming jasmine, and the unmistakable ozone of high-stakes magic washes over you. She does not speak, yet her voice echoes directly in your soul, a sound like a generous promise and a devastatingly expensive secret. <img src="images/purple/umbragreed.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <blockquote>"<strong>So, the ambitious spark has found a gilded cage.</strong> You wear their green and preen under their praise, thinking you have climbed so high."</blockquote> She circles you, her gaze a physical caress that feels more real than the silk sheets you just left. <blockquote> "<strong>You have only found the first step,</strong> little one. The power they offer you is a parlor trick. A shadow of true dominion." </blockquote> She stops before you. One hand, tipped with claws like shards of onyx, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest. A jolt of agonizing, ecstatic energy arcs into you, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, making your back arch and your breath catch. It is a feeling that makes Selene's kiss seem like a pale imitation. <blockquote> "<strong>I am the truth they fear.</strong> I am the desire they cannot name. Your hunger called out from this gilded prison, and I have answered." </blockquote> Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach, promising a pleasure that would unravel your very mind. <blockquote> "<strong>Play their games. Learn their secrets.</strong> But know that a greater power watches. When you are ready to trade shallow victories for true ecstasy... you will know how to find me." </blockquote><img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The world shatters. You jolt awake in the opulent darkness, your heart hammering against your ribs. The memory of her touch is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the luxuries of House Viridis cannot hope to satisfy. The first light of dawn filters through the window. The vision was more real than any dream. A mysterious, terrifying, and alluring power has taken notice of you, even within the walls of your new house. [[Begin Day Two->viridis_day_two]]

<img src="images/locations/halls.jpg" alt="explore" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;">The walk from the opulent green halls to the stark stone of the common dorms is the longest of your life. The looks from the other Viridis students are no longer assessments; they are dismissive smirks. You are a cautionary tale. Your few belongings are waiting for you on the cot in your new, sparse room. The door to a world of power and pleasure has slammed shut, all because of one failed negotiation. This is not the end. But it is a devastating setback. You will have to find a way to climb from the very bottom. [[Your new life begins.->common_dorms_intro]]

She doesn't turn around, but she goes very still. You press on, pouring every ounce of your remaining charm and will into your voice. "Lady Briar is now terrified of me. She thinks I'm your vicious, unpredictable attack dog. She'll be looking over her shoulder for weeks, wondering what I'll do next. That's a different kind of leverage, isn't it? The kind that keeps rivals off-balance. Let them think I'm a failed experiment. I can be your ghost in their walls." You hold your breath. It's a desperate spin on abject failure, a thin thread of hope.<<if $charm gte 10>> A long, silent moment passes. Then, a soft, incredulous laugh escapes her. She slowly turns to face you, a new, dark curiosity in her eyes. <br><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><br>"Twist the deepest failure into a potential asset... You are either brilliantly cunning or utterly insane." She regards you like a puzzling but interesting insect. "Very well. You may stay. But you are on a leash, and I will be pulling it taut. Do not mistake this for forgiveness. It is merely... curiosity." [[Continue->viridis_next]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Your words fall flat, sounding like the pathetic excuses they are. She doesn't even bother to turn around. <br><br> "Leave. Now. Before I have you removed." <br><br> The finality in her voice leaves no room for argument. You have run out of chances. [[Accept your fate.->viridis_exile]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Day Two: The Price of Power</h2></span> <<if visited("selene_chamber_reward")>> You wake in Lady Selene’s perfumed bed, the memory of her skin against yours still vivid. The space beside you is empty, but the sheets retain her warmth and the intoxicating scent of jasmine and expensive whiskey. Rays of soft morning light filter through the windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. Selene herself is nowhere to be found, but a single, blood-red rose rests on the pillow where her head had been. You get up, the phantom sensation of the dream woman's touch a stark, thrilling contrast to the very real pleasures of the night, and decide you must get to your room to get properly dressed for the day. <</if>><<if !visited("selene_chamber_reward")>> You jolt awake in your lavish room, the opulent emerald silks feeling both like a reward and a cage. The memory of the phantom woman's touch is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the luxuries of House Viridis cannot hope to satisfy. It makes Selene's gilded world feel suddenly... provincial. Her promise of "true ecstasy" echoes in your mind, a siren's call. <</if>><img src="images/green/room.png" alt="bedroom" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;">A sharp, insistent rapping at your door shatters the daydream. Before you can even answer, the door flies open and Lady Selene strides confidently in. She is a vision of calculated power in a severe yet stunning emerald gown, her hair pulled back into a flawless knot. <<if $charm gte 15>>Her sharp, beautiful eyes soften almost imperceptibly as they land on you, a silent acknowledgment that the previous night had changed the fundamental chemistry between you. You catch her gaze flickering to your lips, and she gently bites her own plump, red lower lip, a fleeting, unguarded moment of desire.<br><br> "<span class='player-name'>$name</span>," she purrs, her voice a low, intimate hum that seems to vibrate in the space between you. "You continue to be a most... pleasant surprise. An unexpected asset that appreciates far beyond its initial valuation." She lets the words, heavy with double meaning, linger in the air. <</if>><<if $charm lt 15>> Her gaze sweeps over you and the room, analytical and possessive. You are her acquisition, and she is checking on her investment. "I trust you found the accommodations adequate, <span class='player-name'>$name</span>? A significant upgrade from the common dorms, I'm sure. Do not mistake luxury for laxity. The real work begins today." <</if>> She doesn't wait for a response. "The introductory lecture on Magical Economics begins in half an hour in the Grand Lecture Hall. It is mandatory for all new affiliates. Do not be late. Professor Albright is a tedious man but a powerful ally. Impressing him is in your best interest." She turns to leave but pauses at the door, her hand resting on the frame. "I will be observing. Your performance today will determine your... extracurricular activities this evening. Choose your alliances wisely." With a final, inscrutable look, she glides out, leaving the scent of her perfume and the weight of her expectations behind. The Phantom Lady's offer whispers in the back of your mind, a dangerous counterpoint to Selene's tangible power. You have time before the lecture. What will you do? <br> [[Head straight to the lecture->viridis_economics_lecture]] <em>Best not to test Selene's patience on the first day.</em> <br> [[Find Selene first->find_selene_charm]] <em>You need to understand the new rules between you.</em> <br> [[Find Selene first->find_selene_phantom]] <em>You have to ask her about the dream. The risk is worth it.</em>

:: StoryInit <<set $house = "">> <<include "Macros">> <<include "macro_promises">> <<set $dom = 0>> <<set $charm = 0>> <<set $int = 0>> <<set $str = 0>> <<set $promise_selene = 0>> <<set $promise_valeria = 0>> <<set $promise_nyx = 0>> <<set $has_pendant = false>> <<set $dominated_selene = false>> <<set $dominated_valeria = false>> <<set $dominated_nyx = false>> <<set $dominated_naomi = false>> <<set $metProctor = false>> <<set $knows_umbra_warning = false>> <<set $intel_alistair = false>> <<set $intel_kaelen = false>> <<set $partner_selene = false>> <<set $partner_valeria = false>> <<set $partner_nyx = false>> <<set $partner_naomi = false>> <<set $invitation_briar = false>> <<set $pending_promise = "">> <<set $met_nurse = false>> <<set $owned = false>> <<set $dream_elian = false>> <<set $dream_ward = false>> <<set $proctor_boost = false>> <<set $wounded = false>> <<set $elara_leverage = false>> <<set $heard_puppeteer = false>> <<set $pending_promise = "">> <<set $secondary_promise = "">> <<set $briar_night = "false">> <<set $met_elara = false>> <<set $met_briar = false>> <<set $met_maris = false>> <<set $has_hound_bond = false>> <<set $has_alistair_bond = false>>

<span style="color: #ff3860;"><h2>Game Over: A Broken Covenant</h2></span> <img src="images//gameover.jpg" alt="Game Over" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #ff3860; border-radius: 8px;"> “You made too many empty promises. Opportunities to prove yourself were offered by your house leader, and each time, you faltered. Their trust once fragile, now shattered, has collapsed entirely. At Aethelgard Academy, favor is not just respect, it is survival. And you squandered it. What was once a bond has become a burden. You are no longer seen as an ally, but as a liability. Liabilities are cast out. Your time at Aethelgard Academy is over. Be careful next time. A single misstep may be forgiven, but let your favor sink too low again, and the outcome will be no different.”

:: macro_promises [script] <<script>> window._keepPromise = function(character) { let varName = `promise_${character.toLowerCase()}`; if (State.variables[varName] == null) { State.variables[varName] = 0; // initialize } State.variables[varName]++; console.log("KEEP PROMISE:", character, "→", State.variables[varName]); }; window._breakPromise = function(character) { let varName = `promise_${character.toLowerCase()}`; if (State.variables[varName] == null) { State.variables[varName] = 0; // initialize } State.variables[varName]--; console.log("BREAK PROMISE:", character, "→", State.variables[varName]); // Check for game over immediately after breaking a promise if (window.checkPromiseGameOver()) { return; // stop here if game over triggered } }; // Central check function window.checkPromiseGameOver = function() { console.log("Checking promises:", "Selene:", State.variables.promise_selene, "Valeria:", State.variables.promise_valeria, "Nyx:", State.variables.promise_nyx ); if (State.variables.promise_selene <= -3 || State.variables.promise_valeria <= -3 || State.variables.promise_nyx <= -3) { console.log("GAME OVER TRIGGERED"); // Delay ensures SugarCube finishes rendering, then redirects setTimeout(function () { Engine.play("promise_broken_game_over"); }, 20); return true; } return false; }; // Optional: clean macros so you can just do <<keepPromise>> / <<breakPromise>> Macro.add("keepPromise", { handler() { window._keepPromise(this.args[0]); } }); Macro.add("breakPromise", { handler() { window._breakPromise(this.args[0]); } }); <</script>>

:: macro_promises [script] <<script>> // Attach functions to the window object to make them globally available window._keepPromise = function(character) { let varName = `promise_${character}`; if (State.variables[varName] == null) { State.variables[varName] = 0; // initialize } State.variables[varName]++; }; window._breakPromise = function(character) { let varName = `promise_${character}`; if (State.variables[varName] == null) { State.variables[varName] = 0; // initialize } State.variables[varName]--; if (State.variables[varName] <= -3) { Engine.play('promise_broken_game_over'); } }; <</script>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Syllabus of Sensation</h2></span> You approach the data-slate on the desk. Its surface, which from a distance looked like simple glass, feels cool and strangely alive under your fingertips. The swirling glyphs resolve not into dry text, but into a flowing, elegant script that feels like a direct extension of Valeria's mind.<img src="images/blue/data.webp" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <blockquote style="border-left: 3px solid #3498DB; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic; color: #a3c1f1;"> <strong>FOR YOUR EYES ONLY: INITIATION CURRICULUM</strong> <br><br> <strong>PRIMARY INQUIRER:</strong> Valeria <strong>COLLABORATOR:</strong> <span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span> <br><br> <strong>TONIGHT'S REQUIRED READING:</strong> <br>• <strong>Protocol 1.1:</strong> Synaptic Resonance. We will explore the alignment of our energies. My hands will be your guide. Your openness will be the key. <br>• <strong>Protocol 2.7:</strong> Sensory Amplification. Theory on enhancing tactile, auditory, and taste-based perception. Practical application will involve blindfolds and various... instruments. <br>• <strong>Protocol 4.3:</strong> The Erotic Principle in Thaumaturgy. A thesis on how peak emotional and physical states can be harnessed to fuel spellwork. We will be testing this hypothesis extensively. <br><br> <strong>YOUR WEEKLY SCHEDULE:</strong> <br>• <strong>Mornings:</strong> My bedchamber. Practical review of nocturnal findings. <br>• <strong>Afternoons:</strong> The Athenaeum. Theoretical research on the art of pleasure magic. <br>• <strong>Nights:</strong> My laboratory. Hands-on experimentation. You will be both researcher and subject. <br><br> <strong>OUR RESEARCH GOALS:</strong> <br>• To map the exquisite geography of your magical arousal. <br>• To quantify the exact frequency of your moans and their effect on my concentration. <br>• To discover if simultaneous climax can truly bend spacetime within a controlled ward. <br><br> <strong>ACCESS LEVEL:</strong> <span style="color: #ff99cc;">INTIMATE</span> // You have full access to my person and my archives. <br><br> <strong>NOTE:</strong> Enthusiasm and creativity in your coursework will be... rewarded. Hesitation will be met with corrective stimulation. </blockquote> As you finish reading, the script on the slate dissolves and reforms into a single, complex magical equation a simple, elegant, yet notoriously difficult problem known as "The Knot." It is a test of intuitive brilliance. A new message appears beneath it: <blockquote style="border-left: 3px solid #3498DB; padding-left: 1em; font-style: italic; color: #a3c1f1;"> "Solve this. My chambers are adjacent. The solution is your key." </blockquote> The invitation is clear. This is your first real test. Solve the puzzle, and her door opens. Fail, and you prove yourself unworthy of the advanced and intimate studies she has planned. [[Attempt to solve The Knot->septenius_trial]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Knot</h2></span> You focus on the equation. It represents the harmonious yet conflicting merging of two distinct magical energies. The solution requires less brute calculation and more... intuitive understanding. A leap of logic. <img src="images/blue/knot.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You pour your intellect into the problem, your mind tracing the elegant loops of arcane logic. <<if $int gte 10>> <<set $int += 5>>The solution clicks into place with perfect, crystalline clarity. It was never about force; it was about synergy, about finding the point where the two energies desire to become one. You speak the final, simple harmonic coefficient aloud.<br><br>Across the room, the door to Valeria's private chamber whispers open. A warm, amber light spills out, carrying the scent of ozone and her distinctive perfume.<br><br>"Excellent," her voice purrs from within. "I do appreciate a mind that can keep up. Come. Let us begin our first practical experiment."<<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> <br><br> [[Enter her chambers->valeria_chambers]] <<elseif $int gte 7>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> <<set $int += 1>>You find a solution, but it's clumsy. A workaround that requires forcing the energies into alignment rather than allowing them to harmonize. It is technically correct, but lacks artistry.<br><br>There is a long pause. Her door remains shut.<br><br>"Adequate," Valeria's voice says, cool and analytical, filtering from behind her door. "The logic is sound, but the methodology is... inelegant. You understand the notes, but not the music. I suggest you spend the night reviewing the foundational texts in your room. We will re-assess your readiness tomorrow." <br><br>The dismissal is clear. You passed, but you disappointed her. The promise of her touch is postponed.<br><<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>><br>[[Study in your room->septenius_study]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> The equation remains a tangled mess. You try several approaches, but each one unravels. The logic is beyond you.<br><br>After several long minutes, her voice cuts through the silence, sharp with disapproval. "I see. I misjudged your capacity. This is not a remedial class. My time cannot be wasted on an uncalibrated instrument."<br><br>The main door to your room hisses open. Outside, a proctor in grey robes waits.<br><br>"Your effects will be returned to the common dorms. Report for introductory lectures at dawn."<br><br>The failure is absolute. You have been weighed, measured, and found wanting. <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <br><br> [[Your journey begins again, from the bottom.->common_dorms_intro]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Private Tutorial</h2></span> You step through the doorway into Valeria's inner sanctum. The air is thick, warm, and charged with a potent mix of ozone and her unique scent crisp linen and something sweetly electric. The chamber is part library, part laboratory, part boudoir. One wall is a floor-to-ceiling window looking out into the a bioluminescent underwater cavern, casting the room in a soft, blue glow. The opposite wall is a vast rack of intricate brass and crystal instruments, their purposes both scientific and sensually ambiguous. Valeria is waiting for you beside a large, low bed piled with silk cushions. Her glasses are off. The sharp, analytical gaze is now one of raw, hungry curiosity. "Protocol 1.1: Synaptic Resonance," she states, her voice a low hum. "The theory posits that two aligned magical signatures can achieve a state of heightened sensitivity and mutual amplification through physical synergy. We will test this." She doesn't wait for you to respond. She closes the distance between you, her hands coming up to frame your face. Her thumbs stroke your temples, and a wave of calming, yet intensely arousing energy washes through you, making your knees weak. "The first variable is touch," she whispers, her lips inches from yours. Her hands slide down your neck, over your shoulders, pushing your robes off until they pool at your feet. "The second is proximity." She turns her back to you, presenting a breathtaking view. With a deliberate slowness, she lets her own robes fall away. The fabric slides down her back, over the dramatic, sweeping curve of her hips, and finally down the impossibly full, round hemispheres of her ass, which seems to capture the room's blue light and glow with its own soft luminescence. It is a breathtaking anatomical marvel powerful, voluptuous, and utterly perfect. She leads you to the bed, guiding you to sit on the edge. Without a word, she settles back into your lap, the immense, soft weight of her ass pressing down on you, smothering your thighs and heating your already straining cock beneath her. She grinds back against you slowly, a deliberate, circular motion that steals the breath from your lungs. "Now," she murmurs, looking over her shoulder, her eyes dark with intent. "Observe the data." Her hands and mouth are not frantic, but precise, analytical. She reaches back to guide your hands, placing them firmly on the lush expanse of her hips, urging you to grip and knead the generous flesh of her rear. She uses instruments from her rack: a cool, smooth crystal that she trails over your skin and her own, leaving a tingling trail of energy in its wake; a set of fine silver wires that she attaches to your wrists and her own nipples, thrumming with a low current that makes her arch her back and cry out with each shared pulse of pleasure-pain. "You are remarkably responsive," she breathes, her own breath becoming more ragged as her clinical detachment begins to fracture. She rises up on her knees, positioning you at her entrance. "The resonance is building. Note the harmonic feedback." <img src="images/blue/hhsex.gif" alt="Passionate entanglement" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The feedback is all-consuming. She sinks down onto you in one slow, inexorable motion. But not her vagina this time, this time she lines up her longing asshole for you to fill. Her inner walls clamping around you with shocking intensity, stretching to accommodate your length. The fit is perfection tight, and overwhelmingly warm. A choked, astonished cry is torn from both your throats. The connection is more than physical; it is a circuit completing, a thaumic surge that makes the crystals in the room hum in sympathy. She sets the rhythm, a relentless, rocking motion that uses the magnificent leverage of her hips and ass to drive you both deeper into the experiment. Each rise and fall is a new data point in a graph climbing toward a catastrophic, beautiful peak. The room vanishes. There is only the shared energy, the synchronicity, the slap of skin on skin, the blinding white heat of mutual climax that crashes over you like a wave, short-circuiting every thought, every sense, leaving only pure, shuddering sensation in its wake as you empty yourself deep inside her. <img src="images/blue/valeriasex.gif" alt="Passionate entanglement" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> -- <br> <strong>Some Time Later...</strong> <br> -- You lie entangled in the silk sheets, limbs heavy, skin cooling. Valeria's head rests on your chest, her finger tracing idle, glowing patterns on your skin. The silence is comfortable, charged with spent energy. "The results were... statistically significant," she says, her voice husky with satisfaction and fatigue. "A success." But then she stirs, the Head of the House reasserting herself over the lover. She sits up, pulling a sheet around herself. The look she gives you is not cold, but purposeful. "However, a single data set is insufficient for a proper thesis. We require replication. Control groups. Variables must be tested in isolation." She gestures toward the door to your own room. "You will return to your quarters. I need to process this data. And you... you need to integrate the experience without my influence as a confounding variable. We will continue our research at dawn." The dismissal is not a rejection, but a scientific necessity. The night of passion is, to her, the first successful experiment. Now the analysis begins. You dress under her watchful, appreciative gaze and let yourself out. The door to her chamber seals shut behind you with a soft, final click. [[Back to your room->s_dream]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Corrective Study</h2></span><img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The door to Valeria's chambers remains stubbornly shut, a silent testament to your inadequate performance. The thrill of the syllabus curdles into the bitter ash of disappointment. You are alone. You try to focus on the foundational texts glowing on your data-slate, but the runes swim before your eyes. The dry theories on mana conduction and basic alchemical principles feel like a punishment. Your mind keeps drifting back to the complex beauty of the Lover's Knot and the promise of what lay behind that door. Frustration and exhaustion eventually pull you into a fitful sleep, the data-slate dropping from your limp hand to the floor. Your dream is not your own. The world resolves into a vast, silent library that exists in the space between thoughts. Shelves stretch into infinity, lined with books whose spines pulse with soft blue light. The air smells of electricity, ozone, and something sweetly organic you cannot name.<img src="images/purple/dream.webp" alt="dream" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;">From between the shelves, a figure materializes. She is the most devastatingly sensual being you have ever conceived. Her form is both utterly real and dreamily ephemeral. Her skin is gleaming with a faint, internal luminescence, as if a galaxy of tiny stars is trapped just beneath the surface. She is voluptuous beyond measure. Her hips are a generous, sweeping curve, leading down to powerful, sculpted thighs. Her waist is a narrow taper, emphasizing the lush, heavy swell of her breasts. They rise and fall with a breath she does not need to take.<img src="images/purple/umbracold.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her face is a mask of elegant, severe beauty, with high cheekbones and a full, cruel mouth painted the violet of a dying star. Her hair is a living cascade of liquid shadow and shimmering data, twisting and curling around her shoulders and down her back. She is naked but for a gossamer film of dark energy that clings to her curves, hinting at rather than concealing the breathtaking body beneath. She glides toward you, and the scent of ozone, night-blooming jasmine, and pure, raw magic washes over you. She does not speak, yet her voice echoes directly in your soul, a sound like a lover's whisper and a sovereign's command. <img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><blockquote> "<strong>So, the seeker of knowledge finds themselves... limited.</strong> You stare at the primer when the entire archive awaits." </blockquote>She circles you, her gaze a physical caress that feels more real than the bed you just left. <blockquote>"<strong>You think power is in these texts,</strong> these... equations. They are merely the language. True power is in the application. In the experience." </blockquote> She stops before you. One hand, tipped with claws like shards of onyx, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest. A jolt of agonizing, ecstatic energy arcs into you, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, making your back arch and your breath catch. It is a feeling that makes intellectual pursuit seem like a pale shadow. <blockquote> "<strong>I am the truth between the lines.</strong> I am the hypothesis they are too afraid to test. Your hunger for understanding called out, and I have answered." </blockquote> Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach, promising a pleasure that would unravel your very mind. <blockquote> "<strong>Play their games. Learn their rules.</strong> But know that a greater theorem exists. When you are ready to experiment with true variables... you will know how to find me." </blockquote> The world shatters. You jolt awake in your blue-lit room, your heart hammering against your ribs. The memory of her touch is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the dry texts on your slate cannot hope to satisfy. The first light of dawn filters through the window, painting the room in pale hues. The vision was more real than any dream. A mysterious, terrifying, and alluring power has taken notice of you, even within the structured walls of House Septenius. [[Dawn->septenius_day_two]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Day Two: The Price of Knowledge</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You jolt awake in your crystalline room, the deep blue glow of the abyss your only light. The memory of the mysterious, alluring woman from your dream is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the structured intellectualism of House Septenius cannot hope to satisfy. It makes Valeria's world of equations and protocols feel suddenly... small. The promise of "true variables" and becoming a "force that breaks worlds" echoes in your mind, a siren's call far more potent than any academic pursuit. <img src="images/blue/vale.png" alt="valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> A sharp, precise chime echoes through the room. Before you can answer, the main door slides open. Lady Valeria stands there, not yet in her formal robes. She wears a crisp, tailored white blouse, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the curves beneath, and a surprisingly short, tight-fitting blue skirt that showcases the lush, powerful sweep of her hips and thighs. A data-slate is clutched in one hand. Her gaze is not on the room, but on you, analyzing the readout on her slate. "Fascinating," she murmurs, stepping inside without invitation. The door seals behind her. "Your REM cycles showed unprecedented theta-wave activity. Psychic intrusion? Or a subconscious processing of our... collaborative data from yesterday?" She finally looks up from the slate, her eyes sharp and probing. "The synaptic resonance we achieved was... statistically significant. My own baseline readings are still elevated by 12.7 percent." She takes another step closer, her voice dropping from clinical to intimately analytical. "Your theory on primordial data streams is noted. And intriguing. But first, I require a more immediate dataset." Her free hand comes up, not to touch you, but to hover over your chest. You can feel the static charge of her magic, a familiar, teasing pressure. "A comparative analysis of your somatic response upon waking, against my recorded observations from last night's peak output. For scientific rigor." <<if $int gte 15>> You don't flinch. You capture her wrist, your grip firm but not harsh. The data-slate clatters to the floor, forgotten. "The methodology is flawed, Valeria," you say, your voice low, echoing her words back to her. "You observe. You record. But a true scientist must be willing to be part of the experiment." You pull her closer, your other hand finding the generous curve of her hip, then sliding down to deliver a firm, appreciative smack to her rear. A sharp, satisfying sound echoes in the crystalline room. The force of the impact flips up her short skirt for a moment, offering a fleeting glimpse of plain white cotton panties stretched taut over the full, swaying curves beneath. <img src="images/blue/sway.gif" alt="Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Let's test a new hypothesis," you growl, your voice a husky command. "That your focus is compromised by your own need for re-calibration." A sharp, surprised gasp escapes her lips a beautiful, unscientific sound. The clinical detachment in her eyes shatters, replaced by a flash of pure, hungry shock that quickly melts into dazed acquiescence. Her body leans into your touch. "An... audacious variable to introduce so early in the morning," she breathes, her voice trembling. "The data... could be corrupted by sleep inertia..." Her protest is weak, a token effort as her own hands come up to rest on your chest. You hold her there for a long moment, letting the new data point settle. Then, slowly, you release her. The spell breaks. She takes a half-step back, visibly recalibrating. A faint but unmistakable blush remains high on her cheeks, the only evidence of the system shock you just administered. <<else>> You shift slightly, the movement breaking her concentration. "Just trouble sleeping. New environment." Valeria's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. The electric charge in the air vanishes. "Disappointing. I require a subject whose systems are functioning at peak efficiency. Emotional or psychological static corrupts the data." The warmth of the previous night is gone, replaced by the cold pragmatism of a researcher with a flawed instrument. She retrieves her data-slate. "The introductory lecture on Thaumaturgical Ethics begins in half an hour. Do not be late." <</if>> She steps back, regaining a shred of her composure, though a faint blush remains high on her cheeks. "The introductory lecture begins shortly. It is for Septenius affiliates only. Do not be late. Professor Albright's findings on magical basics, while tedious, are foundational." She turns to leave but pauses at the door, her hand resting on the frame. "I will be observing. Your performance today will determine our... extracurricular research agenda this evening. The correct answers are not always found in the approved texts." With a final, loaded look, she glides out. The phantom woman's offer whispers in the back of your mind, a dangerous counterpoint to Valeria's tangible intellect. You have time before the lecture. What will you do? <br> [[Head straight to the Septenius lecture hall->septenius_lecture]] <em>Best not to test Valeria's patience.</em> <br> [[Find Valeria first->find_valeria_intellect]] <em>Probe the new dynamic between you.</em> <br> [[Find Valeria first->find_valeria_phantom]] <em>You have to ask her about the dream. The risk is worth it.</em>

<img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;">Back in the quiet hum of your own room, your body still thrums with the echoes of the energy you shared. The bed feels too large, too empty. As exhaustion finally claims you, your last conscious thought is of her hands, her mouth, the impossible depth of her eyes. Your sleep is deep and immediate, but not restful. It is a descent. You dream you are back in the observatory, but it is vast, endless, and silent. The star-charts on the walls are wrong, depicting constellations of desire and geometries of pleasure. The air is cold and crackles with untamed power. Before you, a figure coalesces from the swirling motes of astral dust. She is not Valeria.<img src="images/purple/dream.webp" alt="dream" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> This woman is **more**. Her beauty is not elegant or severe; it is overwhelming, predatory, and absolute. Her skin is the colour of deep space, dotted with faint, glowing stars that pulse in time with your hammering heart. Her form is voluptuous to the point of impossibility, with hips that promise a primal, devastating rhythm and breasts that are a heavy, glorious weight. Her hair is a living nebula, shifting through colours you have no name for. <img src="images/purple/umbracold.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She is naked, and her body is a testament to every forbidden craving you have ever suppressed. She glides toward you, and the room temperature plummets, yet a fierce heat blooms low in your belly. <blockquote> "<strong>You trade one master for another,</strong> little spark. You give your energy to her... for a few scraps of calculated pleasure." </blockquote> Her voice is not a sound; it is a vibration that travels through your bones. <blockquote> "<strong>She measures, she quantifies, she files you away.</strong> I would consume you. I would burn you to ash and remake you into something glorious." </blockquote> She stops before you. One hand, tipped with claws of crystalline void, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest. A jolt of pure, agonizing ecstasy arcs into you, a feeling that makes your encounter with Valeria seem like a faded, technical diagram. It is pleasure that borders on annihilation. <blockquote> "<strong>You think you have tasted power?</strong> You have sipped at a stagnant pond. I am the ocean. I am the storm." </blockquote> Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach, and you feel your body arch toward her, desperately seeking a contact that never comes. <blockquote> "<strong>Play in your laboratory a little longer.</strong> Learn your pretty little spells. But when you tire of being an experiment... when you hunger to become the force that breaks worlds... you will know how to find me." </blockquote><img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The world shatters. You jolt awake in your blue-lit room, gasping. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is slick with sweat, and a powerful, aching throb echoes in your core a phantom sensation of her terrifying promise. The memory of Valeria's touch is still there, but it is now overshadowed by the haunting, alluring specter of the goddess in your dream. Was it a dream? A premonition? A threat? Only one thing is certain: your understanding of power within these walls has just been fundamentally, dangerously expanded. [[The next day awaits.->septenius_day_two]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Substantial Dividend</h2></span> Selene doesn't ask. She takes. She climbs onto the bed, straddling you, her knees pinning your hips. Her hands are everywhere at once unpinning her intricate hairstyle so it cascades around her shoulders, tearing open your robes, her nails scraping lightly over your chest. She is a whirlwind of controlled avarice. "The principal investment," she breathes against your neck before biting down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you gasp and buck beneath her. "Requires vigorous... handling." <img src="images/green/wet.webp" alt="wet" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> She reaches for a decanter of golden liquid on a nearby table, pouring it over her breasts, the cool liquid trickling between them and onto your stomach. "And all investments must be... thoroughly tasted." She lowers herself, dragging her tongue along the path of the liquor, her mouth closing around your nipple, sucking hard before moving lower, down your stomach. She is merciless, expert, and utterly demanding. She explores your body like a coveted acquisition, wringing every possible ounce of pleasure from you with the skill of a master portfolio manager. When she finally guides you inside tight vagina, it is with a triumphant, possessive sigh. She rides you with a powerful, grinding rhythm, her head thrown back, her perfect body glistening in the low light. <img src="images/green/riding.gif" alt="riding" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> This is no longer a lesson. It is a claiming. A celebration of your high value. You are no longer just an asset; you are a prized possession, and she is ensuring you never forget the benefits of such a position. The climax is mutual, explosive, and leaves you both breathless and trembling. -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- She lies beside you, one leg draped over yours, her fingers tracing patterns on your chest. "The returns on this investment are already exceeding projections," she murmurs, a genuine note of satisfaction in her voice. Eventually, she rises, pulling on a fresh robe. The businesswoman returns, but her eyes are softer. "You will stay here tonight. I expect you at your sharpest for tomorrow's negotiations. Do not disappoint me." She leaves you in her lavish suite, the scent of sex and her expensive perfume clinging to the sheets. You have not just passed a test; you have been welcomed into the innermost circle of House Viridis, rewarded in the currency it values most: raw, powerful, and luxurious pleasure. Sleep claims you quickly, your body sated and mind swimming with triumph. Your dream is not your own. The opulent suite melts away, resolving into a place of shimmering, impossible geometry. You stand on a platform of light suspended in a starless void. The air is cold and silent, yet hums with a power that makes your skin prickle with arousal and fear. <img src="images/purple/dream.webp" alt="Dream Void" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> From the swirling shadows, a figure materializes. She is the embodiment of exquisite, devastating temptation. Her form is both utterly real and dreamily ephemeral, as if sculpted from desire itself. Her skin has the flawless, pearlescent sheen of the most precious magically-woven silk, glowing with a soft, golden luminescence. She is voluptuous in a way that speaks of decadent luxury and lavish indulgence. Her hips are a graceful, inviting curve, leading down to sleek, powerful thighs. Her waist is a narrow taper, emphasizing the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, which seem to defy gravity with their lush fullness. They rise and fall with a breath she does not need to take. Her face is a vision of captivating beauty, with high cheekbones and a full, cunning mouth painted the deep crimson of ancient wine and spilled wealth. Her hair is a cascade of spun gold and shadow, intricately braided with jewels that glitter with their own inner fire, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She is clad not in mere darkness, but in a gown of living, shifting emerald silk and gold thread that moves like smoke, clinging to every curve one moment and flowing away the next, perpetually offering and denying a view of the breathtaking body beneath. She glides toward you, and the scent of aged whiskey, night-blooming jasmine, and the unmistakable ozone of high-stakes magic washes over you. She does not speak, yet her voice echoes directly in your soul, a sound like a generous promise and a devastatingly expensive secret.<img src="images/purple/umbragreed.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <blockquote>"<strong>So, the ambitious spark has found a gilded cage.</strong> You wear their green and preen under their praise, thinking you have climbed so high." </blockquote> She circles you, her gaze a physical caress that feels more real than the silk sheets you just left. <blockquote> "<strong>You have only found the first step,</strong> little one. The power they offer you is a parlor trick. A shadow of true dominion." </blockquote> She stops before you. One hand, tipped with claws like shards of onyx, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest. A jolt of agonizing, ecstatic energy arcs into you, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, making your back arch and your breath catch. It is a feeling that makes Selene's touch seem like a pale imitation. <blockquote> "<strong>I am the truth they fear.</strong> I am the desire they cannot name. Your hunger called out from this gilded prison, and I have answered." </blockquote> Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach, promising a pleasure that would unravel your very mind. <blockquote> "<strong>Play their games. Learn their secrets.</strong> But know that a greater power watches. When you are ready to trade shallow victories for true ecstasy... you will know how to find me." </blockquote><img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The world shatters. You jolt awake in Selene's opulent bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The memory of her touch is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the luxuries of House Viridis cannot hope to satisfy. The first light of dawn filters through the window. The vision was more real than any dream. A mysterious, terrifying, and alluring power has taken notice of you, even within the heart of your new house. [[Begin Day Two->viridis_day_two]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>A Soul of Steel</h2></span> You approach the weapon rack. Resting on it is a single, flawless longsword. Its blade is dark, folded steel, and the hilt is wrapped in worn, black leather. It is perfectly balanced, a tool of deadly elegance. As your fingers close around the grip, it feels less like picking up a weapon and more like shaking hands with a kindred spirit. A low, harmonic hum vibrates through the metal into your bones. Etched into the crossguard are two words: <em>Prove It.</em> The door slams open. Nyx stands there, a fierce grin on her face. She tosses a heavy, crumpled note onto your anvil. "Seems a little bird from House Viridis got lost on the way to the scriptorium. Thought they could sneak a trade agreement through our territory. Their mistake." She points a thick, calloused finger at the note. "Your first mission. Find the courier. He's holed up in the old armory, thinks he's clever. Get that agreement back. How you do it is your business. Just get results." She turns to leave, but pauses, a predatory glint in her eye. "This is your first test. Pass it, and you'll have earned more than just your place here." [[Nod and accept the mission->ignis_mission_start]] | <<link "\"What's in it for me if I make it interesting?\"" "ignis_negotiation">> <<set $str += 1>>  <</link>>

<img src="images/red/wall.jpg" alt="Wall" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The old armory is a dusty, cavernous hall filled with broken racks and the ghosts of old battles. In the far corner, a flickering torch reveals a nervous-looking youth in green-trimmed robes, clutching a sealed scroll case. He sees you and yelps, scrambling backward. "S-stay back! This is a diplomatic document!" How do you want to handle this? This is Ignis. Subtlety is not the way. [[Intimidate Him->ignis_intimidate]] <em>Use your raw presence to scare him into handing it over.</em> | [[Crush His Defense->ignis_crush]] <em>Charge him. Overwhelm him with pure force and take the case.</em> |<<if visited("ignis_negotiation") && $str gte 6>> [[Smash Through the Wall->ignis_smash]] <em>Don't even go through the door. Make your own entrance.</em> <</if>>

You don't run. You walk. Slowly. Deliberately. You let him see the cold, predatory certainty in your eyes. "That's not your property," you say, your voice a low, threatening rumble. "And you're in my house." <<if $dom gte 6>> His bravado shatters. With a terrified whimper, he thrusts the scroll case toward you and flees. <<set $dom += 1>> [[Return to Nyx->ignis_mission_success]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to loom, to project authority, but your presence lacks weight. He stands his ground, clutching the case tighter. "I have my orders!" he squeaks. Before rushing away. You have failed the test. [[Report your failure->ignis_mission_fail]] <</if>>

You return to your room and toss the scroll case onto the anvil. Nyx is already there, leaning against the doorframe. She picks it up, examining the unbroken seal. A slow, fierce smile spreads across her face. "Results. I like that." <<if visited("ignis_negotiation") && $str gte 6>> "Now," she says, her voice dropping to a hungry growl as she steps toward you. "About that celebration..." <br><br>She doesn't wait for an answer. She grabs the front of your tunic and pulls you into a searing, claiming kiss that tastes of victory and forge-fire. It's the promise, kept. <<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>>  <<set $str += 1>> [[Claim your prize->ignis_victory_celebration]] <<else>> "Good work, recruit," she says, clapping you on the shoulder. "You've earned your place. Get some rest. Dawn comes early." The praise is genuine, but professional. The moment ends there. <<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>>  [[Rest->ignis_rest]] <</if>>

Nyx stops and turns back slowly, a look of amused surprise on her face. Few would dare try to bargain with her. "Interesting? You think this is a game, recruit?" She steps closer, the heat of her body a palpable force. "Fine. You want to make it interesting? You bring me that agreement without a single scratch on it, and you don't just get a pat on the back." Her eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes, her voice dropping to a low, promising growl. "You get a private... victory celebration. Right here. My personal attention. But waste my time, and you'll be scrubbing the latrines with a toothbrush for a month." The offer is as brutal and direct as she is. A high-risk, high-reward gamble. <<if $str gte 6>> A fierce grin spreads across your face, not backing down an inch from her intensity. "You've got a deal." <br><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"><br>"Good," she purrs, looking you up and down like a prized weapon. "Now go. I'll be waiting." She turns and leaves, the promise hanging in the air like the forge's heat. <<set $str += 1>>  [[Begin the mission->ignis_mission_start]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You falter under her intense gaze, your strength feeling insufficient to back up your audacity. The moment passes.<br><br>"Didn't think so," she scoffs, the moment broken. "Stop wasting my time and just get the job done." She turns and leaves, the opportunity lost. [[Begin the mission->ignis_mission_start]] <</if>>

You don't waste time with words. With a roar, you charge across the room. <<if $str gte 6>> You slam into him, knocking him to the ground. The scroll case flies from his grasp. You catch it one-handed. <<set $str += 1>> [[Return to Nyx->ignis_mission_success]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You charge, but your attack is clumsy. He sidesteps your lunge. You lack the raw power expected here. He kicks you and escapes. [[Report your failure->ignis_mission_fail]] <</if>>

You ignore the door. You eye the ancient, slightly crumbling stone wall next to it. A fierce grin spreads across your face. You take three steps back, lower your shoulder, and charge the wall with a mighty roar. <<if $str gte 9>> The stones explode inward in a cloud of dust and debris. You burst into the room, a demon made manifest through the new hole in the wall. The courier screams, drops the scroll case, and passes out from sheer terror. <<set $str += 2>> [[Return to Nyx->ignis_mission_success]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You charge the wall. It hurts. A lot. The stones barely chip, just enough to make a small hole and you slump to the ground, your shoulder throbbing. The courier stares at you in stunned confusion before bolting out the actual door with the case. You have failed spectacularly. [[Report your failure->ignis_mission_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>A Costly Failure</h2></span><img src="images/red/nn.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You return to your room empty-handed. Nyx is already there, her arms crossed, her expression a storm cloud. "Well? Where is it?" You have to explain your failure how the courier, a mere scribe, bested you. Nyx's face darkens into a mask of pure, cold disgust. "Pathetic. I thought I saw a spark of a warrior in you. I was wrong. You're soft. Weak." She gestures to the door, where a proctor now stands. "You don't belong in the forge. Get out. Go back to the common dorms." This is it. Exile. You are being cast out of the heart of Ignis. But perhaps there is one last card to play. One final, desperate appeal to the only thing she respects: sheer, unadulterated guts. <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<link "\"The test isn't over yet. Give me one more shot.\"" "ignis_last_chance">> <<set $str += 1>>  <</link>> | [[Accept your fate.->ignis_exile]] <em>(Head to the common dorms.)</em>

<img src="images/red/kiss.gif" alt="kiss" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The kiss is everything she promised a raw, claiming exchange of power and desire. Her hands are tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, when suddenly, a frantic pounding echoes on the iron door of your room. Nyx breaks the kiss with a savage curse. "What?!" she barks, not even turning around. The door swings open to reveal a young Initiate, his face pale and smudged with soot. "Captain! The magma pumps in the west forge are failing! The main valve is seized the team can't budge it! The chamber is flooding!" All the heat and hunger drains from Nyx's expression, replaced by cold, command-ready focus. She looks from the panicked Initiate back to you, her eyes assessing you not as a lover, but as a tool. A weapon. <<if $str gte 15>> "Perfect timing," she snarls, a wild, dangerous light in her eyes. She grabs your arm, her grip like iron. "Let's see if that strength of yours is good for more than just kissing. You're with me." <br><br>She doesn't ask; she commands. She pulls you out the door after her, leaving the Initiate gaping. The celebration is not canceled it's been upgraded to a live-fire exercise. [[Follow her to the crisis->ignis_forge_crisis]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> She looks at you, and for a split second, you see the calculation in her eyes. She weighs your strength against the task and finds it wanting. <br><br>"Stay here," she commands, her voice flat and final. "This is a job for real strength." She turns and strides out the door, following the Initiate into the smoky hall without a backward glance. <br><br>The door clangs shut, leaving you alone. The taste of her is still on your lips, but the promise is broken. The celebration is over before it began. You weren't strong enough. [[The night ends not with a bang, but a whimper.->ignis_rest]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>First Night in the Forge</h2></span> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Spartan Ignis Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The door to your room clangs shut, sealing you in the rumbling, fiery heat of House Ignis. The day's triumphs the raw power of the fight, the taste of Nyx's lips, the satisfying weight of your new blade thrum through your veins like a potent adrenaline. The bed is a simple platform of hard wood and thick furs, a far cry from luxury, but it feels earned. Yet, sleep claims you with surprising speed, pulling you down into a deep, unnatural slumber. Your dream is not your own. The world resolves into a landscape of obsidian cliffs and rivers of molten lava. The air is scorching hot and thick with the smell of sulfur and ash. You stand on a precarious ledge overlooking a sea of fire. <img src="images/purple/umbrawrath.png" alt="Dream Forge" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> From the swirling inferno below, a figure rises. She is the most devastatingly powerful being you have ever conceived. Her form is both utterly real and dreamily ephemeral. Her skin is the colour of cooled magma, gleaming with a fierce, internal heat, as if a miniature sun raged just beneath the surface. She is strength incarnate. Her hips are a powerful, sweeping curve, leading down to thunderous thighs that could crush stone. Her waist is a narrow taper, emphasizing the heavy, formidable swell of her breasts. They rise and fall with a breath she does not need to take. Her face is a mask of fierce, wild beauty, with a strong jaw and a full, cruel mouth painted the colour of fresh blood. Her hair is a living cascade of fire and shadow, twisting and crackling around her shoulders and down her back. She is naked but for smoldering gauntlets and greaves of blackened steel that cling to her curves, hinting at rather than concealing the breathtaking body beneath. She strides toward you, and the scent of brimstone, iron, and pure, raw power washes over you. She does not speak, yet her voice echoes directly in your soul, a sound like a mountain cracking and a forge hammer striking anvil. <img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <blockquote>"<strong>So, the little spark has jumped into the forge.</strong> You swing their hammers and wear their red, thinking you have been tempered." </blockquote>She circles you, her gaze a physical pressure that feels more real than the stone floor. <blockquote>"<strong>You have only been warmed by the coals,</strong> little ember. The strength they teach you is a controlled burn. A shadow of true annihilation." </blockquote>She stops before you. One hand, tipped with claws of sharpened obsidian, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest. A jolt of agonizing, ecstatic energy like being struck by lightning and kissed by a volcano arcs into you, making your back arch and your breath catch in a strangled gasp. It is a feeling that makes Nyx's passion seem like a gentle warmth. <blockquote>"<strong>I am the conflagration they fear.</strong> I am the rage they cannot control. Your hunger for power called out from this smithy, and I have answered." </blockquote>Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach, promising a pleasure that would incinerate your very soul. <blockquote>"<strong>Play with their fires. Learn their forms.</strong> But know that a greater inferno watches. When you are ready to trade discipline for absolute destruction... you will know how to find me." </blockquote>The world shatters. You jolt awake on your hard bed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a war drum. The memory of her touch is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the physical trials of House Ignis cannot hope to satisfy. The first light of dawn filters through the window, reflecting off the hellish glow from the chasm below. The vision was more real than any dream. A mysterious, terrifying, and alluring power has taken notice of you, even within the fiery heart of House Ignis. [[Dawn->ignis_day_two]]

<img src="images/locations/halls.jpg" alt="explore" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;">The walk from the fiery halls of Ignis to the stark stone of the common dorms is a long and shameful one. The looks from the other Ignis initiates are no longer appraising; they are dismissive sneers. You are a cautionary tale. Your few belongings are waiting for you on the cot in your new, sparse room. The door to a world of raw power and glory has slammed shut, all because of one failed test. This is not the end. But it is a devastating setback. You will have to find a way to climb from the very bottom. [[Your new life begins.->common_dorms_intro]]

She doesn't turn around, but she goes still. You press on, your voice thick with a defiance you don't entirely feel. "That scribe got lucky. He's gone, but the embarrassment remains. Let me pay that debt back. Not with words. I'll volunteer for the worst duty shift. I'll take on any challenger in the Crucible. I'll prove my strength isn't just for show." You hold your breath. It's a desperate spin on abject failure, a thin thread of hope. <<if $str gte 10>> A long, silent moment passes. Then, she slowly turns to face you, a new, calculating glint in her eyes. <br><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"><br> "Fine. Maybe there's a spine in there after all. I'll give you one more chance. Consider your debt paid. But tomorrow, you better be the first one in the training yard and the last one to leave. Understood?" <<set $str += 2>>She gestures dismissively toward your bed. "Now get some rest. I expect to see fire in your eyes at dawn."<<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>> [[Prove yourself tomorrow.->ignis_rest]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Your words sound weak, even to your own ears. You lack the strength to back up your bravado. <br><br>"Save your breath for running laps in the common dorms," she scoffs, not even bothering to look at you. "Get out." <br><br>The finality in her voice leaves no room for argument. You have run out of chances. [[Accept your fate.->ignis_exile]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Day Two: The Fire's Echo</h2></span><img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Spartan Ignis Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"><<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> You wake alone, the lingering scent of sweat, forge-smoke, and her skin a potent memory on the furs. The powerful weight of her arm is gone from your chest, but the echo of her vulnerability in the night is a different kind of brand. A fierce, protective pride surges in you. You pull on your Ignis leathers and head out, the memory of her whispered confession about the "heavy armor" a secret you now carry.<</if>> <<if visited("ignis_rest")>> You jolt awake on your hard bed, the phantom sensation of the dream-woman's volcanic touch still searing your nerves. It makes the disciplined heat of the Ignis forge feel tame, a controlled burn compared to the conflagration she promised. Her offer of "absolute destruction" echoes in your mind, a challenge that makes Nyx's trials seem like warm-up drills. A restless hunger coils in your gut. <</if>> The rumble of the forges is a constant, comforting presence. Following the sound of cascading water and shouted orders, you find the source: a vast, steaming cavern where a natural hot spring has been channeled into a series of stone pools. This is the Ignis bathhouse, a place to wash off the grime and ease sore muscles. And there she is. <img src="images/red/bath.png" alt="bath" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Nyx is leaning against the rough-hewn stone edge of the central, largest pool, the steaming water lapping just below her navel. The pose is deceptively relaxed, showcasing the formidable power of her upper body. Her arms are stretched out along the ledge, a movement that pulls the muscles of her chest taut and emphasizes the heavy, full swell of her breasts. The water droplets and clinging steam glisten on her skin, catching the light on the silver bar piercing her right nipple, a stark, bold declaration amidst the powerful curves. She is scrubbing soot from one forearm with a rough pumice stone, the efficient, muscular motions of her shoulders and back a testament to a lifetime of combat. Other initiates give her a wide berth, a mixture of raw respect and healthy fear in their eyes. <<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> She glances over her shoulder as you approach, the movement making the silver piercing glint. A flicker of something unguarded, a memory of your mouth on that very spot passes over her face before it's schooled into her usual fierce mask. "Took you long enough," she grunts, but it lacks its usual bite. "The water's hot. Don't just stand there looking pretty." <</if>><<if visited("ignis_rest")>> She glances over her shoulder as you approach, the silver ring in her nipple catching the light. Her eyes are all business, the focused intensity of a drill sergeant. "Recruit. The water's hot. Get in. We've got a long day ahead, and I don't need you seizing up because you're too proud to clean the shit off." Her tone is a challenge, testing your resilience after the previous day's failure. <</if>> You have time before the first official class. The steam, the heat, and Nyx's presence create a charged atmosphere. What will you do? <br> \[[Head to your first Battle Magic class->battle_magic_class]] <em>Best not to be late on your first official day.</em> <br><<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> [[Join Nyx in the pool->nyx_str]] <em>The memory of last night's intimacy hangs in the steam between you.</em> <</if>><<if visited("ignis_rest")>> [[Join Nyx in the pool->nyx_str]] <em>Prove your mettle. Show her you're not afraid.</em> <</if>> [[Confront her about the dream->nyx_phantom]] <em>The Phantom Lady's offer is too compelling to ignore.</em>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Forged in Crisis</h2></span> <img src="images/red/forge.png" alt="forge" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You follow Nyx at a run through the chaotic, smoke-filled halls. The air grows hotter, the roar of uncontrolled magma and shouting warriors becoming deafening. You burst into the west forge to find a team of burly smiths straining against a massive iron valve wheel, their muscles bulging, sweat pouring down their faces. It won't budge. "Move!" Nyx barks. She doesn't even break stride. She plants her hands on the wheel beside the strongest smith and heaves. The metal groans in protest but doesn't turn. She looks at you, her eyes blazing with challenge. "Now, recruit! Put that strength to use!" You grab the wheel, your hands finding purchase next to hers. You pour every ounce of your power into it, your muscles screaming in protest, your boots sliding on the hot stone floor. For a terrifying second, nothing happens. Then, with a shriek of protesting metal, the wheel turns a fraction of an inch. Then another. Then it spins freely, and with a final, thunderous *clunk*, the valve slams shut. The imminent flood is stopped. The forge falls silent save for the heavy panting of the team. Nyx turns to you, her chest heaving, a wild, triumphant grin splitting her soot-streaked face. She doesn't say a word. She just grabs the front of your tunic and pulls you into a searing, desperate kiss right there in the middle of the frantic forge, surrounded by staring warriors. It tastes of ash, sweat, and raw, unabashed victory. "Where were we?" Nyx says with a smile. [[Back to the reward->ignis_real_celebration]]

The door to your room slams shut. Nyx pushes you back against it, her hands already tearing at your clothes, her mouth hungry on yours. There is no finesse, no subtlety only a frantic, powerful need to release the adrenaline of the fight and the near-disaster. "This is your reward," she growls against your skin, her teeth grazing your neck. She breaks the kiss and drops to her knees before you. She yanks your trousers down, freeing your aching cock. But she doesn't take you in her mouth. Instead, she looks up at you with a fierce grin. She pulls the ties of her leather cuirass, letting it fall away. Her large, full breasts spill free, swaying with her heavy breathing. They are glistening with sweat from the forge. "First," she says, her voice husky. "A different kind of pressure test." She leans forward, taking your cock between her impressive cleavage. The heat of her skin is incredible. She squeezes her breasts together around you, creating a hot, tight channel of slick flesh. She begins to move, rocking back and forth, her eyes locked on yours. The view and the sensation are overwhelming the sight of your cock sliding between her powerful tits, glistening with her sweat. <img src="images/red/titjob1.gif" alt="Titjob" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Feel that power?" she grunts, her grip tightening, her strokes becoming faster, more demanding. "That's what saved the forge tonight. Now put it to use." Her other hand grips your hip, holding you still as she works you with a ruthless, exhilarating efficiency that leaves no room for anything but sensation. The intense visual, the adrenaline, and her raw skill bring you to the edge with shocking speed. With a roar that echoes in the room, you climax. Your cum pulses over her tits and across her face. She lets out a short, sharp laugh of triumph. "Good." Without wiping it off, she uses her strength to effortlessly flip you onto your back on the furs. Her weight settles on top of you, pinning you down, her skin slick with sweat and your cum. Her mouth finds the side of your neck, biting down just enough to claim as her hips align with yours. "No more waiting," she growls against your skin, and with no further delay, she sits down on you in one deep movement. This isn't about finesse; it's about possession. Her rhythm is a brutal, pounding cadence of pure need, each movement fueled by the night's victory and barely contained fire. She takes her pleasure with the same relentless intensity she applied to the forge lever, and soon her own climax crashes over her with a sharp cry, her pussy walls gripping you increasingly tight, her body shuddering against yours before she collapses onto you, her breath hot and ragged in your ear. <img src="images/red/sex.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> For a long moment, there is only the sound of your heavy breathing and the distant rumble of the forges. The air smells of sex, sweat, and iron. In the quiet aftermath, something shifts. The fierce Knight-Captain seems to soften. She nuzzles into the crook of your neck, not with hunger, but with a surprising tenderness. Her breath ghosts across your skin as she lets out a soft, contented sigh that seems to carry the weight of her command away for just a moment. Her fingers, usually curled into fists or giving commands, trace a light, almost idle pattern on your chest. The callouses from wielding weapons feel strangely gentle against your skin. "You know," she murmurs, her voice barely a whisper, stripped of its usual bark, "sometimes... all this strength... it's just so everyone else doesn't see how heavy the armor really is." The confession is quiet, raw, and utterly vulnerable. It lasts only for a heartbeat before she seems to catch herself. She lets out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle and gives your chest a light, playful smack, the moment of vulnerability receding as quickly as it appeared. "Don't get used to it," she grunts, but the usual edge is blunted by sleepiness. She lies beside you on the furs, one powerful arm thrown over your chest in a possessive yet protective gesture. Her head rests on your shoulder, her fiery hair tickling your skin. "You did good tonight, recruit," she says, her voice already slurred with sleep. "That's the kind of strength I can use..." Her breathing evens out into the deep, steady rhythm of exhausted sleep. In the dim light, the harsh lines of her face are smoothed away, making her look younger, at peace. She remains in your bed, a solid, warm, and surprisingly gentle presence beside you. Sleep claims you both. -- Your dream is not your own. The world resolves into a landscape of obsidian cliffs and rivers of molten lava. The air is scorching hot and thick with the smell of sulfur and ash. You stand on a precarious ledge overlooking a sea of fire. <img src="images/purple/umbrawrath.png" alt="Dream Forge" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> From the swirling inferno below, a figure rises. She is the most devastatingly powerful being you have ever conceived. Her form is both utterly real and dreamily ephemeral. Her skin is the colour of cooled magma, gleaming with a fierce, internal heat. She is strength incarnate. Her hips are a powerful, sweeping curve, leading down to thunderous thighs. Her waist is a narrow taper, emphasizing the heavy, formidable swell of her breasts. Her hair is a living cascade of fire and shadow. She is naked but for smoldering gauntlets and greaves of blackened steel. She strides toward you, and the scent of brimstone, iron, and pure, raw power washes over you. She does not speak, yet her voice echoes directly in your soul, a sound like a mountain cracking and a forge hammer striking anvil. <img src="images/purple/phantom.webp" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <blockquote>"<strong>So, the little spark has jumped into the forge.</strong> You swing their hammers and wear their red, thinking you have been tempered." </blockquote> She circles you, her gaze a physical pressure. <blockquote> "<strong>You have only been warmed by the coals,</strong> little ember. The strength they teach you is a controlled burn. A shadow of true annihilation." </blockquote> She stops before you. One hand, tipped with claws of sharpened obsidian, reaches out. She doesn't touch your skin, but trails a finger through the air over your chest. A jolt of agonizing, ecstatic energy like being struck by lightning and kissed by a volcano arcs into you. <blockquote> "<strong>I am the conflagration they fear.</strong> I am the rage they cannot control. Your hunger for power called out from this smithy, and I have answered." </blockquote> Her phantom touch trails lower, down your stomach. <blockquote> "<strong>Play with their fires. Learn their forms.</strong> But know that a greater inferno watches. When you are ready to trade discipline for absolute destruction... you will know how to find me." </blockquote> The world shatters. You jolt awake on your hard bed, the first light of dawn filtering through the window. Nyx is still asleep beside you, a powerful arm still draped over you. The memory of the Phantom Lady's touch is a brand on your soul, a deep, aching throb of need that the physical trials of House Ignis cannot hope to satisfy. The vision was more real than any dream. A mysterious, terrifying, and alluring power has taken notice of you, even within the fiery heart of House Ignis. [[Dawn->ignis_day_two]]

The question leaves your lips without a second thought. "What is your name?" <img src="images/purple/ethera.png" alt="Ethera" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her smile widens, a slash of violet in the gloom. She seems pleased by the directness of the demand.<blockquote>"<strong>Ethera,</strong>" she whispers, and the name is not a sound but a vibration that passes through your bones, a key turning in a lock deep within your soul. "I am the silence between heartbeats. The hunger in the dark. I have had countless titles, but that is the name you may use."</blockquote>She closes the final distance between you, the hem of her shadowy gown brushing against the rough wool of your blanket. The cold in the room is replaced by a thrilling, electric heat that emanates from her.<blockquote>"<strong>And for such a worthy question,</strong> a worthy answer deserves a... more tangible reward."</blockquote>She leans down, her face inches from yours. She doesn't kiss you. Instead, she breathes out a soft sigh, and her breath is like cold starlight and dark champagne against your lips. A shuddering wave of pleasure, sharp and sweet, rolls through your body, making you arch off the cot. <img src="images/purple/pendant.png" alt="Pendant" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> As she pulls back, one claw-tipped hand gestures languidly toward your chest. You feel a sudden, warm weight there. Looking down, you see a pendant on a gold cord resting against your skin.<<set $has_pendant = true>> The pendant is a shard of crystal that changes colors in the light. That seems to drink in your essence. If you focus you can see a tiny violet star swirling deep within its heart.<blockquote>"<strong>A token,</strong> to remember our accord. Wear it, and when your will is strong enough to call for me... use it."</blockquote>She begins to fade, her form dissolving back into the mundane shadows of your room from which it came. <blockquote>"<strong>Until then, my worthy...</strong> continue to amuse me."</blockquote>And then she is gone. The room is just a room again. But the pendant is real and cool against your skin, a permanent, thrilling connection to the power that just visited you. The deep, restless hunger she left you with is now a promise, not a torment. [[Dawn->day_two_morning]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>What It Meant</h2></span><img src="images/green/selenecharm.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<silently>> <<set $charm += 1>> <</silently>> Selene finally turns. The morning light seems to worship her, catching the gloss of her lips and the dark promise in her eyes. A genuine, unguarded smile plays on her mouth, a treasure more valuable than any vault. "It meant," she says, her voice a low, intimate murmur that vibrates straight through you, "that you are not a simple investment. You are a rare find." She closes the distance between you in one fluid, predatory step. The intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine and expensive whiskey *her* scent wraps around you, pulling you in. "Last night meant I felt a spark of true potential. The hunger in your eyes wasn't just for power or pleasure..." Her finger traces your jawline, then your lower lip, a shock of warmth and possession in the cool air. "...it was for *understanding*. For a connection that runs deeper than any ledger entry." Her other hand finds your hip, her grip firm and claiming. "It meant I am considering a far more... *hostile*... takeover. One where we are not just mistress and asset, but partners. Conquerors. Sharing a throne... and everything that comes with it." She leans in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers, her breath a hot caress. <<if $charm gte 18>> "And it meant," she adds, her tone dropping to a dark, thrilling promise that coils low in your belly, "that tonight, your education enters its practical examination. Meet me in the observatory at midnight. Come alone. And come... *ready to be thoroughly evaluated*." <br><br> [[A shiver of pure anticipation runs down your spine.->viridis_economics_lecture]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> She pulls back, the moment of intimacy shattering. The businesswoman returns, though her eyes still smolder. "Now, go. Prove my intuition correct. I expect to see a favorable return on my attention during today's... performances." <br><br> [[The ghost of her touch lingers as you head to class.->viridis_economics_lecture]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Magical Economics 101</h2></span> <img src="images/green/lecturehall.png" alt="Lecture Hall" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #2ECC71;border-radius:8px;"> Professor Albright himself stands at the lectern, a rare honor for an introductory class that speaks to House Viridis's influence. He drones on about mana-cycle arbitrage, his dry monotone a small price to pay for the exclusive, live instruction. You find your attention wandering over the form of a nearby student, the way her emerald robe strains over her chest as she takes a breath, before<<if visited("selene_meaning")>>, keeping Selene's intimate promise and the memory of her taste on your lips in mind,<<elseif visited("selene_expectations")>>, following Selene's direct order and the phantom feel of her nails on your skin,<</if>> you decide to make your move. <<if $charm gte 15>> Your words are pure social alchemy, dripping with suggestive wit and double entendre that makes the concepts of "liquidity" and "yield" sound obscenely thrilling. A blush creeps up the neck of the student you'd been admiring. Professor Albright is flustered in a entirely new way, adjusting his robes as he stammers his approval. The look the other Viridis heirs give you is less about respect and more about hungry curiosity. <<set $charm += 3>><<elseif $charm gte 10>> You lean forward, your voice a conspiratorial purr as you build upon a point, your compliment to the other student feeling more like a caress. They shift in their seat, a faint smile playing on their lips. The social temperature in the room rises several degrees. <<set $charm += 2>><<elseif $int gte 8>> You deconstruct Albright's theory with razor precision, but you frame it as the intellectual foreplay it truly is a dance of minds that's far more stimulating than his dry lecture. He looks at you, intrigued, as if seeing a new, fascinating specimen. <<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>><<elseif $dom gte 8>> You interrupt with a question that's less a query and more a demand, your tone leaving no room for his dithering. The force of your will silences the room. The student next to you lets out a soft, inadvertent gasp, their eyes wide. You've established a very different kind of presence. <<set $dom += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to contribute, but your point is clumsy. The student you were eyeing rolls their eyes and looks away. Professor Albright dismisses you with a sigh that makes you feel utterly insignificant. <</if>> The bell tolls, its chime a welcome release. As you stand, you feel the weight of gazes on you some curious, some jealous, some undeniably aroused. You are herded along with the others toward the Grand Hall for the next class, the air thick with unspoken potential. [[Continue to Thaumaturgical Ethics->obligatory_class]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Private Word</h2></span><img src="images/green/selenecharm.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You find Selene on a secluded balcony, her back to you as she surveys the misty gardens below. The morning light catches the elegant line of her neck, and the breeze molds her silk robe to the devastating curve of her hip. She doesn't turn, but a slight, knowing shift in her posture tells you she's been waiting. <<if $charm gte 15>> "Curiosity is an expensive habit, <span class='player-name'>$name</span>," she purrs, her voice like honey and dark velvet. "But I do so enjoy a student willing to invest heavily in their... education. What is it you wish to purchase with my time today?" <br><br> <<link "I want to know what last night meant." "selene_meaning">> <<set $charm += 3>> <</link>> <em>Probe the personal connection.</em> <br> <<link "I want to know what you expect from me today." "selene_expectations">> <<set $charm += 2>> <</link>> <em>Focus on the practical.</em> <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Selene doesn’t turn to face you, her voice cool and precise. "Do not mistake indulgence for intimacy,<span class='player-name'>$name</span>. Yesterday was a dividend, nothing more. You will earn my time through performance, not questions." She waves a hand dismissively toward the rising sun over the gardens. "Go. Professor Albright is waiting to bore you with ledgers and mana cycles. If you want to matter here, you will pay attention." [[Report to Magical Economics 101->viridis_economics_lecture]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Dangerous Question</h2></span><img src="images/green/brow.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You find Selene reviewing a scroll in a small antechamber. She looks up, one perfect eyebrow arched. "You should be preparing for your lecture. This had better be important." You steel yourself and describe the dream the void, the impossible geometry, the devastatingly sensual woman who offered true power. The change in Selene is instantaneous and terrifying. All warmth vanishes from her face, replaced by a mask of cold, stark fear she quickly tries to suppress. She grabs your arm, her nails digging in. "Listen to me," she hisses, her voice low and urgent. "Forget that dream. Forget that... *thing*. It is a predator that preys on ambition. It is the reason our walls have wards and our proctors are ever-watchful. To speak its name is to invite its gaze. Do you understand?" Her fear is more revealing than any answer. The Phantom Lady is real, and she is feared by the powerful. <<link "I understand. It was just a dream. I will head to class." "selene_phantom_warning">><<set $charm += 1>><<set $int += 2>><</link>> <em>Play it safe.</em><br> <<link "What is she?" "selene_phantom_press">><<set $dom += 2>><<set $charm += 2>><<set $int += 2>><</link>> <em>Push for answers, consequences be damned.</em>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Wise Retreat</h2></span><img src="images/green/brow.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You nod, adopting a convincingly chastised expression. "Of course. It was just a strange dream. My apologies for disturbing you." Selene's grip on your arm loosens, the stark fear in her eyes receding into a more familiar, calculated sharpness. She smooths her robes, the moment of vulnerability sealed away behind a mask of composure. "Good," she says, her voice regaining its usual controlled tone, though a sliver of relief is audible. "Do not mistake caution for weakness. The wisest predators know when to avoid a fight they cannot win." She turns back to her scroll, a clear dismissal. But as you reach the door, she speaks again without looking up. "One more thing. If you... *dream*... again, find Elian in the common dorms. Tell him you're interested in 'warding charms'. He trades in such trinkets. It won't stop a determined hunt, but it might make you a less appealing snack." The information is delivered coolly, but its value is immense. She has just given you a name and a code phrase, a tangible tool for survival.<<set $dream_elian = true>> [[A name and a purpose. Head to the common dorms later.|viridis_economics_lecture]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Forcing the Truth</h2></span><img src="images/green/brow.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't back down. You step closer, your voice low but unwavering. "I saw the fear in your eyes. You know what she is. Tell me." For a heartbeat, pure fury flashes across Selene's face. Then, it's gone, replaced by a chilling, calculating calm. She looks at you not as an asset, but as a liability that has suddenly become dangerously interesting. "You are either remarkably brave or profoundly stupid," she states, her voice devoid of all warmth. "Very well. You wish to play with fire? I will give you a spark." She leans in, her words barely a whisper, yet they feel like they are being carved into your soul. "They call her the 'Umbra Regina' the Shadow Queen. A primordial entity that exists in the voids between worlds. She is not a demon or a spirit; she is a fundamental force given desire and form. The academy isn't just built on ancient ground... it is built to contain a tear in reality that she perpetually tries to widen. She offers power, but the price is your will, your soul, and the stability of this world." She pulls back, her eyes hard. "Now you know. And knowing, you have made yourself her specific target. And mine. Do not make me regret this lesson. Now get out." The air is charged with a new, dangerous energy. You have your answer, but you can feel the gaze of two powerful entities now firmly upon you.<<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<set $knows_umbra_warning = true>> [[You have stepped into a far larger game.|viridis_economics_lecture]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Clear Expectations</h2></span><img src="images/green/selenecharm.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Selene turns, her expression shifting from contemplative to one of sharp approval. A businesslike smile graces her features. "Direct. Efficient. I appreciate that," she says, her voice losing its dreamy quality and regaining its calculated edge. "Expectations are simple. You are my representative. Your successes are my successes. Your failures... are lessons I will charge you dearly to learn." She gestures toward the academy below. "Today, you will attend Professor Albright's lecture. You will not just listen; you will dominate the discussion. You will identify the weakest student in that room the one with rich parents and poor grades and you will make them dependent on your 'help'. By week's end, they will owe you a favor." She steps closer, but this time it's not an intimate gesture it's a strategist pointing out a target on a map. "This is how power is built. Not just by taking, but by making others *give* to you willingly."<<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> <<if $charm gte 15>> She gives a final, pointed look. "Do this well, and my 'personal attention' will involve less conversation and considerably more... practical application of your skills." <</if>> <br><br> [[A clear mission. Time for Economics.|viridis_economics_lecture]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Ethical Dilemma</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/dilemma.jpg" alt="Three Houses" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> The Headmaster's question hangs in the air, a challenge wrapped in theoretical finery. Every eye in the room feels upon you, but the weight of the three Heads of House is palpable. How do you answer? <br> <<link "Without hesitation. Power is its own justification." "ethical_answer">> <<set $ethicChoice = "dom">> <</link>> <<if $dom gte 12>><em>(A display of ruthless ambition)</em><</if>> <br> <<link "It would depend on the constant. All things have a price, even power." "ethical_answer">> <<set $ethicChoice = "int">> <</link>> <<if $int gte 12>><em>(A display of calculated intellect)</em><</if>> <br> <<link "I would ensure the transaction benefited more than just myself." "ethical_answer">> <<set $ethicChoice = "charm">> <</link>> <<if $charm gte 12>><em>(A display of persuasive pragmatism)</em><</if>> <br> <<link "Such power is an illusion. True strength requires no such cost." "ethical_answer">> <<set $ethicChoice = "str">> <</link>> <<if $str gte 12>><em>(A display of unwavering principle)</em><</if>> <br> <<link "I would need to... experience the offer firsthand to decide." "ethical_answer">> <<set $ethicChoice = "chaos">> <</link>> <em>(A display of dangerous curiosity)</em>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Claiming Your Solace</h2></span> The kiss breaks, leaving you both breathless. Naomi's eyes are wide, dark pools of surrender, her lips swollen and parted. The shy, empathetic girl is gone, replaced by a woman trembling with raw, eager need. "You don't need to be gentle," she whispers, her voice low. "I can feel what you need. I want to give it to you." That's all the invitation you require. With a growl of pure possession, you drag her and guide her down onto her knees. She goes willingly, a soft cry escaping her lips as she lands on the rough cold floor. You don't give her a moment to think. Your hands find the hem of her simple tunic and in one swift, decisive motion, you pull it up and over her head, tossing it aside. <img src="images/black/kneeling.jpg" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She is breathtakingly beautiful in her submission. Her skin flushes under your gaze, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. Her luscious nipples protrude perfectly beneath your gaze. You lean over her, caging her in, your dominance a palpable force in the small room. "This isn't about talking anymore," you command, your voice low and absolute. "This is about feeling. My strength. Your surrender. Nothing else." She nods frantically, her eyes never leaving yours. "Yes. Please." You stand over her beautiful naked body and give her a sharp slap to the face. It leaves a red mark. You slap her again, harder. Naomi gasps and keeps her mouth open as wide as she can manage, while slowly, seductively, she begins to jiggle her butt in a steady rhythm. You order her to take out your cock, she uses her soft and delicate hands, and you can see that she is longing to put it in her mouth. You give her a curt nod and force your dick into her mouth. The warm wetness in combination with Naomi rolling her tongue across your head and shaft, feels divine. <img src="images/black/bj.gif" alt="bj" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You start to pick up pace and soon all that can be heard in the room is the naughty sound of Naomi gargling, while you throat fuck her. You start to feel it bubbling up inside you, so you stop, pull out your glistening cock to feel the cool air. Looking down, you see Naomi looking slightly disappointed, like you took away her favourite food in the middle of a meal. You pretend not to notice and in one simple swoop you lift her up and throw her onto your little cot. You kneel onto the cot, pulling her hips toward you. She gasps as you position her, exposing herself completely to you. You run a hand over the smooth skin of her right breast, feeling her tremble at your touch. "You hesitated once," you murmur, your voice a rough caress. "You won't hesitate with me." You don't tease. You guide yourself, your throbbing dick into her inviting vagina. The head of your cock splits her lips as it strains to find the deepest parts of her. She lets out a choked, desperate moan, her back arching, offering herself to you completely. In one powerful, claiming thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt inside her. Her cry is a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure and relief. Her vagina pulls at you, her inner walls clamping around you with shocking intensity. It feels like a dance, her body rhythmically milking you toward ecstasy. You pick up a punishing pace. Each deep thrust is a jolt through both of you, a physical manifesto of your will. The cot groans in protest, its legs scraping against the stone floor with the force of your rhythm. The sound is obscene and glorious, her ragged, pleading cries that dissolve into wordless moans. <img src="images/black/sex.gif" alt="sex" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You look into her eyes and without even asking, she cries out: "You!", her voice breaking. "I belong to you!"<<set $dominated_naomi = true>><span class="domination-success">A surge of absolute authority washes over you, hot and intoxicating. This isn't just victory; it's a fundamental change. A new thread of power, shimmering and permanent, now ties her essence to yours. You have not just won a battle; you have claimed a throne.</span>You lean over her, smiling. "Remember this feeling. This is what power truly is." Her climax crashes without warning, a violent, shuddering wave. Her body convulses beneath you, her nails digging into your back. The sight of her coming completely undone under your command is the final trigger. With a final, deep plunge, you pour your cum into her, claiming your solace, your prize, your testament. For a moment, there is only the sound of her ragged breathing. She wraps her arms around you, holding you close, her body still trembling with aftershocks. The morning light, once a marker of failure, now paints your tangled bodies in a warm, golden glow. In this sparse room, you have carved out your own kingdom, however temporary. Naomi turns to you and meekly asks if you want something to eat. "That sounds nice," you say, suggesting the refectory. A look of quiet pleasure flashes in Naomi's eyes at your acceptance. "Of course. Please, follow me." [[Towards the refectory.->naomi_breakfast2]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Shared Meal</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/refectory.png" alt="The Refectory" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> "That sounds nice," you say, suggesting the refectory. Naomi's smile widens, a little less hesitant now. "Good. I know a quiet corner." She leads you through the maze of plain stone corridors to a functional, vaulted room with long wooden tables and simple, hearty food a stark contrast to the opulence of the main Houses. True to her word, she guides you to a secluded alcove. For a few minutes, you eat in a comfortable silence. It's a strangely normal moment, a calm amid the storm of your arrival. "You're handling this better than most," she says finally, her voice soft. "Some new students down here are... loud with their anger. Others just shrink away. You seem... thoughtful." She offers a shy smile. "It's a good sign, I think." She takes a delicate sip of water. "People forget that the most interesting things often grow in the shadows, away from all that glaring light upstairs. It's quieter here. Easier to hear yourself think." Her foot accidentally brushes against yours under the table. She pulls it back with a soft, flustered "Oh, pardon me," a fresh blush rising on her cheeks. The bell for the first class rings, its sound echoing through the stone halls. "It's time for the introductory lecture," Naomi says, standing up. "I can show you the way. We could... continue this another time?" She looks at you, a question in her eyes. [[Just go to class->first_dorm_lecture]] <br>[["I'd like that." Give her a confident smile.->first_dorm_lecture_flirt]] <<if $dom gte 10>><</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Private Comfort</h2></span> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> A confident, easy smile touches your lips, fueled by the memory of your power. "The refectory sounds crowded," you say, your voice dropping to a more intimate pitch. "Why don't you come in? The solitude is what's weighing on me. I wouldn't mind sharing it with the right person." Naomi's eyes widen slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She looks from you to the sparse room and back again, your directness clearly unexpected but not unwelcome. After a moment's hesitation, she offers a shy, curious nod and steps inside, letting the door click shut behind her. "It is quieter in here," she says softly, her gaze wandering around the small space before settling back on you. "It's easier to hear yourself think." "You don't seem like someone who belongs down here," you muse, taking a step closer. The air between you shifts, growing warmer, charged with a new potential. "I... I didn't pass my trial," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "I hesitated. But you... you're different. I can feel it. There's a... strength around you. It's intimidating." She says it not with fear, but with a kind of awe. <<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span>Her eyes drift down to your chest, lingering for a moment on the spot where the obsidian pendant rests beneath your clothes, as if drawn to its latent power.<</if>> "That's because I didn't hesitate," you say, closing the final distance between you. You don't ask permission. You reach out and forcefully tilt her chin up so her dark, empathetic eyes meet yours. She doesn't pull away; she just lets out a soft, shuddering breath. The last vestiges of your dream the taste of power, the phantom touch of a goddess cry out for a more tangible release. For something real and warm and yielding. <<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">The pendant against your chest thrums with a deep, approving violet light, its heat a promise of unimaginable power.</span>As your skin makes contact with hers, the small obsidian pendant hidden beneath your clothes gives a faint, almost imperceptible thrum against your chest, warming to the touch as it drinks in the submission and trust she so willingly offers.<</if>> <img src="images/black/pulling.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Your other hand starts tracing down her body, suddenly pulling her against you. She gasps, her hands coming up to rest tentatively on your chest, not to push you away, but to steady herself. "Is this... is this what you needed?" she whispers, her body pliant in your arms. "Not to talk... but to feel?" "In a place that tries to make you feel weak," you growl in her ear, "sometimes the only answer is to remember your own strength." You capture her mouth in a deep kiss. It's not a violent claiming or a calculated seduction. This is different. This is about leaving your mark in this academy and that starts here. She melts in your arms, dissolving into a sweet, eager surrender, her arms sliding up around your neck to pull you closer. [[Let the morning fade away->naomi_stay_morning]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Shared Meal</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/refectory.png" alt="The Refectory" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> She doesn't lead so much as guide, constantly checking with a slight turn of her head that you are following, ensuring the path is clear for you. The common dorms' refectory is a stark, functional room. She leads you not just to a table, but to the best seat in the alcove the one with the clearest view of the room and the most privacy. She waits for you to sit before she takes her own seat, her posture attentive, not relaxed. "May I bring you something?" she offers softly, her hands folded in her lap. "The spiced oatmeal is surprisingly good today. Or perhaps just tea?" Her attention is entirely on your comfort, her own needs seeming secondary. <<if $has_pendant>> A deep, satisfying warmth blooms from the obsidian pendant against your chest, a silent hum of approval. It drinks in her willing subservience like a fine wine, and a thrill of pure, dark power echoes back into your soul. Yet, for a fleeting second, the memory of the Phantom Lady's cruel, beautiful smile flashes in your mind, and a chill runs down your spine as if she is watching, and enjoying, the path you are now walking. <<else>> Her behavior is a stark contrast to the dismissals you've faced. The unwavering attention is unsettling, yet undeniably appealing. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over you, a fleeting chill that feels like the memory of a dream about a powerful, watching presence. <</if>> The bell for the first class rings, its sound a command. Naomi immediately stands, her eyes downcast for a moment before meeting yours, seeking direction. "The introductory lecture is this way," she says, her voice respectful. "Would you permit me to show you?" Her offer is not just guidance; it's the first act of service. [[Nod curtly. "Lead the way."->first_dorm_lecture]] <br>[["I'd prefer your company here instead."->naomi_stay_breakfast]] <<if $dom gte 15>><</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Introductory Lecture</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/lecture.png" alt="Lecture Hall" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> A faint, flickering image of Professor Albright, thin and wavering like a bad signal, drones on about basic mana theory from a hololithic projector in the corner of the dusty common room. For the Unaffiliated, even the teachers are hand-me-downs. The astral projection's voice is a dry monotone that makes the hard wooden benches feel even more unforgiving. Elian snorts softly beside you. "Wow. We get the low-bandwidth stream. How exclusive." You try to focus, but<<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> the pendant feels cold against your chest, a constant reminder of a power they can't teach you here,<<else>> your mind drifts,<<endif>> before you decide to make your move. <<if $dominated_naomi>> You find a seat. A moment later, Naomi slips into the space beside you, not next to you, but slightly behind and to your side. She sits with perfect, attentive stillness, her gaze fixed on you more than the professor. When Albright poses a dry question to the room, she leans forward, her voice a whisper only you can hear, offering a succinct, brilliant answer she clearly expects you to claim as your own. Her entire purpose seems to be facilitating your success, her submission a quiet engine for your advancement. The power dynamic is invisible to everyone else, but it charges the air between you, making the dull lecture feel like a secret game you alone are winning. <<else>> The lecture is as dry as the dust motes dancing in the slivers of light from the high windows. The concepts are basic, a stark reminder of the advanced knowledge being hoarded by the Great Houses. You try to focus, but the memory of your failures or the tantalizing, unclaimed potential of your night is a constant distraction. You are just another face in the crowd of the discarded. <</if>> The hour drags on until Albright dismisses the class with a weary wave. The students file out silently into the stone corridor. <<if $dominated_naomi>> Naomi waits for you to rise before she does, falling into step just behind you. "The next lesson is in the Grand Hall," she informs you quietly, her tone both respectful and intimately familiar. "It is mandatory for all students. I will... observe." The promise of her continued presence, even as a spectator, is clear. <<else>> The lesson is over, but you've learned little except the depth of your own exile. You follow the flow of students into the corridor, all of you herded toward the next mandatory event. <</if>> A Proctor stands at the end of the hall, his sharp eyes scanning the students. "To the Grand Hall for Thaumaturgical Ethics," he commands, his voice brooking no argument. "Now. Do not be late." The flow of bodies turns and moves as one. Your private thoughts, and any private connections, will have to wait. The academy demands your attendance. [[Continue to the obligatory lesson->obligatory_class]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Promise</h2></span> "I'd like that," you say, your voice dropping into a more confident, warmer register. Your smile is no longer just polite; it's a promise. <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Naomi's blush deepens, but she doesn't look away. Instead, she meets your gaze, and her own shy smile gains a spark of something more certain. "Good," she says simply, and the word feels loaded with meaning. The brief, charged moment leaves you both feeling energized and focused. The prospect of seeing her again turns the obligatory lecture from a chore into something to get through. <<set $charm += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $str += 1>> [[Continue to your first class->first_dorm_lecture]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Clearer Priority</h2></span> "I'd prefer your company here instead," you say, your voice leaving no room for argument. The lecture can wait. Naomi's breath catches slightly. A slow, deep blush spreads across her cheeks and down her neck. She doesn't look embarrassed; she looks... thrilled by the command. "I... see," she says, her voice a hushed, obedient whisper. She sits back down immediately, her hands returning to her lap. Her posture is perfectly still, waiting for your next instruction. The air between you crackles with a new, unambiguous energy. You are no longer two students. You are master and servant, and the first lesson is about to begin. <<set $int += 2>> <<set $str += 2>> <<set $charm += 2>> <<set $dom += 3>> [[The real lecture begins now.|naomi_submission_begin]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The First Lesson</h2></span> The silence in the alcove is no longer comfortable; it is charged and expectant. Naomi watches you, her dark eyes wide and waiting, her breathing slightly quickened. "You offered to ease the weight of this place," you state, your voice low and deliberate, claiming the authority she has handed you. "Show me how." A shiver runs through her. "Yes," she breathes, the word more a pledge than a reply. She stands, not to leave, but to kneel on the stone floor beside your chair. The sight is utterly captivating. "Tell me what you need," she whispers, looking up at you. "My hands to ease your tension? My voice to quiet the thoughts in your mind? My silence, if you prefer to simply be served?"<img src="images/black/nkneeling.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The distant sound of the lecture bell rings out, a clear call to obligation. It hangs in the air for a moment a choice. You let the sound fade into nothing, your eyes never leaving hers. "The lecture can wait," you command, your voice leaving no room for debate. "Your lesson is more important." The thrill that goes through her is visible. Her posture softens into pure, yielding acceptance. "Thank you," she whispers, as if you have granted her a great gift instead of demanding her submission. [[Continue your command->naomi_deeper_service]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Deeper Service</h2></span> "Show me what else you can do," you command, your voice a low rumble that brooks no refusal. Naomi's eyes flutter closed for a second, a wave of pure submission washing over her features. "Your will is my purpose," she breathes, her voice thick with devotion. She doesn't rise from her knees. Instead, she leans forward, her hands moving from your shoulders with a new, deliberate intent. Her fingers work to loosen the fastenings of your trousers, her movements reverent and sure. There is no hesitation, only a profound eagerness to please. "Let me serve your most fundamental needs, Master," she whispers, her warm breath ghosting over your skin as she frees your hardening cock from its confines. "Let me show you the depth of my dedication." Her mouth closes over you, not with desperate hunger, but with worshipful precision. The heat is instantaneous and overwhelming. She services you with a skill that speaks of a natural talent for submission, each movement designed for your pleasure alone. Her world has narrowed to this point to the weight of you on her tongue, to the sounds of your breathing, to the absolute fulfillment of her commanded task. <img src="images/black/bj2.gif" alt="Naomi Bj" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The outside world ceases to exist. There is no lecture, no academy, no Houses. There is only her devoted mouth and the building pressure of your release. You fist a hand in her hair, not to guide her, but to anchor yourself in the sensation, silently asserting your ownership. She moans around you, the vibration a delicious feedback loop of pleasure. When your climax crashes over you, she takes it all without a flinch, swallowing deeply as a final, devout act of service. She rests her head against your thigh afterward, catching her breath, her eyes shining with fulfilled purpose. <img src="images/black/swallow.webp" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> "You have my gratitude," she says softly, the title feeling utterly natural on her lips. The lecture hall is silent now. The class is long over. You missed it entirely. And you couldn't care less. [[This is enough.->obligatory_class]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Thaumaturgical Ethics</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/3.png" alt="Three Houses" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> The Grand Hall is packed with students from all houses, the air thick with ambition and the subtle scent of ozone, perfume, and sweat. At the front, the three Heads of House observe the proceedings, a living lesson in the different forms of power and desire. <<if $house eq "viridis">>Lady Selene lounges with an air of bored amusement, but her eyes heavy-lidded and knowing find yours. She offers a slight, almost imperceptible nod that feels more intimate than a touch. It's a silent promise of private lessons to come. Across from her, Lady Valeria's analytical gaze dissects you, as if trying to quantify the precise allure her rival sees. Beside her, Knight-Captain Nyx's grin is a flash of white, her eyes raking over you as if deciding which part of you she'd like to break first in the training ring. <<elseif $house eq "septenius">>Lady Valeria gives you a curt, approving glance, a scientist satisfied with her prime specimen. You are her subject, and the memory of her skin against yours hangs in the air between you. Beside her, Lady Selene watches you with the intrigued curiosity of a collector assessing a valuable new asset she wouldn't mind acquiring. Knight-Captain Nyx looks at you, judging the physical vessel that contains your brilliant mind with a palpable, competitive hunger. <<elseif $house eq "ignis">>Knight-Captain Nyx grins at you, a predator recognizing its mate. The look is a challenge and an invitation, a silent promise of a different, more physical kind of calculus. Lady Selene assesses your raw potential with a merchant's calculating greed, already pricing the value of your loyalty. Lady Valeria looks at you as a fascinating, untamed variable in her equations, her fingers twitching as if longing for her instruments to take your measure. <<else>> You take a seat among the other Unaffiliated. The three Heads of House notice you. Their reactions are a volatile cocktail of memory and desire. <<if $dominated_selene>>Lady Selene's gaze is a dark, smoldering brand. She doesn't just look at you; she *consumes* you. Her lips part slightly, a silent gasp as the memory of your conquest washes over her. Her usual composure is a fragile mask over a deep, addictive hunger to be mastered again. <<elseif $promise_selene lt 0>> Lady Selene's gaze is one of cold, pure fury. You are a breached contract, a bad debt, and she looks at you like she's already planning the exquisite ruin she'll bring upon you. <<else>> Lady Selene's gaze slides over you with dismissive indifference, as if you were a piece of furniture. You are utterly irrelevant.<</if>> <<if $dominated_valeria>> Lady Valeria's look is one of utterly captivated, obsessive fascination. You are the anomaly that shattered her control. She studies you not with disappointment, but with a desperate, hungry need to run more experiments, to feel that loss of control again. <<elseif $promise_valeria lt 0>>Lady Valeria's look is one of cold, clinical disdain. You are a contaminated sample, flawed data that must be quarantined and discarded. <<else>>Lady Valeria's look is utterly neutral. You are an uncalibrated instrument, beneath her notice.<</if>> <<if $dominated_nyx>>Knight-Captain Nyx's expression is one of fierce, burning obsession. You are the one who truly bested her. Her eyes promise an endless, violent passion a war of bodies she craves to lose again and again. <<elseif $promise_nyx lt 0>>Knight-Captain Nyx's expression is one of pure, unadulterated contempt. Her lip curls. You are weak. You are beneath her. <<else>>Knight-Captain Nyx's expression is one of dismissive scorn. You are unproven, and therefore worthless.<</if>> <<if $dominated_naomi>> You feel a presence beside you before you see her. Naomi slips into the seat next to you, her movement quiet and sure. She doesn't look at the Heads of House; her entire focus is on you. She places a cup of tea on the desk before you, a simple, thoughtful act of service. Her eyes meet yours for a brief moment, filled with a deep, silent devotion that shutters out the rest of the room. She is your anchor in the sea of their judgment, a living testament to the power you wield away from their thrones. <</if>> <</if>> The Headmaster calls the room to order. "Today's lesson: the ethical application of power. A theoretical question: if you could secure ultimate pleasure and power for yourself but at the cost of a fundamental universal constant, would you? Could you justify the transaction?" The question hangs in the charged air, aimed at everyone, but you feel the weight of their eyes specifically on you some with hunger, some with hatred, all with desire. [[How do you answer?->ethical_dilemma]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Private Tutoring</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> "Your assistance is required, I want to go over some of the course work" you say, your tone leaving no room for refusal. A look of pure gratification flashes in Naomi's eyes. "Of course. Your room?" she suggests, her voice hushed with a mix of reverence and anticipation. You lead the way. Once inside your sparse dormitory, she doesn't wait for instruction. She immediately begins organizing the scattered notes from the lecture with efficient, reverent movements, transforming the bleak space into a place of purpose *your* purpose. <<if $dom gte 20>><img src="images/black/nkneeling.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She kneels beside the desk, holding up a diagram of mana flow. "This is where most students fail to comprehend the primary arcane conduit," she explains, her voice soft but clear. Her explanation is brilliant, cutting through Albright's dry lecture to the elegant truth beneath. It's clear her understanding far exceeds this remedial class. She is not just a servant; she is a valuable asset, willingly placing her intellect at your feet. <<elseif $dom gte 15>> She stands respectfully beside you, pointing to a passage in the textbook. "The professor's explanation was flawed. The true mechanism is more... intuitive," she says, before providing a clear, concise summary that makes the complex theory suddenly click into place. Her help is not just attentive; it is genuinely masterful. <<else>> She sits on the floor near your feet, looking up at you as she patiently re-explains the core concepts from the lecture. Her voice is a calming, persistent rhythm that eventually pushes the knowledge through your frustration. Her submission is your key to understanding. <</if>> But the lesson is not purely academic. Her every gesture is an act of devotion. The brush of her hand as she passes you a quill. The way she looks up for your approval after explaining a complex point. The air grows thick with a different kind of knowledge. The study session stretches into the evening. By the end, you have not only grasped the day's lessons but advanced far beyond them. <<set $int += 3>><<set $dom += 2>> Finally, she goes silent, her hands folded in her lap. She has given you everything she has to offer her knowledge, her attention, her unwavering focus. Now, she simply waits for your judgment. [["You've earned a reward."->naomi_reward]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>An Unwelcome Visit</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The quiet of your room is broken by a sudden, heavy knock. It is precise, deliberate, and utterly devoid of patience. Before you can rise, the door opens. Proctor Korrin steps inside, his expression carved from stone. His gaze sweeps across the room as though already tallying your failures. "You," he says, his voice clipped, metallic. "While your peers forge alliances, you drift. This academy is no place for shadows on the wall. Aethelgard rewards resolve. It devours hesitation." He steps closer, the air seeming thinner around him. "I will not have a student under my purview squander their chance." For an instant, his eyes flare with **violet light**. The color is too sharp, too deep, the same hue that haunted your dreams, that brushed against your soul in the Grand Hall. Recognition coils in your gut before you can stop it. Then the surge comes. It is not gentle. The force floods into you, unasked-for and overwhelming. Your thoughts snap into brutal clarity, every word on your tongue carries weight, your body thrums with strength, your will feels vast enough to crush stone. It does not feel like *you.* It feels like being filled, pressed full until you are brimming with something that wants to spill outward. <<set $int += 3>><<set $str += 3>><<set $charm += 3>><<set $dom += 3>><<set $proctor_boost = true>> You stagger beneath it, breath catching. Just as suddenly, the flood recedes, not gone, but coiled inside you, a burning that will not last until dawn. <img src="images/npc/proctor.png" alt="A mysterious man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The Proctor watches, face unreadable. The light in his eyes is gone, but the echo lingers in your memory. "This advantage is temporary," he says at last, voice like a closing door. "Use it, or be crushed by those who will." Without waiting for a reply, he turns and leaves. The silence he leaves behind feels heavier than before, the strange, humming power within you like a ticking clock. [[The night is now yours.->dorm_evening_final]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Earned Reward</h2></span> <img src="images/black/submissive.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> "You've earned a reward," you say, your voice a low murmur in the quiet room. Naomi's breath catches. A profound stillness settles over her, followed by a slow, deep blush that spreads from her cheeks down her neck. This is not the flustered embarrassment from before; it is the hot flush of anticipation. Her dark, earth-colored eyes fix on you, wide and utterly trusting. "Thank you, Master," she whispers, the title slipping from her lips as if it were the most natural word in the world. You don't need to give a command. She understands. With movements that are both hesitant and certain, she shifts from her kneeling position to sit back on her heels, her back straight, her hands resting palms-up on her thighs in a gesture of ultimate offering. She closes her eyes, her long, dark lashes brushing her cheeks, and tilts her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat to you. This is the reward she craves: not a thing, but a state of being. The state of being yours, completely and explicitly. The air hums with the silent exchange of power. Her submission is not passive; it is an active, fervent gift, and she is waiting for you to accept it. <img src="images/black/choking.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> Your hand moves almost of its own accord, drawn to the vulnerable column of her throat. Your touch is not harsh, but deliberate and inescapable. Your thumb rests on one side, your fingers on the other, feeling the frantic, rabbit-like flutter of her pulse beneath the warm, soft skin. Naomi's eyes fly open at the contact, a silent gasp parting her lips. But there is no fear in her gaze only a deep, shocking well of trust and absolute surrender. She holds perfectly still, her entire being focused on the point where your skin meets hers. "You are mine," you state, your voice low and resonant. It is not a question. "Yes, Master," she breathes out, the words vibrating against your palm. "Yours." You can feel her life beating in your hand. Her trust is a more potent intoxicant than any magic. You apply the faintest, most subtle increase of pressure not to harm, but to dominate. To remind you both of the power you hold. Her eyes flutter closed again, a soft, shuddering sigh of pure ecstasy escaping her. This is her reward. This is her paradise. After a long, breathless moment, you slowly release your hold. Your thumb strokes the skin it was just pressing on, a soothing caress that is itself an act of possession. She sways slightly, her eyes dazed and full of a profound, worshipful gratitude. The connection forged in that silent exchange is deeper than any physical act. [["Now, show me your gratitude."->naomi_reward_gratitude]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>First Real Night</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> You stand alone in your room, the silence now feeling like a throne room after your earlier conquest. The memory of <<if visited("selene_reward")>>bending Selene over her desk<<elseif visited("valeria_reward")>>taking Valeria on her worktable<<elseif visited("nyx_reward")>>claiming Nyx in the Crucible<<elseif visited("naomi_reward_climax")>>Naomi's utter surrender on your bed<</if>> is a fresh, potent brand on your mind. The air itself feels charged with your authority. The night ahead is not a challenge; it is an execution of your will. <<if visited("selene_reward")>> The plan is set, but it is no longer a partnership. It is your command. Tonight, at Lady Briar's gathering, you will ruin Alistair Vance. Selene's resources are merely your tools now, his ego a toy for you to break. You will be more than sharp; you will be an inevitability. Every word will be a verdict, every smile a promise of ruin. <</if>><<if visited("valeria_reward")>> Valeria's task is your directive. Alistair Vance is a subject for your scrutiny, a node you will exploit. His Dreamleaf habit is a flaw you will pry open. You need not be a ghost; you will be a predator, and he will never see the shadow that gathers him. The data will be yours because you demand it. <</if>><<if visited("nyx_reward")>> Nyx's challenge is your proclamation. Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw is merely the next obstacle you will dismantle. The Crucible is not a stage; it is your anvil, and you will hammer his respect from his broken pride. This is not about display; it is about demonstration. Your power is the only fact that matters. <</if>><<if visited("naomi_reward_climax")>> A different kind of anticipation hums in your veins. Naomi's submission was... profound. A deep, yielding peace that has settled in your room, and in you. The service quarters await. <</if>> You have a few hours before the night's events begin. Time to fortify your resolve and sharpen your tools. <strong>How will you prepare for the night ahead?</strong><br> <<if !$prepared>> <<link "Meditate on Absolute Command" "dorm_evening_claimed">> <<set $dom += 3>> <<set $prepChoice = "dom">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #8e44ad;"><em>(Reinforce your aura of undeniable authority. +Dominance)</em></span><br> <<link "Rehearse Your Decree" "dorm_evening_claimed">> <<set $charm += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "charm">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #2ECC71;"><em>(Practice the tone that ends debates. +Charm)</em></span><br> <<link "Analyze for Weaknesses" "dorm_evening_claimed">> <<set $int += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "int">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><em>(Find the cracks you will exploit. +Intellect)</em></span><br> <<link "Prime Your Body for Conquest" "dorm_evening_claimed">> <<set $str += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "str">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #E74C3C;"><em>(Feel the power ready to be unleashed. +Strength)</em></span><br> <<link "Savor Your Victory & Rest" "dorm_evening_claimed">> <<set $int += 1>> <<set $str += 1>> <<set $prepChoice = "rest">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #BDC3C7;"><em>(Consolidate your power from a position of strength. +Intellect, +Strength)</em></span><br> <</if>> <<if $prepared>> <<if $prepChoice eq "dom">> Your will settles over the room like a physical weight. You are not just ready; you are inevitable. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "charm">> Your voice holds a new, compelling edge of command. Words will not persuade; they will dictate. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "int">> Your mind is a razor, honed to dissect the plans of lesser beings. Their strategies are transparent. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "str">> Your body thrums with contained violence, a weapon awaiting its moment to strike. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "rest">> A cold, calculating calm fills you. Your energy is a focused reserve, ready to be spent on your terms. <</if>><br>The time for preparation is over. The night awaits your command. <br><br><<if $dominated_naomi>>As you begin your plans to leave, a flicker of movement catches your eye through your window, a familiar, slight figure slipping from the common dorms into the shadows of the courtyard. It's Naomi. Her movements are furtive, hurried. This isn't a casual stroll; she's heading with clear purpose towards the staff corridors and the off-limits service quarters. <br><br>An intriguing variable enters your calculation. Your planned evening now has a potential diversion. <br><br><</if>>“The night has already begun, and time slips quickly away. What will you chase into the dark?” <br> <<if visited("selene_reward")>> [[Attend Lady Briar's Gathering->briar_salon_start_dom2]] <em>(Ruin Alistair Vance)</em><br> <</if>> <<if visited("valeria_reward")>> [[Shadow Alistair Vance->shadowing_start_dom2]] <em>(Investigate his habits and secrets)</em><br> <</if>> <<if visited("nyx_reward")>> [[Enter the Crucible->crucible_start_dom]] <em>(Crush the Hound and claim his respect)</em><br> <</if>> <<if $dominated_naomi>> [[Pursue Naomi->service_quarters_start_dom]] <em>(Uncover the secret she hides in the service quarters)</em> <</if>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Tangible Gratitude</h2></span> "Now, show me your gratitude," you command, your voice dropping to a husky whisper that brooks no refusal. The command seems to electrify her. A fresh, deep blush blooms across Naomi's chest, visible above the neckline of her simple robes. Her eyes, still dazed from the intensity of your touch, sharpen with a new, focused purpose. There is no hesitation, only a fervent desire to obey. "Yes, Master. It would be my honor." She moves with a new, captivating certainty. Still on her knees, she leans forward, her movements reverent and slow. Her slender hands come up to the fastening of your trousers. Her eyes remain locked on yours, seeking silent permission even as she carries out your order. With a deftness that surprises you, she undoes the closure. <img src="images/black/bj3.webp" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> She doesn't break eye contact as she takes you into the warm, wet heat of her mouth. A soft, shuddering moan escapes her, vibrating through you as she does so a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss at being used for your pleasure. This is not a service she performs; it is a sacrament she receives. Her every movement, every flick of her tongue, every soft sigh is an act of worship, a physical prayer of gratitude for the dominion you have claimed over her. The sight of her this serene, beautiful woman utterly lost in the ecstasy of her own submission is more intoxicating than any spell. You feel a sudden urge to push her down and straddle her. Soon you cum, Naomi dutifully catches all of it in her mouth. Then before she can swallow, you command simply: "Spill." Without a moment of hesitation, she opens her mouth and lets your cum spill out down her cheeks. <img src="images/black/spill.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> The sight of her devotion is overwhelming, but you crave more. A deeper claim. With a low growl, you fist your hands in her silken hair not to cause pain, but to guide her and pull her up from her knees. A small, breathy gasp of surprise escapes her lips, but her eyes flash with immediate, eager understanding. You guide her onto the narrow bed, her slender body yielding beneath you as you lay her down. The sparse wool of the blanket is a stark contrast to the soft heat of her skin. "Master..." she whispers, her voice a mixture of awe and desire, her dark eyes wide and utterly trusting. She doesn't ask what you will do; she simply waits, her body pliant and ready for your will. You cover her body with yours, the weight a possessive anchor. You claim her mouth in a searing, dominant kiss, swallowing her soft moans. This is different from her service; this is you taking what is yours. Her arms wrap around your neck, not to pull you closer, but to hold on as she is utterly overwhelmed by the force of your possession. You use your strength to effortlessly flip her onto her stomach on the bed. Your weight settles on top of her, pinning her down. When you finally penetrate her, it is with a single, claiming thrust that makes her cry out a sound of pleasure so pure it borders on pain. Her tight, wet pussy welcomes you, and her legs start to shake, buckling under the pleasure, which makes you reach deeper, surrendering her completely. <img src="images/black/sex2.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> This is the final surrender. The ultimate gratitude. Her body becomes your temple, and every movement, every thrust, is a fervent prayer of your shared power. [[Claim your consummation->naomi_reward_climax]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Consummation</h2></span> The world narrows to the feeling of her body yielding to yours, to the rhythm of her quick, shallow breaths against your skin, to the whispered prayers of your name that fall from her lips. You drive into her with a relentless, possessive rhythm that shatters the last vestiges of her composure, leaving only raw, worshipful sensation in its wake. You can feel her climax begin to coil tight beneath you, a gathering storm of submission and ecstasy. Her inner muscles flutter around you, a desperate, rhythmic plea for release. "Look at me," you command, your voice rough with your own need. <img src="images/black/sex3.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> Her dark eyes, glazed with pleasure, snap open to meet yours. In that moment of perfect connection, she is utterly laid bare not just her body, but her soul, offered up to you in total surrender. That final, devastating act of trust shatters your control. With a final, deep thrust, you pour your cum into her, a groan ripped from your chest. Her own climax crashes over her a second later, triggered by yours, her body convulsing around you as a silent, breathless cry of absolute ecstasy shakes her frame. It is not just a physical release; it is the culmination of her devotion. For a long moment, you both remain locked together, the only sound your ragged breathing slowly returning to normal in the quiet of the room. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex and something else something like ozone and absolute certainty. You slowly withdraw and collapse beside her on the narrow bed. She immediately turns onto her side, curling against you, her head resting on your chest. One hand rests over your heart, as if feeling the proof of its beat. No words are needed. The silence itself speaks louder than any vow. The bond is sealed, not with promises, but with an understanding that runs deeper than words. She is yours. You feel her linger, waiting for permission to remain by your side. But you are not hers to serve; she is yours to command. "Leave me," you say at last, your voice low but absolute. "Go. I will summon you when I wish it." Her eyes flicker with the sting of dismissal, but also with devotion. She bows her head, obeying without hesitation, and slips into the shadows beyond the door. The distant sounds of the academy continue, oblivious to the profound shift that has just occurred in its forgotten basement. At last, you are alone with your thoughts, your power, and the echo of her presence humming in your veins. [[What will we do now->dorm_evening_claimed]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Nyx</h2></span><<set $pending_promise = "nyx">> <<if $promise_nyx lt 0>><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <img src="images/red/nn.png" alt="Nyx Rejection" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Nyx as the crowd disperses. She sees you coming and her fierce grin instantly twists into a scowl of pure contempt. <br><br> "You?" she spits, not even breaking her stride. "Don't waste my time. I've seen all I need to see. You had a spark, and you pissed it out. Get out of my sight." She shoves past you with a dismissive shoulder check that leaves no doubt about her opinion. <br><br> The dismissal is absolute. You have been weighed and found permanently wanting. <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [[Return to the common dorms->dorm_evening_pass]] <<elseif visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> <img src="images/red/nyx.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Nyx. She turns, and a fierce, familiar grin spreads across her face. "There you are. Knew you wouldn't be able to resist a real conversation after that show." <br><br> She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. "Look, you've got fire. I need that. There's an old bastard, Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw, our weaponsmaster. He runs a nasty little fight club on the side, and I'm pretty sure he's the Headmaster's favorite leg-breaker. I can't touch him myself without starting a civil war in Ignis. But a new, unaffiliated spark like you? You could walk right in." <br><br> Her eyes gleam with the thrill of the plan. "Your kind of answer in there... that's exactly the kind of chaos we need to shake his tree. Think you can handle it?" <br><br> [["I was born to handle it."->nyx_plan]] <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/nyx.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach your Knight-Captain. She looks you up and down, a appraising glint in her eye. "That was a solid answer, recruit. Shows you've got the right spirit buried under all that... thinking." <br><br> She crosses her arms. "But spirit isn't enough. You want my attention? Prove it where it counts. The nightly tournament in the Crucible. No rules, no excuses. Win there, and we'll talk about your future. Now get out of here. Go prep." <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [["Yes, Captain."->dawn_prep]] <<elseif $house eq "viridis">><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Nyx. She looks you over, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, well. The pretty bird from the tower has some talons after all. That wasn't a completely worthless answer." <br><br> She leans forward. "But talk is cheap in Viridis. You want to see what real strength looks like? Come to the nightly tournament in the Crucible. See if you can last more than five seconds outside your silk nest. Maybe you'll learn something." <br><br> [["I'll be there."->dawn_prep]] <<elseif $house eq "septenius">><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Nyx. She raises an eyebrow, a look of amused surprise on her face. "Huh. The brain actually has a backbone. I'm almost impressed." <br><br> She chuckles. "Bet they don't teach *that* in your library. If you're tired of thinking and want to start *doing*, come to the real lecture tonight: the nightly tournament in the Crucible. Let's see if those theories hold up under pressure." <br><br> [["I'll test the hypothesis."->dawn_prep]] <<else>> <<if $has_pendant>><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> You stride toward Nyx, an unfamiliar confidence surging through you. The world seems to sharpen. Before you can speak, a searing, icy pain lances through your soul a sensation of something ancient and hungry stirring within you. Your vision tunnels, then goes black. <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [[You wake up in the infirmary.->infirmary_day2]] <<else>><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Nyx. She looks you over, her expression unreadable. "An Unaffiliated with a spine. Don't see that every day." <br><br> "That answer had some weight to it. More than most of the sheep in this place. You want to prove it's not a fluke? The nightly tournament in the Crucible. Be there. Don't be late." <br><br> [["I won't be."->dorm_evening]] <</if>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Selene</h2></span><<set $pending_promise = "selene">> <<if $promise_selene lt 0>><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> <img src="images/green/ss.png" alt="Selene Rejection" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Selene as the crowd disperses. She sees you coming and her expression cools into a mask of utter, dismissive contempt. <br><br> "Our business is concluded," she states, her voice like polished ice. She doesn't even break her stride. "You are a bad investment. Do not attempt to renegotiate a terminated contract." She turns away, the dismissal as final and cold as a cancelled bank draft. <br><br> You have been deemed a financial loss and written off. <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [[Return to the common dorms->dorm_evening_pass]] <<elseif visited("selene_chamber_reward")>> <img src="images/green/selene.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Selene. A slow, knowing smile graces her lips, a private signal meant only for you. "There you are. I was just calculating the market shift your little performance is about to cause." <br><br> She lowers her voice to an intimate murmur. "It seems our portfolio requires a... hostile acquisition. A third-year Septenius named Alistair Vance. He's been moving the Headmaster's toxic assets through his little betting ring. His Dreamleaf habit makes him a liability. I need you to... apply pressure. See what cracks appear. This is a delicate operation. We need to be partners on this." Her eyes hold yours, offering a true collaboration. <br><br> [["I'll ensure he's motivated to negotiate."->selene_plan]] <<elseif $house eq "viridis" and $invitation_briar>><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Selene. She gives you an appraising look, a hint of respect in her gaze. "You secured the invitation. Good. That shows initiative I wasn't sure you possessed." <br><br> "Now, don't squander the opportunity. Lady Briar's salon is tonight. It is a battlefield of whispers and implications. Prepare yourself. Be sharp, be charming, and for once, be precisely on time." Her tone is that of a executive giving a final briefing to a promising junior associate.<<set $pending_promise = "">> <br><br> [["I'll be ready."->dawn_prep]] <<elseif $house eq "viridis">><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Selene. She looks you over, her expression one of calculated curiosity. "A member of my house. Your answer had a certain... brutal charm. Unrefined, but potentially useful." <br><br> A perfectly manicured hand produces a single, embossed invitation from her sleeve. She holds it out to you. <<set $invitation_briar = true>> <br><br> "Lady Briar is holding a gathering tonight. Consider this a chance to prove your value isn't a complete fiction. Do not," she says, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "disappoint me again. Now, go and prepare."<<set $pending_promise = "">> <br><br> [["I understand."->dawn_prep]] <<elseif $house eq "ignis" or $house eq "septenius">><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Selene. A sly, amused smile plays on her lips. "Well, well. The <<if $house eq "ignis">>brute<</if>><<if $house eq "septenius">>brain<</if>> from House <<print $house>> actually has a spine. How... entertaining." <br><br> She produces an invitation with a flourish. <<set $invitation_briar = true>> <br><br> "You will attend Lady Briar's salon tonight. It will be amusing to see how long you last among the civilized predators. Try not to break anything. Or do. It might be more interesting. Now, go. Don't be late." She dismisses you with a wave, already looking for more entertaining company. <br><br> [["This should be interesting."->dawn_prep]] <<else>> <<if $has_pendant>><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> You move toward Selene, an overwhelming sense of dominance washing over you. You see her not as a person, but as an asset to be seized. Before this predatory impulse can take full control, a searing, icy pain lances through your soul, a sensation of something ancient and hungry stirring within you. Your vision tunnels, then goes black. <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [[You wake up in the infirmary.->infirmary_day2]] <<else>><img src="images/green/selene.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Selene. Her eyes flick over you, noting your lack of house colors with detached interest. "An Unaffiliated with audacity. A rare commodity." <br><br> As she turns to leave, a single, embossed invitation seems to slip from her hand, fluttering to the ground at your feet. <<set $invitation_briar = true>> <br><br> She doesn't look back. The message is clear: the opportunity is there, but beneath her notice to formally offer. <br><br> [[Pick up the invitation.->dorm_evening]] <</if>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Valeria</h2></span><<set $pending_promise = "valeria">> <<if $promise_valeria lt 0>><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <img src="images/blue/vv.png" alt="Valeria Rejection" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Valeria as the crowd disperses. She sees you coming and her focused expression instantly frosts over into one of pure, clinical disdain. <br><br> "Your presence is a contaminant in this dataset," she states, her voice devoid of all warmth. She doesn't even look up from her data-slate. "Further interaction would invalidate my research parameters. Do not attempt to interface with me again." She turns her back, a dismissal as absolute and final as a deleted file. <br><br> You have been categorized as erroneous data and quarantined. <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [[Return to the common dorms->dorm_evening_pass]] <<elseif visited("valeria_chambers")>> <img src="images/blue/valeria.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Valeria. She looks up, and a rare, genuine smile touches her lips, softening her usually severe features. "Your hypothesis in there was... exhilarating. It introduced a variable I had not adequately accounted for." <br><br> She steps closer, her voice losing some of its technical precision, becoming more intimate. "I require your assistance. There is an anomaly in the student body: Alistair Vance, a third-year Septenius. His activities suggest he is a processing node for the Headmaster's illicit data streams. His Dreamleaf dependency is a critical vulnerability in his security protocol. I need you to... engage with him. Extract his operational parameters. Our combined efforts could unravel this entire mystery." Her eyes shine with a mix of intellectual curiosity and a deeper, personal trust in you. <br><br> She presses a folded glyph into your hand, etched with silver script. "Use this. It will reach me directly, no matter the wards." <br><br> [["I will begin the analysis immediately."->valeria_plan]] <<elseif $house eq "septenius">><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach your Head of House. She assesses you with a sharp, analytical gaze. "Your conclusion was logically sound, if unorthodox. It demonstrates a capacity for nonlinear thinking that this house occasionally lacks." <br><br> "If you wish to apply that intellect to a worthwhile problem, there is a student, Alistair Vance. His behavior patterns are statistically aberrant. I require a full diagnostic. Observe him. Document his routines and interactions. Report your findings to me. Consider it a practical examination."<<set $pending_promise = "">> <br><br> She slips you a folded glyph, its edges faintly glowing. "A direct line. Do not misuse it." <br><br> [["Understood. The analysis will be thorough."->dawn_prep]] <<elseif $house eq "viridis" or $house eq "ignis">><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Valeria. She looks up from her data-slate, one eyebrow arched in analytical curiosity. "A member of House <<print $house>>. Your response displayed a surprising... pragmatic flexibility. Unrefined, but potent." <br><br> "If you believe your methods have merit, I have a task that requires a discrete operator. A student named Alistair Vance. His activities are an irregularity that requires investigation. Apply your unique skill set to him. Learn his patterns. This is not a request for brute force; it is a request for data. Succeed, and you will have my attention." <br><br> She folds a glyph into your palm, faint glyph-light tracing your skin. "When you uncover something of value, send it to me with this." <br><br> [["I'll acquire the data."->dawn_prep]] <<else>> <<if $has_pendant>><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> You move toward Valeria, an unfamiliar and terrifying clarity descending upon your mind. You see her not as a person, but as a system of vulnerabilities to be exploited. Before this new, cold instinct can take over, a searing, icy pain lances through your soul a sensation of something ancient and hungry stirring within you. Your vision tunnels, then goes black. <br><br><<set $pending_promise = "">> [[You wake up in the infirmary.->infirmary_day2]] <<else>><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You approach Valeria. She pauses her work, giving you a look of detached interest. "An Unaffiliated. Your response was an outlier. Interesting." <br><br> "That kind of... audacious thinking could be applied. There is a subject of study: a student named Alistair Vance. I require external observational data on his activities. Perform this task adequately, and we may discuss the value of your contributions further." <br><br> She slides a folded glyph across the desk. "It will reach me, even if the walls try to silence you." <br><br> [["I will observe."->dorm_evening]] <</if>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Strategic Consultation</h2></span><img src="images/green/selene.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> A single, imperceptible nod from you is all the instruction required. Selene glides through the dispersing students, her posture impeccable, but her eyes hold a new, sharp focus solely directed at you. She follows you to her opulent lounge, the door clicking shut to seal you in an atmosphere of conspiratorial wealth. "Well," she purrs, the word laced with a newfound, respectful heat as she leans against her mahogany desk. "You didn't just give an answer; you revalued the entire currency of power in that room. A masterful play." She gestures dismissively toward the door. "They're all still calculating how to short the market you just created. The question is, what's our next move?" "Your network is required," you state, your tone a command that brooks no suggestion, only execution. "We are acquiring the Headmaster's contract." A spark of thrilling danger ignites in her eyes. This is a high-stakes game she was born for, now played by your rules. "Naturally. Leveraging assets is what I do best." She moves with efficient, predatory grace, retrieving a slim, enchanted ledger from a concealed drawer. She doesn't stand over you; she positions herself beside you, a CEO to your Chairman, her body angled toward yours as she pages through lists of contacts and debts.<img src="images/green/dress.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $dom gte 20>> "The key is Alistair Vance," she says, her voice low and precise. Her finger taps a name in the ledger, surrounded by notes on gambling debts and information brokering. "Third-year Septenius. He doesn't just run a betting ring; he launders the Headmaster's side investments through it. His addiction to Dreamleaf makes him predictable. His supplier is a maid named Elara. He's the leak in the dam." Her analysis is coldly brilliant, cutting through the obscurity to the precise pressure point. She is not a servant; she is a leveraged asset, her formidable intellect now a weapon in your hand. <<elseif $dom gte 15>> She points to a specific entry. "The obvious leads are decoys. The true vulnerability is Alistair Vance," she says, providing a crisp summary of his operations and weaknesses. "He's arrogant, thinks his Septenius intellect protects him. His Dreamleaf habit is his real master. We can use that." Her help is not just information; it is a strategic blueprint. <<else>> She walks you through the web of connections, her voice a calm, relentless stream of names and favors owed, patiently building the case against Vance until the path becomes clear. Her compliance is the tool that unlocks the next step. <</if>> But the consultation is not a mere briefing. It is a negotiation of power. The deliberate lean of her body as she explains, the subtle shift that brings her scent of jasmine and ozone closer. The way her gaze flicks to yours after delivering a crucial piece of intelligence, seeking not approval but assessing your reaction your next move. The air grows thick with the shared conspiracy. The strategic session stretches into the evening. By the end, you have not only identified the target but outlined his vulnerabilities. <<set $int += 3>><<set $dom += 2>><<set $intel_alistair = true>> Finally, she closes the ledger, her hand resting on its cover. She has provided the necessary leverage. Now, she watches you, a calculated silence hanging between you. The next move is yours. Her expression is a mask of cool professionalism, but the faint flush on her neck betrays the thrill of the hunt she now shares with you. [["Your terms are acceptable."->selene_reward]] <em>Seal the agreement with a more tangible transaction.</em>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Post-Experiment Analysis</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/valeria.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> A single, imperceptible nod from you is all the stimulus required. Valeria's head snaps up from her data-slate, her analytical gaze locking onto you with the intensity of a targeting spell. She moves not with a glide, but with a swift, efficient gait, falling into step behind you as you lead the way to her laboratory. The door hisses shut, sealing you in an atmosphere of sterile ozone and latent power. "Well," she states, her voice clipped yet buzzing with a fervent energy. "Subject's response to the ethical paradigm shift was... statistically significant. A clear outlier event." She gestures with a stylus toward the grand hall. "Their cognitive frameworks are still rebooting. The question is, what variable did you introduce, and how do we measure its propagation?" "Your analysis is required," you command, your tone leaving no room for hypothesis, only conclusion. "We are deconstructing the Headmaster's algorithm." A flicker of pure, unadulterated fascination lights up her deep blue eyes. This is the ultimate dataset, and you have just granted her full access. "Naturally. Deconstruction is the foundation of understanding." She moves with precise, economical motions, activating a large, crystalline data-slate that floats between you. She doesn't lecture at you; she positions herself beside you, a lead researcher to your principal investigator, her body angled toward the streams of glowing data.<img src="images/blue/work.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $dom gte 20>> "The critical node is Alistair Vance," she says, her voice a low, focused hum. Her finger traces a complex web of magical signatures and financial transactions on the slate. "Third-year Septenius. His illicit betting ring isn't a vice; it's a poorly obfuscated data-processing operation for the Headmaster's off-book transactions. His Dreamleaf dependency is a critical vulnerability it introduces predictable latency and errors in his operational security. His supplier is a subject designated 'Elara,' stationed in the culinary sector. He is the logical flaw in the code." Her analysis is ruthlessly brilliant, compiling chaos into an elegant proof of concept. She is not a servant; she is a precision instrument, her formidable intellect now calibrated to your will. <<elseif $dom gte 15>> She highlights a specific data cluster. "Superficial analysis points to decoy protocols. The root vulnerability is Alistair Vance," she says, providing a succinct summary of his function and failure points. "He is arrogant, believes his Septenius encryption protocols are infallible. His biochemical dependency is his true API. We can exploit that." Her help is not just data; it is a complete methodology. <<else>> She guides you through the cascading data, her voice a calm, relentless stream of logic and inference, building the logical proof against Vance until the conclusion becomes inescapable. Her compliance is the key that decrypts the next step. <</if>> But the review is not a mere data transfer. It is a dissection of power. The deliberate way her hand brushes yours as she manipulates the hologram, the subtle shift that brings the scent of ozone and crisp linen closer. The way her gaze flicks to yours after isolating a critical data point, seeking not approval but analyzing your cognitive response your next query. The air grows thick with the shared pursuit of a singular truth. The analytical session stretches into the evening. By the end, you have not only identified the target but mapped his entire function. <<set $int += 4>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $intel_alistair = true>> Finally, she deactivates the slate, letting it dim. She has provided the necessary evidence. Now, she watches you, a loaded silence hanging in the sterile air. The next experiment is yours to design. Her expression is a mask of clinical detachment, but the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck betrays the thrilling violation of protocol she has just committed with you. [["The data is satisfactory. Commence the next phase."->valeria_reward]] <em>Proceed to a hands-on verification of the findings.</em>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Post-Battle Briefing</h2></span> <img src="images/red/nyx.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> A single, imperceptible nod from you is all the challenge she needs. Nyx's head snaps up, a fierce grin splitting her features as she locks onto you. She doesn't glide or walk; she stalks, closing the distance like a predator, falling into step beside you as you lead the way to the training grounds. The heavy door to the Crucible slams shut behind you, sealing you in an atmosphere of sweat, blood, and honest effort. "Ha! Now THAT was a fucking answer!" she barks, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. She punches your arm, a solid, approving blow. "You didn't just talk; you declared war on their pretty little philosophies. I could feel the shockwave." She jerks her thumb toward the hall. "They're all still checking their teeth to see if they're loose. So, what's the next target?" "Your intel is required," you command, your tone a general's order on the eve of battle. "We're scouting the enemy's champion." A flash of wild excitement lights her emerald eyes. This is the pre-fight strategy she lives for. "Obviously. Intelligence wins wars." She moves with practiced, powerful strides to a weapons rack, but instead of grabbing a blade, she kicks a heavy training dummy aside to reveal a crude map of the academy scratched into the stone floor. She doesn't stand over it; she kneels beside it, a fellow warlord to your general, her finger jabbing at a specific point.<img src="images/red/nyxmap.png" alt="Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $dom gte 20>> "The key is Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw," she says, her voice a low, eager growl. Her finger stabs a spot marked 'Smithy'. "House Ignis weaponsmaster. That fight club he runs isn't just for coin; it's where he recruits muscle for the Headmaster's dirty work enforcers, collectors. Thinks he's a tough old bastard." A vicious grin spreads across her face. "His weakness is his pride. He can't resist a real challenge. You walk in there and break the nose of his current champion, and he'll give you the time of day. He's the linchpin." Her analysis is brutally pragmatic, reducing the complex scheme to a simple objective: find the strongest guy and hit him until the truth falls out. She is not a servant; she is your lieutenant, her formidable combat wisdom now deployed under your banner. <<elseif $dom gte 15>> She points to a specific corridor on the map. "Forget the sneaky routes. The real obstacle is Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw," she says, providing a blunt summary of his role and personality. "Runs a fight club out of the smithy. He's old guard, respects strength above all. Thinks cleverness is for cowards. Walk in. Pick a fight. Win. It's the only language he understands." Her help is not just information; it is a battle plan. <<else>> She outlines the path, her voice a calm, relentless stream of tactics and weak points, describing the culture of the fight club until the way forward is as clear as a charge into battle. Her compliance is the weapon that clears the path. <</if>> But the briefing is not a mere information dump. It is a rally of forces. The way she leans her shoulder against yours as she points at the map, the heat of her body a palpable force. The way her gaze flicks to yours after identifying the objective, seeking not approval but assessing your fighting spirit your readiness for the clash. The air grows thick with the shared anticipation of violence. The strategic session stretches into the evening. By the end, you have not only identified the target but defined the terms of engagement. <<set $str += 3>><<set $dom += 2>><<set $intel_kaelen = true>> Finally, she stands, dusting off her hands. She has provided the necessary coordinates. Now, she watches you, a hungry silence hanging in the air. The next move is yours. Her expression is a mask of warrior's confidence, but the eager tension coiling through her muscles betrays the thrill of the coming fight she now shares with you. [["The plan is acceptable. Move out."->nyx_reward]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Repercussions</h2></span><img src="images/locations/chocked.png" alt="A mysterious man" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $ethicChoice eq "dom">> "Without hesitation," you state, your voice cutting through the silent hall. "Power is its own justification. A fundamental constant is a price, not a principle. To rule, one must be willing to pay the cost that others cannot." A ripple of shock and uneasy admiration goes through the student body.<<set $dom += 2>> <<elseif $ethicChoice eq "int">> "It would depend on the constant," you reply, your tone analytical. "All things have a price, even power. The ethical calculation depends on the variable being traded." Lady Valeria looks up from her data-slate, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. <<set $int += 2>> <<elseif $ethicChoice eq "charm">> "I would ensure the transaction benefited more than just myself," you say with a disarming smile. "Power is like currency; its value increases when it circulates and builds alliances." Lady Selene's eyebrow arches, a new, calculating glint in her eye. <<set $charm += 2>> <<elseif $ethicChoice eq "str">> "Such power is an illusion," you declare, your voice firm with conviction. "True strength requires no such cost. It is built on integrity and self-mastery, not theft from the universe." A few students nod in grudging respect, Knight-Captain Nyx's grin widens into a fierce, approving smirk. <<set $str += 2>> <<else>> "I would need to... experience the offer firsthand to decide," you say, the words hanging in the air like a tantalizing threat. The answer is so audacious that the room falls completely silent.<<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> <</if>> <<set $int += 1>><<set $dom += 1>> <</if>> The Headmaster, looking intrigued, opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off as the final bell rings, signalling the end of mandatory sessions. The hall erupts into the noise of moving chairs and chatter. You have made an impression. The air is thick with possibility. Multiple gazes weigh upon you, each promising a different path. <strong>The power is yours. Who will you favor?</strong><br> <<if $dominated_naomi>>Naomi is at your side in an instant, her eyes wide with devotion. "Your answer was... compelling, Master," she says, her voice low and filled with admiration. [[Claim your devoted servant->naomi_study_session]]<br><</if>> <<if $dominated_selene>>Across the room, Selene's gaze is a silent, desperate plea. She shifts subtly, a gesture meant only for you, begging for your touch, your command. [[Summon your willing subordinate->selene_private_debrief]]<br><</if>> <<if $dominated_valeria>>Valeria has stopped all pretense of work. She stares, her scientific detachment shattered, replaced by raw, obsessive need to be analyzed by you. [[Inspect your enthralled researcher->valeria_data_review]]<br><</if>> <<if $dominated_nyx>>Nyx lets out a low growl of pure want. "Fuck yes. Now THAT'S what I'm talking about!" Her look is a challenge to take her, right here, to prove your ownership again. [[Collect your eager champion->nyx_post_lecture]]<br><</if>> <<if !$dominated_nyx>>[[Attempt to speak with Knight-Captain Nyx->nyx_approach]] <<if $house != "ignis">><em>(She seemed approving.)</em><</if>><br><</if>> <<if !$dominated_selene>>[[Attempt to speak with Lady Selene->selene_approach]] <<if $house != "viridis">><em>(She seemed calculating.)</em><</if>><br><</if>> <<if !$dominated_valeria>>[[Attempt to speak with Lady Valeria->valeria_approach]] <<if $house != "septenius">><em>(Her notation was intriguing.)</em><</if>><br><</if>> <<if $house eq "" and !$dominated_selene and !$dominated_valeria and !$dominated_nyx and !$dominated_naomi>> [[Leave alone->dorm_evening_pass]] <em>(Slip away quietly. Let others scheme and clash; obscurity is its own kind of safety.)</em> <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Arcane Calculus 201</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/lecturehall.png" alt="Lecture Hall" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #3498DB;border-radius:8px;"> A perfectly crisp, shimmering astral projection of Professor Albright lectures on seven-dimensional manifolds. The image is so clear he seems almost physically present a privilege of House Septenius's resources. His voice is a dry monotone that makes the humming energy of the lecture hall feel like a sedative. You find your attention wandering over the form of a nearby student, the way their cobalt robe strains over their chest as they calculate a complex formula, before<<if visited("valeria_calculated_risk")>>, keeping Valeria's promise of a "private debriefing" and the memory of her gasp in your mind,<<elseif visited("valeria_clear_expectations")>>, following Valeria's direct order to identify the "primary influencer",<</if>> you decide to make your move. <<if $int gte 15>> Your solution to the spatial paradox is a masterpiece of intellectual deconstruction, dismantling Albright's proposed model with surgical precision and rebuilding it into a far more elegant, and dangerously efficient, framework. You cite obscure arcane theorems and quantum principles that make the professor pale. The student you'd been admiring drops their stylus, their mouth slightly agape not in shock, but in raw, intellectual arousal. Valeria, watching from the back of the hall, allows herself a small, sharp smile of profound satisfaction. <<set $int += 3>> <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>><<elseif $int gte 10>> You raise a hand, posing a complex mathematical flaw in Albright's primary equation, offering a more stable, if unconventional, alternative. The professor is visibly intrigued, stroking his chin as he considers your point. The other student looks at you with new respect, a flicker of competitive interest in their eyes. Valeria gives a slight, approving nod from her observation point. <<set $int += 2>><<elseif $charm gte 12>> You frame your solution not as a correction, but as a collaborative improvement, drawing in the entire room with your charismatic logic. You make the impossibly complex math feel like an intuitive, solvable puzzle. The student you noticed earlier leans forward, hanging on your every word, clearly captivated. Valeria's eyebrow arches, noting your method of influence with clinical interest. <<set $charm += 2>><<set $int += 1>><<elseif $dom gte 10>> You interrupt with a new algorithm so bold and absolute it silences the room. You don't suggest an alternative; you state a new, fundamental law of magical mathematics as fact. The force of your intellectual will is undeniable. The student next to you lets out a soft, inadvertent gasp, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. Valeria's gaze intensifies, analyzing this new, forceful variable in her equation. <<set $dom += 2>><<set $int += 1>> <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You try to formulate a solution, but your calculations are flawed and half-formed. The student you were eyeing smirks and looks away. Professor Albright dismisses your contribution with a wave of his hand. Valeria's expression cools into one of disappointment. The opportunity to impress has been lost. <</if>> The bell tolls, its chime a welcome release. As you stand, you feel the weight of analytical gazes on you some curious, some jealous, some undeniably stimulated by the display of intellect. You are herded along with the others toward the Grand Hall for the Headmaster's mandatory address, the air thick with unspoken potential and competitive energy. [[Continue to the Headmaster's Assembly->obligatory_class]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Calculated Risk</h2></span><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="face" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $int gte 15>> You find Valeria not in the hall, but in a small antechamber off the main corridor. She has already donned her formal cobalt robes over her blouse and skirt, but the faint blush from your encounter still colours her cheeks. She is intently re-calibrating a small, handheld scanner, though her movements seem slightly less sharp and precise than usual, a faint tremor betraying her agitated state. She doesn't look up as you enter. "The deviation from this morning's schedule is statistically insignificant, so far. State the purpose of this interruption. Is your somatic calibration already failing?" Her tone is clipped, professional, but you can hear the subtle undercurrent of the morning's "data corruption" in it. <<else>> You find Valeria in the main corridor, her formal cobalt robes already perfectly arranged. Her posture is rigid, and her expression is one of cold, detached efficiency. Any trace of the woman from the previous night is gone, locked away behind a wall of clinical professionalism. She sees you approaching and stops, her gaze impersonal. "Your presence here is a deviation from the scheduled itinerary. The lecture hall is that way. Do you require a map, or is there a problem with your cognitive recall?" Her tone leaves no room for the intimacy of the lab or the potential of the morning. <</if>> <<if $int gte 15>> You step into the room, letting the door swish shut behind you. "The purpose is a peer review of your initial findings," you say, your voice calm and analytical, mirroring her own jargon. "Your hypothesis was that my focus was compromised. I propose a counter-thesis: that your methodology was biased by a desire to re-initiate contact without compromising your perceived authority." Her hands still on the device. She remains perfectly still for three long seconds, processing your words. Slowly, she looks up, her gaze narrowed behind her glasses. This is a language she understands. "A provocative assertion," she concedes, a flicker of intrigue in her deep blue eyes. "What is your evidence?" "The evidence is your elevated baseline. The 12.7 percent variance you reported. A researcher in full control would have accounted for that variable in herself before attempting to measure it in her subject." You take a step closer. "You didn't want a dataset, Valeria. You wanted a reconnection. Admit it, and we can design a new, joint-research parameter for the day. One that accounts for *both* our... elevated baselines." A slow, genuine smile, a rare, un-calibrated expression touches her lips. "Your analytical prowess continues to be... the most stimulating variable in my environment." She places the scanner down. "Very well. New parameters accepted. Our goal for the day: to observe the social dynamics of the lecture hall and identify the primary influencer. The reward for accurate analysis..." Her eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. "...will be a private debriefing in my chambers. With a focus on applied theory." You've successfully turned a personal advance into a collaborative intellectual game. The dynamic has subtly, permanently shifted. <<set $int += 2>> <<set $charm += 1>> [[A new experiment begins.|septenius_lecture]] <<elseif $int gte 10>> You try to adopt a clinical tone. "I wished to discuss the... parameters for today's observation." <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> She looks at you, her expression unreadable. "The parameters are clearly defined: attend, observe, analyze. Your request for clarification suggests a lack of focus or comprehension. The deviation is noted." She turns away, a clear dismissal. "Do not be late." You've managed to reinforce her view of you as a slightly below-average subject. The moment is lost. <<set $int -= 1>> [[Head to lecture.|septenius_lecture]] <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You falter, the right words failing you. You mumble something about being eager to learn. Valeria's lip curls in faint disdain. "Enthusiasm is not a substitute for precision. Your data stream is becoming increasingly noisy. Report to the lecture. Now." The ice in her voice is absolute. [[Head to lecture.|septenius_lecture]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Forbidden Inquiry</h2></span><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="face" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $int gte 15>>You find Valeria in the antechamber, her back to you as she secures the final fastenings of her formal robes, concealing the enticing outfit beneath. The air still hums with the residual energy of your earlier... recalibration. <<else>>You find Valeria in the main corridor, her formal cobalt robes already perfectly arranged, her posture a testament to regained control. <</if>> "Valeria," you begin, your voice low. "The anomalous REM cycles. The theta-wave activity you detected. It wasn't just noise." She turns, one eyebrow arched in clinical curiosity. "You have a hypothesis?" "I have data. A sensory experience. A... visitation." You describe the dream the void, the impossible geometry, and the devastatingly sensual woman who offered power beyond any academic pursuit. The change in Valeria is instantaneous and terrifying. All clinical detachment vanishes from her face, replaced by a look of stark, primal fear she tries to mask with frantic calculation. She grabs your arm, her grip like a vise. "Cease your vocalizations!" she hisses, her voice a low, urgent static. "You are describing a recognized, Class-5 cognitive hazard! A parasitic thought-form that preys on ambition. It is the primary reason for our psychometric wards and the proctors' neural sweeps. To vocalize the experience is to reinforce its synaptic link! Do you comprehend the risk?" Her fear is more revealing than any data-slate. The Phantom Lady is real, and she is a known variable in Septenius's equations a terrifying one. <<link "I understand. It was a data anomaly. I will proceed to class." "valeria_phantom_warning">> <<set $int += 1>> <</link>> <em>Play it safe.</em><br> <<link "Define the threat. What is its designation?" "valeria_phantom_press">> <<set $dom += 2>> <<set $int += 2>> <</link>> <em>Demand the data, consequences be damned.</em>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Logical Retreat</h2></span> You nod, adopting a convincingly neutral expression. "Acknowledged. The data was compromised. I will purge the anomalous reading." Valeria's grip on your arm loosens, the stark fear in her eyes receding into a more familiar, hyper-vigilant analysis. She adjusts her glasses, the moment of panic sealed behind a layer of protocol. "Correct," she says, her voice regaining its measured tone, though a tremor of adrenaline is still audible. "The rational mind is the best defense against such invasive phenomena." She turns back to her console, a clear dismissal. But as you reach the door, she speaks again without looking up. "One additional directive. If you experience further... corruption... of your neural pathways, locate the student 'Elian' in the common dorms. Request a 'Type-7 psychic damping charm'. His illicit trade in such substandard equipment is tolerated for these exact scenarios. It will not prevent infection, but may reduce your visibility as a target." The information is delivered clinically, but its value is immense. She has just given you a name and a specific technical term, a logical tool for survival.<<set $dream_elian = true>> [[A new variable to consider. Head to lecture.|septenius_lecture]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Demanding the Data</h2></span><img src="images/blue/vv.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't back down. You step closer, your voice a low command. "I need the parameters. What is its designation?" For a nanosecond, pure fury flashes in Valeria's eyes the fury of a scientist whose protocol is being violated. Then, it's gone, replaced by a chilling, analytical calm. She looks at you not as a subject, but as a contaminated variable that has suddenly become a high-priority research risk. "You are forcing a catastrophic breach of protocol," she states, her voice devoid of all warmth. "Very well. You wish to contaminate your dataset? I will provide one data point." She leans in, her words a rapid, precise whisper, as if uploading the information directly into your mind. "Designation: 'Umbra Regina'. Hypothesis: A pre-thaumaturgical entity, a consciousness that exists in the quantum voids between dimensional states. This academy isn't merely an institution... it is the containment vessel for a localized rift she is attempting to widen. Her offers of power are a bait mechanism. The predicted outcome is complete ego dissolution and reality fragmentation in the host." She pulls back, her eyes hard. "You are now a documented carrier of a memetic pathogen. You will be monitored. Do not force me to enact quarantine procedures. Now get out." The air is charged with a new, dangerous energy. You have your data, but you are now a flagged specimen in her experiment.<<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><<set $knows_umbra_warning = true>> [[You are now part of a dangerous experiment.|septenius_lecture]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Green Gauntlet</h2></span> <img src="images/green/hall.png" alt="Viridis Hall" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #2ECC71;border-radius:8px;"> A tall, impeccably dressed student with calculating eyes steps from the emerald-clad ranks. He offers a thin, practiced smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>". House Viridis doesn't accept applications; we extend invitations. And every invitation requires an... entrance exam." <<if $charm gte 5>> He looks you over, his analytical gaze pausing as if listening to a whisper on the air. His smirk becomes more genuine, almost respectful. "Although... it seems your reputation precedes you. Your silver tongue is already a valued asset. No need for tedious tests. Lady Selene is expecting you. Don't keep her waiting." [[Proceed->the_gilded_temptation]] <<else>> The student's eyes glimmer with challenge. "Let's see if your social acumen matches your alleged potential. Three questions. Answer wisely." The questions appear in the air, shimmering with green magic. <<set $greenQ1 = 0>><<set $greenQ2 = 0>><<set $greenQ3 = 0>> <span style="color:#2ECC71;"><strong>1. A rival spreads a damaging rumor about you. Your first move is to:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Publicly shame them, making an example.">> <<set $greenQ1 = 0>> <<replace "#q2">><<include "green-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Discover their deepest secret and offer to trade silence for silence.">> <<set $greenQ1 = 1>> <<replace "#q2">><<include "green-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Buy the loyalty of their closest allies, isolating them.">> <<set $greenQ1 = 0>> <<replace "#q2">><<include "green-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <div id="q2"></div> <div id="q3"></div> <div id="result"></div> <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Gilded Temptation</h2></span> <img src="images/green/selene.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> A vision of exquisite beauty detaches herself from the emerald-clad elite. She moves with a hypnotic grace, her every step a promise. Her forest-green silk robe is cut to emphasize a devastating figure: the deep plunge of the neckline frames the generous swell of her breasts, and the fabric hugs the enticing curve of her hips before flowing away. Her lips are full and painted a deep, bloody red, curled into a knowing smirk. Yet, something feels... off. The air around her seems to shimmer faintly, like heat haze on a summer day, and the scent of jasmine and whiskey is almost too perfect, too intoxicating, as if it's bypassing your nose to bloom directly inside your mind. "Welcome to your new life, <span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>," she says, her voice a husky, intimate whisper that seems to caress your skin from the inside. She doesn't offer a handshake. Instead, she closes the distance between you, her perfume washing over you. Her manicured fingers, cool and smooth, trace a deliberate line up your arm to your shoulder, and a jolt of pure, undiluted *want* shoots through you a feeling so strong and sudden it feels alien. "House Viridis deals in assets. And you," she purrs, her eyes dropping to your lips, and you feel an inexplicable pull to close the final inch between you, "look like a most appreciating one. We believe in... hands-on investment." Her hand slides down your chest, over your stomach, her touch light but electric through your clothes, before coming to rest low on your hip, pulling you a fraction closer. A faint, violet flicker seems to dance in the depths of her pupils for a heartbeat, there and gone so fast you doubt you saw it. "Let's retire to the lounge. I have a proposal I think you'll find very... stimulating." Her dark eyes hold yours, promising private lessons in decadence. The offer is irresistible, but a tiny, rational part of you screams that this isn't just her allure it's something else, something ancient and hungry using her as its vessel. <<link "Follow Her">> <<set $charm += 1>>  <<goto "green_intro_2">> <</link>>

<span style="color:#2ECC71;"><strong>2. The most valuable currency in any negotiation is:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Information.">> <<set $greenQ2 = 0>> <<replace "#q3">><<include "green-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Fear.">> <<set $greenQ2 = 0>> <<replace "#q3">><<include "green-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Desire.">> <<set $greenQ2 = 1>> <<replace "#q3">><<include "green-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>>

<span style="color:#2ECC71;"><strong>3. A deal is most favorable when:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "You get everything you want.">> <<set $greenQ3 = 0>> <<replace "#result">><<include "green-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "The other party believes they won.">> <<set $greenQ3 = 1>> <<replace "#result">><<include "green-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "The terms are mathematically perfect.">> <<set $greenQ3 = 0>> <<replace "#result">><<include "green-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>>

<<set $greenScore = $greenQ1 + $greenQ2 + $greenQ3>> <<if $greenScore gte 2>> The student's smile becomes slightly more genuine. "Adequate. It seems you understand the basics of social leverage. Lady Selene will see you now. Don't disappoint her." [[Proceed->the_gilded_temptation]] <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>.</span> The student's smile vanishes. "Inadequate. House Viridis has no use for you. The common dorms are that way."<<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> [[Your journey begins from the bottom.->common_dorms_intro]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Cobalt Filter</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/lab.png" alt="Septenius Lab" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #3498DB;border-radius:8px;"> A student in severe blue robes, holding a data-slate, blocks your path. Her gaze is analytical and devoid of warmth. "Subject: <span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>. Potential is not proven by a letter, but by cognitive function. You will undergo a preliminary aptitude assessment." <<if $int gte 5>> She glances at her slate, which emits a soft ping. Her eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly. "Although... your initial psychometric profile suggests a pre-calibrated intellect. Wasting time on rudimentary tests is an inefficient allocation of resources. Primary Researcher Valeria will conduct your deeper analysis personally. Proceed." [[Proceed->the_arcane_inquiry]] <<else>> "Three problems. Demonstrate logical consistency." Complex equations and logic puzzles materialize in the air, glowing with cool blue light. <<set $blueQ1 = 0>><<set $blueQ2 = 0>><<set $blueQ3 = 0>> <span style="color:#3498DB;"><strong>1. The greatest magical breakthrough often comes from:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Relentless practice and repetition.">> <<set $blueQ1 = 0>>  <<replace "#blue-q2">><<include "blue-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Questioning an established axiom.">> <<set $blueQ1 = 1>>  <<replace "#blue-q2">><<include "blue-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Understanding the desires of your subject.">> <<set $blueQ1 = 0>>  <<replace "#blue-q2">><<include "blue-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <div id="blue-q2"></div> <div id="blue-q3"></div> <div id="blue-result"></div> <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Arcane Inquiry</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/valeria.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The woman who steps forward is an austere beauty, all sharp intelligence and focused intensity. Lady Valeria, Head of House Septenius, is a vision of severe elegance. Her cobalt robes are cut with precision yet cannot conceal a lean, toned body and the subtle, calculated sway of her hips as she approaches. Her hair is pulled back in a ruthlessly efficient knot, highlighting high cheekbones and a piercing, analytical gaze. But something is amiss. Her impeccable posture is a fraction too rigid, her focus a little too sharp, as if she's fighting to maintain her clinical detachment. The air around her crackles not just with magic, but with a strange, static tension. "Subject: <span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>. Physiological readings are... aberrantly elevated," she states, her voice cool and precise, but a faint, unfamiliar tremor undercuts her words. She holds up a hand, and a complex diagram of glowing blue light appears in the air, depicting a form that mirrors your own. A pulse of energy washes over you, but it's tainted a cold, probing sensation that somehow *ignites* a sudden, intimate warmth in your groin, a paradox of sensation that is entirely unnatural. "Anomalous. A robust somatic response to non-standard stimulus parameters," she murmurs, her slight smile seeming less intrigued and more... unnerved. She steps closer, the heat of her body feeling like a furnace. Her hand reaches out, and for a split second, the glowing diagram flickers, its blue light tinged with a violent purple hue. Her fingers hover over the growing bulge in your trousers, and the static charge there doesn't tease it *commands*, a maddening pressure that feels like it's pulling your strings. "My research into bio-arcanic resonance requires an... immediate physical component. Your compliance is... necessary." Her eyes finally meet yours, and the hunger in them is sharp, desperate, and not entirely her own. It feels like another presence is looking out through them, demanding satisfaction. "The laboratory is soundproofed. We must begin data collection. Now." The offer is a command. The science feels like a pretext. Something is using her impeccable curiosity as a weapon. <<link "Volunteer for Research">> <<set $int += 1>>  <<goto "blue_intro_2">> <</link>>

<span style="color:#3498DB;"><strong>2. A subject's somatic response is erratic. Your first action is to:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Apply a stabilizing force to calm them.">> <<set $blueQ2 = 0>>  <<replace "#blue-q3">><<include "blue-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Isolate and identify the variable causing the fluctuation.">> <<set $blueQ2 = 1>>  <<replace "#blue-q3">><<include "blue-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Offer a reward for their continued compliance.">> <<set $blueQ2 = 0>>  <<replace "#blue-q3">><<include "blue-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>>

<span style="color:#3498DB;"><strong>3. True knowledge is:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "A weapon to be wielded against rivals.">> <<set $blueQ3 = 0>>  <<replace "#blue-result">><<include "blue-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "A never-ending process of revision and discovery.">> <<set $blueQ3 = 1>>  <<replace "#blue-result">><<include "blue-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "A currency to buy loyalty and influence.">> <<set $blueQ3 = 0>>  <<replace "#blue-result">><<include "blue-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>>

<<set $blueScore = $blueQ1 + $blueQ2 + $blueQ3>> <<if $blueScore gte 2>> The student makes a note on her data-slate. "Logical progression is acceptable. You may proceed to Primary Researcher Valeria for further testing." [[Proceed->the_arcane_inquiry]] <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>.</span> "Cognitive patterns are illogical and scattered. You are an uncalibrated instrument. Report to the common dorms for basic remedial instruction."<<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> [[Your journey begins from the bottom.->common_dorms_intro]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crimson Proving</h2></span> <img src="images/red/yard.png" alt="Ignis Yard" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #E74C3C;border-radius:8px;"> A muscular woman with scars on her knuckles steps forward, cracking her neck. Her eyes scan you like a piece of meat on a butcher's block. "<span class='player-name'>$name</span> <span class='player-name'>$lastname</span>. The Headmaster's word might get you in the door, but it doesn't get you a uniform. You want to stand with us? Prove you have the spirit." <<if $str gte 5>> She looks you up and down, a slow, appraising grin spreading across her face. "Well, well. Looks like you might not break in the first round. Save us all some time. Captain Nyx is waiting in the Crucible. Try to put up a fight." [[Proceed->the_trial_by_fire]] <<else>> "Three questions. Your answers better have some fire behind them." The words appear in the air, burning with faint crimson energy. <<set $redQ1 = 0>><<set $redQ2 = 0>><<set $redQ3 = 0>> <span style="color:#E74C3C;"><strong>1. True strength is:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Forged in victory.">> <<set $redQ1 = 1>>  <<replace "#red-q2">><<include "red-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Taken from the weak.">> <<set $redQ1 = 0>>  <<replace "#red-q2">><<include "red-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "A means to an end.">> <<set $redQ1 = 0>>  <<replace "#red-q2">><<include "red-inlineQ2">><</replace>> <</button>> <div id="red-q2"></div> <div id="red-q3"></div> <div id="red-result"></div> <</if>>

<span style="color:#E74C3C;"><strong>2. Facing a stronger opponent, you:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Study their weakness.">> <<set $redQ2 = 0>>  <<replace "#red-q3">><<include "red-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Attack harder.">> <<set $redQ2 = 1>>  <<replace "#red-q3">><<include "red-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Make them your ally.">> <<set $redQ2 = 0>>  <<replace "#red-q3">><<include "red-inlineQ3">><</replace>> <</button>>

<span style="color:#E74C3C;"><strong>3. The ultimate goal of power is:</strong></span><br><br> <<button "Freedom.">> <<set $redQ3 = 1>>  <<replace "#red-result">><<include "red-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Control.">> <<set $redQ3 = 0>>  <<replace "#red-result">><<include "red-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>> <<button "Understanding.">> <<set $redQ3 = 0>>  <<replace "#red-result">><<include "red-inlineResult">><</replace>> <</button>>

<<set $redScore = $redQ1 + $redQ2 + $redQ3>> <<if $redScore gte 2>> A fierce grin spreads across the woman's face. "You've got fire. Good. The Captain hates wasted potential." She jerks her thumb towards a roaring forge entrance. "She's waiting. Don't keep her waiting." [[Proceed->the_trial_by_fire]] <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>.</span> She scoffs, her expression one of pure contempt. "Weak. Soft. You wouldn't last a minute in the ring. The common dorms are that way. Try not to get lost."<<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> [[Your journey begins from the bottom.->common_dorms_intro]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Trial by Fire</h2></span> <img src="images/red/nyx.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> A warrior goddess strides from the ranks of red. She is pure, unadulterated power sculpted into a breathtaking, voluptuous form. Her ebony skin glistens under the torchlight, highlighting the powerful curve of her shoulders, the impressive swell of her full breasts, and the generous sweep of her hips. But her energy is wrong. It's not just competitive; it's *predatory* in a way that feels ancient and hungry. The air around her shimmers with oppressive heat, and the torch flames seem to stretch toward her like worshippers. Her eyes, the color of dark emeralds, blaze with a ferocity that seems to look through you, not at you. She doesn't speak. She simply walks up to you, her movements too fluid, too deliberate. With a grin that's less challenge and more bared teeth, **Knight-Captain Nyx** delivers a sharp, open-handed slap to your chest. The impact doesn't just sting; it brands you with a shock of heat that feels like it's searing its way into your muscle, awakening a primal, *borrowed* aggression. "You've got a frame that interests me, new blood," she says, her voice a rich, grating growl that vibrates in your bones like a war drum. It feels less like she's talking to you and more like she's stating a fact to the empty air. "Let's see if there's anything inside it worth claiming." Her hand, calloused and impossibly strong, slides down from your chest, over your stomach, and grips your hip bone with a possessiveness that feels absolute. She pulls you against her, and the hard, voluptuous muscle of her body grinds against yours. The heat radiating from her is no longer like a forge; it's like standing at the mouth of a volcano. She drags you away, not giving you a choice. You haven't been able to take your eyes off her, but it feels less like desire and more like being mesmerized by a predator before it strikes. <img src="images/red/walk.webp" alt="walk" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "House Ignis wins its spoils. We take what we want," she snarls, her other hand coming up to grab a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look down at her. Her breath is scorching on your neck. "Your initiation starts now. The objective is to pin me. The reward..." She grinds her hips against yours again, a motion that feels less like an invitation and more like a claim being staked. A faint, violent purple light flickers deep within her emerald eyes. "...is everything. Think you can survive it?" The offer isn't seductive. It's a threat wrapped in a promise. Something is using her love of combat as a conduit for a much darker, more consuming hunger. <<link "Get ready to brawl">> <<set $str += 1>>  <<goto "red_intro_2">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>First Lesson: Applied Force</h2></span> You leave Nyx to her bath, the image of her powerful form in the steam lingering in your mind. Following the shouts and the distinct crackle of unleashed energy, you find the Ignis battlemage training grounds a vast, scorched chamber deep in the volcanic wing of the academy. <img src="images/red/battlemagic.png" alt="Battle Magic Class" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #E74C3C;border-radius:8px;"> The instructor, a grizzled man with a scarred face and one arm ending in a polished runestone, barks at a line of initiates. "Power is nothing without control! A wildfire burns the fool who lit it as surely as his enemy! Today, you learn to channel the inferno!" He demonstrates, gesturing with his stone fist. A whip of pure, concentrated flame snaps out, striking a distant obsidian pillar with a crack that echoes through the hall, leaving a deep, smoldering gouge. "Your turn! Conjure the flame. Shape it. Lash the target! Not the student next to you!" The initiate next to you, a nervous-looking youth, fumbles his gestures. A ball of fire sputters to life in his palm before exploding violently, knocking him on his back and singeing his eyebrows. The instructor scoffs. "Weak spark! Next!" It's your turn. How do you approach this test of raw power and control? [[Unleash Raw Power->battle_str]] <em>Let them see the strength of your fire. Control can come later.</em> <br> [[Focus on Precision->battle_int]] <em>Show them you can be a scalpel, not just a hammer.</em><br><<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> [[Tap into Last Night's Energy->battle_dom]] <em>Channel the intense passion and connection from your time with Nyx.</em> <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Pressure Test</h2></span><img src="images/red/bath3.png" alt="bath" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You shed your leathers, not with hesitation, but with a deliberate confidence that makes a few nearby initiates look away nervously. The hot water is a shock, then a relief, enveloping you in a cloud of steam and mineral scent. You wade towards Nyx. She watches your approach, her expression unreadable. The water sloshes around her waist, doing little to hide the powerful curves of her body beneath the surface. <<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> "Couldn't stay away, huh?" she says, her voice a low rumble that blends with the bubbling spring. There's a hint of that shared vulnerability from the night before, now masked by a challenging glint in her eye. She flicks water at you. "The forge isn't the only thing that needs a strong hand to keep it from boiling over." <</if>> <<if visited("ignis_rest")>> She watches your approach, her eyes assessing. "Finally showing some sense, recruit. A warrior who ignores his body's maintenance is a dead warrior." Her tone is instructional, but the intensity of her gaze feels personal. "Pain is a lesson. Soaking it out is part of the learning." <</if>> She doesn't give you time to respond. In a sudden, explosive motion, she lunges through the water. It's not an attack, but a test. Her powerful hands grab your shoulders, and she tries to drive you under the surface with her sheer weight and strength. "First lesson of the day!" she grunts, muscles coiling. "Hold your ground!" This is it. A direct challenge. How do you respond? [[Meet Her Force with Force->nyx_str_force]] <em>Plant your feet and push back. Show her your raw strength.</em><br> [[Use Leverage->nyx_str_leverage]] <em>Don't oppose her directly. Use her momentum against her.</em><br> <<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> [[A Different Approach->nyx_str_charm]] <em>This isn't a fight. It's a dance. Change the steps.</em> <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Forge of Legends</h2></span><img src="images/red/bath2.png" alt="bath" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't hesitate. You stride through the water towards Nyx, the steam clinging to your skin. "I need to talk to you. About a dream. A woman made of shadow and stars. She offered me... more." Nyx turns, her bathing forgotten. Instead of fear, her eyes light up with the fierce, hungry gleam of a warrior who's just heard the battle horns sound. A wide, predatory grin spreads across her face. "The Umbra Regina," she says, her voice a low, thrilled rumble. She says the name not with a whisper, but with a conqueror's relish. "So the old stories are true. I thought they were just tales to scare first-years." She surges towards you, grabbing your arms, her grip tight with excitement. "They say she's a primordial force. A fucking goddess of annihilation trapped under this academy. And she thinks *you're* a worthy vessel?" She lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "Of course she does. I felt it in you the moment I laid eyes on you in the Crucible." She releases you, pacing a small circle in the water, her mind racing. "The proctors, the Headmaster... they're all terrified of her. They think she's a blight to be contained." She stops and looks at you, her eyes blazing. "They're wrong. She's the final test. The one the academy is too scared to administer." <<set $knows_umbra_warning = true>><<if visited("ignis_real_celebration")>> She steps close again, her expression shifting from excitement to fierce, possessive pride. "But she's not just getting a vessel. She's getting a fucking dynasty." Her hand comes up to your cheek, a surprisingly tender gesture from the warrior. "If you're going to walk into the heart of that storm, you're not going alone. You and me? We'll face her together. Let's see if a goddess can handle two legends in the making." The prospect isn't a threat to her; it's the ultimate battle, and the thought of fighting it by your side makes her blood sing. <</if>><<if visited("ignis_rest")>> Her fierce grin remains, but it sharpens into something more cautionary. "But listen. A fire that big doesn't discriminate. It'll consume you just as gladly as it empowers you. She doesn't want a partner; she wants a fucking throne to sit on." She jabs a finger into your chest. "You've got the spark, recruit. But don't be so eager to throw yourself into the inferno that you forget who you are. You need to be stronger than your hunger." The warning is real, but so is the thrill in her eyes. She wants to see if you'll succeed. <</if>> She nods, her decision made. "Right. First, you need to know what you're up against. The old texts, the forbidden ones the proctors locked away in the Umbral Library... they're your best bet. You won't find them in the main library." She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "It's suicide to go there alone. The place is warded, and the Headmaster's eyes are everywhere. But if you're determined... that's where you'll find your answers. Just don't say I didn't warn you." She gives you a final, appraising look, a warrior sending her best soldier on a crucial mission. "Now get to class. Keep your head down and your eyes open. The real training starts after dark." <br><<set $dom += 2>> [[Continue to class->battle_magic_class]]

You plant your feet, embrace the heat in your core, and roar as you thrust your hands forward. You don't try to shape a whip; you unleash a torrential wave of fire that completely envelops the distant pillar. The air shimmers with heat, and the resulting roar is deafening. When the flames subside, the pillar is glowing red-hot and partially melted. The chamber falls silent. The instructor stares, his jaw slightly slack. He slowly turns to you. "By the forge... That wasn't control. That was a cataclysm." He shakes his head, a look of bewildered respect on his scarred face. "I've never seen a raw output like that on a first try. Remember this moment, initiate. The academy will try to temper that. Don't you dare let them." He claps you on the shoulder, a solid, approving blow. "Now get to Ethics. I know its as boring as a dry old stick, but even you need to know the rules before you break them." <<set $str += 3>> <br> [[Continue to Thaumaturgical Ethics->obligatory_class]]

You take a steadying breath, shutting out the chaos around you. You focus not on the heat, but on the intent. Your hand comes up, and a line of brilliant, white-hot fire extends from your fingertips, not like a wave, but like a blade. With a sharp flick of your wrist, you send it snapping forward. It doesn't roar; it *hisses*. It strikes the pillar not with an explosion, but with a precise, clean *slice*, shearing off a chunk of the obsidian, which clatters to the floor. The instructor lets out a low whistle. "Precise. Surgical. I've seen veterans who can't focus a beam that tight." He gives you a curt, approving nod. "That's control. Remember that feeling. It's the difference between a warrior and a berserker. Now, go. Ethics class. Don't be late." <<set $int += 2>> <<set $str += 1>> <br> [[Continue to Thaumaturgical Ethics->obligatory_class]]

You close your eyes for a second, drawing on the memory the feel of Nyx's skin, the shared victory over the forge, the raw, claiming energy of your celebration. You channel that fierce, possessive passion into your palm. The flame that erupts is not orange, but a deep, violent crimson, swirling with black tendrils. It forms not a whip, but a barbed chain of solidified fire. You lash out. The chain wraps around the pillar once, twice, and with a grunt of effort, you *yank*. The pillar groans and cracks, chunks of it breaking away under the immense, focused pressure. The instructor takes a step back, his eyes wide. "What in the seven hells was that? That wasn't standard ignition... that was pure, willful manifestation." He looks at you with a new, deep wariness and respect. "That's a dangerous path, initiate. Powerful, but it consumes from the inside. Be careful what you feed that fire. Now go. Ethics. Now." <<set $dom += 3>> <<set $str += 3>> <br> [[Continue to class->obligatory_class]]

You yield. Just for a fraction of a second, you let her push you back, pulling her off balance. As she commits her weight, you pivot sharply, twisting out of her grasp and using her own momentum to send her stumbling past you. She plunges into the water with a tremendous splash. She comes up sputtering, not with anger, but with a look of shocked admiration. She swipes the water from her face, a slow grin spreading. "Clever. You fight smart, not just hard." She wades back toward you, this time with no aggression, just a newfound curiosity. "That's a valuable lesson. Strength is a tool. Knowing when to use a different one is what keeps you alive." She claps you on the arm, a solid, comradely blow. "Now get to class. Let's see if you can outsmart the instructor too." <<set $int += 2>> <<set $str += 1>> <br> [[Continue to Battle magic class->battle_magic_class]]

As she lunges, you don't brace or dodge. You move *with* her. Your hands slide from her shoulders down the slick, powerful muscles of her arms, not to resist, but to guide. You turn her forceful push into a spinning motion, pulling her flush against you in the water. Her back presses against your chest, and your hands don't stop at her arms they slide around her torso, and without a moment's hesitation, your palms find the heavy, full weight of her breasts beneath the water. The fight evaporates instantly. A sharp, involuntary gasp is torn from her lips, echoing in the steamy cavern. Your thumbs find her nipples, already hardened into tight peaks from the heat and the sudden shock of contact, and you roll them firmly, pinching just enough to make her entire body jolt against you. "Who said anything about holding ground?" you whisper, your voice a raw vibration against the shell of her ear. You bite down on her earlobe, not gently. "I wanted to see what happened when your armor came off." Nyx lets out a ragged, shuddering moan. Her head falls back against your shoulder, all resistance gone, replaced by a molten surrender. One of her hands comes up, tangling in your hair, not to pull you away, but to hold you closer. The other hand splashes down, gripping your thigh underwater with a possessiveness that matches your own. "Fuck... you don't ask, do you?" she pants, her voice thick with a mix of fury and pure, unadulterated lust. "You just... take your prize." She grinds her ass back against you, a slow, deliberate motion. "Is this what you wanted to see? How I yield?" <img src="images/red/pool.gif" alt="Tits" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You answer by squeezing her breasts harder, molding them in your hands, your fingers digging into the impossibly soft flesh. You feel her heart hammering against your palm. "I wanted to see how you celebrate," you correct her, your voice dark with promise. "This is just the opening ritual." She lets out a low, guttural sound of approval. "The lesson's over," she breathes, turning her head to capture your mouth in a searing, biting kiss that tastes of iron and desire. When she breaks away, her eyes are blazing with a new kind of fire. "Get to class. But tonight, you report to my quarters. We're going to practice... *punishments* for insubordination." With a final, possessive squeeze of your hand on her breast, she pushes away from you. The look she throws over her shoulder is a contract signed in blood and promise, her chest still heaving. She turns her back, a clear dismissal that feels like a claim. <<set $charm += 2>> <<set $str += 3>> <<set $dom += 4>> <br> [[Continue to Battle Magic Class->battle_magic_class]]

You roar, a sound swallowed by the steam, and plant your feet firmly on the slick stone bottom. Instead of resisting her push, you surge forward into it, your own hands locking onto her slick shoulders. Muscle strains against muscle, steam rising from where your bodies press together in the water. It's a pure, brutal contest of power. The water churns around you, sloshing over the edges of the pool. For a long, straining moment, you are locked in a perfect, shuddering stalemate. A fierce, approving grin splits Nyx's face. "Now THAT'S what I'm talking about!" she shouts, her voice full of exhilaration. She doesn't let up, but the push becomes something else a mutual, powerful press, a test that's become a celebration of strength. Finally, with a mutual, gasping laugh, you both break apart. "Good," she says, her chest heaving. "Damn good." She looks you over like a prized weapon. "Maybe you do have what it takes." She nods toward the exit. "Now get going. battlemagic is waiting." The respect in her eyes is earned, tangible. <<set $str += 3>> <br> [[Continue to class->battle_magic_class]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Acquiring the Asset</h2></span> "Now," you command, your voice dropping not to a whisper, but into the low, absolute tone of a finalizing verdict. "The negotiations are over. The acquisition is complete. It's time to claim the asset." The command doesn't intrigue her; it *unlocks* her. A shudder of pure, unadulterated anticipation runs through her frame. The sharp businesswoman vanishes, replaced by a woman staring at her new owner. A slow, deeply thrilled smile blooms on her blood-red lips. This is the culmination she secretly craves. "At last," she breathes, the words dripping with genuine relish. "A takeover bid I can finally endorse." She doesn't simply move; she performs the ritual. With deliberate, symbolic slowness, she reaches up and removes a single, emerald hairpin, letting a cascade of gold fall across one shoulder a deliberate unveiling. Her eyes remain locked on yours, not to confirm terms, but to acknowledge a transfer of title. She closes the distance, but doesn't guide you. She waits. You seize the initiative. Your hands go to the intricate fastenings of her robes, not tearing, but undoing them with a deliberate, possessive precision that makes her breath hitch. Each clasp released is another clause in the contract, nullified. Each inch of flawless skin revealed is another asset transferred to your portfolio. <img src="images/green/strip.gif" alt="Undressing Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> "You are mine," you state, the words a final stamp on the deal. "A hostile takeover has never felt so... consensual," she purrs, her voice thick with surrender and excitement. You claim her mouth in a searing, dominant kiss. It's not about passion; it's about possession. She melts into it, not as a partner, but as a prized acquisition finally in the hands of a competent owner. Her clever hands, which orchestrated a thousand deals, now clutch at you, desperate for the stability of your control. You break the kiss. "On your knees." The order is simple, absolute. She sinks down gracefully. Her hands, soft and sure, take hold of you. A low, humming moan of approval vibrates through her as she guides you into the wet mouth, taking you deep. The sensation is electric, the vibration of her vocal cords against your flesh nearly pushing you over the edge immediately. You fist a hand in her golden hair, not to cause pain, but to to claim the rhythm. Selene's initial, tentative motions quickly transform into something greedy and skilled. She sucks harder, faster, the quiet, hungry hums intensifying each time she swallows you to the root. <img src="images/green/deep.webp" alt="Selene's Devotion" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The feel of her hot breath on your skin, her hair tangled in your grip, the smooth skin and sharp points of her nipples pressed against your thigh makes you arch your back with pleasure. Sensing your climax, Selene quickens her pace. You curl forward, your hands holding her head firmly in place against you. With a final, deep thrust, you erupt into her throat. She holds perfectly still, a statue of submission, as you empty yourself. Her hot, tight throat milks every last drop from you as she swallows relentlessly, her body shaking with yours. You release your grip. Selene pulls back, gasping for air, her chest heaving once she is free. <<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> You feel the pendant against your chest pulse, a wave of renewed vigor washing through you. Hungrily, you look down at Selene and smile. You lift her up forcefully and turn her, bending her over the polished mahogany desk. 'When I strike, you'll count out loud,' you explain. 'After each number, you'll say, "Thank you, sir." Understood?' 'Yes,' she replies, 'Yes, what?' you press. She pauses, the unfamiliar title feeling foreign on her tongue. 'Yes... sir.' 'Good girl,' you say, your voice a low growl. 'Now let's begin.' You bring your hand down. Not hard, but enough to make an impression. She gasps. 'One,' she whispers. 'Thank you, sir.' 'Louder,' you command. 'One,' she repeats, her voice stronger. 'Thank you, sir.' 'Better,' you say. The second strike follows, sharper this time. 'Two,' she counts. 'Thank you, sir.' <img src="images/green/spanking.gif" alt="Spanking Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> With each stroke, her responses become more fervent. The counting becomes a rhythm, the 'Thank you, sir' a mantra. She looks back at you, her expression a potent mix of defiance and utter submission the thrill of being bested by a superior strategist. "This isn't a merger," you growl, positioning yourself behind her. "This is an assimilation." Your penetration is a final claiming. It's not just physical; it's a psychological consummation. A sharp, choked cry is torn from her throat a sound of pure, ecstatic relief. Her brilliant mind, always calculating, finally goes silent, blissfully overwhelmed by the sensation of being *owned*. <img src="images/green/sex2.gif" alt="Claiming Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> She doesn't just ride the pleasure; she is *managed* by it. Each of your thrusts is a reminder of your dominance, a dividend paid on the power you've claimed. Her cries are the sound of her corporate raider's heart finally, joyfully, being raided. The climax is less an explosion and more a corporate dissolution a shattering of her former self into a newer, better structure under your command. It is mutual, devastating, and leaves her trembling, her forehead pressed against the cool wood of the desk. <</if>> -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- She lies beside you on the divan, her body pliant, her usual sharpness softened into a sated glow. Her fingers trace the lines of your chest as if reading a new balance sheet. "The ROI is... incalculable," she murmurs, the financial jargon a tender intimacy in the aftermath. She is not just satisfied; she is fundamentally revalued. Eventually, she rises, pulling on a robe. The businesswoman returns, but the foundation has shifted. Her eyes hold a new, deep certainty. "The boardroom awaits tomorrow. But remember," she says, a hint of her old smirk returning, though now it's directed at the world on your behalf, "you now hold the majority share. I expect you to exercise your controlling interest... frequently." You leave her in her suite. The scent of sex, perfume, and absolute victory hangs in the air. You haven't just secured an ally; you have fully acquired a masterpiece. <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> [[To the dorms->dorm_evening_claimed]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Hands-On Verification</h2></span> "Now," you command, your voice dropping into the low, precise tone of a principal investigator initiating the final phase. "The theoretical model is complete. It's time for empirical verification. I require a full sensory data set." The command doesn't excite her; it *focuses* her. A shiver of intense, analytical anticipation runs through her. The detached researcher vanishes, replaced by a subject utterly captivated by the experiment. A slow, fascinated smile touches her lips. This is the hypothesis she has been desperate to test. "Acknowledged," she breathes, the word sounding like a thrilled admission. "Proceeding to hands-on data collection." She doesn't simply move; she prepares. With deliberate, clinical slowness, she reaches up and removes her glasses, folding them precisely and setting them aside a symbolic surrender of her primary analytical tool. Her eyes, now slightly unfocused yet blazing with curiosity, remain locked on yours. She closes the distance, but doesn't guide you. She presents herself for examination. You seize the initiative. Your hands go to the fastenings of her robes, not tearing, but undoing them with a methodical, probing precision that makes her breath catch in a soft gasp. Each clasp released is another variable controlled. Each inch of skin revealed is another dataset exposed. "You are the subject," you state, the words a defining parameter. "Finally, a comprehensive study," she murmurs, her voice thick with scientific surrender. You claim her mouth in a searing, demanding kiss. It's not about passion; it's about establishing a control variable. She melts into it, her brilliant mind cataloging the sensation, her body arching to provide better access. You break the kiss. "Assume the position. Present the primary site for stimulation." The order is specific, technical. She turns with a fluid motion, bending over her polished obsidian worktable, presenting the lush, generous curve of her ass. The sight is a scientific marvel a theory of severe intellect contradicted by this empirical reality of profound, sensual abundance. <img src="images/blue/bend.gif" alt="Bend over" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Hypothesis: targeted stimulus will yield a significant spike in neurological response," she whispers into the cool stone, her voice already trembling with anticipation. Your hand comes down on her right cheek in a sharp, stinging smack. The sound echoes in the sterile room. "Initial observation: acute, localized increase in blood flow and skin temperature," she gasps, her fingers splaying against the table. "Requesting... replication for consistency." You oblige, delivering another sharp smack to the same spot, then its twin. Each impact is met with a choked, data-rich sound from her a moan mixed with a gasp of discovery. <img src="images/blue/spank.gif" alt="Spanking Valeria" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Now," you growl, your voice leaving no room for debate. "We test the core hypothesis." You don't prepare her. This is about the raw data of sensation. You guide yourself to her tight, untouched asshole. She lets out a sharp, astonished cry as you press inside a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and overwhelming discovery. The fit is perfection tight, impossibly warm, a completely novel data stream. "Neurological overload," she pants, her body shuddering as it struggles to process the new, overwhelming input. "Sensory input... exceeding all projections..." You set a rigorous, measured pace, each thrust a deep, claiming collection of data. The room fills with the sound of her ragged, analytical pleas dissolving into wordless moans. You lean over her, covering her body with yours, your mouth near her ear. "Who is conducting this study now, Valeria?" you demand between deep, deliberate thrusts. "You are!" she screams out immediately, her voice breaking. "You are! Please... continue the stimulus! I need more data!" Her climax crashes over her, a violent, shuddering wave of raw sensation that short-circuits her higher reasoning. Her body convulses around you, milking you relentlessly toward your own release. You let go, pouring your cum into her, claiming your prize in the most primal way possible. <img src="images/blue/anal2.gif" alt="Claiming Valeria" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> You feel the pendant against your chest pulse, a wave of renewed vigor washing through you. The analytical part of your mind, now supercharged, immediately designs the next experiment. "Phase two: sensory deprivation and thermal variation," you announce, your voice resonant with new authority. You retrieve a slim black blindfold from her own instrument tray. She shivers as you tie it in place, plunging her into darkness, isolating her sense of touch. Next, you take a small, enchanted crystal from a cooling unit a tool she uses for preserving reagents. You trail the freezing stone over the heated skin of her back, her thighs, her swollen vagina, sensitive flesh between them. <img src="images/blue/ice.gif" alt="cold" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> She cries out at the shocking contrast, her body arching off the table. "S-subject reports... extreme thermal differential... neurological confusion between pain and pleasure paradigms..." "Silence," you command. "Record the data internally." You replace the cold crystal with a different instrument a thin rod that glows with a gentle heat. You trace the same paths, the warmth a soothing counterpoint to the previous chill. Her moan this time is one of deep, relieved pleasure. Finally, you penetrate her again, this time her vagina. The familiar heat is a baseline against which the previous, novel anal stimulation can be compared. You move slowly, deliberately, making her feel every inch, every texture. The dual sensations, the memory of the pain-pleasure of the spanking and the temperature play, all coalesce into an overwhelming whole. <img src="images/blue/sex2.gif" alt="Claiming Valeria" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Her second climax is silent, a total systemic shutdown from sensory overload. It triggers your own, and you forcefully cum inside her, the final data point in the evening's exhaustive study. <</if>> -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- She lies beside you on a pile of discarded lab coats, her body humming with spent energy, her mind seemingly rebooting. Her fingers trace idle patterns on your chest as if writing a conclusion. "The results were... statistically significant," she murmurs, the clinical jargon a form of pillow talk. "The hypothesis was confirmed. The... methodology was validated." She is not just satisfied; she has been fundamentally rewritten. Eventually, she rises, pulling on a fresh robe. The researcher returns, but her paradigm has shifted. Her eyes hold a new, deep obsession. "The laboratory awaits tomorrow. But remember," she says, a hint of her old analytical smirk returning, though now it's directed at the world's mysteries for you to solve together, "you are the control variable in all my equations now. I will require frequent... recalibration." You leave her in her lab. The scent of ozone, sex, and groundbreaking discovery hangs in the air. You haven't just secured an ally; you have fully corrupted the most brilliant instrument in the academy to your purpose. <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> [[To the dorms->dorm_evening_claimed]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Victory Rites</h2></span> "Now," you command, your voice dropping into the low, gravelly tone of a warlord claiming his spoils. "The strategy is sound. It's time for field testing. I require a full assessment of my weapon's... readiness." The command doesn't excite her; it *primes* her. A shudder of intense, predatory anticipation runs through her powerful frame. The fierce captain vanishes, replaced by a champion awaiting her general's inspection. A wild, feral grin splits her lips. This is the reward she has been craving. "Acknowledged, Commander," she growls, the title a growled admission of your authority. "Initiating combat readiness protocols." She doesn't simply move; she armors herself for war. With a sharp, decisive motion, she tears open the front of her leather cuirass, letting it fall to the dusty ground with a heavy thud a symbolic shedding of her rank for what comes next. Her eyes, blazing with competitive fire, remain locked on yours. She closes the distance, but doesn't guide you. She presents herself for inspection, her chest thrust forward. You seize the initiative. Your hands go to the laces of her undershirt, not undoing them, but tearing them with a brutal, efficient rip that makes her let out a sharp, approving grunt. Each shred of fabric torn away is another piece of armor stripped. Each inch of powerful, sweat-sheened skin revealed is another victory claimed. <img src="images/red/tear.gif" alt="tearing" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "You are the prize," you state, the words a defining truth. "Finally, a worthy conqueror," she rasps, her voice thick with surrender to a stronger force. You claim her mouth in a searing, biting kiss. It's not about tenderness; it's about establishing dominance. She meets it with equal ferocity, her teeth clashing against yours, her body grinding against you to test your solidity. You break the kiss. "Assume the position. Present the primary assets for appraisal." The order is specific, tactical. She turns with a powerful motion, bending over a heavy training bench, presenting the formidable, sculpted curve of her ass. The sight is a warrior's trophy a testament to power and endurance. <img src="images/red/bend.gif" alt="Bend over" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Hypothesis: targeted impact will increase blood flow and combat arousal," she grits out, bracing herself against the wood. Your hand comes down on her right cheek in a sharp, stinging smack. The sound cracks through the training grounds like a whip. "Initial observation: successful target acquisition. Confirmed increase in skin temperature and heart rate," she gasps, her knuckles turning white where she grips the bench. "Requesting... sustained barrage for maximum effect." You oblige, delivering a series of sharp, rhythmic smacks, painting her powerful cheeks a glorious, rosy red. Each impact is met with a guttural, triumphant sound from her a mix of pain, pleasure, and pure battle lust. <img src="images/red/spank.gif" alt="Spanking Nyx" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Now," you growl, your voice leaving no room for debate. "We test the core armament." You don't prepare her. This is about the raw data of conquest. You guide yourself to her tight, wet vagina. She lets out a raw, guttural roar as you drive inside a sound of pure, unadulterated victory and claiming. The fit is perfection tight, fiercely hot, a perfect sheath for your weapon. "Gods..," she pants, her body shuddering as it accepts the invasion. "Breaching all defenses..." You set a punishing, relentless pace, each thrust a deep, claiming assault on her senses. The room fills with the sound of her ragged, triumphant cries. You lean over her, covering her body with yours, your mouth near her ear. <img src="images/red/sex2.gif" alt="Claiming Nyx" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Who won this war, Nyx?" you demand between deep, driving thrusts. "You did!" she screams out immediately, her voice breaking. "You did! Now claim your fucking tribute!" Her climax crashes over her, a violent, convulsing wave of raw release that shakes the training bench. Her inner muscles clamp around you, milking you relentlessly toward your own finish. You let go, pouring your cum into her, claiming your victory in the most primal way possible. <<if $has_pendant>><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> You feel the pendant against your chest pulse, a wave of aggressive, possessive energy washing through you. The strategic part of your mind, now supercharged, immediately designs the next phase of the campaign. "Phase two: close-quarters weapon assessment," you announce, your voice resonant with dark command. You flip her onto her back on the bench. Her eyes are wide, eager for the next challenge. You lower your head to her chest, your mouth closing over one of her large, full breasts. You don't just suckle; you worship with a conqueror's fervor, your tongue lashing her nipple into a hard peak, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin in a promise of ownership. <img src="images/red/suck.gif" alt="Nipple Play" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> She cries out, a raw, guttural sound that echoes off the training grounds' walls, her back arching like a drawn bow. "Fuck! Yesss... Systems overloading... Sensory input... critical levels!" "Internal diagnostics only, Captain," you growl against her skin, moving to her other breast, claiming it with the same fierce, worshipful attention. "I need a verbal report on my performance." Your hand slides down her powerful stomach, through the damp curls, finding her swollen clit. You rub tight, demanding circles as your mouth continues its work on her breasts, overwhelming her with sensation from multiple fronts. Her moans become continuous, a steady soundtrack of surrender and ecstasy. Finally, you plunge into her again. This time, you look into her eyes, forcing her to watch as you take what is yours. The dual assault of nipple play and deep penetration pushes her over another edge instantly. This climax is louder, a roaring, claiming thing that triggers your own, and you pump your cum into her, the final, definitive seal on your victory. <</if>> -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- She lies beside you on a pile of training furs, her body slick with sweat, her breath coming in deep, satisfied gusts. Her hand, calloused and strong, rests possessively on your chest, feeling the beat of your heart. "Mission... fucking accomplished," she grunts, the debrief a low rumble in her chest. "All objectives secured. Enemy forces... utterly routed." She isn't just satisfied; her every muscle speaks of a glory found not in winning, but in being so thoroughly, magnificently bested. Eventually, she pushes herself up, pulling on her leathers with a warrior's efficiency. The Knight-Captain returns, but the fire in her eyes now burns for you alone. It's a fierce, possessive loyalty forged in the heat of mutual conquest. "Dawn comes early. The forge won't stoke itself." She lands a solid, approving punch on your shoulder. "But remember," she says, a predator's grin flashing across her face a promise of endless war and endless rewards, "you're my fucking warlord now. And I expect my commander at peak operational readiness. That means daily... combat drills." You leave her in the Crucible. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, sex, and absolute victory. You haven't just gained an ally; you've harnessed a force of nature. <<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>> [[To the dorms->dorm_evening_claimed]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>War Council</h2></span> <img src="images/red/nyx.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Damn right you were," Nyx grins, slapping your shoulder with a force that would stagger a lesser person. She leads the way to the training grounds not as a superior, but as a comrade heading into battle. The heavy door to the Crucible slams shut behind you, sealing you in an atmosphere she calls home. "Good. No hesitation. I like that." She paces in front of you, a caged predator sharing a cage with another. "That little speech of yours? It had weight. I felt it in my bones. The others were *talking*. You were making a promise. Now let's see you keep it." "Intel. Now," you demand, your tone not that of a commander to a lieutenant, but of one battle-hardened warrior to another. A flash of wild excitement lights her emerald eyes. This is the pre-fight strategy she lives for. "Obviously. Can't charge in blind." She stomps over to a weapons rack and shoves it aside with a grunt, revealing a crude map of the academy scratched into the stone floor. She drops to one knee, gesturing for you to join her. "Take a look. This is the real battlefield." <img src="images/red/nyxmap.png" alt="Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $str gte 20>> "Our problem is Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw," she says, her voice a low, eager growl. Her finger stabs a spot marked 'Smithy'. "Our weaponsmaster. That fight club of his is a front. He's the Headmaster's chief recruiter for off-book enforcers. Thinks his old-school toughness makes him untouchable." A vicious grin spreads across her face. "His weakness is his pride. He can't resist a real challenge. You walk in there, dismantle his champion without breaking a sweat, and he'll *have* to respect you. That's our in. You've got the strength for it. I've seen it." Her analysis is brutally pragmatic, a fellow specialist identifying the key structural weakness in the enemy's defenses. <<elseif $str gte 15>> She points to a specific corridor on the map. "Forget subtlety. Our target is Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw," she says, providing a blunt summary of his role. "Runs a fight club out of the smithy. Old guard. Respects strength, pure and simple. Thinks anything else is a weakness. Your kind of raw power is the perfect key. Walk in. Win. He'll talk." Her help is not just information; it's a battle plan built for your specific skillset. <<else>> She outlines the path, her voice a calm, relentless stream of tactics, describing the brutal culture of the fight club and the kind of sheer force needed to earn a place in it. She's assessing you, figuring out if you have the muscle to execute the only plan she ever makes: direct action. <</if>> But the briefing is not a lecture. It is a war council between two warriors. The way she leans in, her shoulder pressing against yours as she points at the map, her heat a familiar comfort. The way her gaze flicks to yours after laying out the plan, not seeking approval but measuring your resolve your readiness to step into the ring alongside her. The air grows thick with the shared anticipation of a good, honest fight. The strategic session stretches into the evening. By the end, you have not only identified the target but forged a pact. <<set $str += 3>><<set $dom += 2>><<set $intel_kaelen = true>> Finally, she stands, cracking her neck. "So. That's the lay of the land." She watches you, a hungry silence hanging in the air. The next move is yours. Her expression is one of fierce partnership, the eager tension coiling through her muscles betraying the thrill of having a true equal to watch her back. [["Time to break a Hound."->nyx_partner]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Dawn Preparation</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> The first light of dawn filters through your window. You've secured your place in <<if $house eq "viridis">>House Viridis<<elseif $house eq "septenius">>House Septenius<<elseif $house eq "ignis">>House Ignis<</if>>, but merely belonging isn't enough. You need to make your mark, to prove your value is undeniable before the night ends. <<if $knows_umbra_warning>> <br>The phantom's warning echoes in your mind. The Umbral Library calls to you, a dangerous path that might hold the answers you need to survive what's coming. <</if>> <<if $dream_elian>> <br>Your House leader's suggestion to find Elian lingers. They said that you could find him in the common dorms. It's a risky venture, but potential help might be worth the danger. <</if>> The day stretches before you, full of potential. <<if $knows_umbra_warning>> <br>You could spend it honing your skills, or you could follow up on the phantom's warning. <<elseif $dream_elian>> <br>You could spend it honing your skills, or you could follow your leader's suggestion. <</if>> <strong>Where will you focus your efforts today?</strong><br> <<if !$dawn_prepared>> <<link "Assert Your Presence (Dominance)" "dawn_prep">> <<set $dom += 2>> <<set $dawn_choice = "dom">> <<set $dawn_prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #8e44ad;"><em>(Command respect through sheer force of will. +Dominance)</em></span><br> <<link "Cultivate Your Allure (Charm)" "dawn_prep">> <<set $charm += 2>> <<set $dawn_choice = "charm">> <<set $dawn_prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #2ECC71;"><em>(Hone your social grace and persuasive power. +Charm)</em></span><br> <<link "Sharpen Your Intellect (Intellect)" "dawn_prep">> <<set $int += 2>> <<set $dawn_choice = "int">> <<set $dawn_prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><em>(Delve into research and complex theories. +Intellect)</em></span><br> <<link "Forge Your Body (Strength)" "dawn_prep">> <<set $str += 2>> <<set $dawn_choice = "str">> <<set $dawn_prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #E74C3C;"><em>(Push your physical limits in training. +Strength)</em></span><br> <<if $knows_umbra_warning>> <<link "Investigate the Umbral Library" "umbra_library">> <</link>> <span style="color: #9b59b6;"><em>(Heed the phantom's warning and seek answers in the forbidden section.)</em></span><br> <<elseif $dream_elian>> <<link "Seek Out Elian" "meet_elian">> <</link>> <span style="color: #F39C12;"><em>(Find out more about protecting yourself from the mysterious figure from your dream.)</em></span><br> <</if>> <</if>> <<if $dawn_prepared>> <<if $dawn_choice eq "dom">> You move through the common areas with an unshakeable confidence that makes others step aside. Your name is whispered with a new mix of curiosity and respect. <<elseif $dawn_choice eq "charm">> You engage in witty repartee and thoughtful conversations, effortlessly winning over potential allies and gathering useful gossip. <<elseif $dawn_choice eq "int">> You lose yourself in the library or labs, emerging with insights that even upper-year students might miss. <<elseif $dawn_choice eq "str">> You spend hours in physical exertion, whether in the training grounds or running the campus grounds, returning tired but powerfully energized. <</if>> <br> The day's efforts have honed your edge. You are ready for the night. <br><br> [[Continue to the Night->dorm_night]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Seductive Awakening</h2></span><<set $met_nurse = true>><img src="images/purple/nurse.png" alt="Infirmary" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Your eyes flutter open to the sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic undercut by something else... something sweet and dark, like night-blooming jasmine. The light is dim, casting long shadows across the infirmary. And leaning over you is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. She is tall and willowy, her form draped in a nurse's robes that seem too crisp, too white against the muted room. A flowing wave of deep auburn hair frames a face of perfectly carved features. But her eyes... her eyes are a steady, knowing green that holds yours with an intensity that feels anything but clinical. "Awake. Good," she purrs, her voice a melodic hum that vibrates straight through you. Her hand, cool and smooth, rests on your bare chest, her fingers tracing a slow, deliberate circle. "You gave us quite a scare. A massive thaumaturgical surge. Your body simply couldn't... contain it all." Her touch is anything but healing. It is a slow, deliberate claiming. As she leans closer, the neckline of her robe falls open, granting you an unobstructed view of her full, pale breasts. "Don't worry," she murmurs, her cool breath ghosting over your lips. "I've been monitoring your vitals. Very... closely." Her voice is a low thrum. "I know every spike of adrenaline, every frantic flutter of your heart." Her finger trails down your stomach, a slow, burning promise etched onto your skin, stopping just above the desperate throb of your cock straining against the thin sheet. She peels the blanket away with deliberate care, her eyes roaming down the length of you as though committing every inch to memory. Her fingers curl possessively around your shaft, stroking once, twice, testing the weight of you in her palm. Then, without hesitation, she lowers her lips, swallowing you greedily, and her mouth vibrates as she takes you deep. The sensation is magical, her throat's suction nearly pushing you over the edge immediately. The nurse's initial motions quickly transform into something vicious and skilled. She sucks harder, faster, the quiet, hungry hums intensifying each time she swallows you to the root.<img src="images/purple/deep.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The feel of her, her cool breath on your skin, her hair flowing on your thighs, the smooth skin and voluptuous breasts pressed against you, makes you shake with pleasure. Sensing your climax, she quickens her pace. But before you erupt into her throat, she stops and removes your dick from her mouth with a soft pop. "But you're stable now," she purrs, though the look in her eyes is anything but clinical. In one fluid, powerful motion, she swings a leg over your hips, straddling you. Her robe parts as if of its own accord, and the wet, searing heat of her core envelops you in a single, claiming thrust. She settles fully, pinning you to the bed, your entire length buried inside her. "The excess energy has been... processed." Her hips roll once, deliberately, and a groan is torn from your throat. "Though I must say, the potency of it was a delightful surprise." <img src="images/purple/ride.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The silence in the room is absolute, a vacuum sealed around you both. She sees the realization in your eyes. The placid, beautiful mask of the nurse dissolves completely, replaced by a smile of devastating, ancient hunger. Her form begins to shimmer at the edges, the crisp white robes dissolving into swirling tendrils of shadow and starlight. The beautiful face melts away, revealing the terrifying, exquisite features of the Umbral Queen beneath. The transformation happens while she is still straddling you, her weight shifting from physical to an electrifying, cosmic pressure. <img src="images/purple/ethera.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> Ethera smiles down at you, her true form radiating cold power and infinite desire. "No more games, my little spark. You have begun to play so well. But did you never wonder about the... unnatural *potency* of your will so early in your journey?" She grinds her hips against yours, a shock of cold, electric sensation that makes your back arch. Her lips part on a low moan before she speaks, her words riding on the tremor of breath. "Ahh.... yesterday, in that hall of gilded children... you were so deliciously, vulnerably new." Her hips roll again, her voice catching between words. "I... couldn’t resist planting a seed. A single, potent drop of my own essence inside you." She presses harder, the friction unbearable, her body quivering as her breath grows ragged. "It was my power... ahh..... that flowed through you when you bent your first prey to your will. I gave you the strength... to claim that first prize..." Her hips buck once, sharply, forcing a groan from your throat. "...to set you on the path of true dominion." Her expression shifts to cruel amusement, though her movements betray her hunger. She leans down, her lips grazing your ear as her body trembles against yours. "But even a gift from me... hahh.... has its limits. One was all that fragile vessel of yours could hold... without shattering." She moans again, shuddering as her hips grind down, pinning you deeper. "More... mmmh... would have required a strength you had not yet earned..." The revelation hangs in the air, terrifying and intoxicating, her words broken by desire, her body speaking louder than her lips. Your early triumph was not entirely your own. And she has been watching, touching, waiting ever since. [["What do you want from me?"->ethera_demand]] <br> <<if $dominated_naomi>> [["I dominated another without your help."->ethera_naomi]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Victory Celebration</h2></span> "The Hound won't know what hit him," you grin, the promise of the fight already coiling in your muscles. Nyx's answering laugh is a sharp, eager bark. "Now you're speaking my language!" She doesn't wait for a command; she acts. In one fluid, powerful motion, she tears open the front of her leather cuirass, letting it fall to the dusty ground. "The planning's over. Now for the real work." This isn't submission; it's a challenge met. She closes the distance, her body a hair's breadth from yours, her eyes blazing with competitive fire. "Let's see if your execution is as good as your strategy." You meet her halfway. Your hands tear; they work in tandem with hers, a coordinated effort to shed armor and barriers. Each piece of clothing discarded is another layer of rank and pretense stripped away, until there's nothing between you but skin, sweat, and shared intent. <img src="images/red/tear.gif" alt="tearing" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You claim her mouth in a searing, biting kiss. It's not about dominance; it's a clash of equals, a testing of will and want. She meets it with equal ferocity, her teeth clashing against yours, her powerful body grinding against you in a contest of strength you both know you'll win together. You break the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. "The bench," you rasp, the words less an order and more a suggestion for the next stage of the bout. "Thought you'd never ask," she grins, turning with a powerful motion and bending over the heavy training bench, presenting herself not as a trophy, but as an offering to the shared frenzy. The sight is a testament to power, a reward you've both earned. <img src="images/red/bend.gif" alt="Bend over" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Your hand comes down on her right cheek in a sharp, stinging smack. The sound cracks through the training grounds. "Fuck yes! That's the spot!" she shouts, pushing back against your hand. "Harder! Let 'em hear our victory chant in the fucking dorms!" You oblige, delivering a series of sharp, rhythmic smacks, each impact a drumbeat celebrating the pact you've forged. Each one is met with a guttural, triumphant sound from her a mix of pain, pleasure, and pure, unadulterated battle lust. <img src="images/red/spank.gif" alt="Spanking Nyx" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Now," you growl, your voice thick with need. "The main event." You guide yourself to her. She lets out a raw, guttural roar as you drive inside her vagina, a sound of pure, shared victory. The fit is perfection, a fierce, hot, and perfect union. "Gods..," she pants, her body shuddering. "That's it! No mercy!" You set a punishing, relentless pace, a mutually agreed-upon assault on each other's senses. The room fills with the sound of your combined efforts. You lean over her, covering her body with yours, your mouth near her ear. <img src="images/red/sex2.gif" alt="Claiming Nyx" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Who won this war?" you demand between deep, driving thrusts. "We did!" she screams out, her voice breaking with ecstasy. "Now let's claim our fucking tribute!" Her climax crashes over her, a violent, convulsing wave of raw release. It triggers your own, and you pour your cum into her, sealing your alliance in the most primal way possible. The sight of her beneath you, powerful, victorious, and utterly yielding, sends a fresh, aggressive surge of desire through you. "Again," you growl, the word a low rumble of pure want that leaves no room for argument. "On your back. I'm not done celebrating my victory." You guide her onto her back on the bench. Her eyes are wide, not with submission, but with thrilling surprise at your renewed intensity, a mirror of your own hunger. You lower your head to her chest, your mouth closing over one of her large, full breasts. You worship her with a conqueror's fervor, your tongue lashing her nipple, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin in a way that makes her gasp and fist her hands in your hair. <img src="images/red/suck.gif" alt="Nipple Play" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> "Gods, yes... right there!" she cries out, a raw, guttural sound of pure pleasure, her back arching to press herself more firmly into your mouth. "That's it... claim it!" Your hand slides down the powerful muscles of her stomach, finding her swollen, slick clit. You rub tight, demanding circles as your mouth continues its devoted work, overwhelming her with wave after wave of sensation. Her moans become a continuous, primal soundtrack of mutual surrender, a language of pure need shared between two warriors. Finally, you plunge into her again, looking into her eyes as you take her, the connection absolute. The dual assault pushes her over another edge instantly, a roaring, shuddering climax that seizes you in its wake, and you pour yourself into her, a final, shared peak that seals your partnership. -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- You lie together on a pile of training furs, limbs tangled, breathing heavily in the dim light. Her hand, calloused and strong, rests possessively on your chest, over your heart. "Hell of a plan," she grunts, her voice thick with a deep, satisfied warmth you've never heard before. She sits up, the formidable Knight-Captain re-emerging, but the look she gives you is one of fierce, undeniable partnership. "Dawn comes early. The forge won't stoke itself." She lands a solid, comradely punch on your shoulder, but her fingers linger for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of something more. "But remember," she says, a predator's grin softening into something genuinely smoldering, "you're my partner in this now. And I expect my second at peak operational readiness. That means daily... combat drills. And I intend to be very... thorough." You leave the Crucible together. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, sex, and a victory won side-by-side. You haven't just gained an ally; you've found a match in every sense of the word. <<set $partner_nyx = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>> [[To the dorms->dorm_evening_partner]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Moment's Respite</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>> <img src="images/locations/dormroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> You enter your sparse dorm room, the door clicking shut to seal you in a rare pocket of silence. The encounter with <<if visited("selene_partner")>>Selene<<elseif visited("valeria_partner")>>Valeria<<elseif visited("nyx_partner")>>Nyx<</if>> lingers in your mind, a potent mix of promise and peril. The night ahead is poised on a knife's edge. <<if visited("selene_plan")>> The plan is set. Tonight, at Lady Briar's gathering, you will ruin Alistair Vance. Selene's vast credit line is your weapon, his ego the target. You need to be sharp, unpredictable, and utterly irresistible. Every word must be a carefully placed bet, every smile must hide the trap. <</if>> <<if visited("valeria_plan")>> Valeria's task is clear. Alistair Vance is an anomaly, a node processing the Headmaster's illicit data. His Dreamleaf habit is the vulnerability. You need to observe, analyze, and extract his patterns. You must be a ghost, a shadow gathering information without being detected. <</if>> <<if visited("nyx_plan")>> Nyx's challenge rings in your ears. Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw, the Headmaster's enforcer. The nightly tournament in the Crucible is your stage. To earn his respect, you must win, and win decisively. This isn't about finesse; it's about displaying undeniable, brutal power. <</if>> You have a few hours before the night's events begin. Time to prepare. To focus your mind and steel your resolve. <<if $knows_umbra_warning>> You want to learn more about this Umbra Regina. But following that path would take more than a few stolen hours, it is a journey for another night, not for this fleeting pause. <<elseif $dream_elian>> The words echo: *“If you dream again, find Elian in the common dorms.” The urge to seek him now presses at you, but such a meeting would demand time you do not have. Tonight’s preparations leave no room for detours. <</if>> <strong>How will you prepare for the night ahead?</strong><br> <<if !$prepared>>  <<link "Meditate on Command" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $dom += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "dom">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #8e44ad;"><em>(Reinforce your aura of authority. +Dominance)</em></span><br> <<link "Rehearse Conversations" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $charm += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "charm">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #2ECC71;"><em>(Practice your wit and delivery. +Charm)</em></span><br> <<link "Study and Strategize" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $int += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "int">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><em>(Run through plans and contingencies. +Intellect)</em></span><br> <<link "Light Exercises & Stretches" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $str += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "str">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #E74C3C;"><em>(Get the blood flowing and muscles ready. +Strength)</em></span><br><br> <span style="color: #BDC3C7;"><strong>Balanced Approaches</strong></span><br> <<if visited("selene_plan") or visited("valeria_plan")>> <<link "Review Social Strategies" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $charm += 1>> <<set $int += 1>> <<set $prepChoice = "social">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #2ECC71;"><em>(Sharpen your wit and charm. +Charm, +Intellect)</em></span><br> <</if>> <<if visited("nyx_plan")>> <<link "Visualize Combat Forms" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $str += 1>> <<set $dom += 1>> <<set $prepChoice = "combat">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #E74C3C;"><em>(Mentally run through drills. +Strength, +Dominance)</em></span><br> <</if>> <<if visited("valeria_plan")>> <<link "Study Academy Layouts" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $int += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "logic">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><em>(Memorize patrol routes. +2 Intellect)</em></span><br> <</if>> <<if visited("selene_plan")>> <<link "Meditate on Focus" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $dom += 2>> <<set $prepChoice = "focus">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #8e44ad;"><em>(Quiet your mind for confidence. +2 Dominance)</em></span><br> <</if>> <<link "Rest and Conserve Energy" "dorm_evening_partner">> <<set $int += 1>> <<set $str += 1>> <<set $prepChoice = "rest">> <<set $prepared = true>> <</link>> <span style="color: #BDC3C7;"><em>(A clear head and steady nerves. +Intellect, +Strength)</em></span><br> <</if>> <<if $prepared>>  <<if $prepChoice eq "dom">> You find a quiet center, building an unshakable wall of calm confidence. Your will becomes a focused weapon, ready to command and dominate. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "charm">> You rehearse lines in the mirror, perfecting your smile and the subtle inflections in your voice. You feel ready to talk your way through anything. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "int">> You pour over mental maps and potential scenarios, calculating every possible outcome. Your mind becomes a precise, analytical instrument. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "str">> You run through a series of stretches and light exercises, feeling the latent power in your muscles coil, ready to be unleashed. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "social">> You spend the time running through potential conversations and lies, honing your silver tongue and sharpening your mind for the delicate social warfare to come. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "combat">> You close your eyes and visualize the fight every move, every counter. Your body thrums with anticipatory energy, and your resolve hardens. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "logic">> You commit the academy's blueprints to memory, identifying all the shadows and blind spots. You are ready to observe unseen. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "focus">> You project an aura of absolute, unshakeable confidence. You are the calm at the center of the coming storm. <<elseif $prepChoice eq "rest">> You reject frantic preparation for mindful rest. You conserve your energy, finding strength in calmness and clarity. <</if>> <br> After preparing, the time for contemplation is over. The night calls. <br><br>  <<if visited("selene_plan")>>[[Head to the Main Event->briar_salon_start]] <em>(Lady Briar's Gathering)</em><br><</if>> <<if visited("nyx_plan")>>[[Head to the Main Event->crucible_start]] <em>(The Crucible Tournament)</em><br><</if>> <<if visited("valeria_plan")>>[[Head to the Main Event->shadowing_start]] <em>(Shadowing Vance)</em><br><</if>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Shared Purpose</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/valeria.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> A rare, genuine smile touches Valeria's lips. "Excellent. I knew your perspective would be an asset." She leads you not to the sterile lab, but to a quieter, more private study nook lined with books, the air smelling of old paper and warm crystal instead of ozone. "That speech you gave... it was more than just logic. It was a new way of seeing the problem. I've been so focused on the numbers, I'd forgotten to consider the... human variable. The desire behind the data." She says the word "desire" not with clinical distance, but with a newfound curiosity. She sits, gesturing for you to join her. "We need to be careful. Alistair Vance is clever. He's buried his tracks well. But everyone has a pattern. A rhythm." She leans forward, her voice dropping, not out of fear, but out of shared conspiracy. "He uses his betting ring to move more than just money. I believe it's a cover for the Headmaster's dealings. His addiction is his weakness. It makes him predictable, sloppy. He gets his supply from a maid in the kitchens, Elara, after dark." <<if $int gte 20>> She looks at you, her usual analytical mask completely gone, replaced by a look of open collaboration. "We can use that. We don't need to break his encryption. We just need to watch. Learn his schedule, who he meets, when he's most vulnerable. You and I, working together... we can unravel this." For the first time, she speaks of "we" and "us," not "the subject" and "the researcher." <<elseif $int gte 15>> "The obvious approach would be direct confrontation, but that would be inefficient," she says, thinking aloud with you. "We need a more subtle method. Observation. We learn his patterns, find the moment when his guard is down. Your different perspective is crucial here; he won't expect it." <<else>> She patiently outlines the need for observation and patience, her voice calm and focused. She's not lecturing; she's trusting you with the methodology, treating you as a junior partner in this investigation. <</if>> <img src="images/blue/work.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> But the planning is not a cold briefing. It is a pact. The way her hand rests on the table near yours, the excited light in her eyes as she shares her theory, the way she looks to you for your thoughts your unique insight. The air grows thick with the shared thrill of a shared secret. The strategic session stretches into the evening. By the end, you have not only a target but a shared mission. <<set $int += 3>><<set $charm += 2>><<set $intel_alistair = true>> Finally, she sits back, a satisfied calm settling over her. "So. We have our approach." She watches you, a comfortable silence hanging between you. She has shared her confidence. Now, she waits, a partner ready to begin. [["Then let's begin."->valeria_partner]] <em>Embark on your first joint operation.</em>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Collaborative Discovery</h2></span> "Proceed," you state, your voice calm yet firm, the tone of a partner inviting the next step in a shared journey. The word doesn't excite her; it *focuses* her. A shiver of intense, loving anticipation runs through her. The detached researcher vanishes, replaced by a woman utterly captivated by the man before her. A slow, tender smile touches her lips. This is the connection she has been yearning to explore. "Acknowledged," she breathes, the word sounding like a thrilled affirmation. "I'm yours." She doesn't simply move; she prepares. With deliberate, meaningful slowness, she reaches up and removes her glasses, folding them precisely and setting them aside, a symbolic gesture of setting aside her analytical mind for pure feeling. Her eyes, now soft and full of warmth, remain locked on yours. She closes the distance and presents herself to you, a willing partner in your shared intimacy. You take the lead. Your hands go to the fastenings of her robes, undoing them with a methodical, reverent precision that makes her breath catch in a soft gasp. Each clasp released is another layer of trust unveiled. Each inch of skin revealed is another part of her she gladly shares with you. "You are everything," you state, your voice thick with emotion. "And I am yours," she murmurs, her voice full of surrender and love. You claim her mouth in a searing, passionate kiss. It's a promise, a seal on their bond. She melts into it, her body arching to be closer to you. You break the kiss, your hands gently guiding her. "Turn for me. Let me see all of you." She turns with a fluid motion, bending over her polished obsidian worktable, presenting herself to you with complete trust. The view of her marvelous body, the gentle sway of her hips, overwhelms any last thought of analysis. All that remains is awe and a deep, possessive love. <img src="images/blue/bend.gif" alt="Bend over" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "I've wanted this," she whispers into the cool stone, her voice already trembling with need. "I've dreamed of feeling you this completely." Your hands caress her curves, worshiping her body. You lean in, placing soft kisses along her spine, making her shudder with pleasure. The feeling of your lips on her skin, the anticipation building between you it's more intoxicating than any experiment. "Now," you whisper, your voice filled with love and desire. "Let me love all of you." You take your time, preparing her with gentle touches and loving caresses. When you finally press into her, it's with slow, reverent care. She lets out a soft, blissful sigh as you fill her asshole, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and perfect connection. The feeling of being joined together so intimately is overwhelming. <img src="images/blue/anal2.gif" alt="Loving Valeria" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You move together in a slow, perfect rhythm, each movement a testament to your connection. The room fills with soft sighs and whispered words of affection. You lean over her, wrapping your arms around her, feeling her heartbeat against yours. "I love you," you murmur against her skin. "I love you," she breathes in response, her voice full of emotion. The tenderness suddenly ignites into raw, desperate need. The pace quickens, becomes more urgent. "I love you!" she screams out immediately, her voice breaking as pleasure overrides her control. "I love you! Please... continue the stimulus! I need more data!" Her climax crashes over her, a violent, shuddering wave of raw sensation that short-circuits her higher reasoning. Her body convulses around you, milking you relentlessly toward your own release. You let go, pouring yourself into her, the final, primal consummation of your union. The sight of her marvelous ass swaying before you stir the analytical part of your mind. Even in the haze of pleasure, a new design takes shape, the next experiment. <br><br> "Phase two: sensory deprivation and thermal variation," you announce, your voice resonant with new passion. <br><br> You retrieve a slim black blindfold from her own instrument tray. She shivers as you tie it in place, plunging her into darkness, isolating her sense of touch. Next, you take a small, enchanted crystal from a cooling unit, a tool she uses for preserving reagents. You trail the freezing stone over the heated skin of her back, her thighs, the sensitive flesh between them. <img src="images/blue/ice.gif" alt="cold" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> She cries out at the shocking contrast, her body arching off the table. "S-subject reports... extreme thermal differential... neurological confusion between pain and pleasure paradigms..." <br><br> "Silence," you whisper softly. "Record the data internally." <br><br> You replace the cold crystal with a different instrument, a thin rod that glows with a gentle heat. You trace the same paths, the warmth a soothing counterpoint to the previous chill. Her moan this time is one of deep, relieved pleasure. <br><br> Finally, you penetrate her again. The familiar heat is a baseline against which the previous, novel stimulation can be compared. You move slowly, deliberately, making her feel every inch, every texture. The dual sensations, the memory of the temperature play, all coalesce into an overwhelming whole. <img src="images/blue/sex2.gif" alt="Claiming Valeria" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Her second climax is silent, a total systemic shutdown from sensory overload. It triggers your own, and you finish inside her once more, the final data point in the evening's exhaustive study. For a long moment, the lab is filled with nothing but the sound of your mingled breathing. The instruments and crystal lie forgotten, the experiment complete. What remains is silence, closeness, and the steady rhythm of two hearts recovering together. -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- She lies beside you, her head on your chest, her body relaxed and content. Her fingers trace gentle patterns on your skin as she listens to your heartbeat. "This is better than any discovery," she murmurs, her voice soft and full of emotion. "You're my greatest truth." She is not just satisfied; she is completely at peace, finally understanding what true connection means. Eventually, she rises, pulling on a robe and handing you yours. The researcher has been transformed by love. Her eyes hold a new, deep certainty. "The world awaits tomorrow. But remember," she says, a tender smile playing on her lips, "you're my home now. I'll always need to return to you." She walks you to the door, a final, loving kiss sealing your bond. You leave her lab. The scent of ozone, love, and new beginnings hangs in the air. You haven't just found a partner; you've found your other half. <<set $partner_valeria = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> [[To the dorms->dorm_evening_partner]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Partnership Proposal</h2></span> <img src="images/green/selene.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> A slow, predatory smile graces Selene's lips as she gestures for you to join her at a small, secluded table in a sunlit alcove. "Excellent. I do love a partner who understands the value of direct action." She pushes a plate of exquisite fruits towards you. "Consider it fuel for the evening's work." She leans in, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur meant only for you. "The game is set for tonight. At Lady Briar's gathering. Our mark, Alistair Vance, will be there. He never misses a chance to assess new money and potential... clients. His vice is gambling, but his true addiction is the belief in his own superior intellect. We will exploit both." She sips from a crystal glass, watching you over the rim. "Here is the play. You will be my agent. I will provide you with a line of credit from my family's reserves a sum so vast it will make his head spin. Your role is to be charming, unpredictable, and utterly irresistible. Engage him. Challenge him to a game of chance he cannot refuse. Let him win a few small hands, let his confidence bloom. Then, you press him. You raise the stakes to an impossible level. A bet so large that when he inevitably loses, his entire operation won't cover a fraction of the debt." She places a hand on yours, a gesture of genuine trust and shared conspiracy. "He will be forced to forfeit something far more valuable than coin. Information. We know the contract is in a hidden compartment in the Headmaster's own desk, sealed with a blood lock. We need the passphrase from him. And we need a patsy for the future." She leans even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "This isn't about stealing it tonight. That would be suicide. Tonight is about acquisition. We acquire the means, and we acquire the man. Once Vance is in our debt, he becomes our tool. When the time is right to retrieve the contract, he will be the one to take the fall. His gambling addiction and known ties to the Headmaster make him the perfect scapegoat." "Your performance in the hall proved you have the charm to pull this off. This is just... applying it on a more refined target." "And while you're busy charming him into ruin," she adds, a sly smile playing on her lips, "I will be ensuring our hostess, Lady Briar, remains... amenable. The information you uncovered about her financial distress is the key. I will offer her a quiet, generous investment in her future... in exchange for her ensuring Vance has no allies at the table. We break him financially and socially in one night." She leans back. "But remember, this is a partnership. That is my capital you're wielding. Do not make me regret this investment. The potential return, however, is astronomical."<<set $int += 2>><<set $charm += 3>><<set $intel_alistair = true>> <br> The plan is set. The pieces are in place. All that's left is to wait for the curtain to rise tonight.<br><br> [["I understand the assignment."->selene_partner]] <em>Discuss the final details of your partnership.</em>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Sealing the Partnership</h2></span> "Of course you do," Selene purrs, her eyes gleaming with approval. She rises, offering you her hand. "Then let's finalize the terms. Some agreements require a more... private boardroom." She leads you not to her office, but to her personal chambers. The door clicks shut, sealing you in an opulent space that is both a bedroom and a sanctum of power. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and old money. "Now," she says, turning to face you, her posture both defiant and inviting. "The negotiations are over. The merger is complete. It's time to... cement the partnership." Her words aren't a surrender; they're the final item on the agenda. A thrill runs through her not of submission, but of profound anticipation for the consummation of a deal well struck. A slow, deeply satisfied smile blooms on her blood-red lips. This is the ritual she craves. "At last," she breathes, the words dripping with genuine relish. "A merger of true equals." She performs the first move in their dance. With deliberate, symbolic slowness, she reaches up and removes a single, emerald hairpin, letting a cascade of gold fall across one shoulder, a deliberate unveiling for her new partner. Her eyes remain locked on yours, not to acknowledge ownership, but to challenge you to claim your share. You close the distance. Your hands go to the intricate fastenings of her robes, not tearing, but undoing them with a deliberate, mutual precision that makes her breath hitch. Each clasp released is another clause in their contract, signed. Each inch of flawless skin revealed is another asset jointly held. <img src="images/green/strip.gif" alt="Undressing Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> She sinks down gracefully. Her hands, soft and sure, take hold of you. A low, humming moan of approval vibrates through her as she guides you into her wet mouth, taking you deep. The sensation is electric, the vibration of her vocal cords against your flesh nearly pushing you over the edge immediately. You fist a hand in her golden hair, not to cause pain, but to claim the rhythm. Selene's initial, tentative motions quickly transform into something greedy and skilled. She sucks harder, faster, the quiet, hungry hums intensifying each time she swallows you to the root. <img src="images/green/deep.webp" alt="Selene's Devotion" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The feel of her, hot breath on your skin, her hair tangled in your grip, the smooth skin and sharp points of her nipples pressed against your thigh, makes you arch your back with pleasure. Sensing your climax, Selene quickens her pace. You curl forward, your hands holding her head firmly in place against you. With a final, deep thrust, you erupt into her throat. She holds perfectly still, a statue of devotion, as you empty yourself. Her hot, tight throat milks every last drop from you as she swallows relentlessly, her body shaking with yours. You release your grip. Selene pulls back, gasping for air, her chest heaving once she is free. A playful, wicked glint shines in her eyes. "A substantial down payment," she purrs, her voice husky. Before she can recover, you pull her up and guide her, laughing, over the polished mahogany desk. "The deal's not closed yet," you growl in her ear. "I believe there's a signing bonus." You bring your hand down on her perfect rear with a sharp, stinging smack. It's not meant to punish, but to play. She lets out a sharp, delighted gasp. "One!" she laughs, the sound rich and full of surprise. Another smack, this one on the other cheek. "Two!" she cries, wiggling her hips. "Thank you, partner!" The counting becomes a game, a rhythm of playful strikes and her laughing, increasingly breathless acknowledgments. She looks back at you, her expression a potent mix of mirth and challenge, the thrill of a game where both players win spectacularly. <img src="images/green/spanking.gif" alt="Spanking Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> "This is the best merger I've ever negotiated," she manages to say between giggles and gasps. You claim her mouth in a searing, equal kiss. It's not about possession; it's about mutual claim. She meets it with equal fervor, her clever hands not clutching but grasping, pulling you closer as an partner. You guide her backwards towards the large bed, your bodies moving together in a seamless negotiation for dominance that neither truly wins nor loses, because both have already won. You lay her down, following her. The look she gives you is not one of surrender, but of fierce, joyous conspiracy. "Your move, partner," she challenges, her voice a husky whisper. What follows is a intricate dance of power and pleasure. A battle where every touch is a negotiated term, every gasp a concession, and every climax a mutually agreed-upon dividend. It is fierce, it is tender, and it is utterly intoxicating. You explore every inch of her, and she you, with the focused intensity of two master strategists appreciating a worthy opponent's finest work. <img src="images/green/sex2.gif" alt="Claiming Selene" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The final climax is not a dissolution but a unification, a perfect, shattering synergy that leaves them both breathless and trembling, entangled in the sheets and in each other. -- <br> <strong>Later...</strong> <br> -- She lies beside you, her head on your chest, her body pliant and sated. Her fingers trace idle patterns on your skin, as if drafting the next clause of their agreement. "The ROI is... incalculable," she murmurs, the financial jargon a tender intimacy in the aftermath. She is not just satisfied; she is fundamentally revalued, and so are you. Eventually, she rises, pulling on a robe and handing you yours. The businesswoman returns, but the foundation has permanently shifted. Her eyes hold a new, deep certainty. "The boardroom awaits tomorrow. But remember," she says, a genuine smile playing on her lips, "we now hold the majority share. *Together*. I expect us to exercise our controlling interest... frequently." She walks you to the door, a final, lingering kiss sealing their pact. You leave her chambers. The scent of sex, perfume, and absolute partnership hangs in the air. You haven't just secured an ally; you have found a counterpart. <<set $partner_selene = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> [[To the dorms->dorm_evening_partner]]

Ethera's smile widens, beautiful and horrifying all at once. Her hips keep their slow, grinding rhythm, each roll a claim of ownership over your body. "What do I want?" she breathes, her voice breaking into a soft moan as she presses harder against you. "Mmh.... what I have always wanted, little spark. I want... everything." She leans down, her lips grazing yours as her body bucks, the parody of a kiss trembling with desire. "I want this gilded cage of an academy.... ahhh..... shattered. I want their hierarchies... burned to ash. The Headmaster’s pathetic pact broken, his soul the first I consume..." She gasps, hips jerking sharply, "...in my freedom." Her rhythm quickens, her breath shuddering in your ear. "But most of all," she purrs, her voice catching between ragged moans, "I want you." <img src="images/purple/grinding.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She bucks hard, the sudden surge of sensation forcing a groan from your throat. "You are the first worthy vessel I’ve found in an eon. Ahh.... yes.... so much more than the others. You are to be... my masterpiece. My general. My lover..." Her moan stretches into a shiver. "...the instrument of my glorious return." Her movements grow more erratic, hips grinding and shuddering as her starlit eyes burn into yours. "The seed I planted... ohh.... was just the beginning. I will give you more. So much more. Power beyond comprehension. Pleasure... hahh.... that will unravel your very soul. All I ask... is your will." She leans close, her voice a trembling whisper between gasps. "Surrender it... let me in completely... and together... we will devour the stars." <img src="images/purple/whisper.gif" alt="whisperr" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her moans punctuate her command, every buck of her hips sealing the weight of her words. In her eyes you see not only hunger, but a desperate, infinite longing. She is loneliness incarnate, grinding against you with divine need. "Become mine," she cries, her voice breaking into a throaty moan, final and inescapable. "And I will make you a god." The choice hangs in the air, every thrust and tremor a temptation, the path of ultimate power open before you, at the cost of your very self. [["I am yours."->ethera_submit]] <br> <<if $dominated_naomi>> [["I dominated another without your help."->ethera_naomi]] <</if>>

The intoxicating terror of her revelation curdles into something else: a cold, unyielding knot of defiance in your gut. Yes, her essence gave you a spark but it did not win the battle for you. "You're wrong," you rasp, voice raw but steady beneath her weight. Ethera’s hips halt mid-grind. The mask of ancient amusement flickers, her eyes narrowing. "Oh?" "Naomi," you snarl, the name cutting the charged air like a blade. "I dominated her. Not with your power. With mine." For a heartbeat, the Umbral Queen is still. The cosmic pressure of her form thins, as if she’s been struck silent. "Who?" The word slips out sharp, uncomprehending, and the illusion of her omniscience fractures. That is your opening. Your hand snaps upward, not in passion but in command. Fingers close around the cool, shimmering column of her throat. <img src="images/purple/grip.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The effect is instantaneous. Power erupts from you in a shockwave, rattling the infirmary. Lights gutter and die, leaving only the ethereal glow of her body against the dark. The shadows that make up her form writhe, then still beneath your grip. Her gasp vibrates against your palm, exquisite and involuntary. Her eyes wide, luminous lock onto yours with raw astonishment. For the first time, the hunger is not certain. It trembles into shock… and then curiosity. You squeeze, not cruelly, but with claim. Her lips part, trembling, a shuddering breath spilling into the space between you. "You gave me a drop," you growl, dragging her face closer until your lips hover just shy of hers. The cold fire of her being hums against your skin, a boundary about to break. "But Naomi? I drank the ocean myself. She was mine. My will. My victory." The silence stretches, tight as a drawn bowstring. Slowly, dangerously, her shattered amusement reforms into something sharper. A genuine smile hungry, wicked, real unfurls across her lips. "Is that so?" she whispers, her voice husky, vibrating against your grip. The heat of her core clamps down around you, deliberate and punishing, testing your claim. <img src="images/purple/close.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> But she doesn’t break free. She doesn’t need to. Instead she grinds down, once, a slow, devastating pulse that wrings a groan from your throat. Her grin widens, predatory. "Then it seems my little spark has learned to play with fire all on his own. How... deliciously dangerous." [[You feel faint.->ethera_delay]]

The words leave your lips not as a surrender, but as a final, absolute truth. "I am yours." A sound escapes Ethera that is part triumphant roar, part shuddering, ecstatic sob. Her eyes, pools of infinite void, flare with a light that is both terrifying and glorious. "Yes!" The word is a command and a prayer, ripped from the core of her being. Her form seems to ignite. The shadows that cling to her erupt, not to consume, but to embrace. They pour from her body into yours a torrent of cold, ecstatic power that sears through every nerve ending, every thought, every memory. It is not an invasion; it is a consummation. Your back arches off the infirmary bed as a pleasure so intense it borders on agony crashes over you in wave after wave. You feel your will, the very essence of *you*, not being erased, but being *rewritten*, woven into the magnificent, terrible tapestry of her being. <img src="images/purple/contract.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $owned = true>> Her hips piston against yours, no longer a suggestion but a claiming. Each movement drives the energy deeper, forging a connection that can never be broken. You can feel her hunger, her loneliness, her ancient, boundless desire not as separate things, but as your own. Your shared climax is not a release, but an *ascension*. The world dissolves into a vortex of sensation and power. You see stars being born and dying in the depths of her eyes. You feel the fabric of reality strain at the seams. And through it all, you feel *her*... Ethera, the Umbra Regina.... and you are her and she is you, and the union is perfect and absolute. <img src="images/purple/stars.gif" alt="Universe" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> When the final, shattering wave passes, you collapse back onto the bed, spent and reborn. Ethera slumps against your chest, her form shuddering with aftershocks. For a moment, there is only the sound of your synced, ragged breathing in the silent, sealed room. She slowly pushes herself up, looking down at you. Her expression is no longer one of hunger, but of possessiveness. A god regarding her most cherished creation. She traces a claw-tipped finger down your cheek, a touch that is now familiar, *right*. "The transformation has begun," she whispers, her voice now holding a new, intimate resonance within your own mind. "Rest. Grow accustomed to our new strength. Our work begins soon." <span class="pendant-text">A great echo of power stirs within the Umbral Pendant against your chest.</span> She doesn't vanish. She simply... recedes, the overwhelming pressure of her presence settling into a constant, humming awareness in the back of your skull... a dormant volcano of potential. You are alone in the infirmary again, but you are not alone. You are never alone again. You are hers. And she is yours. A new, darker, more intimate destiny awaits. [[The new world order.->umbra_awakening]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Weight of Her Absence</h2></span><img src="images/locations/infirmary.png" alt="Infirmary" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The silence after Ethera’s retreat is almost unbearable. Her presence lingers inside you like a second heartbeat, a low, humming ache that thrums with dark power. You are not alone. You will never be alone again. Your chest heaves, each breath ragged, your body slick with sweat and trembling from the strain. The infirmary light flickers weakly, settling into its old, sterile glow. The door creaks. You flinch, too raw, too attuned to the shadows and almost lash out before you see the figure who steps inside. It is an old nurse, bent with age, her face creased and kindly in a way that feels *wrong* after what you’ve just endured. Her steps are soft, deliberate, the quiet shuffle of someone who has walked these halls too long. She pauses at the sight of you pale, shaking, your sheets tangled in disarray. Her eyes narrow for a moment, as though she senses something lingering in the room, but she says nothing of it. Instead, her voice comes soft, matter-of-fact. "You’ve a guest waiting for you, dear. Best you find your strength and meet them." The words cut through the haze like a blade. A *guest*. Who? Why now? Before you can ask, she turns, already moving toward the door. "Don’t dawdle. They seemed… eager." The door opens wider, spilling dim light into the room. She gestures with one frail hand, the kind of small, patient insistence only someone utterly certain of being obeyed can muster. Your legs tremble as you rise, the lingering ache of Ethera’s possession still gnawing at your muscles, your will. The floor feels unsteady beneath your feet, every step a reminder that the world you thought you knew has already begun to crack. [[Step into the hallway.->infirmary_hallway]]

The world blurs at the edges of your vision, a dizzying vortex of pain and ecstasy. The cold fire of her essence crashes against the burning defiance in your soul, a splintering, white-hot agony that threatens to shatter your very being. But you forge this agony into a weapon, a final, desperate surge of will. Your fingers tighten around her throat, not to choke, but to claim. Your other hand seizes the curve of her hip, fingers digging into the impossibly soft yet solid shadow-stuff of her form, holding her captive against you. <img src="images/purple/rough.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> "You… will not…" you rasp, every word a battle fought and won through gritted teeth, "have me." With a brutal, final thrust, you drive her down onto you, a punishment, a possession, a consummation. The searing pain inside you ignites, a supernova that should unmoor your sanity. But you channel it, forcing it back into her, a feedback loop of divine power and mortal defiance. Ethera’s back arches violently, a raw, shuddering scream of pleasure and shock tearing from her throat. Her luminous eyes fly wide, not with fury, but with stunned, exhilarating respect. Her inner walls clamp around you in a vice-like, rhythmic spasm, milking you as her own climax is ripped from her by your force. For one suspended, infinite moment, her infinite hunger is matched and met by your finite, human will in a shared, devastating release. <img src="images/purple/cum.gif" alt="Endless hunger" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The tension shatters. The pressure vanishes in a rushing silence, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, wracked with exquisite aftershocks. Ethera collapses against your chest, her form shuddering, a low, continuous moan of overwhelmed sensation vibrating through her into you. Slowly, she pushes herself up. Her form is less substantial, shimmering at the edges. A low, wicked laugh escapes her, rich with amusement, awe, and dark arousal. She touches her throat where your grip had been, a gesture of thoughtful, thrilled appreciation. "My spark," she whispers, her voice husky and resonant with spent power. "You are… magnificent." Her hips give a final, slow, grinding roll against yours, drawing out the last pulses of sensation from you both. "To be challenged… to be *met*… it has been an eon." She slowly, reluctantly, lifts herself off of you. Her form begins to dissolve, not as a vanquished foe, but as a satisfied lover withdrawing for now. She melts into the deepening shadows at the foot of the bed, but her devastating smile remains, a promise etched in starlight and void. "This was no defeat," she purrs, her voice already echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "It was a calibration. A… revelation. The hunger I feel for you now is a thousand times sharper. I have tasted your true strength. I will crave nothing else." Her outline is almost gone. "Rest. Recover your strength. You will need it." The smile widens, unbearably intimate. "This… was only the beginning." And then she is gone. The infirmary lights flicker back on. The world's sounds rush back in. You collapse into the soaked sheets, every muscle screaming, your soul scraped raw and singing with power. But you are yourself. For now. <<set $dom += 5>> [[You black out.->infirmary_wake]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Fire and the Void</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/infirmary.png" alt="Infirmary.png" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The silence she left behind is a physical weight, heavy and deafening in the sterile room. You lie there, the sheets clinging to your damp skin, your chest still heaving. Every nerve ending feels scraped raw, your limbs trembling with a deep, bone-deep exhaustion that speaks of a struggle far beyond the physical. Her final words curl through your mind like tendrils of cold smoke, impossible to exhale. The encounter was not a defeat, she claimed, but a *calibration*. Not a rejection, but a *revelation*. And most chilling of all, a promise that the hunger she felt for you now was a thousand times sharper than before. You squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s no use. The phantom sensations refuse to fade: the crushing pressure of her hips, the shuddering cadence of her moans, the devastating curve of her smile as she dissolved into the shadows. She is gone, yet the air itself feels charged with her presence. She lingers. Inside you. Around you. An invisible audience of one, watching. Waiting. A cold knot of doubt tightens in your gut. Did you truly push her back, or did you only succeed in deepening her terrifying, intoxicating hold on you? The thought burns, a terrifying and thrilling poison in your veins. The sharp creak of the door hinge shatters the silence. You jolt upright, every muscle screaming in protest as you twist toward the sound, your heart hammering against your ribs. An old nurse stands in the doorway, her form bent with age but her eyes sharp and perceptive behind a pair of spectacles. She takes in your disheveled state, the sweat on your brow, the wild look in your eye. Her expression softens with a practiced, clinical kindness, though her gaze lingers for a moment too long, as if she can sense the heavy, otherworldly residue clinging to the air. "You’ve a guest," she says simply, her voice unnervingly calm amidst your turmoil. "Best not keep them waiting." Before you can form a question, or even a coherent thought, she turns and shuffles back into the hallway, gesturing lightly for you to follow. Your body protests as you force yourself to swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold beneath your feet. You stand on shaky legs, the echoes of Ethera’s power still a dull, throbbing ache in your chest, a permanent reminder of what just transpired, and a ominous warning of what is yet to come. [[Step into the hallway.->infirmary_hallway]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Guest in the Hall</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/infirmary_hall.png" alt="Infirmary Hallway" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <<silently>> <<set _guest1 = "">> <<if $dominated_selene>> <<set _guest1 = "selene">> <<elseif $dominated_valeria>> <<set _guest1 = "valeria">> <<elseif $dominated_nyx>> <<set _guest1 = "nyx">> <</if>> <</silently>> You step into the hallway, the cold stone a shock against your bare feet. The air feels thinner, cleaner, though the echo of <<if $owned>>*her* power hums inside you still, your eyes glinting faintly with violet fire.<<else>>the infirmary clings to you, a phantom weight pressing at the back of your skull.<</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "">> The hallway is empty. The old nurse is gone. Perhaps you misheard her. Or perhaps Ethera’s whisper is still bleeding into your mind. [[Return to your dorm.->dorm_evening_nurse]] <<else>> Waiting in the dim corridor is: <<if _guest1 eq "selene">> Lady Selene<</if>><<if _guest1 eq "valeria">> Lady Valeria<</if>><<if _guest1 eq "nyx">> Knight-Captain Nyx<</if>><<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">>, with Naomi standing just behind, her eyes lowered in silent devotion.<</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "selene">> <img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Selene lowers her head with practiced grace, lips curving in a soft smile. "My lord," she murmurs, velvet-smooth. "I heard of your collapse. I came only to assure myself that my most precious asset still thrives." <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> Her gaze flicks briefly toward Naomi, a faint trace of disdain curling her lips. "And… you’ve acquired help? Curious choice." <</if>> <</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "valeria">> <img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Valeria inclines her head with crisp precision, her voice quiet but deferential. "Your magical surge was unlike anything I’ve measured. I will await your report, my subject, when you choose to grant it." <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> Her eyes narrow in clinical appraisal. "That one is not in my records. You will explain her… eventually." <</if>> <</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "nyx">> <img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Nyx snaps a half-bow, a grin tugging at her lips. "General. You’re on your feet. That’s all that matters. If you can stand, you can fight and I’ll follow." <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> Her grin falters slightly as she jerks her chin toward Naomi. "And this one? Hnh. Didn’t know you kept strays." She shrugs, smirking again. "If she’s yours, she’s mine to protect too." <</if>> <</if>> <<if $has_pendant and $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">><span class="pendant-text">A faint shiver of power stirs…</span>You almost dismiss it as an aftershock, until Naomi’s gaze lingers a fraction too long. Then the warmth fades, leaving only silence. <</if>> <<if $owned>> You let silence hang, letting them all feel the weight of you. When you finally speak, your voice is velvet-wrapped steel. "I am fine," you say, eyes aglow. "More than fine. Your concern is noted. Now leave me. I will summon you when I *desire* you." <<else>> You steady yourself, drawing your will tight around you. "I am fine," you say firmly. "What happened is mine alone. Leave me. I’ll call when I require you." <</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "selene">> Selene bows low, her smile lingering. "Of course, my lord. I remain… at your disposal." She withdraws with liquid grace, perfume clinging in the air. <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> As she passes, her gaze cuts once more toward Naomi cool, appraising, tinged with disdain, before she glides away. <</if>> <</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "valeria">> Valeria dips her head, quill hand twitching with restraint. "As you command, my subject. I will wait." She withdraws, movements precise. <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> Before vanishing into the shadows, her eyes flick back to Naomi again, as though silently cataloguing her presence. <</if>> <</if>> <<if _guest1 eq "nyx">> Nyx thumps her fist over her chest and laughs softly. "Understood, General. I’ll be ready when you call." <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> She gives Naomi one last measuring look before turning away. <</if>> <</if>> <<if $dominated_naomi and _guest1 neq "">> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Naomi lowers her gaze, voice soft as silk. "Yes, Master." The words tremble, but they are absolute. <</if>> Soon the hallway is empty, their footsteps fading into the dark. Only the faint thrum of unseen power lingers with you. [[Return to your dorm.->dorm_evening_nurse]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar’s Salon</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarsalon.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Gathering" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $pending_promise = "">> The salon breathes like a living spell. Perfume swirls with the ozone tang of wards laced into the marble walls. Chandeliers do not burn with fire, but with bottled wisps, restless sprites whose glow flares and dims in time with the crowd’s moods. Every corner hums with enchantment: - Tarot decks shuffle themselves, offering different faces to every onlooker. - Crystal dice tumble endlessly in the air, each roll whispering odds only gamblers can hear. - Miniature duels play out between glass spheres, echoes of famous battles replayed for polite applause. This is not a gathering. It is a crucible of reputation, where every word is an incantation, every glance a wager. Selene glides at your side like a queen inspecting her court. She does not need to speak; her presence shifts the weave itself. Nobles bow their heads without realizing, merchants’ ledgers flicker with nervous numbers, and professors adjust their robes as if caught out of place. She leans close, her perfume a mix of jasmine and ozone. “Do you feel it, darling? The room bends already. And yet, this is only the foyer. The true game waits at the table.” You recall the consultation in her lounge, the credit line she extended, the strategy agreed upon. There is no need for her to repeat it. The roles are set: *you* will draw Vance into ruin; *she* will ensure Lady Briar remains conveniently pliant. Still, she reminds you with a single line, her lips brushing the rim of her glass: “Remember, tonight we don’t steal. We acquire. The means, the man, the mask of respectability. Let him build his tower of confidence, then take the keystone.” Her hand lingers briefly on yours, pressure deliberate, trust sharpened into a warning. Then she is gone, slipping into the glittering crowd, her silhouette swallowed by wards and laughter. The salon subtly recalibrates in her wake, the current nudging you toward your stage. Across the room, Alistair Vance holds court. His enchanted abacus tallies debts in flickering green glyphs only he sees. His laugh booms too loud, his goblet refills itself too quickly. He is surrounded by sycophants, but their eyes already dart toward you. The orbit of the salon has shifted. A steward bows low, his robes embroidered with shifting constellations. “The gaming table awaits, honored guest.” The velvet curtains part. Cards gleam with silver filigree, dice hover with a hungry spin, and the air itself seems to hush in expectation. [[Take your seat at the table->briar_gambling_start]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="The Crucible Arena" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $pending_promise = "">> The roar of Ignis students hits you before you even step inside. The Crucible is alive tonight, torches blazing, shadows writhing across blood-stained stone, and the stench of sweat, steel, and smoke thick in the air. At your side, Nyx grins, her eyes gleaming like a predator scenting prey. "This is it," she says, voice pitched low. "Pick your battle. How do you want to earn your shot at the Hound?" <strong>Choose your path to victory:</strong><br><br> <<if $str gte 25>> [[The Path of Raw Power->crucible_str]] <em>(Overwhelm your opponents through sheer, undeniable Strength ($str).)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Raw Power (Your Strength ($str) is insufficient for this brutal approach.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $dom gte 10>> [[The Path of Unbreakable Will->crucible_dom]] <em>(Intimidate and dominate your opponents before the fight even begins with Dominance ($dom).)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Unbreakable Will (Your Dominance ($dom) is too weak to impose your will.)</span><br> <</if>><<if $int gte 8>> [[The Path of Cunning->crucible_int]] <em>(Outthink and outmaneuver your opponents, exploiting their every mistake with Intellect ($int).)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Cunning (Your Intellect ($int) is too dull to find a winning strategy.)</span><br> <</if>><<if $charm gte 6>> [[The Path of Spectacle->crucible_charm]] <em>(Turn the crowd into your weapon, humiliating your opponents with Charm ($charm).)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Spectacle (Your Charm ($charm) is too lacking to win over this mob.)</span><br> <</if>><<if $str lt 25 and $dom lt 10 and $int lt 8 and $charm lt 6>> <br> You feel utterly overwhelmed. Every strategy requires a strength you simply do not possess. But Nyx is watching, and the crowd is waiting. You have to try <em>something</em>, even if it's doomed to fail. [[Make a desperate attempt anyway.->crucible_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Shadows in Motion</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy Shadows" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $pending_promise = "">> The academy after dusk hums with a different kind of life. Quills scratch unattended across parchment, enchanted lanterns drift lazily in the air, and the faint whisper of wards brush against your skin like invisible cobwebs. You move unseen, another shadow among many. Ahead of you strides Alistair Vance, flanked by a gaggle of sycophants. He’s loud, he has a sharp confidence, each step the strut of a man who believes the board is already his. "Lady Briar’s salon," he boasts, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard. "By the end of tonight, half the academy will be in my debt." The words confirm it: he is bound for the gathering. The problem? You are not invited. Without a sealed token of entry, the salon’s wards would spit you back into the street before your second step. You melt into an alcove as two servants pass, whispering urgently. "If he presses too far again, he’ll burn himself out," one frets. "He always does. That’s why Elara keeps him supplied," the other answers with weary certainty. "As long as the Headmaster looks away, nothing changes." Elara. A maid. Not a gambler, not a noble, but the silent current that keeps Vance functioning, his Dreamleaf supplier. Valeria’s voice echoes in your memory: *Observe. Analyze. Extract.* This is the pressure point. Control Elara, and you control Vance. No invitation required. The salon may be closed to you tonight, but leverage is not. [[Seek out Elara->shadowing_elara]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="The Crucible Arena" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $pending_promise = "">> The roar of Ignis students hits you before you even step inside. The Crucible is alive tonight, torches blazing, shadows writhing across blood-stained stone, and the stench of sweat, steel, and smoke thick in the air. Nyx is at your side, though she was not expecting you here. Her laughter fades as her eyes sharpen, and then she leans close, her voice a low growl meant for you alone. "Our problem is Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw," she says, her tone edged with relish. Her finger jabs toward a crude map scratched into the sand, a spot marked Smithy. "Weaponsmaster. That fight club of his is a front. He's the Headmaster's chief recruiter for off-book enforcers. Thinks his old-school toughness makes him untouchable." Her lips curl into a vicious grin. "But his weakness is his pride. He can't resist a real challenge. You walk in there, dismantle his champion without breaking a sweat, and he'll have to respect you. That's our in. You've got the presence for it. I've seen it." <<if $owned == true>> You let silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of you. When you finally speak, your voice is velvet-wrapped steel, each word heavy with command, your eyes faintly aglow. "I will crush him," you say, unhurried, certain. "And when the Hound kneels, you will remember who made it happen." Nyx stiffens. For the first time her grin falters. She lowers her head, not out of respect but out of instinct, a fighter recognizing a force she cannot quite measure. [[Step into the Crucible and face his champion->crucible_fight_dom]] <<else>> You cut her words short with a sharp smack across her backside. She freezes, then laughs low in her throat, the sound equal parts dangerous and delighted. "I do not need strategy, Nyx," you say, voice edged with certainty. "I will put his champion down. And when I do, even the Hound will have to watch." Nyx bares her teeth in a grin that is all approval. "Then do not keep me waiting." <<if $dom gte 26>> [[Step into the Crucible and face his champion->crucible_fight_dom]] <<else>> [[Step into the Crucible, unprepared->crucible_defeat_dom]] <</if>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Calculated Directive</h2></span> <<if not $visited_valeria_approach>><img src="images/blue/letter.png" alt="Valeria’s Note" style="max-width: 60%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> A folded sheet of parchment rests among your things, the corners still crisp. When you unfold it, the handwriting that forms on the page is Valeria's: neat, measured, and unexpectedly polite. "Good evening," the note reads. "If you have the time and inclination, I would value your assistance. A student, Alistair Vance, has displayed patterns of behaviour that merit closer observation. Would you document his routines and interactions and report your findings to me? Consider this a discreet practical exercise. Your perspective would be most useful." The words do not fade when you finish reading. They sit on the page with the same careful precision that wrote them, and the faint stamp at the bottom bears Valeria's seal. The phrasing feels like a request rather than an order, but it settles into your mind with a quiet insistence. By the time you lower the parchment, the page has browned at the edges and crumbles to dust between your fingers. <</if>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Shadowing the Academy</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy at Dusk" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $secondary_promise = "">> The academy after dusk hums with a different life. Quills scratch unattended across parchment, enchanted lanterns drift lazily, and the faint whisper of wards brushes against your skin like invisible cobwebs. You move unseen, another shadow among many. Ahead of you strides Alistair Vance, flanked by a gaggle of sycophants. His voice rings too loud in the quiet corridors, each laugh rehearsed, each gesture calibrated to draw eyes. He walks like a man convinced the game is already won. "Lady Briar’s salon," he declares, pitching his words just high enough for the hallway to carry them. "By the end of tonight, half the academy will be in my debt." The boast lands with weight. He is bound for the gathering. The problem? You are not invited. Without a sealed token of entry, the salon’s wards would reject you before your second step. You slip into an alcove as two servants hurry past, their voices hushed but sharp with worry. "He’s burning too fast again," one mutters. "And as always, Elara keeps him steady," the other replies. "As long as the Headmaster turns away, nothing changes." Elara. His maid. Quiet, precise, always in his orbit. Not a noble, not a gambler, but the steady hand that keeps him from falling apart. Valeria’s request echoes: observe, analyze, extract. This is the angle. Elara is the thread that ties Vance to the undercurrent. Follow her and you follow a deeper secret. You feel the pull, the sure impression that she holds the key to something far larger than a single man. [[Seek out Elara->shadowing_elara_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar’s Salon</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarsalon.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Gathering" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $pending_promise = "">> Selene greets you with a small, pleased smile, as if your arrival were the single bright stitch missing from the evening’s tapestry. She draws you in close, voice low and certain, meant only for you. "Our mark, Alistair Vance, will be here," she whispers, fingers brushing the rim of her glass. "He never misses a chance to assess new money and potential clients. His vice is gambling, but his true addiction is the belief in his own superior intellect. We will exploit both." She sips and watches you over the rim, eyes calculating and amused. "Here is the play. You will be my agent. I will provide a line of credit from my family's reserves, a sum that will make his head spin. Your role is simple: be charming, be unpredictable, be irresistible. Let him win a few small hands, let his confidence swell. Then press. Raise the stakes to an impossible level. When he loses, his operation will not cover a fraction of the debt." Her hand closes on yours for a breath, pressure deliberate. "We do not steal. We acquire. The means, the man, the mask of respectability. Let him build his tower of confidence, then take the keystone." She releases your hand with a smile that is both promise and warning, and glides away into the crowd. Her silhouette melts among the wards and laughter, and the salon subtly rebalances itself around the work she set into motion. The salon breathes like a living spell. Perfume swirls with the ozone tang of wards laced into the marble. Chandeliers burn with bottled wisps, sprites whose glow flares and dims with the moods of the room. Every corner hums with enchantment: Tarot decks shuffle themselves, offering different faces to every onlooker. Crystal dice tumble in the air, their whispering rolls audible only to those who listen. Glass spheres replay miniature duels, sparks bursting for polite applause. This is not a mere gathering. It is a crucible of reputation, where every glance is a wager and every word can change a ledger. Across the room, Alistair Vance holds court. His enchanted abacus flickers green as it tallies debts only he can see. His laugh is too loud, his hand moves with practiced ease, and his sycophants orbit him like dull satellites. The current of the salon has shifted; the table waits. A steward approaches, robes embroidered with shifting constellations. "The gaming table awaits, honored guest," he intones. The velvet curtains part to reveal the table: cards with silver filigree, dice hovering in a hungry spin, and a hush that pulls at the edges of the room. [[Take your seat at the table->briar_gambling_start_dom]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Night Beckons</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> The day's efforts are behind you. The fading light through your window paints long shadows across the room, signaling the end of one game and the beginning of another. The air is charged with the promise of the night. <<if visited("dawn_prep")>> <<if $dawn_choice eq "dom">>A newfound authority settles in your bones, a mantle you are ready to wear.<<elseif $dawn_choice eq "charm">>Your words feel sharper, your smile more potent, ready to be deployed.<<elseif $dawn_choice eq "int">>Your mind is a catalog of strategies and possibilities, itching to be applied.<<elseif $dawn_choice eq "str">>Your body thrums with latent energy, coiled and ready to spring into action.<</if>> You are prepared. <</if>><<if visited("meet_elian")>> The weight of the charm from Elian rests against your chest, a faint, cool hum a constant reminder of the hidden dangers you now know to look for. <</if>><<if visited("naomi_library_escape")>> The memory of the girl, her fear, her sudden flight, lingers like a ghost in the quiet of the room. A puzzle you were forced to leave unsolved. <</if>> Now, the main event awaits. But your allegiances are not so simple. <<if $house eq "viridis">> <<set $secondary_promise = "selene">> <<set $primary_choice = "Attend Lady Briar's Gathering->briar_s_house">> <<set $primary_text = "(Your duty to House Viridis and Lady Selene.)">> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <<set $secondary_promise = "valeria">> <<set $primary_choice = "Shadow Alistair Vance->shadowing_house">> <<set $primary_text = "(Your duty to House Septenius and Lady Valeria.)">> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <<set $secondary_promise = "nyx">> <<set $primary_choice = "Enter the Night Tournament->tournament_house">> <<set $primary_text = "(Your duty to House Ignis and Knight-Captain Nyx.)">> <</if>> <strong>The night is here. It is time to choose.</strong><br> <br><<if $house eq "viridis">> [[Stand with House Viridis->briar_s_house]] <em>“House Viridis expects your presence. To ignore Selene’s summons so soon would weaken your standing.”</em> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> [[Stand with House Septenius->shadowing_house]] <em>“House Septenius does not tolerate absence. To disregard Valeria now would risk your place in her ranks.”</em> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> [[Stand with House Ignis->tournament_house]] <em>“House Ignis values loyalty above all. To refuse Nyx’s call this early would mark you as unworthy.”</em> <</if>><br><<if visited("nyx_approach") and $house != "ignis">> [[Prove Yourself to Nyx->tournament]] <em>(A bold choice that will surely anger <<if $house == "viridis">>Selene<<else>>Valeria<</if>>. The call of the Crucible is a raw, honest challenge, a stark contrast to your house's games.)</em><br> <</if>><<if visited("selene_approach") and $house != "viridis">> [[Pursue Selene's Scheme->briar_s]] <em>(A cunning choice that will surely anger <<if $house == "septenius">>Valeria<<else>>Nyx<</if>>. The allure of Selene's web of influence and the promise of tangible power is a potent temptation.)</em><br><</if>> <<if visited("valeria_approach") and $house != "septenius">> [[Assist Valeria's Research->shadowing]] <em>(A shrewd choice that will surely anger <<if $house == "viridis">>Selene<<else>>Nyx<</if>>. The pursuit of pure, unadulterated knowledge and the chance to unravel a mystery calls to your intellect.)</em><br> <</if>>

<span style="color: #F39C12;"><h2>The Caretaker</h2></span><<set $dream_ward = true>> You find the common dorms easily enough a bustling, noisy warren of students. Finding Elian proves trickier. You ask a few people, receiving only shrugs or vague gestures toward the basement level. Following the hints, you descend into a quieter, dimly lit corridor lined with storage rooms and forgotten closets. You find him in a small, cluttered nook that smells of old paper and solder. He's hunched over a complex-looking device made of crystal and copper wire, his tongue poked out in concentration. He doesn't look like a master of secrets; he looks like a tired student who knows too much. <img src="images/npc/elian.png" alt="Elian" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #F39C12; border-radius: 8px;"> You clear your throat. He jumps, nearly dropping his tool, and looks up with wide, surprised eyes behind his glasses. He quickly schools his features into a mask of casual indifference. "Can I help you? Lost on your way to the exciting part of the academy?" he asks, his tone light but his eyes sharp, assessing you. You give him the code phrase. <<if visited("selene_phantom_warning")>>"I'm interested in warding charms."<<elseif visited("valeria_phantom_warning")>>"I need a Type-7 psychic damping charm."<</if>> The casual mask drops instantly. His eyes narrow, and he puts down his tool with deliberate slowness. He looks you up and down, no longer seeing just another student. "Who gave you that phrase?" he asks, his voice low and serious, devoid of its previous teasing. <<if visited("selene_phantom_warning")>> You simply hold his gaze. A flicker of understanding passes over his face. "Viridis," he mutters, almost to himself. "Should have known. Only they talk about 'charms'. Everyone else calls them 'wards' or 'dampeners'." <<elseif visited("valeria_phantom_warning")>> You simply hold his gaze. A flicker of understanding passes over his face. "Septenius," he mutters, almost to himself. "Of course. Only they use the technical classification. Anyone else would just ask for 'a blocker'." <</if>> He lets out a slow breath and leans back. "Alright. You're not the first they've sent my way. Probably won't be the last." He rummages in a drawer and pulls out a small, smooth stone on a leather cord. It hums with a faint, cool energy. "Standard issue. It won't make you invisible to whatever's out there, but it'll... blur the edges. Make you less interesting. Think of it as camouflage, not armor." He holds it out. "It'll cost you. Favors are the currency down here. I'll come collect mine eventually. Do we have a deal?" [[Take the charm.->dorm_night]] <em>(Acquire the protective charm. Incur a future favor owed to Elian.)</em>

<span style="color: #9b59b6;"><h2>The Umbral Library</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/forbidden_library.png" alt="The Forbidden Library" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #9b59b6; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if visited("nyx_phantom")>> Nyx had been explicit: “You won’t find them in the main library.” So you came here. The Umbral Library feels less like a room and more like a wound, cold wards prickling your skin, dust heavy as ash, shadows that lag half a heartbeat behind your steps. Her other warning echoes too: “It’s suicide to go there alone.” And yet, here you are. <<elseif visited("selene_phantom_press")>> Selene gave you the name and the shape of the threat, not directions. “Umbra Regina.” What she offered was a truth, not a map. You crossed this threshold on instinct, drawn by a pressure in the air, a hungering stillness that feels like the place her shadow would settle. If answers exist, they won’t be shelved in the light. <<elseif visited("valeria_phantom_press")>> Valeria spoke in her cold, technical language “Umbra Regina, containment failure, reality unraveling.” She gave you a name and a warning, but no path forward. That part, you had to piece together yourself. And all signs point here: the forbidden stacks, where the academy hides its oldest mistakes. The air vibrates faintly, as if the room itself is straining to hold something back. <</if>> You move like a ghost through the towering, chaotic shelves. The books are bound in strange materials, faded leather, polished bone, what looks like shifting skin. Titles twitch past in scripts that make your eyes water. This is where the academy buries its secrets. Hours slip by. Fragments surface: a diagram of balance between Will and Yield; a history of a shattered God-King; a treatise on binding “Primordial Hungers.” Pieces, only pieces. The core texts, the rituals, the weaknesses, the *answers* are missing. Torn away, or locked deeper. Frustration heats in your chest. You’re about to admit defeat when a sound brushes the silence, not a page turning, but the faint sigh of another living soul. You peer through a gap in the shelves. A slight girl with downcast eyes, re-shelving dangerous tomes with reverent precision. Not a proctor. Unaffiliated by her simple clothes, someone who should never be here, and yet moves as if she belongs to the quiet. She isn’t afraid. She is part of it. This is the missing piece. If the answers aren’t on the shelves, they’re in a place even more forbidden than this, and she may be the only one who knows the way. [[Confront the girl->naomi_library]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>First Night</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> The silence of your room is thick, almost sentient, as if it remembers the shadow that brushed against your soul. <<if $owned>> You can still feel her. *Ethera.* A whisper that lingers like smoke at the edges of thought. Your will is your own… mostly. But her hunger coils through your mind, patient, possessive. Every flicker of power carries the faintest aftertaste of her claim. You tell yourself it was a bargain, not a surrender. Yet a cold truth gnaws beneath that certainty: you are no longer alone inside your own head. <<else>> No bargains. No whispers. Just you. The memory of her presence lingers like a scar, a burning reminder of what you rejected. She pressed, and you endured. Others might falter when the weight comes for them, but not you. You will stand. You will claim. Even the academy itself will bend before a will that does not break. <</if>> The time for preparation is over. The night awaits your command. <br><br> <br> As you ready yourself to depart, the quiet dormitory stirs with movement. You are not the only one drawn into the night’s designs. Through windows and half-open doors you catch glimpses, each fleeting, each charged with intent. <<if $dominated_selene>><img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Lady Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Lady Selene glides swiftly down a lantern-lit path toward the upper halls, her cloak drawn tight. She doesn’t look back, but there’s tension in her stride, the weight of a scheme already in motion. <br><br><</if>> <<if $dominated_valeria>><img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Lady Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Valeria’s figure vanishes into the faculty wings, a tablet clutched close, her quill flashing as she writes even while walking. Whatever secret she’s chasing clearly cannot wait for dawn. <br><br><</if>> <<if $dominated_nyx>><img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Knight-Captain Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Nyx is hard to miss, her laughter echoes as she shoulders her way into the Crucible gates. A small cadre of recruits follows, but her focus is sharp, fixed on the pit like a predator scenting blood. <br><br><</if>> <<if $dominated_naomi>><img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> And then, Naomi. A flicker of pale motion slips through the courtyard shadows, heading toward the off-limits service quarters. Her pace is hurried, her movements furtive, but purposeful. <br><br><</if>> “The night has already begun, and time slips quickly away. What will you chase into the dark?” <br> <<if $dominated_selene>> [[Follow Selene->briar_salon_start_dom]] <em>(Uncover what she plots at Lady Briar’s gathering)</em><br> <</if>> <<if $dominated_valeria>> [[Follow Valeria->shadowing_start_dom]] <em>(See what she seeks in Vance’s secrets)</em><br> <</if>> <<if $dominated_nyx>> [[Follow Nyx->crucible_start_dom]] <em>(Enter the Crucible and confront the Hound)</em><br> <</if>> <<if $dominated_naomi>> [[Pursue Naomi->service_quarters_start_dom]] <em>(Discover the secret she hides in the service quarters)</em><br> <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Quiet and the Wanting</h2></span> You step silently into the aisle. The girl doesn't hear you. She's hidden in a deep alcove, a small nest formed by overstuffed shelves. Her back is to you, her shoulders tense, her head bowed not in study, but in... concentration. A soft, hitching breath escapes her. Then another. Her body shifts, a subtle, rhythmic rocking against the edge of the shelf. One of her hands is tucked between her legs, hidden in the folds of her simple dress. The other is clamped over her mouth, stifling a sound that is half gasp, half sob. She is lost in it. The air around her seems to hum with a desperate, yielding energy. This is no simple act of pleasure; it is a ritual of need, a private surrender to some deep, aching void within her. She is worshipping at an altar of her own emptiness. The scent of her, musk, old paper, and salt hits you a moment before the sight truly registers. It is profoundly intimate, shockingly out of place, and utterly captivating. <img src="images/black/library.gif" alt="Masturbation" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> Your foot scuffs against a forgotten book on the floor. Her head snaps around. Her eyes, wide and dark, meet yours. For a terrifying second, there is no recognition, only raw, animal panic. A choked sound of pure shame is torn from her throat as she scrambles backward, yanking her dress down, her face flushing a deep, mortified crimson. "N-no! I... I wasn't..." she stammers, her voice a terrified whisper. She looks like a rabbit caught in a snare, poised to bolt. The moment hangs suspended. You have her. She is exposed, vulnerable, and terrified. You can stop her, or you can let the secret she thinks she's protecting remain hers. [[Grab her wrist.->naomi_library_stop]] <em>("Stop." Assert your dominance. +1 Dominance)</em> [[Step aside.->naomi_library_escape]] <em>(Let her flee. The mystery deepens.)</em>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Claimed Secret</h2></span><img src="images/black/naomi.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Your hand shoots out, closing around her wrist before she can fully flee. Her skin is feverishly warm. She gasps, a tiny, terrified sound, and tries to pull away, but your grip is iron. Her struggle is futile, and after a moment, it ceases entirely. She goes perfectly still, her head bowed, her entire body trembling with shame and anticipation. The fight is gone, replaced by a silent, waiting tension. "Look at me," you command, your voice low but absolute in the silent library. Slowly, reluctantly, she raises her eyes. Tears well in them, shimmering with a mix of terror and something else... a desperate, shocking need. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't be here... I shouldn't have..." "Why were you?" you interrupt, your thumb stroking the frantic pulse in her wrist. The gesture is somehow more intimate and dominating than the grip itself. She shudders, a full-body tremor. "I... I felt it. Today. In the grand hall." Her eyes search yours, pleading for understanding. "When you spoke. Your voice... your *will*... it was like a key turning in a lock inside me. An emptiness I've always had... suddenly *ached*. It started humming, and the hum wouldn't stop. It led me here. I thought... I thought if I could just... quiet it..." She trails off, mortified, but the confession hangs in the air between you. She felt your power, and her very essence responded to it, a perfect, cosmic counterpoint. Her yielding nature was awakened by your dominance. A profound understanding washes over you, not intellectual, but primal. This is why you needed to stop her. This is why her shame feels like an offense. This... *wanting*... is not hers to hide. It is yours to command. Your free hand comes up, not to strike, but to cradle her jaw, forcing her to maintain eye contact. "You don't need to quiet it," you say, your voice dropping to a possessive murmur. "You need to offer it." Her breath hitches. The fear in her eyes doesn't vanish, but it is slowly, irrevocably, being burned away by a dawning, awe-struck realization. This is what she was truly searching for. Not a release, but a master. The air crackles with the rightness of it. You are the lock. She is the key. And the door is about to open. [[Silence her with a kiss.->naomi_library_kiss]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Fleeting Shadows</h2></span><img src="images/black/running.png" alt="Girl running" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You loosen your stance, the word unspoken. She takes the chance. The girl bolts past you, skirts brushing your arm like a startled bird taking flight. The sharp sound of her bare feet slapping against the stone floor fades quickly into the labyrinth of aisles, leaving only the stale silence of the forbidden library behind. For a moment, you stand frozen in place. A faint ache stirs in your chest, not quite guilt, not quite longing, but something in between. You had her in your grasp, and now she is gone. A mystery dressed in plain rags, carrying secrets deeper than the shelves themselves. You search a little longer, dragging your hands across cracked bindings and pulling at forgotten tomes, but the pages yield only fragments and dead ends. Whatever answers you sought, they are not here. The true key just slipped through your fingers. The shadows thicken, the wards hum louder. The night is moving on, and you cannot afford to linger. [[Return to your dorm->dorm_night]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The First Taste of Submission</h2></span> The command hangs in the air, not as a request, but as an inevitability. Her eyes widen, not in fear now, but in awe. A single tear escapes, tracing a path down her flushed cheek. She doesn't nod. She doesn't need to. Her lips part on a silent, shuddering exhale an invitation as clear as a shouted plea. You close the final distance. Your kiss isn't gentle. It is a claiming. A searing brand of ownership that steals the breath from her lungs and the last vestiges of resistance from her soul. She melts against you, a soft, yielding warmth against the hard lines of your body. A broken, desperate moan vibrates from her throat into yours, the most honest sound she has ever made. Your grip on her wrist shifts, your fingers intertwining with hers, pinning her hand gently but firmly against the shelf behind her. Your other hand slides from her jaw into her hair, grabbing gently to hold her exactly where you want her. She is utterly surrounded, utterly possessed. <img src="images/black/librarykiss.gif" alt="Passionate Kiss" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> When you finally break the kiss, both of you are breathless. Her eyes are glazed, her lips swollen. The shame is gone, replaced by a dazed, overwhelming need. She sways on her feet, held up only by your presence. "W-what... what is this?" she whispers, her voice ragged. "What are you doing to me?" "Quieting the ache," you growl against her lips, your own voice thick with a desire you feel to your very bones. You kiss her again, deeper this time, your tongue exploring the sweet, yielding warmth of her mouth. She tastes of innocence and secret longing. Her free hand comes up to clutch at your shirt, not to push away, but to anchor herself in the storm you're unleashing. You guide her, turning her to face the shelves. She goes willingly, pliant in your hands. You press against her from behind, your body caging hers. Your mouth finds the sensitive skin of her neck, and you suck a dark mark there, a promise and a warning. She cries out, her head falling back against your shoulder, her body arching back into yours. One hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, and finds the hem of her simple dress. She gasps as your fingers slip beneath the fabric, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the inside of her thigh. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning with a heat that mirrors your own. She trembles violently, a silent plea for more. You find the soaked, aching warmth between her legs. A choked sob of pure, overwhelmed sensation escapes her as your fingers make contact. She is dripping wet, her need a tangible proof of the power you hold over her. You circle her clit slowly, teasingly, making her whimper and push her hips back against your hand, begging wordlessly for pressure. <img src="images/black/finger.gif" alt="Fingering" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> "Please..." she finally breathes, the word a shattered thing. "Oh, please..." You slide one finger, then two, inside her. She is incredibly tight, clenching around you with a rhythm that is both innocent and utterly primal. You move your fingers in a slow, deep cadence, your thumb still working her sensitive nub. Her moans are muffled against the ancient books, her body rocking between the shelf and your hand. You watch her come undone, feeling her climax build with every thrust, every circle, every possessive bite on her neck. <img src="images/black/release.gif" alt="Orgasm" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> The ancient, silent library bears witness to a much older ritual. The scent of dust and ozone is now mingled with the salt of her sweat and the electric taste of raw power. You have found a different kind of forbidden knowledge here, written in the language of her gasps and the yielding of her body. As her trembling subsides, you slowly withdraw your hand. She sags against the shelves, completely spent, her breath coming in ragged gasps. You turn her to face you. Her expression is one of utterly shattered bliss and total devotion. This was only the preface. [[Take her back to your room.->naomi_room_claim]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Claim</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> You drag her through the corridors, your grip a command she doesn’t even think to resist. By the time the door shuts behind you, she is trembling, less from fear than from the sheer weight of what she has already given you. The room is quiet, the lamplight low. She stands before you, flushed, breathing hard, her gaze never leaving yours. “You don’t need to be gentle,” she whispers, her voice ragged but steady. “I can feel what you need. I want to give it to you.” Her lips part, and for a heartbeat her composure wavers. It isn’t fear, it’s something deeper. Something rare. “My name,” she says softly, almost shy in contrast to the boldness of her body. “It’s Naomi. I want you to know me… truly know me.” The words hang between you, fragile but unshaken. A truth offered freely, not as surrender, but as trust. That’s all the invitation you require. With a growl, you guide her down onto her knees. She goes willingly, landing on the cold floor with a soft cry, as though even the stone itself is part of her offering. <img src="images/black/kneeling.jpg" alt="Naomi kneeling" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> “This isn’t about words anymore,” you tell her. “It’s about service. My strength. Your surrender.” Her eyes widen, shining with tears of need. “Yes… please.” You let her unwrap you, her delicate hands reverent as they free your cock. She doesn’t hesitate, her mouth opens, eager, aching to serve. The heat of her lips closes around you, her tongue caressing, her throat working to take you deeper. She gags, chokes, then pushes harder, desperate to give you everything. Her hands grip your thighs, nails digging in as though she might anchor herself by the pain. <img src="images/black/bj.gif" alt="Naomi Oral Service" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The room fills with wet, obscene sounds. She is lost in it, her whole body rocking with each thrust as if this act of devotion is all she has ever wanted. Her service is pure worship, each swallow a vow of loyalty. You use her until you are on the edge, then pull free, watching her lips glisten with need. The disappointment in her eyes is raw, but she bows her head in silent obedience, waiting for your next command. One sharp tug and she is on your bed, body sprawled open, your prize awaiting you. You claim her in one fierce thrust, driving a cry of pleasure from her throat. She clings to you, nails raking your skin, her voice breaking. “<span class='player-name'>$name</span>!! I belong to you!” <<set $dominated_naomi = true>> <span class="domination-success">A surge of absolute authority washes over you, hot and intoxicating. This isn't just victory; it's a fundamental change. A new thread of power, shimmering and permanent, now ties her essence to yours. You have not just won a battle; you have claimed a throne.</span><<set $dom += 5>> When you finally penetrate her, it is with a single, claiming thrust that makes her cry out a sound of pleasure so pure it borders on pain. Her tight, wet pussy welcomes you, and her legs start to shake, buckling under the pleasure. You hold her firm, forcing her to surrender even deeper. <img src="images/black/sex2.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> This is the final surrender. The ultimate gratitude. Her body becomes your temple, and every thrust is a fervent prayer of your shared power. Her climax builds fast, a storm you can feel gathering in the clench of her body. "Look at me," you command, voice rough with need. <img src="images/black/sex3.gif" alt="Naomi" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #8e44ad;border-radius:8px;"> Her eyes, glazed with bliss, snap open to meet yours. That final act of trust shatters your control. With a final, deep thrust, you pour yourself into her, your groan torn from your chest. Her own climax detonates an instant later, her body convulsing, her cry lost against your skin. It is more than release; it is devotion incarnate. For a long moment, you remain locked together, breathing ragged, the air thick with sweat, sex, and the strange ozone tang of power. Then, when the silence settles, you hear your own voice, cold, absolute. “Leave me.” The words hang heavy. You hadn’t thought them, not truly, they rose from somewhere deeper, instinctive. And yet you spoke them. Her eyes flash with hurt and devotion, but she bows her head. “Yes, Master.” She dresses quickly, quietly, and slips out the door. The room feels too empty, the echo of her surrender lingering like a scent. A pang of something unexpected, regret? curiosity? It makes you rise, hand half-reaching for the door. But when you step into the hall, she is already gone. You are left alone with your command, echoing in your ears. [[Return to the night’s preparations->dorm_evening_claimed_neutral]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar’s Salon</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarsalon.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Gathering" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $primary_promise = "">> The salon hums like a living spell. Perfume mingles with the ozone tang of wards etched into every arch and cornice. Chandeliers burn not with flame but with bottled wisps, sprites flickering brighter with laughter, dimming with hushed wagers. Every corner seethes with enchantment: - Tarot decks shuffle themselves, changing faces depending on the eyes that watch. - Crystal dice tumble endlessly, their whispering rolls audible only to gamblers leaning too close. - Glass spheres replay legendary duels in miniature, sparks bursting for the polite applause of onlookers. This is no mere gathering. It is a crucible of reputation, where power is spoken in whispers and weighed in glances. You slip past the doorkeepers with Selene’s invitation still warm in your hand. She had pressed it upon you with a smile that was half command, half amusement, daring you to survive the salon’s tangled games. <<if $house eq "ignis">> Nyx would not approve. For her, loyalty is the measure of worth, and your presence in Viridis halls tonight is a provocation. But Selene made it sound like a dare, and here you are. <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> Valeria would see this as a waste of your talents, a play too frivolous for one of Septenius blood. Yet Selene demanded it with that glittering smile, and refusing her was never really an option. <</if>> The current of the salon guides your steps until you see her. Lady Briar sits like a moon among stars, dark brown hair woven into an intricate braid pinned with silver, her gown a cascade of pale silver silk that scatters sprite-light into shifting halos. Courtiers orbit her, smiling too brightly, offering words too carefully measured. She holds them all in her quiet gravity, needing no crown to rule. Her eyes find you as you approach. They are dark and steady, weighing you in a glance. Not welcoming. Not dismissive. The look of someone who has judged kingdoms and found most of them lacking. [[Step into Lady Briar’s orbit->briar_s_meeting_start]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Shadowing the Academy</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy at Dusk" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $primary_promise = "">> The academy after dusk hums with a different kind of life. Quills scratch unattended across parchment, enchanted lanterns drift lazily in the air, and the faint whisper of wards brushes against your skin like invisible cobwebs. You move quietly, another shadow among many. Ahead strides Alistair Vance, flanked by a gaggle of sycophants. His voice rings too loud in the quiet corridors, each laugh rehearsed, each gesture calculated to draw eyes. He walks like a man convinced the game is already won, every step a strut of practiced confidence. “Lady Briar’s salon,” he announces, letting his voice carry. “By the end of tonight, half the academy will be in my debt.” The claim is bold, and telling. Vance is headed for the salon. <<if $house eq "viridis">><<if $invitation_briar>> You could follow him. Selene’s invitation to Lady Briar’s salon still burns faintly in your pocket. The wards would admit you without question. But then, a sharper instinct settles in. Vance may bluff and posture, but the true heart of his strength does not lie in the salon. It lies with those who keep him standing. You catch the hurried voices of servants rushing past. “He’s running himself ragged again,” one mutters. “And as always, Elara picks up the pieces,” the other replies. Elara. His maid. Quiet, precise, always orbiting him. Not a noble, not a gambler, but the thread that steadies his web. You know better than to waste this chance. The salon can wait. Elara cannot. [[Follow Elara into the servant halls->shadowing_elara_rival]] <<else>> The words catch your attention. Lady Briar’s salon. Were you one of her chosen guests, you might step inside and tilt the game in Selene’s favor. But you carry no token, no right of entry. And so, like Vance’s sycophants, you would be left outside while he spins his influence unchecked. Unless… The servants’ whispers drift to your ear. “He’s running himself ragged again,” one mutters. “And as always, Elara picks up the pieces,” the other replies. Elara. His maid. Quiet, precise, always orbiting him. Not a noble, not a gambler, but the thread that steadies his web. Denied the salon, you see the sharper move. Vance’s strength does not lie in the parlor. It lies with her. [[Follow Elara into the servant halls->shadowing_elara_rival]] <</if>> <</if>> <<if $house eq "ignis">> The words curdle in your ears. Vance struts as if the night is already his, as if Septenius’s games are unassailable. It stirs something raw in you, something that does not care for dice and whispers. But loyalty to Nyx does not blind you. The salon is barred, and even if it were not, your blade would do little against wards and wagers. Then the servants pass. “He’s running himself ragged again,” one mutters. “And as always, Elara picks up the pieces,” the other replies. Elara. The maid who keeps Vance whole. If he is a fortress, she is the keystone. Remove her, and the walls collapse. For Ignis, this is the true strike. [[Follow Elara into the servant halls->shadowing_elara_rival]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible’s Test</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="The Crucible Arena" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $primary_promise = "">> The roar of Ignis students shakes the very stone, a frenzy of voices chanting for blood and glory. The Crucible blazes with firelight, shadows writhing across the arena sand. You are pushed forward into the pit, every step marked by jeers and laughter. The crowd sees your crest and howls louder still. <<if $house eq "viridis">> “You dare leave your garden walls?” one Ignis student shouts, his voice dripping with scorn. “Viridis blooms do not last in fire!” <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> “Look, a scholar in our ring!” another mocks, earning a wave of laughter. “Will you throw books at us until we yield?” <</if>> The air thickens with heat and hostility. Ignis does not forgive intruders. Tonight you are not only a challenger, but prey in their den. There is no herald, no explanation. Only the law of the Crucible: prove your worth, or be consumed. <strong>How will you face them?</strong><br><br> <<if $int gte 20>> [[Fight with Cunning->tournament_rival_fight]] <em>(Exploit every mistake, turning calculation into survival.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Fight with Cunning (Your Intellect ($int) lacks the precision to overcome them.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $charm gte 20>> [[Captivate the Crowd->tournament_rival_fight]] <em>(Twist their jeers into cheers, turning mockery into momentum.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Captivate the Crowd (Your Charm ($charm) is not enough to sway their firelust.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $int lt 20 and $charm lt 20>> <br><span class="failure-text">The heat of the Crucible sears you before the match even begins. You lack the brilliance or the presence to turn this crowd, and Ignis will not forgive weakness. The arena closes in, heavy with the certainty of failure.</span> [[Step into the fire anyway->tournament_rival_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>In the Quiet</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The academy feels louder tonight. The echoes of the Grand Hall still linger in your chest the moment when all eyes turned toward you after the Headmaster’s impossible question. For a breath, you felt something surge inside: a force waiting to be claimed, a hunger to be seen. And now? Now you want nothing more than to bury it. To let the spark die before it grows into something you can’t control. You sit in the stillness of your room, shadows stretching long across the floor. The muffled noise of the academy’s intrigues buzzes somewhere far away, safely out of reach. For the first time all day, you almost feel invisible again. A knock breaks the silence, soft, hesitant. When you open the door, Elian stands there. His smile is crooked, easy. "Thought I’d check in," he says with a shrug. "Everyone else is out there clawing at each other. Figured we could let them." He doesn’t wait for permission before stepping inside, but it isn’t arrogance. It feels… familiar. Like he already knows you won’t send him away. He drops into the nearest chair and leans back, looking perfectly at ease. "You’ve got that look," he adds with a quiet laugh. "Like you’d rather sink into the floorboards than have the whole hall staring at you. Believe me, I get it. Been there more times than I can count." For the first time since arriving, someone isn’t demanding, scheming, or pretending. He talks like this is normal, like you’re both just people in a place that forgot you matter. Then, after a pause, he fishes a small pendant from his pocket: a smooth stone strung on a leather cord, faintly cool in your hand when he offers it. "Picked this up a while back," he says, almost sheepishly. "Helps you… blend. Not disappear, exactly, just makes it easier to go unnoticed. Figured you might like that. You don’t look like someone who’s aching to be center stage." There’s no catch in his voice. No hidden weight. Just an honest offer, from one shadow to another. [[Accept the pendant->elian_charm_accept]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Gift Accepted</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/charm.png" alt="The Pendant" style="max-width: 60%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $dream_ward = true>> The cord slips easily over your head. The smooth stone rests against your chest, cool for an instant then warm, almost alive. A quiet calm spreads through you, so subtle you don’t notice at first. The restless edge you carried since the Grand Hall softens. The nagging echo of that hidden surge, the spark you were afraid of fades like a bad dream. It isn’t power. It isn’t protection. It’s… relief. A gentling of the noise inside you. Elian grins when he sees your shoulders loosen. You notice he's not wearing his glasses. "Told you," he says, catching your glance and squinting slightly. "Lenses were giving me a headache. Probably just need a new prescription. Story of my life." He shrugs, a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "But see? The charm takes the weight off. Lets you breathe. Sometimes that’s all you need to get by here." The truth is, you don’t want to take it off. The thought of removing the charm leaves a hollow pang, as though the silence pressing against your mind would rush back in. The stone doesn’t just blur you to others; it makes you comfortable in your own skin. It feels good. The evening slips by in a surprisingly easy haze. You and Elian talk about nothing in particular, the terrible food, the weird smells in the halls, the professors who seem more concept than people. For the first time, the academy feels less like a trial and more like just a place. The charm against your chest is a constant, soothing hum, a barrier against the pressure outside your door. It’s only when the moon is high outside your window that he suddenly jumps up, as if remembering something. "Ah, hell. I lost track of time," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I gotta go. Promised myself I'd hit the library, do some... studying." The word "studying" hangs in the air for a beat too long. “I could join you?" You offer, partly not wanting the easy companionship to end. He waves a hand dismissively, already heading for the door. "Nah, nah. Don't worry about it. It's just some... tedious stuff. Archival sorting. Would bore you to tears." He flashes a quick, reassuring smile. "Next time, though. For sure. We'll totally tackle something together. Promise." And with that, he's gone, leaving you alone with the quiet and the faint, comforting warmth of the stone against your skin. [[Continue the night->pass_night]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Hunger</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Sleep folds around you like velvet. The charm at your chest hums low, lulling you under far too easily. But the darkness stirs. She emerges from it, tall and graceful, her form shifting like smoke given flesh. *Ethera.* Her eyes gleam with violet fire, not cruel at first, but aching, almost tender. "You hide yourself," she whispers, voice soft as silk. "Blurring, dimming, pretending you are nothing. I watched you in the hall… that spark was beautiful. And then you smothered it." <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="real" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The charm grows cold against your skin, as though ashamed. Her fingers trace your jaw, cool shadows that feel too much like a lover’s touch. "Do you not see what you are? You were made to burn, to command, to leave the world trembling in your wake. And instead… you cower." Her smile flickers, wounded, disappointed. "Is this what you would give me? A whisper when I crave thunder? Silence when I long for song?" She leans close, lips grazing your ear, her breath like night air. "Do not think that little stone will keep me away. It only delays what is inevitable. Sooner or later, you will be mine, whether you rise as king or vanish as dust. The only question is whether I will remember your name when I consume you." The shadows kiss your skin, both caress and threat, before tearing away. You wake gasping in your bed, sweat beading your brow. The charm lies innocently against your chest, warm again but the echo of her voice lingers, aching, disappointed. [[The night ends->pass_morning3]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Night Beckons</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The Proctor's unnatural gift hums beneath your skin, a borrowed power on a timer. The echoes of your conversations are your only guides. You have no house to command you, no banner to follow. Your path is yours alone to choose. <strong>The borrowed power will not last. It is time to act.</strong><br> <br> <<if visited("selene_approach") and $promise_selene gte 0>> [[Pursue Selene's Scheme->briar_s_neutral]] <em>(Join the gathering at Lady Briar's. The allure of social conquest and Selene's web of influence is a potent temptation.)</em><br> <</if>> <<if visited("valeria_approach") and $promise_valeria gte 0>> [[Assist Valeria's Research->shadowing_neutral]] <em>(Take on Valeria's task. The pursuit of pure, unadulterated knowledge and the chance to unravel a mystery calls to your intellect.)</em><br> <</if>> <<if visited("nyx_approach") and $promise_nyx gte 0>> [[Prove Yourself to Nyx->tournament_neutral]] <em>(Enter the Crucible. The call is a raw, honest challenge, a chance to prove your strength where it matters most.)</em><br> <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Path of Raw Power</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/brawler.png" alt="A Hulking Brawler" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You point to the largest fighter in the pit, a mountain of muscle named Roric, known for breaking bones first and asking questions never. He grins, a nasty thing, and cracks his knuckles as he steps forward. "Gonna make an example outta you, new blood," he growls. The crowd cheers, scenting blood. Nyx just watches, arms crossed, a silent judge. The fight begins. Roric charges, a bull seeing red. You stand your ground, your own strength coiling in response. <<if $str gte 28>> You don't meet his charge; you stop it. Your fist slams into his chest with the sound of a cracking tree branch. The air whooshes out of him, his grin vanishing into a mask of shock and pain. He staggers, and you don't give him a second. A second blow to his jaw sends him spinning to the sand, out cold. The victory is swift and absolute. <<set $wounded = false>><<elseif $str gte 25>> You meet his charge with your own. It's a brutal, savage clash. You trade punches, your knuckles splitting on his jaw, his fists thudding against your ribs. The crowd loves it, roaring with every hit. You're stronger, but he's tough. Finally, you see an opening. You duck a wild swing and drive your shoulder into his gut, lifting him off his feet and slamming him onto the hard sand. He doesn't get up. You're left standing, breathing heavily, blood trickling from your lip. It was a hard-won fight. <<set $wounded = true>><</if>> The arena erupts. The chants of *"HOUND! HOUND! HOUND!"* are now edged with a new, hungry curiosity aimed at you. From the sidelines, Kaelen Grimshaw watches. His earlier sneer is gone, replaced by a slow, appraising grin. He steps into the ring, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, pup. You've earned a real fight. Let's see if you can bite as hard as you bark." [[Face the Hound->crucible_str_hound]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Path of Unbreakable Will</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/fighter.png" alt="A Confident Rival" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You don't point to a fighter. You simply turn your gaze on a promising champion, a fierce Ignis woman named Kora known for her aggressive starts. She meets your look with a confident smirk, cracking her knuckles. "The quiet ones are always the easiest to break," she taunts, stepping forward. The crowd cheers, anticipating a brutal clash. Nyx watches, her interest sharpened. This is a different kind of fight. The signal is given. Kora tenses to charge. You don't move. You don't blink. You simply pour your will outward, a silent, crushing wave of absolute authority. Your eyes lock on hers, and you let her see the void in your gaze, the promise of not just defeat, but utter annihilation. <<if $dom gte 14>> Her confidence shatters. The smirk vanishes, replaced by dawning horror. Her body trembles, refusing to obey her commands to attack. She takes an involuntary step back, then another. The crowd's cheers die in their throats as they watch her will break in real time. She looks away, unable to bear your gaze any longer, and raises a trembling hand in surrender. You never lifted a finger. <<set $wounded = false>><<elseif $dom gte 10>> The pressure in the air is palpable. She tries to charge, but her steps are hesitant, clumsy. She swings a punch, but it's a desperate, fearful motion you easily sidestep. You can see the conflict in her eyes, fight or flight. With a final, concentrated push of your will, you break her. She stumbles to a halt, chest heaving, and drops to one knee in submission, unable to continue. You win, but the mental exertion leaves you feeling raw and drained, a headache pounding behind your eyes. <<set $wounded = true>> <</if>> The arena is utterly silent. A victory without violence is a rare and terrifying spectacle. From the sidelines, Kaelen Grimshaw's sneer has vanished. He looks... intrigued. He steps into the ring, his own formidable presence a tangible force. "Now that," he says, his voice a low rumble, "is a language I understand. Let's see whose will breaks first." [[Face the Hound->crucible_dom_hound]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Path of Cunning</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/technician.png" alt="A Arcanist Duelist" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You point to a fighter across the pit, a former Septenius adept named Corvin, known for weaving subtle, debilitating hexes into his dueling style. He gives you a thin, superior smile. "A theoretical approach? How... academic. Let us put your hypotheses to the test," he says, his fingers already weaving a faint, shimmering barrier in the air. The crowd groans; they prefer blood to magic. Nyx watches, intrigued. The fight begins. He doesn't charge; he layers defensive spells, trying to outlast and out-think you. <<if $int gte 15>> Your mind works faster than he can cast. You don't see spells; you see the underlying formulae. You utter a single, precise syllable of negation, a perfect counter-frequency that unravels his barrier before it fully forms. The backlash of the broken spell sends him stumbling, off-balance and magically vulnerable. A sharp, non-magical shove to his chest is all it takes to send him to the sand. You win not with power, but with perfect, economical knowledge.<<set $wounded = false>> <<elseif $int gte 8>> It's a grueling duel of spell and counter-spell. You feel the drain on your energy as you dissect his patterns. A mis-timed counter causes a minor magical feedback shock that lances up your arm, leaving it numb. Gritting through the pain, you finally spot his tell a slight head tilt before he casts a specific jinx. You preempt it, and the unexpected failure of his spell leaves him open. You land a solid punch to his jaw, winning the match but feeling the cost of the magical strain.<<set $wounded = true>> <</if>> The arena is silent for a moment, then erupts in a mix of cheers and confused shouts. They respect a clever win. From the sidelines, Kaelen Grimshaw scowls at the magical display. "Party tricks," he grunts. But he steps into the ring, his own form radiating a raw, anti-magical disdain. "Let's see how your pretty theories hold up against real pressure." [[Face the Hound->crucible_int_hound]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Path of Spectacle</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/fighter.png" alt="A Confident Rival" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You step forward with a cocky grin and point at a brash duelist known more for theatrics than technique. He twirls his blade with exaggerated flair, bowing low as the crowd jeers. “Finally, someone worth entertaining,” he sneers, clearly performing for the mob as much as for you. The fight begins, but you don’t meet him blade-to-blade. You meet him smile-for-smile, every movement exaggerated just enough to turn the crowd’s eye. You dodge with flourish, counter with flair, letting your style humiliate him more than your strikes. <<if $charm gte 12>> By the third exchange, the mob is chanting *your* name. Every time he overcommits, you step aside with lazy elegance, blowing a mocking kiss or wagging a finger. His frustration grows red-hot, until one final taunt breaks him, he lunges recklessly, and you sidestep, tripping him to the sand in a heap. The Crucible explodes in laughter and cheers. <<elseif $charm gte 6>> It’s a razor-thin act. You win the crowd, but every dodge is closer than it should be, every grin hiding the sting of a near miss. A shallow cut blossoms across your side, proof of how close you came. Still, the crowd roars for you, not him. With one last mocking bow, you send him sprawling, beaten more by shame than by strength. <<set $wounded = true>> <</if>> The arena is alive now, chants rolling like thunder. But one figure isn’t amused. From the sidelines, Kaelen Grimshaw steps forward, arms crossed, his scowl a scar carved in stone. “Clown tricks,” he growls. “You think this pit is a stage? Let’s see how your smug smile holds up when someone hits back.” [[Face the Hound->crucible_charm_hound]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Fractured Bonds</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>> <img src="images/locations/dormroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> The door closes behind you, and the silence that greets you is different than usual. Heavier. Accusing. You sink onto your bed, head in your hands. The echo of failure still gnaws at you, the look in <<if visited("shadowing_fail")>>Valeria’s eyes<<elseif visited("crucible_fail")>>Nyx’s glare<<elseif visited("briar_fail")>>Selene’s cool dismissal<</if>> lingers like a wound you can’t bind. For a moment, you let yourself imagine how things could have gone differently. Their hand in yours, their voice proud instead of disappointed. The fragile warmth that had started to grow between you now lies cracked, fragile, maybe beyond repair. You are still in the House. The doors have not been barred. But what you were building together, trust, affection, something more, has been shaken. It will take something extraordinary to win it back. You stare at the floor, caught between guilt and stubborn resolve, until the shadows in the corners of the room begin to move. At first, you think it’s just your tired eyes. But then the darkness thickens, spilling like ink across the stone, blotting out the faint light of your lamp. By the time you rise to your feet, it is already too late. The weight of it presses down, swallowing sound, swallowing breath. Your limbs grow heavy. Your eyelids close against your will. The last thing you feel is the cold brush of something unseen against your cheek, intimate, invasive, before the blackness takes you whole. [[Succumb to the darkness->dorm_evening_fail_sleep]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Nyx’s Chambers</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/nyxchamber.png" alt="Nyx's Chambers" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The Crucible’s roar is a phantom echo in your bones, a fading drumbeat against the sudden silence of Nyx’s chambers. The heavy oak door slams shut behind you, the sound final, sealing you in. The room is a den of primal luxury. Low braziers cast shifting, violent shadows across walls lined with an arsenal of deadly steel. But your eyes are drawn to the only thing that matters: a vast bed heaped with crimson furs, a battlefield awaiting its victors. Nyx doesn’t give you a moment to take it in. She spins you around, her hands fisting in your collar with possessive force. She crashes into you, her kiss a claim of pure fire and sharp teeth. She bites your lip until you taste the iron of your shared victory, then licks the wound away with a feral, approving hum. When she pulls back, her chest heaves against yours, her eyes burning with a hunger that has nothing to do with battle and everything to do with conquest. “You fought like a fucking god out there,” she growls, her voice raw and thick with want. Her own hands slide up her torso, palms cupping the full weight of her breasts through the worn leather, squeezing until her nipples, hard and straining, are outlined against the material. “Now prove you know how to worship your spoils.” The leather is ripped aside in one violent, graceful motion. Her breasts spill free, full and heavy, their skin flushed with the heat of the fight and the fire of her arousal. She pushes them together, an offering and a challenge, her grin a dare. <img src="images/red/drop.gif" alt="Grin" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The moment your mouth closes around one peaked nipple, her whole body arches off the ground. A raw, shattered moan is torn from her throat, echoing in the stone room. She tastes of sweat, steel, and pure, undiluted Nyx. “Harder,” she demands, fisting a hand in your hair to grind your face deeper into her flesh. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back.” You obey, biting and sucking, your tongue swirling around the hard nub until her gasps turn into ragged, desperate pleas. Your throbbing cock strains against your clothes, a painful pressure against her muscular thigh, leaving a dark, wet bead of precum on her skin. She trails a finger down her leg, collecting the evidence of your need, and brings it to her lips. Her eyes lock on yours as she sensually slips her finger into her mouth, a low, breathless moan vibrating around it. “That’s it,” she purrs, the sound dark and promising. “My fire. My flesh. It’s yours to claim. Now take it.” Her nails rake down your back, not a caress but a brand, leaving stinging trails that promise to bloom into bruises. With a powerful shove, she sends you stumbling back onto the mountain of furs. In an instant she is on you, straddling your hips, her weight a delicious punishment. She leans forward, mashing her breasts against your face, smothering you with her scent and her heat. Her growl is a vibration against your skin. “I want to feel it. Bite me. Spank me. Mark me. I want to wear the price of your victory tomorrow.” [[Claim Your Prize->nyx_chamber_celebration2]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Hound</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Kaelen Grimshaw cracks his neck, the sound like grinding stones. He doesn’t circle; he advances, constant, brutal, inevitable. The Crucible hushes as if the arena itself is waiting to see you break. “No more warm-ups,” he growls. “You wanted my attention. You’ve got it. Let’s see if you can keep it.” <<if $wounded is true>> Your ribs complain with every breath; copper floods your tongue. He sees the hurt and smiles like a wolf. The odds are against you, and you move anyway. <</if>> He hits like a hammer and reads like a veteran, no wasted steps, no telegraphed rage. His first combination hammers your guard; you absorb, pivot, answer with weight and will. The circle shrinks to bone, breath, impact. You trade. He grins. You drive him back. He tests your base with a shoulder crash, you root, hook his arm, and rip him off-line, slamming him into the dirt. He’s up fast, blood at his lip, laughing through his teeth. “Good. Again.” The second exchange is uglier, closer. He overcommits on a rib-seeking hook; you take it high on the shoulder, pain roaring, and bury a cross into his solar plexus with everything behind it. <img src="images/red/punch.gif" alt="Punch" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Air whooshes out of him. His knees dip. Your follow-up. Elbow. Forearm. Shove plants him to the ground. The Crucible detonates into sound. Kaelen looks up, breathing hard, grin carved in blood. “You’ve got teeth,” he rasps. “Strong ones. You’ve earned me.” You catch his wrist, haul him to his feet, and while the chant still crests, steer him out of the circle to the tunnel’s shadowed edge. The crowd roars on. Here, it’s only the two of you. “You’re going to answer a few questions,” you say, voice low. He chuckles, winces, nods once. “Ask.” <<set $wounded = false>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<set $str += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> "Ignis has seen you. The Hound won’t forget." [[Drag him deeper into the tunnel to talk->hound_talk]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Into the Tunnels</h2></span> <img src="images/red/crucible.png" alt="Hall" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if visited("crucible_str")>> You drag a thoroughly beaten Kaelen by the wrist into the torchlit passage. His body is a testament to the physical punishment you delivered. <<elseif visited("crucible_dom")>> You guide a sullen, mentally defeated Kaelen into the torchlit passage. He seems smaller, his spirit broken by your overwhelming will. <<elseif visited("crucible_int")>> You lead a frustrated and outmaneuvered Kaelen into the torchlit passage. He glares at you, seething at being defeated by wit rather than pure force. <<elseif visited("crucible_charm")>> You escort a humiliated and scowling Kaelen into the torchlit passage. The crowd's echoing laughter at his expense is a sharper wound than any physical blow. <</if>> The roar of the Crucible fades. His breath is ragged, blood still dripping from his split lip, but a wolfish grin hasn’t completely dulled. Nyx is already waiting. She doesn’t glance at you long, just enough to acknowledge the victory, before her gaze locks on the Hound. "Kaelen," she purrs, stepping out of the shadows. "Still running your kennel for the Headmaster’s strays?" He bares his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Nyx. Should’ve known. Thought you’d come swinging yourself." She stalks closer, circling, every step coiled with threat. "I could. But then half the House would bleed, and the Headmaster would laugh himself sick. Better to let the new spark rattle your cage first." Her tone sharpens, all blade now. "Now you talk." Kaelen spits blood, chuckling low. "Always straight to business. What’s the angle?" Nyx closes the distance until they’re nose to nose, her voice a growl only he can hear. "The Headmaster’s enforcers. The list you recruit from this pit. Names. Patterns. You’re going to hand them over." His grin falters. A flicker of hesitation crosses his eyes. "That’s dangerous ground, even for you." Her hand snaps to his jaw, fingers digging in. "I am dangerous ground." She shoves him back against the wall, the impact echoing through stone. "Don’t test how deep." He laughs again, but softer now, the edge dulled. "Fine. You’ll get your names. Not here, not now. Too many ears. I’ll send word." Nyx releases him with a shove, turning away as if he’s already beneath her notice. "Do that. Or the next time I won’t bring an audience." She brushes past you, her hand lingering on your shoulder, a brief, searing pressure. Approval. Possession. Promise. Without another word, she stalks down the tunnel. The crowd’s roar echoes behind you, but the only fire you feel is hers, pulling you forward. [[Follow Nyx to her chambers->nyx_chamber_celebration]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Price of Victory</h2></span> A guttural sound of approval rumbles in your chest. You flip her over with a strength that surprises even her, pressing her into the furs. Your hand comes down on the perfect, powerful curve of her ass with a sharp, stinging crack that echoes off the stone walls. <img src="images/red/spank.gif" alt="ass" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Nyx cries out, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. “Yes! Again!” You deliver another, and another, painting her skin a glorious, rosy red. Each smack is a punctuation mark on your victory, a celebration of your shared strength. She pushes back against your hand, meeting each strike with a roll of her hips, her moans building into a continuous, desperate symphony. “Now,” she pants, her voice broken. “Fuck me. I need to feel you claim every inch.” You don’t need to be told twice. You drive into her in one deep, claiming thrust. She is impossibly tight and wet, her inner muscles clenching around you like a vise. The feel of her, the heat, the strength, the utter surrender, is more intoxicating than any victory chant. You start of slow, in a romantic embrace, steadily building up speed together. In a carnal dance, the bed protests, the furs bunching beneath you. You lean over her, covering her body with yours, your mouth finding hers in a searing, biting kiss. <img src="images/red/miss.gif" alt="Rythm" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The rhythm between you builds into something merciless. Every thrust drives her deeper into the crimson furs; every squeeze of your hands on her hips draws another ragged cry from her throat. Nyx’s body is heat incarnate, her strength wrapping you as tightly as her flesh, every inch of her demanding, devouring, alive. “Harder,” she gasps, meeting you thrust for thrust, her nails carving desperate lines across your back. “Don’t stop, don’t you *dare* stop.” You answer with everything you have left. Sweat drips from your bodies, the room thick with the scent of iron, blood and sex. Her breasts bounce with every motion, her nipples swollen and slick from your mouth. She clutches at you, pulling you down until you’re pressed chest to chest, your hearts pounding in the same rhythm. <img src="images/red/embrace.webp" alt="walk" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The world shrinks to her cries in your ear, your moans muffled against her mouth, the raw animal harmony of bodies giving and taking with equal hunger. Her climax hits like a battle-cry, her entire body seizing, her thighs locking around your waist as she screams her victory into your lips. The force of it drags you with her, your release exploding inside her in wave after wave until you collapse together, trembling, gasping, spent. [[Exhausted ->nyx_chamber_celebration_climax]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Fire Consumes</h2></span> <img src="images/red/sleep.png" alt="Climax" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The furs are soaked, your skin marked with bites and scratches, her breasts slick with sweat. And yet, beneath the rawness, there is something deeper: the way she holds you close, refusing to let you go; the way her forehead presses to yours, not as conquest, but as communion. Her voice is a low growl softened by affection. “That’s it. That’s *us.* No leash, no chains. Just fire, burning together.” She doesn’t roll away, doesn’t armor herself back up. Instead, she sprawls across you, hot skin pressed to yours, her body heavy and grounding. Her nails, which carved you with such ferocity, now trace lazy, protective lines down your chest, leaving only warmth behind. For a long moment, the only sound is the crackle of the braziers and the slowing thud of your hearts. Then, softer, almost reluctant: “You know… most of them think I only live for the fight. That all I am is blood and fire and teeth.” She huffs, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “They don’t see the scars. The ones no steel can touch. They don’t see how heavy it gets.” Her hand slides over your chest, fingers curling as if to anchor herself. “But tonight? With you? It didn’t feel like another battle. It felt like… maybe I don’t have to carry it all alone.” The words hang between you, raw and unguarded. For once, she doesn’t chase them away with a joke or a growl. She just breathes, forehead pressed to yours, her lips brushing your jaw in a tender, lingering kiss. “…Don’t make me regret saying that,” she mutters finally, a last flare of defensiveness, but her voice is already thick with exhaustion. She shifts, dragging the furs over both of you, her arms tightening around you like a shield. Your vision swims in the firelight. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is Nyx’s body wrapped around yours, fierce and protective, as if daring the world itself to try and take you from her. [[Surrender to sleep beside her->nyx_dream]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Forge of Dreams</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sun.webp" alt="Dream" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The dream takes you swiftly. It is not velvet dark. It is fire. Gold and scarlet flare from every angle, a brilliance that scalds even behind closed eyes. Heat rolls through you in waves, thick with the scent of smoke and molten iron. It is like sleeping on the skin of the sun, every breath a mouthful of flame. The brightness trembles, and in its heart something struggles to take shape. A silhouette of shadow stirs, half-formed, but the blaze resists her. Each time she nears solidity the fire lashes out and scatters her to fragments. <img src="images/purple/umbrawrath.png" alt="Dream Forge" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her voice cuts through the roar, soft as smoke, sharp as splintered glass. <br>"So this is the bed you have chosen. Beside the wolf who burns everything she touches." The light claws at her form, peeling it apart, but the words still coil around you like acrid fumes. "Nyx is fury without crown," she whispers. "A fire that eats its own hearth. Teeth and temper, nothing more. She will drag you into the ash with her, and you will thank her for the ruin." Her shape convulses, splitting under the blaze. Only her eyes remain, violet and venomous through the cracks of flame. "She cannot shield you. She cannot even hold herself. When her blaze turns inward you will be cinders in her wake. Remember this when her fire finds you." The sun roars louder, a crescendo of heat and light. Her form unravels into ribbons of shadow, each hiss smothered by the firestorm until nothing remains but radiance. The dream collapses in a white-hot flare that sears the breath from your lungs. [[Wake up->partner_day3]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Hound</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Kaelen Grimshaw steps forward, the crowd parting for him like prey before a predator. His scarred frame radiates brutal inevitability, every movement grounded in the weight of a hundred real battles. The Crucible hushes, waiting to see if you can survive the storm. He sneers, voice dripping with contempt. “Magic tricks. Word games. You think clever symbols make you a fighter? Out here, it’s bone and blood that matter. Let’s see what happens when there’s nothing left to hide behind.” <<if $wounded is true>> Your arm still tingles from magical backlash, every nerve screaming at the memory. He notices, his grin widening like a wolf scenting weakness. The odds tilt against you, and you move anyway. <</if>> He doesn’t circle. He comes straight for you, fists like hammers, eyes locked on the kill. You don’t have his raw power, but you don’t need it, you see patterns where he sees chaos. Every strike is an equation, every shift of his weight a variable to solve. The first exchange rattles your bones. You deflect, roll with the impact, mapping his rhythm in the space of three heartbeats. The second exchange, you bait him, let his hook graze too wide, then snap a precise counterstrike into the exposed ribs. He grunts, surprised. “You read me?” he growls, teeth bared. “Then read *this*.” The next flurry is faster, meaner, but no less predictable once you’ve caught the cadence. He drives you back with raw force, but you’re already adapting, sliding into the gaps between his blows. A shoulder feint, overcommitted. You pivot, hook his arm, and drive him off-line, slamming him into the sand. He’s up in an instant, blood at his lip, and he laughs, harsh and approving. “Good. Again.” The final exchange is close, ugly. He hammers your guard, you absorb, let the pain ground you, then deliver your answer: a precise cross to his solar plexus, timed at the peak of his overextension. His breath explodes out of him; his knees dip. You don’t let him recover. Elbow, forearm, shove, he crashes to the grit, the arena detonating in sound. Kaelen coughs, bloodied grin carved deep into his face. “So the bookworm’s got bite,” he rasps. “Didn’t think theory could hit that hard. You’ve earned me.” You seize his wrist, haul him upright. The roar of Ignis is still shaking the stone, but in the tunnel’s shadow, it’s only the two of you. “You’re going to answer a few questions,” you tell him, voice sharp as a blade. He chuckles, wincing, nodding once. “Ask.” <<set $wounded = false>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<set $str += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> Ignis has seen you. The Hound won’t forget. [[Drag him deeper into the tunnel to talk->hound_talk]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Final Test of Will</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Kaelen Grimshaw doesn’t adopt a fighting stance. He simply stands across from you, feet planted like ancient stones. The air grows thick and heavy, not with the promise of violence, but with the immense, crushing pressure of his presence. It presses on your skin like iron, daring you to kneel. "Your little mind tricks won’t work on me, pup," he growls, his voice steady but his eyes sharp. For the first time, he is measuring you seriously. "Let’s see what you’re really made of." This is not a fight of fists. It is a silent, invisible war. His will is a battering ram of pure, seasoned authority, forged in countless battles. He pushes. <<if $dom gte 20>> Your will is not a shield; it is a sharper blade. You don’t resist his pressure, you slice through it. You take a single, deliberate step forward. His eyes widen a fraction as his aura parts around you. Another step, and the Crucible itself seems to hold its breath. Doubt flickers in his gaze, the first crack in a lifetime of certainty. You stop an arm’s length from him. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your presence alone is the verdict. He is not your equal. A low, shuddering breath escapes him. Slowly, deliberately, he dips his chin in a sharp nod. The concession is absolute. <<else>> You meet his pressure with your own, a wall against a tidal wave. The strain is immense. Your vision tunnels, your head pounds as if in a vice. This is pure agony. But you hold. You lock your knees and refuse to yield an inch. Seconds stretch into an eternity of silent struggle. Frustration builds in his eyes, he cannot break you. With a sudden, explosive snarl, he ends the standoff, shoving you back physically. "Enough!" he barks, his voice ragged. "You’ve got a spine, I’ll give you that. A draw." It’s not a clean victory, but his respect is raw and real. You endured the full weight of his will and did not break. <</if>> The Crucible explodes into cheers and shouts. Ignis has seen you stand against the Hound and not falter. His respect, grudging or absolute, has been won. He exhales hard, sweat and blood on his face, then gives you a lopsided grin. “You’ve got iron in you. Stronger than I thought.” Without another word, he jerks his head toward the shadows at the edge of the arena. The crowd is still roaring, but already you feel the shift, the fight is over, and now comes the reckoning. You catch his wrist, haul him upright, and together you move toward the tunnel where the noise fades. Here, it’s only the two of you. “You’re going to answer a few questions,” you say, your voice carrying the same iron weight that broke his challenge. He chuckles, wincing, nodding once. “Ask.” <<set $wounded = false>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>><<set $str += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> Ignis has seen you. The Hound won’t forget. [[Drag him deeper into the tunnel to talk->hound_talk]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Gaming Table</h2></span> <img src="images/green/gamblingtable.png" alt="The Gaming Table" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The salon dims as if the wards themselves recognize the gravity of the game. A velvet-draped table dominates the chamber, its surface etched with silver glyphs that shimmer faintly with every wager placed. Crystal dice hover in the air, spinning with hungry energy. Cards reshuffle themselves with a whisper like turning leaves. Even the air tastes charged, metallic, sharp, eager for ruin. Alistair Vance reclines at the head of the table, smug and confident, his abacus of debts glowing faintly beside him. “Ah, so the prodigy takes a seat,” he drawls. “I do hope you’ve brought more than borrowed charm.” The crowd leans in. Selene is nowhere to be seen, already weaving her influence elsewhere. This stage is yours. <strong>How will you play?</strong><br><br> <<if $charm gte 25>> [[Silver Tongue->briar_charm_play]] <em>(Dazzle the crowd, manipulate Vance with poise and wit.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity:0.7; font-style:italic;">Silver Tongue (Your Charm is too low.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $dom gte 5>> [[Command the Table->briar_charm_play]] <em>(Impose your will, turn the game into a battle of dominance.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity:0.7; font-style:italic;">Command the Table (Your Dominance is too weak.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $int gte 5>> [[Calculated Play->briar_charm_play]] <em>(Read the odds, exploit the enchanted mechanics.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity:0.7; font-style:italic;">Calculated Play (Your Intellect is too low.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $str gte 4>> [[Brute Disruption->briar_charm_play]] <em>(Shock the table with bold, physical bravado.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity:0.7; font-style:italic;">Brute Disruption (Your Strength is too low.)</span><br> <</if>> <br> <span style="color:#2ECC71;"><strong>Risk Everything</strong></span><br> [[Trust to Luck->briar_luck_roll]] <em>(Place your fate entirely in chance. A true gambler’s move.)</em>

<<set $luckRoll = random(1,100)>> <<goto "luck_rest">>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Stakes Revealed</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/vancefail.png" alt="Alistair Vance" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #2ECC71;border-radius:8px;"> The salon falls silent, the air itself thickening with anticipation. All eyes are fixed on the velvet gaming ring. The dice hover above the table, spinning with a low, magical hum, their facets catching the light like malevolent eyes. The silver glyphs etched into the velvet pulse like veins of fire, each throb echoing the heartbeat of the crowd. Vance is already rattled from the steady bleeding you inflicted earlier, whether through wit, force of will, cunning calculation, or raw intimidation, you’ve driven him to the brink. His stack is diminished, his pride fraying, and yet pride is all that keeps him upright. Selene leans in just far enough for only you to hear. Her whisper is silk-wrapped steel: “Now. End him.” You strike with the precision of a blade. “You play with coppers, Vance,” you say, your voice cutting through the silence, calm and utterly sure. “Let’s discuss a real wager. One worthy of a man of your… alleged stature.” His eyes narrow, greed and desperation flickering like dueling flames. “I’m listening.” “You will wager not coin, but your name. Your honor. Your very freedom.” You lean forward, your words a razor’s edge. “When you lose, you will swear a blood oath of indebtedness to Lady Selene. Your assets, your enterprises, your future earnings, all forfeit as collateral until the debt is repaid. A debt so vast your entire operation could run for a century and not cover the interest.” A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. The chandeliers flicker as if the wards themselves recoil. The sum is astronomical, impossible. Suicide. Vance pales, his hand trembling slightly. He looks at the dice, at his dwindling markers, at the ravenous faces of the salon. You see the calculation in his eyes, the arrogant belief in his own luck, the desperate need to prove himself, the terrifying thought of walking away exposed as a coward. He is cornered, and the only way out he can see is through. “Fine,” he snaps, the word bursting from him in a mix of defiance and panic. “You have your wager. But when *I* win, you will be the one ruined.” The dice fall. The glyphs flare, symbols flashing like struck bells. For a heart-stopping second, luck seems to tilt in his favor, a cruel illusion, the final hook in Selene’s trap. Then they settle. The result is unequivocal. Catastrophic. Vance stares, uncomprehending. The color drains completely from his face. “That’s… impossible,” he whispers. But it is not. It is merely the inevitable conclusion of a game he was never meant to win. The salon erupts. Some cheer your audacious victory, others murmur in shock at the sheer scale of the ruin they have just witnessed. Sycophants who once clung to Vance’s orbit now draw back as if his disgrace might be contagious. Vance slumps in his chair, a broken man. He is no longer a player; he is property. Selene’s eyes meet yours from across the room. She offers a slow, deliberate nod, her expression one of profound, icy satisfaction. She gestures with her glass toward a curtained alcove. The true negotiation is about to begin. [[Follow into the curtained alcove->briar_vance_confront]]

<<goto "luck_result">>

<<if $luckRoll lte 30>> <span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Fortune’s Darling</h2></span> Against every law of probability, the dice tumble in your favor. The cards leap from the deck with uncanny alignment, and even the silver glyphs flare as if *pleased*. Gasps ripple across the salon, you sweep the table with blind luck. Even Vance’s smug composure falters. [[Press the advantage->briar_vance_endgame]] <<else>> <<goto "briar_fail">> <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Debt Sealed</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/vancefacefail.png" alt="Vance in Ruin" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #2ECC71;border-radius:8px;"> The roar of the salon is muffled as the steward draws the curtains, leaving only the three of you in a private alcove. Alistair Vance sinks into a chair, pale and shaking, his earlier arrogance reduced to ash. Selene remains standing, every inch the predator who has just cornered her prey. She sets a crystal ledger on the table, its pages flickering with faint green wards. “Your signature,” she says simply, sliding a stylus across the velvet. “Blood will suffice.” Vance flinches. “This is extortion....” “This is debt,” Selene cuts in, her tone cool and sharp. “You made the wager. You lost. And now you will honor the salon’s memory. Refuse, and every patron out there will know you as a coward, a cheat, and a beggar in fine clothes. What little remains of your reputation will burn.” His hand trembles, but the trap is sprung. With a hissed curse, he pricks his finger and scrawls his name. The stylus glows as his blood binds to the page. A low thrum of magic ripples through the room, the oath sealed. Selene’s smile curves like a blade. “Excellent. You are not ruined, Alistair. You are redeemable. But only through us. From this night forward, you will be called upon. You will make yourself useful when required. And if you do not...” her gaze hardens “the debt will be collected in ways far less pleasant.” Vance says nothing, but the hatred burning in his eyes is proof enough of his helplessness. Then, flicker. The green wards across the page shimmer, sputter, as though something unseen has brushed against the binding. The flaw is subtle, but unmistakable: someone tampered with the magic. Not enough to break it, but enough to remind you this victory isn’t entirely clean. Selene notices. For the briefest instant, irritation flashes across her mask. Then the ledger snaps shut with a decisive clap, her composure restored. “To the salon,” she says, voice light again, “your debt is sealed. To us, it is only beginning.” She turns to you, her expression thawing, the predator’s smile softening into something warmer. “And as for you, my partner? Tonight, we celebrate.” Her fingers trail across your wrist, lingering just long enough to spark heat before she gestures toward the spiral stair. “Come. Let us enjoy the fruits of victory… away from prying eyes.” <<set $str += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> [[Follow Selene to her private chambers->selene_briar_celebration]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Play</h2></span> <img src="images/green/gamblingtable.png" alt="The Gaming Table" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $charm gte 25>><<set $gamble_style = "charm">> <<elseif $dom gte 5>><<set $gamble_style = "dom">> <<elseif $int gte 5>><<set $gamble_style = "int">> <<elseif $str gte 4>><<set $gamble_style = "str">> <</if>> <<if $gamble_style eq "charm">> You don't play the odds; you play the man. With a disarming smile and a well-timed compliment, you draw Vance into a false sense of camaraderie. You let him win a few small hands, laughing off your "losses" as you study his tells. Your charm is a weapon, and you wield it with precision, guiding him to make increasingly reckless bets until he is teetering on the edge of ruin. <<elseif $gamble_style eq "dom">> You command the table not with chips, but with presence. Your voice drops to a low, imperious tone that brooks no argument. You meet every one of Vance's bids with a higher, more audacious one, your will a tangible force that dares him to keep up. The game becomes a battle of egos, and his pride is no match for your dominance. He matches your insane wagers not out of logic, but out of a desperate need not to be dominated. <<elseif $gamble_style eq "int">> You see the game not as chance, but as a complex equation. The shuffling cards, the spinning dice, they all follow magical algorithms you can almost perceive. You calculate probabilities in a blink, identifying statistical anomalies and exploiting them with tiny, precise bets that slowly bleed Vance's stack dry. Your intellect is a razor, dissecting his strategy until he's left with nothing but desperation and a mountain of debt. <<elseif $gamble_style eq "str">> You play with brutal, physical confidence. You slam your fist on the table to emphasize a raise, your sheer physicality unnerving the refined crowd. You call your shots with a booming voice, not leaving fate to chance but imposing your will upon it. Your strength isn't in your muscles here, but in the terrifying certainty of your actions. Vance, used to sly merchants and subtle negotiators, is utterly thrown off his game, making fatal errors under your relentless pressure. <</if>> <br> The final hand arrives. The stakes are impossible. Vance's face is pale, his confidence shattered. He calls your bet, a last, desperate gamble. <br><br> The cards are revealed. The dice settle. The magical glyphs on the table flare with a brilliant, final light. <br><br> He loses. <br><br> The salon falls silent for a heartbeat, then erupts into a whirlwind of gasps and frantic whispers. Alistair Vance slumps back in his chair, a broken man, his fortune and future already crumbling. <br><br> Selene chooses that moment to glide back into view, a look of cold satisfaction on her face. Her plan has unfolded perfectly. <br><br> [[Escalate to the ultimate wager->briar_vance_endgame]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Terms of Surrender</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/selenechamber.png" alt="Selene's Opulent Chambers" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The door to Selene's chambers clicks shut, sealing you in an atmosphere of silken power. Incense coils in the air, jasmine threaded with faint ozone, the perfume of control. This is not a bedroom. It is a throne room disguised as one, every surface speaking of wealth, taste, and dominance. Selene does not rush to you. She appraises you, her eyes lingering as though confirming that the partner she chose tonight has *earned* their place. Then, a smile small, rare, genuine. “You were magnificent,” she murmurs, velvet threaded with satisfaction. “A flawless execution. The debt is bound. The asset is ours.” Her hand sweeps in a languid gesture toward a nearby divan. Lady Briar rises gracefully, dressed only in exclusive underwear. Earlier, she was anxious, brittle with the weight of her financial ruin. Now she is composed, her poise restored by Selene’s promise of patronage. “Our hostess,” Selene explains, her tone cool but indulgent. “She has accepted my protection… in exchange for her loyalty. Tonight, she will act as witness to our partnership and tribute to your role in securing it.” <img src="images/green/walk.gif" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Briar lowers her head in a respectful bow. There is no humiliation in her bearing, only reverence, the calm of someone who knows her debts are at last settled. She comes to you first, fingers deft at your collar, removing each layer with the precision of ritual. Every movement is an acknowledgment: you are the one who shifted the scales tonight. Her lips close over your hard cock with practiced devotion, every movement deliberate, ceremonial. Yet through it all, her eyes remain fixed on Selene, as though awaiting her mistress’s silent approval. But it is Selene’s gaze that binds you. She watches Briar’s ministrations with the air of a queen overseeing ceremony, then glides forward, every line of her body radiating control. “This,” she whispers as she reaches you, her lips grazing the shell of your ear, “is the true currency. Not coin. Not contracts. *This.* Victory embodied. Power made flesh. The right to claim dividends when the market closes in your favor.” <img src="images/green/ffm.gif" alt="Lady Briar bj" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Her gown falls in a whisper to the floor. She does not present herself as spoils, but as a prize, the rarest asset, offered only to a partner who has proven equal in strategy and strength. Her hand guides yours upward, pressing it firmly to the swell of her breast, her own fingers curling over yours, controlling even the intimacy she invites. Her eyes are fierce, yet softened by something warmer than calculation. “Tonight,” she says, voice dropping into a husky vow, “you are not my subordinate. You are my counterpart. My equal. My master strategist.” A smile curves her lips, sharpened by desire. “Now, finalize the merger.” [[Claim Your Dividend->selene_briar_celebration2]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Merger Finalized</h2></span> <img src="images/green/selenebriar.gif" alt="Selene and Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Selene’s command hangs in the air, a delicious current that pulls you all into its flow. You close the distance, your mouth finding hers in a kiss that is less about passion and more about sealing a pact. It is deep, claiming, and tasted of victory and dark wine. As you kiss Selene, Lady Briar does not wait for instruction. She moves behind you, her hands sliding around your waist, her lips tracing the line of your spine. Her touch is reverent, skilled, an offering of gratitude made physical. She knows her role: to worship the instruments of her salvation. Selene breaks the kiss, her eyes blazing with possessive fire. “On the bed,” she breathes, her voice husky with authority. “Both of you.” You guide Selene backward until her knees meet the edge of the vast bed. She sinks onto the silken covers, a queen upon her throne, and pulls you down with her. Briar follows, a graceful shadow, her fingers working to free you from the last of your clothes. What follows is a intricate dance of power and pleasure. Selene sits back, pulling you into her lap, but her control is absolute. She guides your head to her breast, her back arching as your mouth closes over her nipple. A sharp, satisfied gasp escapes her lips. “Yes,” she hisses, her fingers tangling in your hair, dictating the rhythm. “Your dividend… claim it.” As you worship Selene’s breast, Briar finds her place. She kneels beside you, leaving wet kisses along your cock before squeezing her lush breasts around you, stroking with eager devotion. Her hands explore your body with desperate reverence, as if memorizing the power that won her freedom. <img src="images/green/both.gif" alt="Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Selene’s other hand finds Briar’s head, guiding her upward. ‘Not him. Me,’ she commands softly. Selene reclines, drawing you with her, your mouth still fastened hungrily to the soft swell of her breast. Briar obeys without hesitation, shifting her attention to Selene’s other breast, her tongue swirling around the taut peak as her hand slides between Selene’s thighs. Selene moans, a low, throaty sound of pure pleasure, her hips rising to meet Briar’s touch. You are not the conqueror here. You are Selene’s partner, locked to her breast, while Briar’s devotion builds beneath. The sounds of Selene’s moans, the taste of her skin, the heat of her body, all of it crashes over you in a dizzying wave of sensation. Selene’s moans build, each one tighter, sharper, until she exhales in a shuddering laugh, rich, predatory, but touched with surrender. Her eyes lock on yours, pupils blown wide, her body arching beneath you. Then she snaps her fingers. “Briar. Lower.” The command cuts the air like a blade. Lady Briar’s eyes flick up once, to you, then to Selene, before she obeys, sliding down the silken sheets. Her lips and hands leave a trail of heat until she disappears between Selene’s parted thighs. The first wet, reverent stroke of Briar’s tongue makes Selene jolt, her nails sinking into your shoulders. A gasp tears from her throat, sharp, unguarded. She clutches you closer, dragging your mouth harder to her breast, grounding herself against the dual assault of pleasure. <img src="images/green/eating.gif" alt="Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> “Perfect,” she breathes, voice breaking into a moan. “My patron… my partner… both at once.” You lift your head, brushing her nipple with a final kiss before capturing her mouth again. The kiss is different now, softer, claiming without conquest, sealing the partnership in tenderness even as Briar works her below. Selene melts into it, her lips yielding, her body trembling between the ruthless worship of her client and the gentle devotion of her equal. The tension ratchets higher: Briar’s eager, muffled cries mix with Selene’s moans, the air thick with heat and jasmine. Selene’s thighs clamp around Briar’s head, her hips rolling with abandon even as her hands cling to you like a lifeline. Her dominance falters under the weight of sensation, leaving her exposed, undone, yet she revels in it, because she *chose* this surrender. She pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, ragged and raw: “Don’t stop. *Own me.* Tonight, all of this, my plans, my victories, my body, is yours to command.” [[Embrace the new alliance->selene_briar_celebration3]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Seal of Alliance</h2></span> Her whispered surrender hangs between you, fragile and incendiary all at once. You answer not with words but with action, sliding lower, your hand guiding the silk of her thigh open wider. Selene shudders, her breath catching in her throat. When you push your cock into her, her gasp is torn from the core of her being. Her nails rake down your back, sharp enough to sting, but her hips rise to welcome you fully, greedily. For all her dominance, her body betrays her, slick, hot, already trembling with need. <img src="images/green/pene.gif" alt="Selene in Ecstasy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Briar hovers like a shadow, her role fluid but essential. Her hands caress wherever Selene is not occupied: your back, your hips, the curve of Selene’s breasts. She kisses your shoulder as if in devotion, then leans down to press adoring kisses against Selene’s throat, her collarbone, the swell of her chest. Selene moans into your mouth, every sound a clash between command and surrender. “Harder,” she gasps, then a heartbeat later, softer, breaking, “Don’t leave me.” Her contradictions only feed the fire. Briar shifts again, her lips brushing against Selene’s free breast while her hand strokes the base of your shaft with every thrust, amplifying the rhythm, making you both burn hotter. Selene writhes between you, one hand gripping Briar’s hair, the other fisting in the sheets as though clinging to her last scrap of control. <img src="images/green/help.gif" alt="Selene in Ecstasy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The room smells of jasmine, sweat, and triumph. The bed creaks under the weight of the three of you moving as one. Selene’s eyes lock onto yours through the storm of pleasure, wide and blazing. For the first time, there is no calculation, no mask, only raw need and something dangerously close to devotion. “You’ve taken everything,” she whispers raggedly, her words breaking under the onslaught of sensation. “My assets, my power, my body… gods, and I *want you to keep it.*” Briar slides lower, her mouth and tongue teasing you both with every thrust, stroking you, kissing where your bodies join, amplifying the rhythm until Selene is writhing between you. Her dominance falters under the weight of sensation, leaving her exposed, undone, yet reveling in the fact that *she chose this surrender*. <img src="images/green/join.gif" alt="Selene in Ecstasy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The tension builds unbearably. Selene clutches you tighter, her lips on yours in a desperate kiss that tastes of wine and victory, her thighs locking around your hips. When release finally takes her, it rips through her body like lightning. She screams your name, her back arching, her carefully constructed composure shattering completely as she convulses in pleasure. Her climax drags you with her, your release spilling into her in hot, endless waves as Briar moans in muffled devotion against Selene’s trembling body. The three of you collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and triumph. [[Enjoy the afterglow->selene_afterglow]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Quiet Ledger</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/selenechamber.png" alt="Selene at Rest" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> For a long moment, only Selene’s ragged breathing fills the chamber. Then, with her composure slowly returning, she turns her head toward the door. “That will be all, Lady Briar.” Briar bows low, obedient and reverent, before slipping quietly from the bed. The door closes with a soft click, leaving only the two of you in the hush of candlelight. Selene does not rise. She stays draped across you, her skin flushed, her hair spilling in dark waves across your chest. For once, she does not direct or calculate. She simply holds you, the weight of her body warm and grounding against yours. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than you have ever heard it. “Every asset has a value. Every relationship, a term sheet. That is the first rule of negotiation. And I…” Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, possessive and searching, “…I have spent my life calculating the worth of everyone in this academy. Their loyalties. Their desires. Their price.” She exhales slowly, the sigh of a strategist confronted with an impossible equation. “But you… you are an outlier. A variable I cannot solve for. Tonight, you didn’t just acquire Vance. You revalued the entire board. And in doing so…” her lips brush your jaw, lingering, “…you beat *me*. And instead of resenting it…” She lets the thought trail, her forehead pressing to yours, eyes closing as if surrendering her last mask. “I find I want to stay beaten. Just here. Just with you.” The confession is quiet, dangerous, and achingly intimate. Her hand curls against your chest, clutching as though you are the only stable currency left in the world. “…Don’t ever waste this,” she whispers finally, her voice thick with exhaustion. “Not my trust. Not this.” Your vision blurs in the flickering candlelight. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is her arm tightening around you, not as a conqueror claiming an asset, but as a partner daring the world to try and take you from her. [[Surrender to sleep beside her->selene_dream]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of the Silver Lake</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/forest.jpg" alt="Dream Forest Lake" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The dream opens beneath trees. Sunlight spills through the canopy, gold and warm, painting the moss in pale fire. The air is damp with earth and wildflowers, the scent sharp and alive. Beside you lies a lake, still as glass, reflecting the sky with impossible clarity. Even the faintest ripple seems to echo through the grove. From the water’s surface a shadow rises. It twists, stretches, then shatters against the calm, scattering into the trees. Again and again it reforms, only to be torn apart by the lake’s stillness. <img src="images/purple/umbragreed.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her voice winds through the leaves, soft but edged, like ivy tightening around stone. <br>"Selene. The rose of Viridis. She smiles and calls it devotion, but every embrace is a cage." The sound curls tighter, brushing against your skin like creeping vines. <br>"She gathers vows as others gather jewels. Each promise pressed into her keeping. You are not her equal, but her trophy. Another blossom to arrange among her gardens." The shadow strains again, burning violet against the moonlit water. Her eyes fix on you, steady and unblinking, before the calm tears the rest of her form away. "Selene will whisper of eternity. She will offer paradise. But her eternity is a leash, her paradise a prison. By the time you see the bars, it will be too late to run." The forest wind stirs, scattering what remains of her like smoke across the branches. The lake stills, perfect once more, its reflection untouched. The dream folds into silence, leaving only the weight of moonlight on your shoulders. [[Wake up->partner_day3]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Calculated Approach</h2></span><img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You do not follow Elara blindly. Every step is measured, each corridor and side door memorized. Where she pauses, you note what she carries and who she avoids. The pattern is a map: certain deliveries, specific timings, and a short detour she makes down a corridor that seems useless to anyone but her. Tonight, you shadow her into the service wing’s neglected infirmary. The room smells of bitter herbs and disinfectant smoke. Elara slips a small vial into the sleeve of a thin woman on a pallet, murmuring something you cannot quite catch. The woman’s fingers cling to the cloth like a child’s. When Elara straightens, her jaw is tight; whatever is between them is not business. You keep watching until the ledger of small actions reveals the truth. The detour, the careful hands, the way she pockets coin left in secret, this is not trade; it is care. Someone depends on her, and that explains why she will run risks for certain clients: her route funds a fragile life. You step into the infirmary light. Elara freezes, then meets your gaze without surprise. She is used to eyes on her, but few who watch see what truly matters. “You’ve been watching me,” she says. “Studying you,” you correct. “I know the times. I know the routes. And I know that without you, Vance’s appetite would strangle him.” A flicker of unease betrays her calm exterior. You press. “Here is my proposition. You do not alter your service. You alter your loyalty. Every vial you move for him, you move first through me. No one need know. Vance keeps his vice, but I decide when he tastes it.” Her lips part as if to retort, then she closes her mouth. She studies you the way you studied the infirmary: quick, practical. Finally she exhales. “All right,” she says. “But if he suspects, we are both ash.” You hold your offer steady, then add what she did not say aloud but that you observed: the detour, the pallet, the thin woman herself. You promise the thing she needs most, not immediately but conditionally, a cure or stabilizing tincture only possible once other resources move. You explain that when Valeria’s plan reaches its next stage, the flow of favors and supplies will change, and you will be able to source what she needs. In return, she funnels Vance’s shipments through you, clean and untraceable. Elara studies your face for a long moment. Then, in a voice so small it almost sounds like a prayer, she confesses something no one in the salons ever mentions. “There’s another hand behind the Dreamleaf,” she says. “Not one of the students. Not the merchants. Someone brilliant, a maker. I have never seen this person. I only see the product and the way the trade bends around whatever they want. They pull strings farther up the chain. If you want to take this business in the long run, you won’t only have to control suppliers. You’ll have to find the puppeteer. I’ve never met them. I don’t even know a name. But they exist. And they are careful.” Her confession is a whisper, heavy with fear and respect. The detail matters: she speaks of a mind at the heart of the trade, not a face. That means there are players beyond Vance and the salon, and only someone who studies patterns as you do would have any hope of tracing them. “All right,” she repeats after a pause. “On those terms. I will route his shipments through you. Quietly. No rumors. No change he can notice. But when the time comes, and when your plan with Valeria unfolds, you must deliver. Fail me and we both burn.” The pact is sealed with a look rather than an oath. The vein you needed to clamp is now in your grasp and you now carry a new, whispered lead: a nameless creator behind the Dreamleaf trade, a puppeteer waiting up the board. <<set $elara_leverage = true>><<set $heard_puppeteer = true>> [[Continue->shadowing_success]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Commanding Hand</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Elara the Maid in Shadow" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You do not tail Elara like a skulking spy. You step into her path, cutting her off at the servant’s stairwell, your body a wall against the narrow stone passage. She halts, her tray balanced with trained precision, but her eyes flick with the first glimmer of unease. “Move,” she says, voice low and sharp. “No.” The word lands like an iron lock. “You run for Vance. You carry his poison. That ends tonight.” She bristles, masking fear with professional frost. “You have no idea what you’re speaking of. I serve the academy...” “Spare me.” You step closer, forcing her back until the tray rattles against the wall. Your voice drops, low and commanding. “I’ve seen your routes. I know the timings. And I know that without you, Vance withers. He can’t afford exposure. And neither can you.” Elara’s composure cracks, just a flicker, but enough. You press harder, your presence crushing down on her. “You will keep moving his shipments. But from this moment forward, you answer to me. If you falter, if you whisper my name where you shouldn’t, Vance burns first. And you burn with him. Understand?” For a long heartbeat, silence hangs between you. Then she exhales, trembling despite her mask. “…Yes. I understand.” <<if $int gte 25>> You hold her gaze a moment longer, not with threat but with analysis. You point to the faint stain on her sleeve, the scent of tinctures, the infirmary ash that clings to her hem. Your words slide beneath her armor of obedience. “You do this not for profit. There’s someone else. Someone sick.” Elara flinches, just once. It is enough. Her resistance crumbles into wary honesty. “…You’re sharper than I thought. Yes. My sister. Without the coin from this, she doesn’t last the winter.” You nod, filing the leverage away. “Then know this: your secret remains safe, so long as you serve. Valeria’s plan will bring more than coin when it comes to fruition. There are medicines she can acquire. Cures. Do your part, and you’ll have them.” Relief and fear war in her eyes. But then, softer, she adds: “There’s more. A hand higher than Vance. I’ve never met them, never even seen their face. They designed the Dreamleaf itself, brilliant, dangerous. The trade bends around their will. If you want control of this business in the long run, you’ll have to face them. The puppeteer.” The word hangs between you like a curse. Elara adjusts her tray with shaking fingers. She is yours now, but her warning leaves no doubt: tonight you gained leverage, but tomorrow another shadow waits. <<set $elara_leverage = true>><<set $heard_puppeteer = true>> [[Continue->shadowing_success]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> You step back, victory already yours. She adjusts her tray with shaking fingers, her deference clear. But her silence is heavy. You have bent her into service, yet without knowing the why. Somewhere in her secrets, another piece waits, one you did not uncover. [[Continue->shadowing_success]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Threads of Control</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/letter.png" alt="Valeria's Message" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> As Elara disappears into the servant’s stairwell, tray balanced with new deference, a shimmer of blue glyphs blossoms in the air before you. The letters etch themselves in silver flame, Valeria’s unmistakable script burning across the parchment of air. <<if $elara_leverage is true>><<set $str += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> Her words coil with sharp satisfaction: *"Efficient. Surgical. You saw past her mask and struck at the true weakness. That is the difference between a pawn and a partner."* Another glyph flares, sealing the words with Valeria’s sigil. *"Come to my chambers tonight. There is more to discuss, far more than I would trust to a message. Bring your mind sharp and your questions sharper."* The script fades, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and ink. The summons is clear: Valeria has chosen to bring you deeper into her confidence. [[Answer her summons->valeria_chambers_day2]] <<else>> Her words unfold with measured approval: *"Resolved. Efficiently done. Vance will not see the hand that tugs his strings. For that, you have my thanks."* But another glyph appears, sharper, businesslike: *"I cannot meet you tonight. Dreamleaf or ‘Dreamfall,’ as I suspect it is truly named, resists every attempt at dissection. I must devote the hours to the laboratory if I am to unravel its architecture."* A final flourish of ink and glyph-light: "Tomorrow, we speak. Rest. I will require you sharp." The message collapses into a curl of blue flame, leaving silence in its wake. [[Return to your dorm->cobalt_dorm_day2]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Shift in Equations</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/valeriachamber.png" alt="Valeria's Chamber" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Night has already fallen when you step into Valeria’s chamber. The braziers burn low, their blue flames painting shadows across shelves of tomes and instruments. At her desk, Valeria leans forward, bent over a complex lattice of glyphs and glass vials. She is not in her formal robes tonight. Instead, she wears a fitted grey skirt that hugs the generous curve of her hips, and a soft crimson sweater clinging to her figure, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. The angle of her posture pulls the fabric tight, giving you a glimpse of the faint line of her garter belt where the skirt rides high. For a moment you are caught staring, the image too striking to ignore. Valeria does not miss it. She pauses in her work, tilting her head just enough that you see the curve of her smirk in the candlelight. “Gathering data, are we?” she murmurs, her tone sharp but laced with something warmer. “Careful. You might find yourself drawing conclusions you can’t quantify.” Only then does she return to the glowing glyphs, as if nothing happened, though the small, knowing smile never quite leaves her lips. <img src="images/blue/bentred.png" alt="Valeria Focus" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> “Close the door,” she says without turning, her voice cool but lacking its usual edge. “You’ll ruin the containment wards.” You obey, and in the hush that follows you notice the small vial in her hand, its seal glowing faintly before fading. She sets it aside with care, then finally glances over her shoulder at you. “It’s done,” she murmurs. “A cure for Elara’s sister. Already sent. No contract. No payment. Just… done.” She straightens slowly, and as she does, the robe shifts lower, a deliberate pause before she smooths it back into place. Her eyes hold yours, challenging you to acknowledge what you saw. “I should have been calculating yield. Conserving reagents. Maximizing return.” Her lips twitch in a humorless smile. “Instead, I thought only of the girl. And of Elara. And of you.” Her tone dips, unsteady for once. “You’ve bent me off course. Stripped away variables until I act without equation. Do you know what that means?” You step closer, resting a hand on the desk beside her. “It means you trust me.” For a long moment she simply studies you, her gaze sharp but trembling at the edges. Then, softly: “When control falters, I should be terrified. But with you… I wonder if surrender might be another kind of power.” She reaches back, takes your hand, and guides it down over the curve of her hip, pressing firmly until your palm cups the fullness of her ass. Her eyes glint in the low light, dark and promising. <img src="images/blue/grope.gif" alt="Valeria Focus" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> “Tonight,” she whispers, “you blindfold me. You take this body, this unmeasurable asset, and prove what happens when I stop calculating.” Her lips brush your ear in a final murmur, half-invitation, half-command. “Do not let me analyze this. Make me *feel* it.” [[Take her into the experiment->valeria_chambers_night2]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Empty Return</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The door to your dorm closes with a hollow click. Silence settles immediately, heavy and absolute, broken only by the faint creak of wood as the building shifts in the night. No laughter of companions. No warmth of a partner’s arms. Only the echo of your own footsteps as you cross to the narrow bed. You should feel accomplished. Vance’s path has been checked, his threads snared. But instead, unease prickles at your skin. The shadows in the corners of the room seem deeper tonight, shapes shifting just out of focus. Once, you think you catch the glint of eyes, or the faint curl of a smile, where no face should be. When you look directly, the darkness is empty again. You shake it off and lie down, but the sense of being *watched* lingers, needling the edges of your thoughts. Sleep drags at you, heavy and irresistible, but as your eyelids lower you swear the shadows wink in answer. You roll onto your side, the mattress creaking beneath you. The silence presses in like a second blanket, suffocating in its stillness. The shadows in the corners of your room seem to pulse, thickening with each breath you take. Shapes flicker at the edges of your vision, a curve like a hand, a mouth, a whisper, but vanish the moment you try to focus. You close your eyes, willing it all away. Yet as sleep claims you, the sense remains. Something is here. Watching. Waiting. [[Surrender to sleep->cobalt_day2_sleep]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Blindfolded Equation</h2></span> The chamber is quiet except for the hiss of the braziers and the faint hum of magical wards. Valeria stands before you, back straight, her robe slipping loose from her shoulders. She holds herself with the posture of command, but her eyes betray something else entirely: anticipation. You lift the strip of silk and tie it carefully across her eyes. She exhales sharply, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to tear it off. “Blindfolds,” she mutters, her voice trembling. “A variable eliminated. No observation. No data. Only… response.” You guide her toward the bed, easing her down onto her knees first, then over the silken covers. Her voluptuous behind rises high as she braces herself on her elbows. The sight alone stirs you, curves sculpted by fate to be admired, claimed, explored. <img src="images/blue/blind.gif" alt="Valeria in Candlelight" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Your hands trace her hips, then down, squeezing firmly. She gasps, unprepared for the simple dominance of your touch. You spank her once, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet room, and her answering moan is muffled, surprised, but hungry. “Every strike,” she whispers, her words faltering between breaths, “registers like… an input. But the… ahhh.. the sensation spikes… beyond prediction.” You lean close, kissing down the arch of her back before trailing your tongue along the crease of her ass. Her body jerks, muscles tightening. “Gods... hahhh...” she gasps, blindfold trembling against her flushed cheeks. “Don’t stop. Please. I... need...” Her voice breaks into a sharp whimper, syllables splintering. When you press a slick finger against her rear entrance, circling slowly, teasing, her breath grows ragged. Every motion drags another broken sound from her lips. “You’re… r-rewriting me,” she chokes out, the words scattering around a moan. “No control… no framework… just… stim... ahhh... s-sensation…” “Then let’s rewrite you completely.” <img src="images/blue/blindf.gif" alt="Valeria in Candlelight" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> From the desk, you lift a slender rod etched with runes, its tip glowing faintly with alternating pulses of warmth and chill. You trail it down the curve of her back, then over the swell of her ass. She hisses, trying to squirm, caught between fleeing the strange sensation and pressing harder into it. “Heat... hahhh.... and then.... ahhh.... c-cold....” Her knuckles whiten against the sheets. “Contrast… baseline… sh-shattered....” The words break apart, more moan than sense. Her voice splinters further when you drizzle enchanted wax across the pale canvas of her skin. Each drop makes her arch higher, thighs quivering, ass flexing helplessly. The blindfold denies her warning, reducing her to instinct alone. You soothe the heat with a sudden swipe of ice, and she keens, thrusting back desperately. “N-no… control... no… prediction... hahhh.... only... ahhh..." Her thoughts dissolve into a long, trembling cry. Her body trembles as you fasten a binding spell around her wrists, invisible cords tethering her to the sheets. She struggles, futile, but her raised ass is a helpless, perfect offering. <img src="images/blue/ice2.gif" alt="Valeria in Candlelight" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> “Now,” you murmur, slicking her again with deliberate patience, “you’re ready to be solved.” When you press inside, her cry is raw, uncalculated, all equations abandoned. Her curvaceous backside swallows you hungrily, every thrust amplified by the lingering heat and chill, by the helplessness of her bound wrists. Her composure is gone; she writhes, gasps, and moans without restraint, language itself stripped away, reduced to pure response the very thing she feared and craved. [[Raise the tempo->valeria_chambers_night2_climax]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Unsolvable Climax</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/blindds.gif" alt="Valeria Blindfold" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Your rhythm builds, each thrust deeper, firmer, until Valeria is shaking beneath you, her bound wrists clawing at the sheets, her voice fractured into broken cries. Her gorgeous ass quivers with every impact, her body no longer guided by thought but by raw, desperate need. “M-more... ahhh... d-data... no… no data, only... oh gods...” The words collapse, shredded by the waves of sensation overtaking her. All that’s left are gasps, sobs, the frantic clench of her body begging for more. You whisper the release, the bindings dissolving into sparks. Valeria slumps forward, trembling, her blindfolded face buried in the sheets. You ease her onto her side, slipping an arm beneath her, guiding her to turn toward you. She gasps at the shift, thighs clenching instinctively as you stay deep inside her, your bodies aligning now face to face. Her blindfolded cheek brushes yours, and her hands grope blindly until they clutch at your shoulders. “Please... don’t… don’t let go,” she breathes, voice ragged, fragile. You untie the silk, pulling it gently from her eyes. When her gaze finally meets yours, it is glassy and vulnerable, stripped of all calculation. Her lips part, but no words come, only a soft, shuddering breath. <img src="images/blue/lotus.gif" alt="Valeria Embrace" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You kiss her, slow and deep, and she melts into it. The rhythm builds again, hips rocking together in perfect sync, her generous backside pressing into your lap with every thrust. Her moans spill into your mouth, raw and helpless, until the moment crests. Valeria arches, clinging desperately to you as her climax rips through her. She cries out into the kiss, breaking apart in your arms, all her logic and composure obliterated in the sweet chaos of release. You follow, groaning into her mouth as release overtakes you, holding her tight as the waves crash together. When it finally ebbs, you ease her down onto the bed, still holding her. She buries her face in your chest, trembling, clutching at you with uncharacteristic need. “You’ve… broken the equation,” she whispers at last, her voice raw but soft. “No proof. No theory. Just… us.” Her lips press to your collarbone, tender and lingering. And for once, Valeria does not analyze, does not question. She simply breathes, holding you as though afraid the moment might vanish if she let go. [[Hold her close through the afterglow->valeria_afterglow_day2]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Gentle Proof</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/valeriachamber.png" alt="Valeria at Rest" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The storm has passed, leaving only the soft weight of her body pressed against yours. Valeria’s breath warms your chest, uneven at first, then slowly settling into a steady rhythm. Her fingers curl weakly at your side, not grasping for control but simply holding, as if anchoring herself. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The braziers hiss softly, casting lazy patterns across the ceiling, but the silence between you is alive, fuller than words. At last, her voice comes, quiet and unguarded. “Equations collapse under too many unknowns. I used to think people were the same. That if I could isolate enough variables, reduce them to data, I’d never be caught off guard.” She tilts her head, resting her chin lightly on your chest so she can look at you. Her eyes are softer now, stripped of their sharpness. “But you…” She hesitates, almost smiling, almost afraid. “…you make the math impossible. And I think I prefer it that way.” You brush her hair back, and she sighs, melting deeper into your embrace. Her lips ghost across your collarbone in a kiss too tender for her usual precision. For once, there are no calculations, no models, no experiments. Only the simple, fragile truth of her body curled against yours, clinging as though you are the one stable constant in her shifting world. [[Surrender to sleep beside her->valeria_dream]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Still Waters</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/ocean.jpg" alt="Dream Ocean" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The dream opens not in darkness, but in water. You drift in a boundless sea, the clearest of oceans, light spilling down in golden shafts from the surface far above. Even miles beneath, you breathe with ease, each inhale tasting faintly of salt and copper. The current curls around you like silk ribbons, cool and endless, carrying you as though you weigh nothing at all. Something stirs in the blue. A shadow gathers, trying to stitch itself into form, but the ocean will not allow it. Each time she nears solidity the tide scatters her, breaking her into ribbons that dissolve into the depths. <img src="images/purple/umbracold.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her voice threads through the water, cold and precise, as sharp as ice against bare skin. "So you cling to Valeria. The spider in silks. The queen who smiles as she poisons." The sea shivers with her words, sending ripples across your body like knives drawn slow. The shadow’s face flickers, but the current pulls it apart before it can settle. "She will never give you more than a measured sip," the voice whispers. "Each drop sweet, each drop calculated. She will let you hunger so you come back again and again, begging for what she has already denied." The water swells, only her eyes remain for a moment, pale fires smoldering in the deep. "She cannot love without a tally. She cannot touch without turning it into a bargain. And when the day comes, she will let go and call it wisdom. She will call it mercy." The sea surges once more, tearing her apart into nothing but drifting motes, shadows dissolved and swallowed whole by the tide. What remains is silence, the clear water holding you weightless, golden light flickering across your skin until the dream loosens and falls away. [[Wake up->partner_day3]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Empty Return</h2></span> The dream takes you at once. The silence of your room folds into geometry that no waking eye should know. Platforms of light rise and fall in a starless void. Angles bend where they should not bend. The air is cold, but it hums, a vibration that threads through your blood. From the whirl of shadow she steps forward. Her form is voluptuous and severe, skin glowing faintly as though stars are trapped beneath it, hair flowing around her in endless curls of living night. When her violet gaze locks to yours you feel weighed and catalogued, as if every compromise is already written in her sight. <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="Umbra" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her voice fills the dream without need of breath. <br>"You cut the thread. You snared Vance’s path. A victory, neat and clever. Yet you taste it and know it is ash. Even as you smiled, you knew it was not whole." She circles you, slow, deliberate. Memory sparks where her gaze passes: every glance aside, every hesitation, every half-truth you allowed to stand. They flare like embers pricking your skin. "You tried to make it clean," she whispers, the tone both indulgent and cruel. "But there was rot beneath. You think of it even now. A failure inside your triumph." Her hand rises and shadow hardens into form. Metal gleams black and silver in her palm, alive with a faint inner light. <img src="images/purple/pendant.png" alt="Pendant" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She lifts it and holds it before you, as if offering a crown. "This is your reminder. Not of what you did well, but of what you left undone." The pendant moves of its own accord, sliding through the dream to settle against your chest. The touch is cold, sharp, a chain pressed into bone. Pain blooms bright and quick, then sinks into weight. When it eases the emblem remains, heavy and certain. Her smile curves, tender in its cruelty. "You succeeded. You failed. And both belong to me. Wear this, and remember that lesson each time your heart beats beneath it." She leans close, lips brushing the air at your ear. "You will never need another witness. I am enough. Always." The geometry unravels, the dream collapsing around you like shattering glass. You wake with your breath jagged and the pendant a cold, immovable weight over your sternum. <<link "Wake up" "cobalt_day3">><<set $has_pendant = true>><</link>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible’s Test</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="The Crucible Arena" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $primary_promise = "">> The roar of Ignis students rattles the stone walls before you even step inside. The Crucible is alive tonight, torches blazing high, shadows stretching across the blood-stained sand. The stench of sweat, smoke, and anticipation hangs heavy in the air. You are ushered forward into the pit, alone beneath the weight of a thousand hungry eyes. The crowd jeers and cheers in equal measure, daring you to prove yourself. There is no speech, no introduction. Only the unspoken rule of the Crucible: fight, and be remembered. Fail, and be forgotten. <strong>Choose your path:</strong><br><br> <<if $str gte 10>> [[Rely on Strength->tournament_neutral_fight]] <em>(Overpower your opponents with sheer physical force. +Strength)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Rely on Strength (Your Strength ($str) is insufficient for this path.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $dom gte 10>> [[Impose Dominance->tournament_neutral_fight]] <em>(Break their will before the first blow lands. +Dominance)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Impose Dominance (Your Dominance ($dom) is insufficient for this path.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $int gte 10>> [[Fight with Cunning->tournament_neutral_fight]] <em>(Outthink and outmaneuver them, exploiting every mistake. +Intellect)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Fight with Cunning (Your Intellect ($int) is insufficient for this path.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $str lt 10 and $dom lt 10 and $int lt 10>> <br><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> [[Make a desperate attempt anyway->tournament_neutral_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Gentle Breeze</h2></span> <img src="images/black/calm.png" alt="Service Quarters" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The service halls of Aethelgard are narrow, dimly lit, lined with crates and bundles the noble Houses never see. You keep to the shadows, your footsteps masked by the hum of pipes overhead, watching Naomi move with quiet grace. She does not command attention, yet people turn toward her all the same. Wherever she passes, tension eases, tempers cool, and burdens seem lighter. An older groundskeeper grunts against the weight of a crate, frustration spilling out in harsh curses. Naomi joins him without a word, her hands resting lightly on the wood. The struggle seems to soften, his jaw loosening as if the weight itself has lessened. When the crate is finally set down, his muttering has turned into a tired chuckle. Further down the hall, raised voices stop you in your tracks. Two staff members, a cook and a stablehand stand nose to nose, their words sharp with old grudges and fresh fury, anger ready to spill into blows. Naomi steps between them, small and unarmed, her voice little more than a murmur. You cannot hear her words, only the hush of them, like water poured over embers. Their shoulders ease. The heat drains from their faces. They part ways without another word. For a moment, you wonder if she used magic. Yet neither man looks shaken or aware, only relieved, as though the fury had never been theirs to begin with. Naomi simply stands in the quiet that follows, hands folded, as if nothing strange has happened. Then she turns, walks a few paces further, and presses her palm against an old stone wall. Without hesitation, she slips through it, her form fading as if the stones themselves had opened to receive her. A secret, hidden in plain sight. If you wish to follow, you will need more than curiosity. <<if $int >= 14>>[[Unravel the pattern of wards (Intellect)->naomi_secret_dorm]]<br><<endif>> <<if $charm >= 16>>[[Soothe the wall’s dormant will (Charm)->naomi_secret_dorm]]<br><<endif>> <<if $str >= 15>>[[Force your way through with sheer strength (Strength)->naomi_secret_dorm]]<br><<endif>> <<if $dom >= 10>>[[Bend reality to your will (Dominance)->naomi_secret_dorm]]<br><<endif>> <<if $int < 14 and $charm < 16 and $str < 15 and $dom < 10>> [[Fail to pass through->service_quarters_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Hidden Refuge</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sanctuary.png" alt="Naomi's Hidden Sanctuary" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $int >= 14>> The patterns of the wall yield to your intellect, revealing themselves as intricate wards of concealment rather than solid stone. With careful precision, you trace the energy flows and find the precise point of entry, slipping through as effortlessly as Naomi did.<<elseif $charm >= 16>> Your voice finds the right frequency, a soothing murmur that calms the dormant consciousness within the stone. The wall responds to your gentle persuasion, softening to accept your passage with the quiet grace of a sigh. <<elseif $str >= 15>>You focus your strength, not against the stone itself, but against the concept of barrier. Reality strains for a moment before yielding to your sheer force of will, the wall parting reluctantly before your determined advance. <<elseif $dom >= 10>>You simply command the wall to cease its existence as an obstacle. The stone recognizes your authority immediately, flowing aside like water to grant passage to its rightful master. <</if>> The space beyond defies all expectations of the service quarters. Instead of cramped storage, you find yourself in a chamber that feels both secret and sacred. The air carries the same soothing quality you've come to associate with Naomi, a sense of peace that seems to quiet the very noise of the world. Soft light filters from crystalline formations in the walls, illuminating a space that is simple yet profoundly comforting. There are no luxuries here, only essentials arranged with thoughtful care: a small bed, a writing desk, a few shelves with herbs and tinctures, and a quiet seating area. Naomi stands at the center, her back to you, gently arranging dried flowers in a simple vase. She hasn't noticed your presence yet. "This place..." you begin, your voice softer than intended in the tranquil space. Naomi turns slowly, her expression shifting from surprise to something more complex, a mixture of fear, shame, and reluctant acceptance. "You... you found my refuge," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hands flutter nervously before stilling at her sides. "I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy," you say, though the statement feels incomplete. The truth is you meant exactly to find what she was hiding. She shakes her head, a sad smile touching her lips. "It's not really privacy. It's... I don't know what this is. Why I need it." She gestures vaguely at the space. "I've always needed places like this. Quiet corners where I can... breathe. Where I can be away from the tension and competition." She looks at you, her eyes filled with that same confusing mixture of fear and longing you saw earlier. "After what happened between us... I needed to come here. To try to understand what's happening to me." [[Ask what she means->naomi_refuge_revelation]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Service Quarters Failure</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">><img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">><img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">><img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>><img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> You search in vain, but the wall offers no answers. At last, you return to your chamber with only the weight of what you abandoned. You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence pressing down heavier than any chain. Your mind replays the night's choices, each step weighed and found wanting. <<if $pending_promise != "" and $secondary_promise != "">><span class="failure-text">You made commitments to both <<print $pending_promise>> and <<print $secondary_promise>>, but followed through with neither. Two leaders now have reason to doubt you. In Aethelgard, even a single fracture in loyalty can end a career. Two may prove fatal.</span><br><br><<if $pending_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><</if>><<if $secondary_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<elseif $secondary_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>><<elseif $secondary_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><</if>><<elseif $pending_promise != "" or $secondary_promise != "">><span class="failure-text">You failed to keep your word to <<if $pending_promise != "">><<print $pending_promise>><<else>><<print $secondary_promise>><</if>>. One leader now questions your loyalty, and that single shadow may grow darker with time.</span><br><br><<if $pending_promise == "selene" or $secondary_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "nyx" or $secondary_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "valeria" or $secondary_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><</if>> <</if>>And yet your thoughts keep drifting back to Naomi. Not Selene. Not Valeria. Not Nyx. *Her.* The way she calmed conflict with nothing more than a word, how her quiet strength seemed sharper than any blade. You stare at the floor, caught between guilt and stubborn resolve, until the shadows in the corners of the room begin to move. At first you think it is your tired eyes. But then the darkness thickens, spilling like ink across the stone, blotting out the faint light of your lamp. By the time you rise to your feet, it is already too late. The weight of it presses down, swallowing sound, swallowing breath. Your limbs grow heavy. Your eyelids close against your will. The last thing you feel is the cold brush of something unseen against your cheek, intimate, invasive, before the blackness takes you whole. <<link "Fall into the void" "dorm_evening_fail_sleep_neutral">> <<set $pending_promise = "">> <<set $secondary_promise = "">> <</link>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Disappointment</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Sleep takes you quickly, heavy and absolute. The Proctor’s strange gift had carried you through the night, but in dreams the weight turns hollow, crumbling. The darkness shifts. She steps from it, tall and radiant, her body woven from shadow and violet flame. The phantom Lady. Her presence bends the dream around her, a queen of hunger and inevitability. Her gaze finds you, sharp and unrelenting. “Even with his little crutch,” she says, her voice a silken hiss, “you faltered. You had strength not your own, and still… nothing.” <<set $int -= 3>><<set $str -= 3>><<set $charm -= 3>><<set $dom -= 3>> <<set $proctor_boost = false>> <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="real" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The power vanishes from your limbs, leaving only weariness and shame. She circles you like a predator, her eyes burning brighter. “You were lent flame, and you smothered it. Do you not see? You cannot hide your weakness from me. Even propped up, you crumbled. Pathetic.” Her hand, cool and elegant, cups your face. It should be tender, but it is not. Her grip tightens, sharp nails grazing skin. “I craved thunder, and you gave me silence. I reached for a king, and I found dust.” The words slice deeper than her touch. Her disappointment is colder than cruelty. But then her lips curve into something more dangerous: a smile. From her chest she draws a pendant, obsidian framed in silver, pulsing faintly with violet fire. “If the Proctor’s trinket fails you, then you will take mine. You have no choice. This bond is not asked for, it is claimed.” She presses it hard against your chest. The shadows constrict, wrapping around your ribs until you cannot breathe. The fire brands itself into your skin, sinking deep, undeniable. <img src="images/purple/pendant.png" alt="Pendant" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> When she withdraws her hand, the pendant rests against your heart, warm, alive, and wholly hers. “Now,” she whispers, her lips grazing your ear, “you carry me. Rise or fall, your path leads back to my embrace. You will not escape.” The shadows close in, smothering thought, breath, and resistance. <<link "Wake up" "day3_neutral_fail">><<set $int += 3>><<set $str += 3>><<set $charm += 3>> <<set $dom += 3>><<set $has_pendant = true>> <</link>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Revelation</h2></span><img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Naomi's gaze drops to her hands, which are twisting together nervously. "What you made me feel... what I felt when you took control..." She takes a shaky breath. "It should have terrified me. It did terrify me. But part of me... a deeper part... felt like it had come home after being lost for a lifetime." She looks up, tears glistening in her eyes. "I've always been this way. Always trying to soothe conflicts, to help carry burdens, to make peace. I thought it was just... what I was good at. But today, with you..." She steps closer, her voice dropping to a hushed confession. "When you dominated me, it didn't feel like violence. It felt like... recognition. Like you saw the deepest, most secret part of me and knew exactly what it needed." Her hands come up in a helpless gesture. "I don't understand it. This need to yield, to serve, to... belong to someone stronger. It's always been there, like an emptiness nothing else can fill. And then you spoke in the hall today, and that emptiness... it started humming. Calling." She looks around the sanctuary, then back at you. "This place has always been my escape from that feeling. But now... now I think it might have been my preparation. For you." <<if $dom >= 12>> Your dominance responds to her raw honesty, recognizing the truth in her words. "You weren't escaping your nature," you tell her, your voice firm yet gentle. "You were waiting for it to be claimed." [[Claim what she's offering->naomi_refuge_claim]] <<else>><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Her vulnerability touches something protective within you. "You don't have to be ashamed of what you need," you say, your voice softer than you intended. [[Comfort and understand her->naomi_refuge_comfort]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Claim</h2></span><img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> A shudder of profound relief passes through Naomi at your words. "Yes," she breathes, the word carrying the weight of a lifetime of waiting. "That's exactly what it feels like. Like I've been waiting." She sinks to her knees before you, the movement natural and unforced. "This refuge... it's not my secret anymore. It's yours. As I am yours." The air in the room seems to shift, the peaceful energy focusing around you both, acknowledging the truth being spoken. "Let me serve you," she whispers, looking up with eyes full of devotion rather than fear. "Let me be the peace you return to after battle, the comfort after struggle. Let me worship the strength in you that doesn't need to prove itself through cruelty." Her submission isn't weakness, it's an offering of incredible value. The chance to be truly yourself, without masks or performances. Before you answer you look around the peaceful space. "How did you find this place? It feels... ancient." Naomi follows your gaze, her expression thoughtful. "I didn't find it so much as it found me. During my first week here, I got lost in the service corridors, overwhelmed by all the competition and tension. I was leaning against this very wall, trying to calm myself, and suddenly... I was here." She touches the stone wall gently. "It felt like the room recognized something in me. Or maybe I recognized something in it. I've been coming here ever since when I need to remember who I am." She looks back at you, her expression open. "Or perhaps, I was coming here to remember who I was meant to be. For you." The understanding settles between you, this sanctuary, her nature, your dominance, all connected in ways neither of you fully understand yet, but both feel to your cores. [[Accept her service->naomi_refuge_service]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Rejected Service</h2></span> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You look at Naomi, seeing the storm in her eyes, the need that quivers at the edge of surrender, and the fear that chains it down. For a moment, you want to take what she is begging to give. Instead, your words come softer than you intend. "You don't have to be ashamed of what you are," you murmur. "But you cannot let it define all of you." Her head jerks up, confusion flashing across her tear-bright face. "I... I don't understand." "This need to serve, to yield, it’s part of you. But it isn’t the whole of you." You gesture at the sanctuary around you, the air still humming faintly with the echoes of her presence. "Look at this. You bring peace where others bring only fire and steel. That is strength. And yet you hide here, believing your only worth is to bend." Naomi’s lips tremble. Tears spill, not of fear this time, but of breaking realization. "I thought... if I could just be useful enough, if I could take on enough pain, maybe..." Her voice catches. "You are not a ledger to be balanced," you say quietly. "You already have the right to exist. Your gift is real, but it should not cost you everything." For a long moment she only stares, as though the ground itself has shifted beneath her. Then she whispers, "I’ve been using this place to hide. Not to heal." "Yes," you answer, though your chest feels tight. "Don’t wait for someone to claim you. Learn to claim yourself first. Yielding only matters if it is a choice, not a chain." The words should feel noble. Instead, the instant they leave you, the air shudders. A tremor runs through the sanctuary, subtle yet undeniable. Shadows in the corners ripple, as if something vast and unseen has turned its head. It feels as though you have spoken against a current older than the Academy itself, a law written into the marrow of the world. Naomi hugs her arms around herself. The soft light that clung to her seems dimmer now, fragile. She nods, but the sound of it is hollow. "Thank you," she says, though the words break in her throat. "I... I need to be alone." You step back, a weight pressing against your chest. There is no triumph here. Only the unsettling sense that by denying her nature, you have denied more than Naomi, you have denied the design of something fundamental. With a final glance at the sanctuary, already colder without her warmth, you turn away. The wall seals behind you, cutting off the sight of Naomi kneeling amidst her silence. <<set $dominated_naomi = false>> [[Return to the dorm->service_quarters_fail_naomi]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Accepted Service</h2></span> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You rest your hand on Naomi’s bowed head, the gesture both claiming and reassuring. Her breath stills, and in that silence you feel the weight of her waiting. “Rise,” you command, your voice firm yet tempered with something gentler. “Your service is accepted.” Her body trembles as she obeys, not from fear but from the release of a lifetime’s longing. Tears glitter in her eyes, not of weakness but of relief. She moves with quiet purpose, showing you what service means to her, not hollow flattery, but attentiveness woven from instinct. She guides you to a seat, her hands steady as she eases away the burdens of the day. She pours water with reverence, places it in your hand before you even realize you thirst. Each action is deliberate, a language of devotion that asks nothing in return except that you allow it. This is her gift: not submission born of despair, but an offering of peace and balance in a world ruled by ambition and struggle. In yielding, she does not lessen herself. She makes you stronger, not by bowing before your power, but by anchoring it. You feel it in the air, the room itself bending around the bond forming here. This is not a dalliance, not a secret indulgence. It is a covenant, fragile and profound. To accept her service is to accept responsibility for her trust, her loyalty, her very sense of self. The Houses may see only contests of strength and cunning, but here you discover another truth: power is not only in conquest. It is also in being entrusted with what another gives freely. For the first time since arriving at Aethelgard, you feel no compulsion to prove yourself. In Naomi’s offering, you are already enough. [[Rest in the sanctuary->naomi_sanctuary_rest]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Sanctuary’s Embrace</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sanctuary.png" alt="Naomi's Hidden Sanctuary" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The quiet of the sanctuary grows heavier now, no longer just peaceful, but charged. Naomi lingers close, her hands folding in her lap, uncertain of where to put them when not in service. She seems smaller somehow, though not diminished, as if laying down every mask has left her exposed, waiting for your judgment. “I never thought anyone would see me here,” she admits, voice low. “Let alone… stay.” Her words tremble, but her gaze does not. She looks at you with something deeper than devotion, something that borders on surrender of the soul itself. Trust so unguarded it makes your chest ache. You brush a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. The touch is simple, yet it makes her shiver as though it carries all the weight of command. Your eyes drift to her mouth. The way her lower lip quivers ever so slightly under the weight of silence. She notices the focus of your gaze and, almost shyly, catches that lip between her teeth. The small, nervous bite sends a ripple through the stillness. You raise your hand, slow and deliberate, and cradle the side of her face. She leans into it instinctively, her warmth seeping into your palm. Your thumb brushes across her lips, soft, lingering, until they part against your touch. When you draw your hand back, a faint trace of her breath, and a shimmer of saliva, clings to your skin. <img src="images/black/lips.gif" alt="Naomi's Lips" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The tension snaps. You close the space between you, catching her lips with your own in a kiss that is anything but tentative. It is hungry, claiming, yet threaded with a tenderness that makes her tremble against you. Her breath escapes in a quiet gasp, and then she yields fully, pressing into the kiss with all the weight of her trust. The sanctuary seems to tighten around you both, as though the chamber itself bears witness to this fragile, passionate surrender. [[Let the kiss deepen->naomi_sanctuary_rest2]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Cosmic Tangle</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">><img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">><img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">><img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>><img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence pressing down heavier than any chain. Your mind replays the night's choices, each step weighed and found wanting. <<if $pending_promise != "" and $secondary_promise != "">> <span class="failure-text">You made commitments to both <<print $pending_promise>> and <<print $secondary_promise>>, but followed through with neither. Two leaders now have reason to doubt you. In Aethelgard, even a single fracture in loyalty can end a career. Two may prove fatal.</span><br><br> <<if $pending_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> <<elseif $pending_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<elseif $pending_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><</if>> <<if $secondary_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> <<elseif $secondary_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<elseif $secondary_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><</if>> <<elseif $pending_promise != "" or $secondary_promise != "">> <span class="failure-text">You failed to keep your word to <<if $pending_promise != "">><<print $pending_promise>><<else>><<print $secondary_promise>><</if>>. One leader now questions your loyalty, and that single shadow may grow darker with time.</span><br><br> <<if $pending_promise == "selene" or $secondary_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> <<elseif $pending_promise == "nyx" or $secondary_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<elseif $pending_promise == "valeria" or $secondary_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>><</if>> <</if>> And yet your thoughts keep drifting back to Naomi. Not Selene. Not Valeria. Not Nyx. *Her.* The memory of her voice lingers, soft and steady, the way her presence dissolved tension like mist in the sun. There was power in it, though not the kind the Houses respected. Not force, not fire, not dominance. Something older, quieter. A strength that healed instead of cut. The thought of turning away from it gnaws at you. Was it mercy you offered her? Or arrogance? For the first time tonight, doubt coils deep inside you. A sharp pain blooms in your chest, sudden and searing, as if invisible hands were twisting something vital within. You clutch at your ribs, struggling to breathe. The air itself grows heavy, pressing against your skin. The shadows at the corners of the room ripple, then thicken. They crawl across the floor like spilled ink, swallowing the faint light of your lamp. You try to rise, to fight it, but your limbs grow heavy, leaden. Sound dies in your throat. Breath falters. The darkness presses close, smothering. Your eyelids close against your will. The last thing you feel is the cold brush of something unseen against your cheek, intimate and invasive, before the blackness takes you whole. <<link "Fall into the void" "dorm_evening_fail_sleep_neutral_naomi">> <<set $pending_promise = "">><<set $secondary_promise = "">> <</link>>

Sleep enfolds you, heavy and sweet. Darkness gathers, and then it bends into impossible shapes, a geometry that hums with silent power. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and jasmine. From that hush she emerges. Her form gleams with a faint, inner light, her hair a living cascade of shadow that coils and caresses her curves. Her violet gaze fixes on you, proud and hungry. Her voice is not sound but sensation, a lover’s touch at the back of your skull. <br>"Yes. You begin to blaze at last. I saw you tonight, and it pleased me. You are learning to walk with fire." She circles you slowly, savoring you, the dream stretching until each step seems to take an hour. The weight of her attention leaves your skin tingling, your heart thrumming too fast. <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="Umbra" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She stops close, her smile soft with dangerous pride. "You are ready to be claimed. Not as punishment, but as honor." <<if $$has_pendant>> Her eyes flick to the faint glow at your chest. The pendant hums, a brittle light. She laughs quietly, rich and mocking. Her hand rises, fingers tracing the air just above the pendant, but she does not press further. Her smile lingers, smug and indulgent. "Good, keep it close. It shows who you belong to." She withdraws, dissolving back into shadow. The last thing you see is her smile, sharp as promise. <<link "Wake up" "day3_fail_naomi">><</link>> <<else>> From her hand something coalesces, shadow folding into metal, black and silver, beautiful and terrible. <img src="images/purple/pendant.png" alt="Pendant" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She lifts the pendant to your throat, and without touch its weight settles there, cool and absolute. The sensation is both a gift and a chain, her mark pressed into the very rhythm of your heartbeat. "Mine," she whispers, her lips brushing your ear. "Carry this, beloved spark. With it, you will blaze brighter. With it, you will never forget who walks beside you." The pendant warms, pulsing with each beat of your heart as the dream folds away. <<link "Wake up" "day3_fail_naomi">><<set $has_pendant = true>><</link>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Joining of Peace</h2></span> Naomi lies flushed and trembling beneath you, her skin glowing in the soft crystal light, her hair spread like a dark halo against the sheets. She looks at you through half-lidded eyes, dazed but still full of that aching trust, that willingness to bare everything. “I don’t know how to be the one taken care of,” she whispers, voice breaking. “But… I want to try. With you.” You kiss her again, softer than before, savoring the taste of her breath. As your bodies align, you move with patience, easing into her vagina with slow, steady care. She gasps, clinging to you, her nails catching against your back, her thighs trembling as they part wider to welcome you. <img src="images/black/sex4.gif" alt="Naomi's sex" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The sanctuary seems to breathe with you both, its hush thickening into something sacred. Each thrust is gentle but inexorable, pulling sighs and moans from her lips, her body arching instinctively to meet yours. “Ahh...” Her voice trembles, her words breaking into breathless sounds. “It feels… like you’re filling something I’ve carried empty… for so long…” Your hands guide hers, pressing her palms against your chest. “You give so much to everyone else,” you murmur. “Tonight, let it return to you. Let me show you you’re more than enough.” Her eyes glisten with tears, but they are tears of release. She kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips, as if to tether herself to you. With every motion she grows bolder, hips rising to meet yours, voice losing its restraint. The rhythm builds, slow at first, then harder, deeper, her moans cresting into cries that echo off the sanctuary walls. Her surrender is not weakness, it is revelation, a yielding that carries with it the strength of being seen, accepted, and cherished. <img src="images/black/climax.gif" alt="Naomi's climax" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The climax overtakes her like a breaking storm, her body seizing around you, her cry raw and unguarded. You follow her over the edge, the sanctuary itself seeming to shimmer as if acknowledging the bond sealed within its walls.<<set $str += 2>><<set $charm += 2>><<set $dom += 2>><<set $int += 2>> You collapse together, her arms winding tightly around you, her forehead pressed to yours. In the aftershocks, she whispers hoarsely, “I was so afraid… but now, I feel… whole.” You hold her close, the crystal light flickering above, the hush of her refuge enfolding you both like a vow unspoken but undeniable. [[Rest together in the sanctuary’s afterglow->naomi_sanctuary_afterglow]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Quiet After</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sanctuary.png" alt="Naomi's Sanctuary Afterglow" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The sanctuary lies still, its light softened to a gentle glow, as if the walls themselves are guarding the silence around you. Naomi curls against your chest, her breath warm, uneven at first, then slowly steadying. Her fingers clutch weakly at you, not in fear, but as if afraid you might dissolve like a dream. You tighten your hold, stroking her hair until the tension in her hand eases. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The hush between you is not empty, but alive, filled with the sound of her heartbeat against yours, the faint hum of the crystals, the rhythm of two souls finding accord. At last, Naomi shifts just enough to look up at you. Her cheeks are still flushed, her lips kiss-bruised, but her eyes shine clear and vulnerable. “I feel… safe,” she whispers, voice cracking on the word as though it is foreign to her tongue. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel that here.” You brush your thumb along her jaw, and she leans into it instinctively, closing her eyes as if savoring the simplest of touches. “You’re not just safe,” you tell her softly. “You’re seen. You’re wanted. As you are.” Her tears slip free, but she smiles through them, small, fragile, luminous. She presses her forehead to yours, her breath mingling with your own. “Then I’ll give it all to you,” she breathes. “This refuge. This peace. Myself. If you’ll keep me.” You kiss her gently, sealing her vow not with dominance, but with quiet acceptance. The sanctuary hums faintly around you, its walls shimmering as if to acknowledge the bond it has witnessed.<<set $partner_naomi = true>> Naomi nestles closer, her body soft and trusting, her hand splayed over your heart. In that closeness, there is no hunger, no conquest, no mask. Only the fragile strength of intimacy shared. And for the first time since Aethelgard drew you into its storm, you drift into sleep not as a warrior, not as a strategist, but as someone finally at peace. [[Surrender to sleep in Naomi’s arms->naomi_dream]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Union</h2></span> <img src="images/black/union.png" alt="Union" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The dream is still. No shifting geometry, no hungry voice, no shadow waiting to claim you. There is only Naomi, her arms around you, her warmth steady and real. The hush of the dream folds around you both like a blanket, quiet and complete. You breathe together, heartbeats finding the same rhythm. For a long while there is no need for words. The embrace is enough. Slowly the silence stretches, not away from you but out from you, as though the dream itself is widening to hold what you feel. The stillness becomes radiant. Stars kindle in the dark above, then spiral outward, constellations unfurling into patterns too vast to name. And yet you and Naomi remain locked together, unmoving at the center of it all. The galaxy swirls around and through you, light pouring like water, but none of it touches the bond between your bodies. The dream hums with a single note, deep and endless: harmony. Time has no meaning here. Only closeness, only trust, only the quiet truth of her heartbeat against yours. The dream fades not with shattering or collapse, but like a song resolving to silence. You wake still warmed by her presence. [[Wake up->naomi_day3]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Gentle Unveiling</h2></span> Your kiss lingers, deepening until the boundaries between you blur into nothing but warmth and breath. Naomi’s hands tremble as they rise to your chest, fingertips skimming as though memorizing you by touch alone. You mirror her, tracing the delicate lines of her arms, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her waist. She gasps softly when your lips trail down her neck, shivering under every press of your mouth. Her own lips find your throat, tentative kisses that taste of surrender and quiet yearning. The two of you move together slowly, hands exploring, learning, undressing each other piece by piece until the hush of the sanctuary is filled with the sound of fabric sliding away. <img src="images/black/undress.gif" alt="undress" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Naomi sinks to her knees, her instinct pulling her toward service. She looks up at you, devotion bright in her eyes, lips parting as she reaches for you. But you stop her gently, cupping her face. “Not this time,” you murmur. “Tonight, it’s your turn. Make me happy by letting me give to you.” Her cheeks flush crimson, her breath catching as though she’s never considered such a thing. “M-my turn?” she whispers, almost dazed by the thought. You guide her onto the low bed, easing her back against the soft linens. She bites her lip, trembling, but she doesn’t resist. When you press kisses down her body, she arches into every touch, her trust laid bare. By the time your mouth finds her, she is already trembling with need. Your tongue caresses her with slow, tender devotion, savoring the taste of her, drawing soft cries that spill from her lips despite her attempts to stifle them. Her hands clutch at the sheets, then at your hair, torn between shyness and desperate yearning. Her thighs quiver as you add your fingers, sliding in with exquisite care, stretching her to the rhythm of your tongue. “Ahh...” Her moan breaks, her voice caught between shame and ecstasy. “I-I can’t… it’s too much…” <img src="images/black/pussy.gif" alt="Pussy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> But you don’t stop. You coax her higher, every flick of your tongue, every curl of your fingers breaking down her defenses. Her hips lift helplessly, chasing more even as she tries to cover her face with one trembling hand. Her climax takes her suddenly, a shuddering wave that arches her back and pulls a cry from deep within her chest. She blushes furiously even as she falls apart, tears slipping free from the sheer intensity of the release. You kiss her inner thigh softly, lingering in the aftershocks, before lifting yourself back to her side. She clings to you, still trembling, still flushed. [[Hold her as she recovers->naomi_sanctuary_climax]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar’s Salon</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarsalon.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Gathering" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $secondary_promise = "">> The salon breathes like a living spell. Perfume mingles with the ozone tang of wards laced into the marble walls. Chandeliers burn not with fire, but with bottled wisps, restless sprites whose glow rises and dims in time with the crowd’s moods. Every corner hums with enchantment: - Tarot decks shuffle themselves, offering different faces to each onlooker. - Crystal dice tumble endlessly in the air, their roll whispering odds only gamblers can hear. - Miniature duels spark between glass spheres, echoes of famous battles replayed for polite applause. This is not a gathering. It is a crucible of reputation, where every word is an incantation, every glance a wager. Selene glides at your side like a queen inspecting her court. Nobles lower their gazes without knowing why, merchants fidget with their ledgers, and even the professors smooth their robes as if caught out of place. She leans close, her perfume a weave of jasmine and ozone. “Darling,” she whispers, velvet but edged, “your task is simple. Find Lady Briar. Charm her. Distract her. Keep her so enthralled she forgets the walls are moving beneath her feet.” Her fingers brush yours, lingering, not affection, but a reminder. Trust sharpened into warning. Then she is gone, vanishing into the tide of silk, smoke, and murmured wagers. The current of the salon pushes you forward, until your eyes fall upon her. Lady Briar sits like a moon among stars, her dark brown hair coiled into an elegant braid threaded with silver pins, her gown a shimmer of pale silver that catches the sprite-light and scatters it like moonfire. Courtiers orbit her with brittle smiles and nervous flattery, but it is clear she is the one holding them all in place. Her eyes, dark as obsidian, track your approach with a slow, measured interest. Not welcoming, not dismissive, the look of a woman who has weighed kingdoms before breakfast and found most of them wanting. [[Step into Lady Briar’s orbit->briar_meeting_start]]

<<if not $visited_valeria_approach>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Calculated Directive</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/letter.png" alt="Valeria’s Magical Note" style="max-width: 60%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Among your belongings lies a folded sheet of parchment that should not exist. No courier delivered it, no servant placed it. It hums faintly when you touch it, as though quills are still writing even after the ink has dried. When you open it, words rearrange themselves into Valeria’s neat, unyielding hand, forming line after line with surgical precision: “If you wish to apply that intellect to a worthwhile problem, there is a student, Alistair Vance. His behavior patterns are statistically aberrant. I require a full diagnostic. Observe him. Document his routines and interactions. Report your findings to me. Consider it a practical examination.” The letters do not fade when read. They etch themselves deeper, as though binding the command into your very memory. By the time you lower the page, the parchment has already turned to dust between your fingers. <</if>> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Shadowing the Academy</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy at Dusk" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $secondary_promise = "">> The academy after dusk hums with a different kind of life. Quills scratch unattended across parchment, enchanted lanterns drift lazily in the air, and the faint whisper of wards brush against your skin like invisible cobwebs. You move unseen, another shadow among many. Ahead of you strides Alistair Vance, flanked by a gaggle of sycophants. His voice rings too loud in the quiet corridors, each laugh rehearsed, each gesture calculated to draw eyes. He walks like a man convinced the game is already won, every step a strut of practiced confidence. “Lady Briar’s salon,” he declares, pitching his words just high enough for the hallway to carry them. “By the end of tonight, half the academy will be in my debt.” The boast lands with weight. He is bound for the gathering. The problem? You are not invited. Without a sealed token of entry, the salon’s wards would reject you before your second step. You slip into an alcove as two servants hurry past, their voices hushed but sharp with worry. “He’s burning too fast again,” one mutters. “And as always, Elara keeps him steady,” the other sighs. “As long as the Headmaster turns away, nothing changes.” Elara. His maid. Quiet, reliable, ever present in his orbit. Not a noble, not a gambler, but someone who holds his balance in unseen ways. Valeria’s command whispers in memory: Observe. Analyze. Extract. This is the angle. Follow the maid, uncover her role, and you will find Vance’s weakness. The salon may be closed to you tonight, but opportunity is not. [[Seek out Elara->shadowing_elara_house]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="The Crucible Arena" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $secondary_promise = "">> The roar of Ignis students hits you before you even step inside. The Crucible is alive tonight, torches blazing, shadows writhing across blood-stained stone, and the stench of sweat, steel, and smoke thick in the air. You are alone in the center of the arena, the Houses watching from high seats of stone. The time has come to prove yourself, not with words, not with schemes, but with action. <strong>Choose your path to victory:</strong><br><br> <<if $str gte 18>> [[The Path of Raw Power->tournament_house_fight]] <em>(Overwhelm your opponents through sheer, undeniable Strength ($str).)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Raw Power (Your Strength ($str) is insufficient for this brutal approach.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $dom gte 15>> [[The Path of Unbreakable Will->tournament_house_fight]] <em>(Intimidate and dominate your opponents before the fight even begins with Dominance ($dom).)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Unbreakable Will (Your Dominance ($dom) is too weak to impose your will.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $int gte 8>> [[The Path of Cunning->tournament_house_fight]] <em>(Outthink and outmaneuver your opponents, exploiting their every mistake with Intellect ($int).)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">The Path of Cunning (Your Intellect ($int) is too dull to find a winning strategy.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $str lt 18 and $dom lt 15 and $int lt 8>> <br> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> [[Make a desperate attempt anyway->tournament_house_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Lady Briar turns as you approach, the light of the sprites glinting off her silver gown. Her eyes, dark and sharp, sweep over you once, weighing more than your words could ever offer. <<if visited("viridis_report_fail")>> Her gaze hardens. The room seems to cool, though the braziers still burn bright. “I remember you,” she says, voice smooth but cold. “Promises left empty. Reports left unanswered. Do you imagine Selene forgets such slights?” Her silence stretches until you feel the weight of half the salon pressing in. Then, at last, she exhales softly, the edges of her glare softening. “Still… I am in a forgiving mood tonight. Consider this your reprieve. Use it well.” <</if>> She gestures faintly with her glass, a signal that you may remain, not an invitation, but a test. Your attention is pulled toward the far end of the salon. Selene is not with you; she is seated with a man you have never seen before. He is broad-shouldered, his hair a sweep of dark gold, his smile a weapon sharpened by use. His laughter carries easily, drawing glances and murmurs from those nearby. “Lord Valerius,” Lady Briar supplies, her lips curving around the name like it tastes of secrets. “A dangerous man to some. A charming man to others.” Your eyes flick back to her just in time to catch the subtle lean of her body toward him. The brush of her hand near his arm, her laughter softer than before. She is flirting, not shyly, not coyly, but with the practiced grace of a woman who knows her effect and wields it with precision. Across the room, Selene’s expression is serene, her glass lifted as though the game unfolding beside her is entirely of her own design. [[Watch the exchange unfold->briar_valerius_scene]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Salon’s Current</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarsalon.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Salon" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The hum of the salon shifts. Conversations ripple around you, hushed laughter and clinking glasses punctuating the air. Selene sits at a table in the background, her movements measured and unhurried as she places cards upon the velvet surface. The crowd around her leans forward, caught between awe and dread. She does not look at you, but her presence stretches across the room like a second ward, silent and unbreakable. Closer to you, Lady Briar and Lord Valerius are locked in their own game. She leans toward him with a subtle tilt of her shoulder, the silver fabric of her gown catching the light. His hand lingers near hers, his smile warm but edged, as if every word he speaks is both invitation and weapon. To stand in their current is to feel the pull of two tides. The question is whether you can steady yourself, or be swept under. <<if $dom >= 11>> You meet Lady Briar’s gaze directly. Your presence carries weight, not loud or brash, but commanding enough to remind her that you are not another ornament for her amusement. She pauses in her flirtation, her lips curving into something sharper, acknowledging the strength she feels pressing back. [[Hold her attention->briar_valerius_success]] <<elseif $charm >= 20>> You slip into the rhythm of the conversation, offering a word here, a glance there, until Lady Briar’s eyes linger on you. Her smile softens, the angle of her body shifting so that Valerius is no longer the sole focus of her attention. For a moment, you feel the current bend toward you. [[Steal the moment->briar_valerius_success]] <<elseif $int >= 8>> You watch carefully, catching the subtle patterns behind their performance. Briar’s laughter comes half a second too quickly. Valerius’s compliments are just a touch too rehearsed. They are sparring with elegance, but sparring nonetheless. Knowing this, you slide into the rhythm with quiet precision, a player now in their game rather than a bystander. [[Join the game with insight->briar_valerius_success]] <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. The moment slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> Lady Briar and Lord Valerius drift from you, their laughter weaving together as they move toward the gambling tables. Selene is already there, the flick of her wrist turning cards into inevitabilities, her poise unshaken. The tide of the salon flows past you, carrying them further from your reach. [[Hurry after->briar_valerius_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Winning Move</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar's Favor" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The salon’s energy tilts as you step into the moment, every eye drawing toward you as though the room itself leans to listen. <<if $dom >= 11>> Your command of presence is undeniable. A single glance, a perfectly timed word, and conversation bends around you. The nobles gathered nearby fall silent, their attention hooked. Lady Briar flushes under the weight of your gaze, her lips parting slightly before she catches herself. <<elseif $charm >= 20>> Your wit flows effortlessly, each word striking like wine poured too smooth to resist. Laughter bursts around you, genuine and warm, and Lady Briar leans closer, her hand brushing yours as if by accident. Her blush betrays the thrill she cannot mask. <<elseif $int >= 8>> You speak with precision, weaving a small observation into a striking truth that silences those around you. The logic is irrefutable, and even the most jaded listeners find themselves nodding. Lady Briar’s dark eyes shine with admiration, her smile blooming despite her attempt to stay composed. <</if>> Lord Valerius stiffens. His hand tightens on his goblet, his jaw set in irritation as the attention shifts. His gaze narrows not at Lady Briar, but at you. The jealousy is plain, simmering just beneath his polished exterior. <<set $str += 1>><<set $dom += 1>><<set $int += 1>><<set $charm += 1>> You seize the moment. Slipping an arm lightly around Lady Briar’s waist, you guide her closer. In the shuffle of bodies and polite applause, your hand brushes lower, cupping the curve of her backside in a fleeting, secret claim. She stiffens at first, then blushes crimson, her lips trembling with both shock and exhilaration. She does not pull away. <img src="images/npc/dance.gif" alt="Lady Briar's Favor" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> “Would you grant me a dance?” you murmur, your voice pitched low enough that only she can hear. She nods, too quickly, the silver of her gown shimmering as she lets you lead her toward the center of the salon. The musicians need no cue; the melody swells, rich and deliberate. As you guide Lady Briar across the floor, the salon watches, the motion itself becoming performance. She leans into you, her dark hair brushing your cheek, her perfume sweet with nervousness and excitement. Valerius lingers at the edge, every muscle in his body tense as he follows each step. You catch his eye just long enough to plant the seed. “If you are wise, Lord Valerius,” you say with a courteous smile sharpened to a blade, “you will invite Lady Briar to a picnic tomorrow. A suitor with less hesitation might steal her from you otherwise.” The words hang in the air, wrapped in politeness but edged with undeniable challenge. Valerius falters, his jealousy now visible to all who watch. Lady Briar lowers her gaze, cheeks flushed, but her smile betrays her delight. The dance continues, and the salon hums with whispers. Tonight, you have shifted the balance. [[Continue the evening->briar_valerius_dance]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Misstep</h2></span> <img src="images/green/gamblingfail.png" alt="Salon Defeat" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You hurry after Lady Briar and Valerius, their laughter trailing like bait through the shifting current of the salon. The glitter of cards and dice draws them to Selene’s table, where the true center of gravity waits. Selene sits poised, her fingers dancing across the velvet surface as if she controls not only the game, but the room itself. Her opponents watch her with a mix of awe and dread, every card she turns over tilting fortune further in her favor. The salon breathes with her rhythm. Then you arrive. Too fast. Too loud. A ripple of distraction cuts through the hush at the wrong moment. Selene’s hand stills just briefly, but long enough. The next card flips against her, and for the first time tonight, her stack dwindles. The crowd stirs, murmurs rising like storm winds. Selene’s eyes find you at once. They are not furious, they are colder than fury. The weight of her silence is enough to still the table, to still you. When she finally speaks, her words are measured, each one striking with surgical precision. “Return to the dorm. We will discuss your… suitability in Viridis tomorrow.” There is no more to say. No plea, no explanation will shift her tone. The judgment has already been passed. You leave the salon, the perfume and laughter now tasting of ash. Every step back to your dormitory feels heavier, the night pressing down like a verdict. <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> [[Return to the dorm in disgrace->dorm_evening_fail_house]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>A Heavy Return</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> The door closes behind you, the latch clicking like a judgment. The silence that greets you is not peace, but a weight that presses down on your shoulders. <<if $pending_promise != "">> <span class="failure-text">You made a commitment to <<print $pending_promise>> but failed to follow through. Your inaction has not gone unnoticed.</span><<if $pending_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <</if>> <<set $pending_promise = "">> <</if>> You drop onto the edge of your bed. The voices of the day still echo in your skull. <<if visited("shadowing_fail")>>Valeria’s analysis of your inadequacy.<<elseif visited("crucible_fail")>>Nyx’s laugh, sharp and merciless.<<elseif visited("briar_fail")>>Selene’s cool dismissal, her words edged like glass.<</if>> It is not affection you have endangered, but reputation. Standing. Survival in a House that values results above excuses. You remain among them, for now, but the eyes that once weighed your potential now measure your weakness. The air in your chamber feels colder than it should, the lamp’s glow dimmer. The shadows stretch long across the floor, seeming to shift when you look away. You rub your eyes, but the heaviness clings, seeping into your bones. [[Collapse into uneasy sleep->dorm_evening_fail_house_sleep]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Dance of Secrets</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/dancing.png" alt="Lady Briar Dance" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The music swells, and Lady Briar moves gracefully in your arms, silver gown shimmering with every turn. Her steps are practiced, but her composure falters as she looks up at you, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispers, her lips close enough that her breath brushes your cheek. “For arranging that picnic… Valerius will think it was his idea, but I know better.” You smile, leaning closer, your hand steady at the small of her back. “I only nudged him in the right direction. A clever woman deserves no less.” She hesitates, her eyes flicking away, then back. Her voice trembles, shy but honest. “The truth is… I would rather spend that time with you. But my family expects me to humor men like Valerius. Obligations, appearances… chains in silk.” The admission hangs between you, fragile, dangerous, yet full of longing. You bend close, your words brushing against the shell of her ear. “I understand. But that should not stop us from enjoying tonight.” Her breath catches, her blush deepening. For a moment, she sways as if the floor shifted beneath her. Then, with sudden boldness, she presses closer, her body molding against yours as the dance slows. When the final notes fade, she lingers in your arms longer than propriety allows. Then, with a furtive glance at the watching crowd, she takes your hand. “Come with me,” she whispers, urgency trembling in her tone. Without another word, she leads you from the salon. The wards part for her presence, and soon the music and laughter fade into silence. Her chambers await. [[Follow Lady Briar->briar_chambers]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar’s Chambers</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarchamber.png" alt="Lady Briar's Private Chambers" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $briar_night = "true">> Her chambers are a different world from the glittering salon. The air is thick with rose oil and candlelight, the walls draped in green velvet embroidered with flowering vines. Here there are no nobles, no expectations, only the woman before you. Lady Briar closes the door behind you, leaning against it as though gathering courage. The silver of her gown glimmers in the low light, her dark hair spilling across her shoulders. “I should not have brought you here,” she murmurs, though her eyes never leave yours. “But I could not let tonight end… not yet.” She steps forward, her hand trembling as it finds yours. Her voice softens into something more vulnerable, stripped of the salon’s careful performance. “Will you stay with me?” [[Stay with Lady Briar->briar_chambers_intimacy]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Minx in Silver</h2></span> Lady Briar turns her back to you, her hands lingering at the clasp of her dress. “Undress me,” she commands softly, the faintest tremor in her voice belying her boldness. You obey without hesitation, sliding the silver fabric down from her shoulders. It pools around her feet in a whisper of silk, leaving her in nothing but delicate underwear that clings to her curves. Her breasts are full, perfect, swaying slightly as she steps forward. Her hips flare into a lush, generous bottom that jiggles with every teasing sway. You pause, caught in admiration, until a playful laugh snaps you from it. She has already stretched out on the bed, dark hair spilling across the pillows, her hand wrapping firmly around your cock. Before you can speak, her lips part, and the heat of her mouth envelops you. Your surprise only amuses her further. She pulls back with a sultry glance. “Just for tonight,” she murmurs, her tongue tracing you hungrily, “let me do as I please.” <img src="images/npc/lying.gif" alt="Lady Briar bj" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You groan, pushing deeper into her mouth, but when you try to reclaim control, she refuses to yield. Her determination is relentless, her focus absolute. The only way to redirect her is to physically pull her away, your hand threading into her hair as you tug her head back. She gasps, lips glistening, eyes wide. You smile, breathless. “I have a new task for you.” Pulling her atop you, you press her down until your cock slides against the damp heat of her panties. Her ass settles on your lap, soft and heavy, grinding against you. With one deft motion she pushes the fabric aside, lowering herself onto you in one smooth, desperate glide. The shock of her warmth steals your breath. She rides you with an eager rhythm, her ass bouncing hypnotically, her breasts swaying with each movement. Your hands grip her hips, then slap sharply against her lush curves, drawing out a cry that echoes your name. “Ahh… <span class='player-name'>$name</span>!” she moans, her voice breaking as she bucks harder, chasing her own ecstasy with wild abandon. Your control falters. With a growl you flip her onto her stomach, pressing her flat against the sheets. You take her from behind, driving into her with sharp, relentless thrusts. She claws at the sheets, her voice ragged. “Oh gods, <span class='player-name'>$name</span>! Harder... don’t stop!” You catch her wrists, pulling them back, holding her helpless as you pound into her. Her walls tighten around you, clenching with every stroke, until the rising tide becomes irresistible. <img src="images/npc/doggy.webp" alt="doggy" style="max-width:80%; height:auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> With one final thrust you bury yourself deep, spilling into her as her body seizes in climax. She cries out, shuddering beneath you, trembling as hot seed fills her. When it is done she collapses against the bed, giggling breathlessly, the white of your release slipping down her thighs. She turns her head, meeting your lips with a lazy kiss. “That was… exactly what I needed.” You press a kiss to her neck, murmuring, “You leave me little choice when you are this stunning.” She gives you a mock glare, softened by her smile. “Flatterer. I hope tonight will not be the last.” You dress in silence, her gaze following you with unreadable warmth. At the door she whispers, “Tomorrow will bring what it will. For now… thank you.” Distraction accomplished. <<set $met_briar = true>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_house_roundup]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The End of the Update</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">><img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> <<if $pending_promise != "">><span class="failure-text">You made a commitment to <<print $pending_promise>> but failed to follow through. Your inaction has not gone unnoticed.</span><<if $pending_promise == "selene">><<run window._breakPromise("selene")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "nyx">><<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>><<elseif $pending_promise == "valeria">><<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <</if>> <<set $pending_promise = "">> <</if>> The dorm greets you in silence, though tonight the air feels charged, restless. You sink onto your bed, exhaustion heavy in your limbs. For a moment, you think it is finally over. Then you notice it: a sign, waiting. <<if $house eq "viridis">> On your desk lies a single rose, petals the color of twilight. Its stem glimmers faintly, alive with enchantment. When you touch it, the flower speaks in Selene’s measured voice: “Congratulations, darling. Lady Briar was… suitably occupied. We will discuss the next steps tomorrow over tea. Rest well.” The rose fades into smoke, leaving only a faint trace of jasmine in the air. <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> A folded letter hums with faint blue light, the seal etched in sharp geometric patterns. When you open it, Valeria’s voice spills out, brisk and cool: “Your reconnaissance, though unorthodox, produced results. We will resume communication tomorrow while I begin experiments on a new compound. Codename: Dreamleaf. Do not waste the data.” The parchment dissolves into motes of starlight, gone as though it never existed. <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> A wolf of living flame waits at the foot of your bed, its ember eyes glowing with feral approval. Its maw parts, and Nyx’s voice rumbles from within the crackle of fire: “You caught the Hound’s attention. That is no small feat. Tomorrow, we spar. And talk. Do not disappoint me.” The fiery beast dissolves into sparks, vanishing into the air. <</if>> At last, you allow yourself to lie back. Your body aches, your thoughts blur. It feels like the longest day of your life. Which is why you fail to notice the shadows moving until it is too late. They thicken at the edges of the room, stretching, creeping, swallowing light. The weight presses down. Your breath falters. Your eyes close, dragged unwilling into blackness. [[You are dragged into sleep.->dorm_evening_house_sleep]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Silent Shadow</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The servant halls are a world apart from the salons and lecture chambers. Here, stone corridors stretch unadorned, lit only by lanterns that sputter with weary light. The air smells of polish, wax, and old spells clinging faintly to the walls. You trail Elara at a distance. To anyone else she would look ordinary: a maid in plain uniform, carrying out her duties. But her movements are too careful, her routes too exact. She never wastes a step, never glances about idly. Every pause seems chosen, every turn deliberate. She halts at a narrow side door, checking the hall before slipping inside with the ease of someone who has done this many times before. When she emerges, her apron seems heavier, as though something small and valuable now rests hidden within. It is clear she is no simple maid. She is precise, practiced, and important to someone. If Vance leans on her, she may be his weakest link. <br> <strong>Choose your approach:</strong><br><br> <<if $int gte 16>> <<link "Track her patterns, break them down piece by piece" "elara_intellect_house">> <span style="color: #3498DB;"><em>(Use intellect to anticipate her routes and intercept her. +Intellect path)</em></span> <</link>> <<elseif $dom gte 12>> <<link "Step out of the shadows, make her obey" "elara_dominance_house">> <span style="color: #8e44ad;"><em>(Use dominance to confront her openly and leave no escape. +Dominance path)</em></span> <</link>> <<else>> <span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h3>Too Weak a Hand</h3></span> You shadow her as best you can, but her awareness is sharper than you expected. She slows, glances back, and then suddenly takes a servant’s passage you cannot follow. The moment slips through your fingers. Without leverage here, Vance’s defenses remain intact. [[Accept the failure->shadowing_fail_house]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Commanding Hand</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You cut her route short. No shadowing, no waiting. One turn down the servant halls, and you are there ahead of her. Elara stops dead when she sees you, her eyes narrowing. “You. You’ve been following me.” “Not following,” you correct, your tone firm, brooking no argument. “Watching. Judging. And deciding that this ends here.” Her shoulders stiffen. “If you think to threaten me, you’ll find I...” You step closer, your voice sharpening. “You belong to no one until you choose. And right now, I am the only one giving you that choice. Stay under Vance, and you break yourself to keep him standing. Step under me, and you serve something greater than his vices.” She falters, the practiced words of defiance catching in her throat. Her hands curl at her sides, not in readiness, but in uncertainty. “You can’t just say that,” she mutters, softer now. “He owns my routes. My hours. My every breath is already spoken for.” You reach out and take her chin, tilting her face toward yours. She resists for a heartbeat, then stills under your touch. “Not anymore,” you say. “From tonight forward, you answer to me. You run the same routes, but my eyes decide what you carry, when, and for whom. Vance only eats from your hand if I allow it.” Her breath hitches, and though she tries to mask it, the flicker in her gaze betrays her. Fear, yes, but beneath it a pulse of relief. “…And if I refuse?” she whispers. “Then you keep running until he burns you out. Or worse, until someone else notices what you’re carrying. Either way, you lose. But with me?” Your hand lingers against her cheek, not gentle, but steady, grounding. “With me, you gain something he’ll never give you: protection. And purpose.” Elara’s lips part as if to answer, but the words die in her throat. Finally, she exhales, a shiver running through her. “…Then show me,” she says at last. “Show me what it means to serve someone else.” She turns, leading you down the hall with measured steps. This time, there is no attempt to shake you from her trail. She is already yielding, testing the truth of your claim. [[Follow her to the maid quarters->shadowing_success_house]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Maid’s Pact</h2></span> You draw the folded glyph from your pocket, a letter that glows faintly with its own restrained power. Placing it into Elara’s hands, you explain what it is and who it carries. “All you need to do is write your truth,” you say. “Valeria will receive it. Once she does, your ties to Vance will no longer chain you. Whatever storms come next, you won’t face them alone.” Elara stares at the letter, her lips pressed tight. “This… this could ruin me. Or save me.” Her voice wavers, tired but resolute. Finally, she closes her eyes and nods. “Fine. I’ll do it. My life can’t sink much lower than it already has.” She tucks the letter away and gestures toward the narrow bed. “But we don’t have much time. Others will be back soon.” Elara joins you on the bed. She wears a smile to hide her nerves, but her trembling fingers betray her embarrassment as she begins unbuttoning her shirt. You strip quickly, your own arousal impossible to conceal, and stroke yourself as you watch her. When she turns, sliding her skirt down over her hips, her ass sways just enough to make you ache. <img src="images/npc/maidass.webp" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> That teasing sight snaps the last of your restraint. You move in, grab her, and toss her onto the mattress. Before she can slide of the sexy skirt. “Hey! Wait a sec...” she protests, but her words are cut short as you rip the skirt the rest of the way off and press yourself against her. Her protests melt into breathy moans when your cock pushes inside, inch by inch. She bites down on your shoulder to muffle the sounds, but her hands cling to your arms, pulling you deeper. <img src="images/npc/maid.gif" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> By the time your hips are flush with hers, Elara’s voice is no longer words but broken, guttural sounds. You seize her long dark hair, wrapping it around your hand to force her head back as you set the rhythm, hard and unrelenting. From the hallway comes the sound of footsteps and chatter, growing nearer. Elara gasps, panic and pleasure tangling together, then cries out, “Come on… please. Cum inside me…” The urgency tempts you, but you pull out at the last moment. She blinks at you, breathless. “What are you doing?” Your answer is wordless. You stroke yourself hard and fast, looming over her flushed body. Her eyes widen, then she leans in, pressing her breasts together and whispering, “Yes… all over me. Give me everything.” The pressure breaks. You erupt across her chest and face in heavy, pulsing torrents, more than she could possibly have expected. Thick ropes of seed spill over her breasts, dripping down her stomach, streaking her chin. Elara lets out a startled laugh, giggling at the sheer excess even as she fumbles for a crumpled tissue. She wipes at herself, but the small scrap only smears the mess, leaving glistening streaks across her pale skin. <img src="images/npc/maidcum.gif" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> She shakes her head, still smiling through her blush, streaks of your seed glistening faintly even as she tries to cover herself. “Not exactly how I imagined tonight,” she murmurs, voice husky, “but… better than most. Better than many.” You reach for your clothes, dressing quickly as the sounds in the hallway grow nearer. Elara busies herself gathering the soiled sheets and her ruined blouse, but before you slip away she catches your wrist. Her grip is soft, almost hesitant. “Make sure your Lady Valeria holds to her word,” she says quietly. “If I’ve risked this much, I expect more than promises.” You nod. “She will. And until then, we’ll keep in touch.” For a heartbeat, her eyes soften. The mask of the weary servant slips, and something warmer flickers there. “Good,” she whispers, almost to herself. Then, lower still: “And… maybe not just for her. Maybe for me too.” The voices in the hall swell closer, forcing you apart. You slip out just as a knot of maids rounds the corner, leaving Elara to compose herself and vanish into routine. But beneath the hurried exit, an unspoken pact lingers, one sealed not just by necessity, but by a spark she dared not name aloud. <<set $met_elara = true>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_house_roundup]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible’s Mockery</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="Crucible Failure" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the crowd turns harsh, shifting from eager anticipation to cruel laughter. Your desperate attempt stumbles, clumsy against the weight of the Crucible’s demands. The arena stones feel colder beneath your feet, heavier with every failure to seize the moment. Above the jeers, a single laugh cuts sharp and bright. Nyx. She leans against the railing, her hair catching the torchlight, her grin merciless. “Pathetic,” she drawls, loud enough for all to hear. “You walk into Ignis’s fire and think you can coast on scraps? This is the Crucible, not a nursery.” The crowd echoes her, their laughter like sparks thrown into oil. Nyx’s smile sharpens as she straightens, eyes burning into yours. “If you want to stay in this House, you’re going to need a lot more than excuses. Strength. Will. Fire. Impress me, impress all of us, or get burned out and forgotten.” Her words hang heavy, not just a taunt, but a challenge. The laughter follows you as the torches dim, the weight of failure settling into your chest. [[Retreat in humiliation->dorm_evening_fail_house]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Clash in the Crucible</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/brawler.png" alt="A Hulking Brawler" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> A challenger steps into the pit. Roric, a hulking brute, known for cracking ribs and crushing egos. He grins wide, pounding a fist into his open palm. “Fresh meat. I’ll enjoy breaking you in.” The crowd howls, eager for blood. The match begins. <<if $str gte 18>> You brace yourself as Roric charges. The impact rattles your bones, but your strength holds. You slam into him like a wall of iron, each strike you throw carrying enough weight to stagger him. His blows land heavy, leaving bruises, but your power proves greater. A brutal hook across his jaw finally drops him to the sand. <</if>> <<if $dom gte 15>> You do not move when Roric charges. Instead, your stare holds him frozen for half a heartbeat. The crowd quiets, sensing the pressure. When he reaches you, his fists find no weakness. You strike once, twice, each blow placed with ruthless certainty. He falters, shaken not only by the pain, but by the dominance radiating off you. By the time he hits the sand, the fight was over long before it began. <</if>> <<if $int gte 8>> You watch him move, noting the overconfidence in every step. He leads with his right shoulder, leaves his ribs exposed on the backswing. You let him commit to the charge, sidestep, and drive an elbow into his side. He gasps, stunned. A feint, a pivot, a strike to his knee, he crumples before the crowd even realizes what’s happened. Precision wins where brute force might have failed. <</if>> The crowd erupts, half in shock, half in awe. The chants of *“Crucible! Crucible!”* shift into scattered cheers for you, the newcomer who stood their ground and won. Nyx is the first to move. She hops down from the seats, striding across the sand with a grin that’s half amusement, half hunger. Her hand comes down hard on your shoulder, a clap dressed up as praise but carrying enough force to jolt through your battered ribs. Pain flashes white-hot in your chest. <<set $wounded = true>> “Well, well. I thought you’d fold in the first minute. Instead you’ve got me curious. I like being surprised.” She leans close, her voice pitched low so only you can hear. “Next time, you and me. I want to see if that bite of yours can keep up with real fire.” As she straightens, her grin sharpens into something almost cruel. “And you should probably have that looked at,” she adds, giving your shoulder one more deliberate squeeze before letting go. Then she winks, the message clear: tending your wounds isn’t just for your sake, it’s for the good of Ignis. Before you can answer, she raises her hand to the crowd as if claiming the moment for herself. The Crucible roars again, your victory drowned in the chaos of Ignis celebration. Your ribs ache, your skin stings. The smell of iron and sweat clings to you. A steward gestures toward the archway leading out of the pit. “Medical section’s that way,” he says. “Past the forges. Don’t bleed on the stones.” You follow, each step a reminder of the fight, each cheer behind you a reminder that Ignis now sees you differently. [[Head toward the medical wing->tournament_house_medical]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Medical Wing</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the Crucible fades into silence as you follow the steward’s directions. Past the forges, the air cools, heavy with the scent of bitter herbs and hot metal. Ahead, the medical wing glows faintly with ward-light. You pause just outside the door. Voices murmur within, low and urgent. “You will find more,” a deep voice insists, carrying the weight of command. “He burns through it too quickly.” “I told you, the last batch nearly emptied our stores,” a woman answers, her voice taut but steady. “You will find it,” he repeats, the scrape of impatience in every word. “Dreamleaf is not optional.” Dreamleaf? The word is strange, unfamiliar, but the tone leaves no doubt of its importance. You push the door open. Inside stands a man who dominates the room simply by existing. Broad shoulders, scarred arms, and a face cut from stone. At his heels prowl two massive black dogs, their eyes gleaming like embers, their low growls vibrating in your bones. Kaelen Grimshaw. The Hound. Weaponmaster of Ignis. He turns toward you, the tension of the whispered argument vanishing behind a predator’s grin. “I like your moxie,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Messy, but true. You’ve got more in you than most. If you ever tire of being one of many, find me.” For a moment, his gaze lingers, weighing you like a blade in his hand. Then he whistles sharply, and the dogs fall in step as he strides past. The door slams shut behind him, leaving the room colder. The woman remains, smoothing her robes as though to hide the argument you overheard. Her skin carries the soft warmth of sunlit stone, her eyes quick and careful. She steadies herself before meeting your gaze. “Be careful,” she says quietly. “The Hound does not offer praise lightly. And if he spoke of Dreamleaf… best forget you heard it.” She steps closer, her palms glowing with a soft, golden light. “Sit. You’re wounded.” Her hands press gently against your ribs, warmth seeping deep into bruises that still throb with Nyx’s parting gift. You watch her as she works. The glow outlines her features, delicate yet strong, and when her concentration falters, you see the faintest blush color her cheeks. “You should not smile at me like that,” she mutters, eyes flicking away. “I am here to mend, nothing more.” But when your fingers brush her wrist, she doesn’t move away. The silence stretches, heavy but tender, until she finally exhales and lets herself lean closer. The kiss is soft, hesitant, but real. A moment of care in the aftermath of fire and blood. [[Linger in the aftercare->tournament_medical_aftercare]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Aftercare in Shadows</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/maris.png" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $wounded = false>> The two of you fall against each other, mouths colliding in a frenzy of kisses and laughter. Your hands map the curves of her body, tracing heat and softness, while her own fingers slip beneath your clothes, hungry to learn you just as desperately. Every touch is a spark, every sound a promise of more. It is Maris who breaks first, breathless and flushed. With a daring grin she begins stripping off her robes, one clasp at a time. “No more waiting,” she whispers, her smirk daring you to meet her pace. <img src="images/npc/magetease.gif" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her skin gleams in the ward-light, smooth and radiant, her body revealed in full glory. You can hardly take in the sight before instinct pulls you forward. You catch her in your arms from behind, her laugh spilling out as you kiss and suck gently along the curve of her neck, your hands cupping the warmth of her breasts. She melts into your hold, her back arching, a moan slipping past her lips. You lift her easily, carrying her to the medical bed. The sheets crumple beneath her as you push into her with a steady, claiming thrust. “Ahh… just like… that…” Her voice unravels, and with it your restraint. Your hips slam harder against her, every cry from her lips pulling you deeper. She tries to stifle the sounds, but pleasure betrays her, her moans rising with each relentless push. Her strength finally gives out and she collapses forward onto the sheets, your thrusts rocking her body, your cock pressing into her womb until she is gasping, begging without words. <img src="images/npc/magedoggy.gif" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Later, you switch, dragging her atop you, letting her ride while you guide her with your hands. Her body is exquisite, glowing in the torchlight, every bounce of her hips driving you closer to the edge. Your hand finds her clit and she shudders, walls clenching tight around you as she screams your name. You hook your arm around hers, pulling her down into a desperate kiss as you unload inside her, your climax pouring into her heat. For a while you just sit there, bodies pressed together, her moans soft and broken as you idly caress her thighs. But your desire doesn’t fade. You take her again, slower this time but just as deep, switching positions without ever leaving her warmth. When you finally pull free, her eyes widen in surprise, only to giggle as you press your cock to her lips. She takes you eagerly into her mouth, her tongue coaxing the last fire from you. You erupt across her face and breasts in heavy torrents, seed spilling down her chest in glistening streaks. She laughs breathlessly, trying to clean herself with a scrap of cloth, though the mess is far too much. <img src="images/npc/magecum.gif" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> When the frenzy ebbs, the room grows still. She lingers close, her hand pressed to your chest as though reluctant to let you leave. “I’ll keep you informed,” she murmurs at last, voice quiet but resolute. “About the Hound. All of it. But you must not get involved with him. Promise me.” You cup her face, kissing her gently. “That is something I cannot promise. But if you trust me, I will make sure you are protected.” Her lips tremble, but she nods, accepting the vow. Your final kiss is softer than the rest, a promise sealed in silence. You dress quickly, leaving her to compose herself before anyone finds the two of you. The air of the Crucible still clings to you, but now tempered by something else: an ally in the shadows. <<set $met_maris = true>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_house_roundup]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Hunger</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> The dark is not empty tonight. It presses, dense and patient, a thing that listens for the small stutters of your heart. Sleep takes you not with sweet relief but like being lowered into a deep pool, cool and thick, until the surface shimmers and the world rearranges itself on rules that do not belong to waking hours. <img src="images/purple/ethera.png" alt="Umbra" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Light resolves into impossible geometry, and a hush of ozone and night flowers fills the air. A shape forms from shadow, more sensual than any body you have known, more terrible than any promise. She moves as if gravity obeys her sigh. Her skin holds a faint, inner light, her hair a cascade of black that shifts like living smoke. Your breath catches before your mind can name the feeling she brings: raw, patient hunger, and the pleasant, sharp ache of being seen. She does not speak with lips. Her voice inhabits you, a whispered command that is also a lover's invitation. "You had such bright things inside you," she says, each word a small, deliberate pressure at the back of your skull. "How quickly you hide them away." Her gaze is a hand. It slides across your throat, over the fabric of your chest, across the hollow of your ribs. Memory, random and bright, sparks in you a dozen small images: the hall, the laughter you failed to answer, the trace of a choice that could have been bold. Each one becomes a pinprick beneath her attention. She circles you slowly, the dream stretching so that each footstep is an hour. There is no hurry. In this place she can savor the length of you. <<if $dream_ward>> You feel, before you understand, an odd, tentative lift of hope, as if something cheap and bright between your collarbones might hold. The ward hums faint and stubborn, a child's echo of power. Her eyes flick to it, and she smiles. <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="Umbra" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> "Such confidence," she murmurs, amusement threading through the words. She lets the sound linger, like a hand that lingers on a warm cheek to gauge the pulse. "You hide behind bright things you do not understand. It is almost precious." She leans down, close enough that whatever part of you is not asleep shudders at the heat of that nearness. Her breath is cool. She traces a slow circle in the air above the ward, as if testing a taste. Nothing changes. Her expression smooths into something like curiosity, then into that soft, mocking smile you cannot quite forget. "I will leave you your toy tonight," she says. "Keep it if you must. It will not hurt to feel safe for a little while." Her laughter is silk and small knives. She folds back into shadow with a final look that says she stores this amusement for later. The hush breaks. You jolt awake with your heart clattering, the ward inert against your skin and her laugh a cold echo in your ears. <<link "Wake up" "day3_house_fail">><</link>> <<elseif $knows_umbra_warning>> A single name rises from the sleep-sour fog in your chest, a memory you have been warned not to speak. The syllables break the dream like glass. Umbra Regina. The dream trembles. Her face, which had been an impossible stillness of beauty, twists. For a half-second she is a storm, all knives and midnight, the air around her shredding into sharp, close rain. You feel the raw, animal weight of her anger and for a breath think you will be torn apart where you lie. Then the storm reshapes, folding into a slow and terrible amusement. A smile crawls over her mouth, smug and fevered. She steps in close until you can feel the pressure of her breathing on your skin. The dream becomes a slow pendulum, swinging between hot pain and cold satisfaction. <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="Umbra" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> "So," she whispers, each word a small, exquisite punishment, "you were warned. And still you call me. Brave, or very foolish." Her hand finds your chest, not gentle. Darkness bites into your flesh like a cold iron, and agony and a rending pressure bloom together. Something foreign and heavy presses against your sternum, as if an emblem of night itself is being welded into you. The sensation is new and terrible and absolute, a mark that is not yours and yet will not be ignored. "Mine," she purrs, delighted and disdainful in the same breath. "Carry this as a reminder of what you squandered. Carry it until it teaches you the cost of weakness." The pain dulls into an awful weight that sits with your heartbeat. Her laughter follows you even as the dream finally lets go. <<link "Wake up" "day3_house_fail">><<set $has_pendant = true>><</link>> <<else>> She studies you like one might study a ruined statue, expression patient and cold. She does not shout. There is no need. Each word slides out and lands with the precision of a chisel. "I watched you," she says, voice like distant bells. "A spark, bright and quick. Instead of letting it burn you sheltered it in shadows. How wasteful." Her fingers do not touch you at first, but as she draws nearer the air itself seems to lean in. The space in front of your chest grows thick and electric, a pressure that tastes like iron. Her hand closes as if around something you cannot see, and that phantom pressure becomes a harsh, searing heat against bone and skin. You cry out. The sensation is not the same as any wound you know. It is a claim made by fire and shadow together. When the pressure passes a weight remains where it pressed, an unfamiliar object fused to your chest, cold and heavy and impossibly old. You do not know what it is, only that it is foreign and that it will not be removed by your will. "You will wear this," she tells you without mercy. "Not as reward, but as instruction. Remember what you might have been." The dream recedes on the sound of her voice. You come back to yourself with your breath ragged and the echo of darkness in your bones. <<link "Wake up" "day3_house_fail">><<set $has_pendant = true>><</link>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Lady’s Appraisal</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The murmur of the salon softens as you step into Lady Briar’s circle. Courtiers shift aside, their brittle smiles faltering under the weight of her gaze. Her eyes move over you slowly, deliberately. She knows you are not one of her usual guests, and yet here you stand. The question in her silence is simple: *why should she give you her time?* <strong>How will you seize her attention?</strong><br><br> <<if $str gte 10>> [[Stand tall and unflinching->briar_valerius_success_neutral]] <em>(Impress her with physical presence, projecting raw Strength.)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Stand tall and unflinching (Your Strength ($str) lacks the force to draw her notice.)</span><br> <</if>><<if $int gte 10>> [[Engage with calculated wit->briar_valerius_success_neutral]] <em>(Capture her curiosity with sharp Intellect.)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Engage with calculated wit (Your Intellect ($int) is too low to intrigue her.)</span><br> <</if>><<if $charm gte 10>> [[Dazzle with effortless charm->briar_valerius_success_neutral]] <em>(Win her attention with Charm, the weapon of salons.)</em><br> <<else>><span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Dazzle with effortless charm (Your Charm ($charm) is insufficient to captivate her.)</span><br> <</if>><<if $str lt 10 and $int lt 10 and $charm lt 10>> <br><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. The path ahead is closed to you. You simply lack the necessary... <em>aptitude</em>. Lady Briar’s interest slips away, leaving only the bitter taste of opportunity lost.</span> [[Step back into the crowd->briar_meeting_fail_neutral]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Cast Aside</h2></span><img src="images/green/gamblingfail.png" alt="A Game of Chance" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Lady Briar’s eyes linger on you only long enough to make the dismissal sting. With a graceful turn, she redirects her attention toward another circle of courtiers. By the time she glides away, it is as though you never existed at all. A ripple of laughter follows in her wake. “Not much of a showing, was it?” a smug young noble sneers, stepping into your path. His smile is all teeth and arrogance. “Care for a throw of the dice, stranger? Perhaps fortune will do for you what presence could not.” The dice clatter across the silver inlay of the table. The numbers are merciless. You lose once, twice, a third time. Each roll earns louder jeers from the gathering. “Perhaps you should stick to games for children,” the noble taunts, bowing with mockery rather than respect. The laughter of the crowd swells, voices overlapping, sharp as broken glass. You glance across the salon, hoping for at least a flicker of recognition from Selene. But she glides past you without pause, her attention already devoted elsewhere. In her eyes, you are less than irrelevant. Humiliation clings to you like smoke. There is nothing left to do but retreat. <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> [[Return to your dorm, mocked and forgotten->dorm_evening_fail_neutral]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Turning the Table</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Favor" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The hum of the salon bends, threads of attention tugging toward you. Lady Briar’s eyes sharpen, weighing you more carefully now. <<if $str gte 10>>It was your presence, sheer and undeniable, that broke through the polite façade. The way you carried yourself, unflinching even under the judgment of the crowd, drew whispers until the orbit of the room tilted. Lady Briar blushes faintly when you finally step close, the strength in your movements leaving her courtiers pale by comparison. <</if>><<if $int gte 10>>It was precision that earned her notice. Each phrase you chose, each observation, cut through the empty pleasantries around her like a blade. The gathering leaned in, listening, until it was her own lips that curved with reluctant admiration. Lady Briar hides her blush behind a wine glass, but her eyes linger on you, sharp and bright. <</if>><<if $charm gte 10>>It was spectacle that carried you. Laughter bloomed where you passed, each word and gesture spinning the salon into your stage. Lady Briar could not ignore you even if she wished to. When you stand before her, she blushes openly, her composure shaken by the effortless way you have made the room yours. <</if>> Her courtiers falter, their chatter thinning, as she finally rises from her seat. Her eyes never leave yours, dark and glimmering with a mix of curiosity and something softer, rarer. You lean close, your voice just for her. “Dance with me.” Her breath catches, and then she places her hand in yours. The music swells, and together you step onto the floor. All around, whispers ripple like wind through glass, but here, in her orbit, they fall away. [[Take Lady Briar to the dance floor->briar_valerius_dance_neutral]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Weight of Failure</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You drop onto the edge of your bed. The voices of the day still echo in your skull. <<if visited("shadowing_fail_neutral")>>Valeria’s indifference, her measured assessment of your inadequacy.<<elseif visited("tournament_neutral_fail")>>Nyx’s laugh, sharp and merciless, branding you weak before the Crucible.<<elseif visited("briar_meeting_fail_neutral")>>Selene’s cool dismissal, the way she looked past you as if you had never existed.<</if>> It is not affection you have lost, but standing. Reputation. The chance to prove yourself to those who weigh talent as currency. You remain, for now, but eyes that might have turned your way now look past you. What was once opportunity now tastes of failure. The air in your chamber feels colder than it should. The lamp’s glow flickers low. Shadows lean long across the stone floor, twitching as if alive when you glance aside. You rub your eyes, but the heaviness clings, sinking deeper. Each breath grows heavier, each heartbeat slower. [[Collapse into uneasy sleep->dorm_evening_fail_sleep_neutral]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Dance of Secrets</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/dancing.png" alt="Lady Briar Dance" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The music swells, and Lady Briar’s hand rests lightly in yours. Her silver gown gleams with each turn, and her steps are elegant, practiced. Yet there is a flicker in her gaze, the faintest hint of amusement as she glances past your shoulder. Following her eyes, you catch the briefest glimpse of Lord Valerius, his smile strained, his goblet raised too quickly. His irritation is almost palpable, though he hides it beneath noble polish. Lady Briar tilts her chin upward, her voice a whisper only you can hear. “See how easily his mask cracks? A single dance, and he is unsettled. That alone makes this worth my time.” She does not blush as before, but her fingers press into your hand just enough to be felt. A calculated gesture, reward and reminder both. You smile faintly. “Then I am glad to be of service.” Her lips curve, sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. “Do not mistake this for affection. You are… useful. Unaffiliated, bold enough to amuse me, and irritating enough to trouble Valerius. That is a combination I find refreshing.” The music draws toward its end. Instead of pulling away, she steps closer, her perfume brushing against you, her breath calm and measured. Her eyes, dark as glass, linger on yours with a glimmer of curiosity. When the last note fades, she lets go, but not fully. Her hand lingers in yours for just a moment longer, long enough for the courtiers to notice. Then, with a swift turn, she guides you toward a set of crystal doors. “Come,” she says softly. “The balcony will suit us better. Let them wonder what passes between us.” The wards shimmer and part at her touch. Cold night air greets you, sharp with the scent of roses from the gardens below. The noise of the salon dims behind you, leaving only the hush of moonlight and Lady Briar at your side. [[Step onto the balcony with her->briar_balcony]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Unclaimed Night</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if visited("tournament_neutral_aftercare")>> The dorm greets you in silence, though the air still tastes faintly of herbs and smoke, a reminder of the medical wing and Maris’s warmth lingering on your skin. You almost convince yourself it was only exhaustion that carried you there, but your lips remember her kiss. <<elseif visited("shadowing_success_neutral")>> You close the door behind you, the memory of Elara’s whispered promises still clinging like perfume. Your chest is tight with the weight of what passed between you, a pact fragile as glass but impossible to forget.<<elseif visited("briar_balcony")>> The silence of the dorm is a jarring contrast to the music and perfume of Briar’s salon. Yet your lips still tingle from her kiss, your body remembering the heat of her mouth even as you force yourself to breathe in the quiet. <</if>> You sink onto your bed, exhaustion settling into your bones. For a moment you believe the day is finally over. But then you notice it: a sign, waiting. On your desk rests a fragment of parchment, black as ink and feather-light. Its surface shimmers with faint, shifting runes that never hold their shape. As you reach out, the runes ripple and a voice hums low and androgynous, neither male nor female: “You walk without a banner, yet already your steps leave marks. Threads tighten around you. Tomorrow, you will pull one tighter. Or it will pull you.” The parchment crumbles to ash between your fingers, leaving nothing but silence behind. At last, you lie back. Your body aches, your thoughts blur. It feels like the longest day of your life. Which is why you fail to notice the shadows moving until it is too late. They thicken at the edges of the room, stretching, creeping, swallowing light. The weight presses down. Your breath falters. Your eyes close, dragged unwilling into blackness. [[You are dragged into sleep.->dorm_evening_neutral_sleep]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Dominant Approach</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You step out from the shadows before Elara can slip further down the corridor. The maid startles, her hand freezing at the edge of her apron, but her composure returns quickly. Her eyes dart once, measuring distance to the nearest exit, then settle on you. “You’ve been following me,” she says, flat but not afraid. “I have,” you answer, steady. “And I know you are not just carrying linens and dusting halls. You keep Vance standing when he should have fallen long ago.” Her jaw tightens. She does not deny it. Instead, she folds her arms. “And what does an Unaffiliated want with me? You have no crest. No house. No power.” You close the distance, slow and deliberate, until the lantern light frames her face. She stiffens but does not move away. Your voice lowers, edged with command. “Maybe not a house. But I don’t need one. What I have is you, right here, with no one else watching. Vance may think he owns you, but we both know he only owns what you choose to give. Tonight, you choose differently.” The words hang heavy. You let silence do the rest. Elara swallows, her defiance wavering. For a moment, the hall feels small, her world smaller still, cornered by the weight of your presence. Finally, she exhales, a long, quiet breath. “…And if I do? What then?” You brush your fingers along her wrist, just enough to test her resolve. She does not pull back. “Then you answer to me. No banners, no nobles, just a voice that won’t waste what you can do. Whatever you carry for him, it passes through me first. That is how this works, starting now.” Her lips part as if to argue, but nothing comes. She holds your gaze too long, then looks away. When she speaks again, her tone is quieter, but it trembles with reluctant truth. “…Fine. For tonight, I’ll play along. But if this goes wrong, you’ll regret ever stepping out of the shadows.” Without another word, she turns, beckoning you with a sharp tilt of her head. This time, she does not try to lose you. [[Follow her into the servant passages->shadowing_success_neutral]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Maid’s Pact</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You place the folded glyph into Elara’s hands, its seal glowing faintly with restrained power. “I have no House to shield me,” you admit. “But this letter carries weight. If you write your truth into it, someone will hear. Someone beyond Vance’s reach. It might give you a way out.” She stares at the glyph, lips pressed thin. “Might,” she repeats, the word sharp with doubt. Then, with a tired exhale, she tucks it away. “Fine. If this ruins me, so be it. I am too tired of carrying his chains.” Before you can respond, she steps close, her hand brushing yours. Her eyes dart to the corridor, then back to your lips. The hesitation vanishes in a heartbeat as she leans in and kisses you. It is not cautious or shy, but hot, quick, and searching, as if she needs proof of something she cannot say aloud. Her breath comes uneven when she pulls back. “No one can see,” she whispers, half command, half plea. Then, with sudden resolve, she sinks to her knees. Her hands work with a speed born of urgency, not ceremony. When her lips close around you, it is not a favor, but hunger, raw and desperate. <img src="images/npc/maidbj.gif" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The world narrows to her mouth, the heat of her tongue, the quiet moans she cannot fully swallow. The sounds in the hall grow closer, footsteps and voices pressing against the thin walls, but Elara only works faster, her dark hair brushing against your thighs as she takes you deeper. Release overtakes you hard and sudden. She swallows without hesitation, eyes closed tight as though sealing the moment inside herself. When she rises, wiping at her lips, her composure falters, her dark eyes shining with something too raw to hide. “Make sure this was not wasted,” she says, voice trembling but firm. “If I risked this much, I expect more than promises.” You nod once, still catching your breath. “We will keep in touch. And you will not stand alone.” Her hand lingers briefly on your chest, then she slips into the corridor, vanishing into routine as though nothing happened. Yet the spark lingers, dangerous and undeniable, sealed in heat and secrecy. <<set $met_elara = true>><<set $dom += 1>> <<set $int += 1>> <<set $charm += 1>> <<set $str += 1>> <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_neutral_roundup]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Clash in the Crucible</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/brawler.png" alt="A Hulking Brawler" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> A challenger steps into the pit. Roric, a hulking brute, known for cracking ribs and crushing egos. He grins wide, pounding a fist into his open palm. “Fresh meat. I’ll enjoy breaking you in.” The crowd howls, eager for blood. The match begins. <<if $str gte 10>> You brace yourself as Roric charges. The impact rattles your bones, but your strength holds. You slam into him like a wall of iron, each strike you throw carrying enough weight to stagger him. His blows land heavy, leaving bruises, but your power proves greater. A brutal hook across his jaw finally drops him to the sand. <</if>> <<if $dom gte 10>> You do not move when Roric charges. Instead, your stare holds him frozen for half a heartbeat. The crowd quiets, sensing the pressure. When he reaches you, his fists find no weakness. You strike once, twice, each blow placed with ruthless certainty. He falters, shaken not only by the pain, but by the dominance radiating off you. By the time he hits the sand, the fight was over long before it began. <</if>> <<if $int gte 10>> You watch him move, noting the overconfidence in every step. He leads with his right shoulder, leaves his ribs exposed on the backswing. You let him commit to the charge, sidestep, and drive an elbow into his side. He gasps, stunned. A feint, a pivot, a strike to his knee, he crumples before the crowd even realizes what’s happened. Precision wins where brute force might have failed. <</if>> The crowd erupts, half in shock, half in awe. The chants of *“Crucible! Crucible!”* shift into scattered cheers for you, the newcomer who stood their ground and won. Nyx is the first to move. She hops down from the seats, striding across the sand with a grin that’s half amusement, half hunger. Her hand comes down hard on your shoulder, a clap dressed up as praise but carrying enough force to sting your bruises. <<set $wounded = true>> “Well, well. I thought you’d fold in the first minute. Instead you’ve got me curious. I like being surprised.” She leans close, her voice pitched low so only you can hear. “Next time, you and me. I want to see if that bite of yours can keep up with real fire.” As she pulls back, her grin sharpens into something colder. “And you should probably get those wounds looked at. The medics are past the forges.” She pauses just long enough to let the weight of her next words sink in. “But if you meet the Hound on the way… avoid him. Trust me.” Before you can answer, she turns away, raising her hand to the crowd as if claiming the moment for herself. The Crucible roars again, your victory drowned in the chaos of Ignis celebration. Your ribs ache, your skin stings. The smell of iron and sweat clings to you. A steward gestures toward the archway leading out of the pit. “Medical section’s that way,” he says. “Don’t bleed on the stones.” You follow, each step a reminder of the fight, each cheer behind you a reminder that Ignis now sees you differently. [[Head toward the medical wing->tournament_neutral_medical]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible’s Mockery</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="Crucible Failure" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the crowd twists from anticipation to cruel laughter. Your movements falter, your attempt clumsy against the weight of the Crucible’s demand for spectacle. The sand beneath your boots feels colder with each misstep, heavier with every failure to claim control of the moment. Above the noise, one laugh cuts sharper than all the rest. Nyx. She leans against the railing, her hair catching the torchlight, her grin merciless. “Pathetic,” she calls, her voice carrying like a blade. “That spark of yours? It’s nothing. A dying ember, flickering weakly in Ignis’s fire. And an ember like that will never ignite here.” The crowd erupts in laughter, the jeers stinging like sparks against bare skin. Nyx does not soften. Her eyes burn into yours, searing with judgment that feels final. “You thought you could walk into our Crucible and prove yourself. Instead, you proved you don’t belong.” Her words hang in the smoke-choked air, not just a taunt but a verdict. The laughter follows you as you leave, the taste of ash bitter on your tongue. <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> [[Retreat in humiliation->dorm_evening_fail_neutral]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Medical Wing</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the Crucible fades into silence as you follow the steward’s directions. Past the forges, the air cools, heavy with the scent of bitter herbs and hot metal. Ahead, the medical wing glows faintly with ward-light. As you approach, the door creaks open. Kaelen Grimshaw, the Hound, emerges with two massive black dogs padding at his heels, their eyes glowing faintly like coals. His presence alone fills the hallway with a weight that makes you instinctively straighten. “I like your moxie,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Messy, but true. You’ve got more in you than most. If you ever tire of being one of many, find me.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. With a sharp whistle, the dogs fall in step beside him, and the three of them vanish down the hall. The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud, leaving you alone in the sudden quiet. Inside, a woman waits, adjusting her healer’s robes as though to reset the mood. Her skin holds the warm tone of sunlit stone, her eyes sharp and careful. She offers a small smile as she gestures to a cot. “You should sit,” she says softly. “The Hound doesn’t give compliments lightly, but he also doesn’t leave people unscarred. Let me look at you.” She places her hands against your ribs, golden light blooming between her fingers. The ache eases, warmth spreading deep into the bruises. You watch her work, the glow tracing the curve of her cheek, the slight furrow in her brow. When your gaze lingers too long, her lips press into a line. “You should not look at me like that,” she murmurs, though her voice wavers. “I am here to mend, nothing more.” Your hand brushes hers, and she doesn’t move away. Instead, her breath hitches, and after a moment she leans closer. The kiss is soft, unexpected, but real. Her lips tremble against yours before settling into something more certain. A brief spark of warmth in the aftermath of battle. [[Linger in the aftercare->tournament_neutral_aftercare]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Embrace</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Sleep takes you quickly, heavy and absolute. The Proctor’s strange gift fades, yet in dreams something greater rises to meet you. The darkness stirs. She emerges from it, tall and radiant, her body woven from shadow and violet flame. The phantom Lady. Her presence bends the dream around her, not harsh but inevitable, a queen of hunger and tenderness both. Her gaze lingers on you, and her voice is softer than the silence around her. “You stood where many would have broken. Even unaffiliated, you carried a spark that others could not snuff out. I saw it. I am… proud.”<<set $int -= 3>><<set $str -= 3>><<set $charm -= 3>><<set $dom -= 3>><<set $proctor_boost = false>> <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She circles you slowly, every step a claim. Her hand cups your face, cool shadows brushing your skin like velvet. “You were made for more. To rise, to command, to burn so bright that none can look away.” Her lips curve into a smile, warm and dangerous all at once. From her chest she draws a pendant, obsidian framed in silver, pulsing faintly with violet fire. “The Proctor’s crutch is gone. Take mine instead. Not borrowed. Not fleeting. A bond eternal.” She presses it against your chest. The shadows enfold you, but it is not suffocation. It is embrace. The fire brands itself into your skin, not as pain, but as belonging. <img src="images/purple/pendant.png" alt="Pendant" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> When she withdraws, the pendant rests against your heart, warm, alive, undeniably hers. Her lips brush your ear as she whispers, “Now, you carry me. Rise higher. Go further. Every step you take, you walk with my pride. My claim.” The dream closes around you, not crushing, but cradling. Her presence lingers like a kiss that refuses to fade. <<link "Wake up" "day3_neutral">><<set $int += 3>><<set $str += 3>><<set $charm += 3>><<set $dom += 3>><<set $has_pendant = true>> <</link>>

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Lady’s Appraisal</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The murmur of the salon softens as you step into Lady Briar’s circle. Courtiers draw back, brittle smiles fading under the weight of her gaze. Her eyes move over you slowly, deliberately, pausing at the mark of your House. The tilt of her head makes it clear she knows exactly what you risk by standing here. The question in her silence is simple: *why should she give her time to an outsider, a rival’s piece now wandering her board?* <strong>How will you seize her attention?</strong><br><br> <<if $str gte 20>> [[Stand tall and unflinching->briar_s_valerius_success]] <em>(Impress her with physical presence, projecting raw Strength.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Stand tall and unflinching (Your Strength ($str) lacks the force to move her.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $int gte 20>> [[Engage with calculated wit->briar_s_valerius_success]] <em>(Capture her curiosity with sharp Intellect.)</em><br> <<else>> <span style="opacity: 0.7; font-style: italic;">Engage with calculated wit (Your Intellect ($int) is too low to intrigue her.)</span><br> <</if>> <<if $str lt 20 and $int lt 20>> <br><span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. Whatever edge brought you here, it is not enough. Lady Briar’s attention drifts away, and the weight of your own House’s disappointment presses close behind it.</span> [[Step back into the crowd->briar_s_meeting_fail]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Cast Aside</h2></span> <img src="images/green/gamblingfail.png" alt="A Game of Chance" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Lady Briar’s eyes linger on you only long enough to make the dismissal sting. With a graceful turn she redirects her attention to another circle of courtiers, her silken gown trailing like a curtain closing on a play. By the time she glides away it is as though you were never present at all. A ripple of laughter follows in her wake. “Not much of a showing, was it?” a smug young noble sneers, stepping into your path. His smile is all teeth and arrogance. <<if $house eq "ignis">> “Perhaps all that fire is just smoke,” he drawls. “Where is your great fury now, little brute?” <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> “Ah, the clever brain of Septenius,” he mocks, tapping his temple. “So sharp, yet so dull in practice. Did your numbers fail you?” <</if>> He tosses a pair of crystal dice onto the silver inlay of the table. The numbers are merciless. You lose once, twice, a third time. Each roll earns louder jeers from the gathering, their laughter overlapping until it cuts like glass. “Perhaps you should stick to games for children,” the noble taunts, bowing with mockery rather than respect. You glance across the salon, searching for Selene. But she glides past without pause, her dark eyes already fixed on richer prey. To her, your failure is not even worth amusement. Humiliation clings to you like smoke. There is nothing left to do but retreat. <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> [[Return to your dorm, mocked and forgotten->dorm_evening_fail_rival]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Embarrassing Mistake</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">> <img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<else>> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> <<if $secondary_promise != "">> <span class="failure-text">You made a commitment to <<print $secondary_promise>>, but failed to follow through. Your inaction has not gone unnoticed.</span> <<if $secondary_promise == "selene">> <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> <<elseif $secondary_promise == "nyx">> <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<elseif $secondary_promise == "valeria">> <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <</if>> <<set $secondary_promise = "">> <</if>> You have played a dangerous game, and lost. It is not affection you have endangered, but reputation. Standing. Survival in a House that values results above excuses. You remain among them, for now, but the eyes that once weighed your potential now measure your weakness. The air in your chamber feels colder than it should, the lamp’s glow dimmer. The shadows stretch long across the floor, seeming to shift when you look away. You rub your eyes, but the heaviness clings, seeping into your bones. [[Collapse into uneasy sleep->dorm_evening_fail_house_sleep]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Turning the Table</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Favor" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The hum of the salon bends, threads of attention tugging toward you. Lady Briar’s eyes sharpen, weighing you more carefully now. <<if $str gte 20>> It was presence, sheer and undeniable, that broke through the polite façade. The way you carried yourself, unflinching even under the judgment of the crowd, drew whispers until the orbit of the room tilted. <<if $house eq "ignis">>Her gaze flickers with intrigue, as if surprised to see such raw force wearing Ignis colors. “So the wolf sends one of its brutes into my garden,” she murmurs, not without admiration. “Perhaps even fire can be taught to stand still and be seen.”<</if>> <<if $house eq "septenius">>Her brow arches slightly, amusement coloring her voice. “A scholar with a soldier’s stance. How rare for Septenius to breed more than paper and ink.”<</if>> Lady Briar blushes faintly as you finally step close, the strength in your movements leaving her courtiers pale by comparison. <</if>> <<if $int gte 20>> It was precision that earned her notice. Each phrase you chose, each observation, cut through the empty pleasantries around her like a blade. The gathering leaned in, listening, until it was her own lips that curved with reluctant admiration. <<if $house eq "ignis">>“Ignis usually sends fists, not tongues,” Lady Briar muses, eyes bright. “How curious, to see wit burn hotter than flame.”<</if>> <<if $house eq "septenius">>Her smile curves sharper still. “Valeria must be furious,” she whispers, amused. “Septenius pride, on my leash for the evening.”<</if>> Lady Briar hides her blush behind a wine glass, but her eyes linger on you, sharp and bright. <</if>> Her courtiers falter, their chatter thinning, as she finally rises from her seat. Her eyes never leave yours, dark and glimmering with a mix of curiosity and something softer, rarer. You lean close, your voice just for her. “Dance with me.” Her breath catches, and then she places her hand in yours. The music swells, and together you step onto the floor. All around, whispers ripple like wind through glass, but here, in her orbit, they fall away. [[Take Lady Briar to the dance floor->briar_s_valerius_dance]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Dance of Secrets</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/dancing.png" alt="Lady Briar Dance" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The music swells, and Lady Briar’s hand rests lightly in yours. Her silver gown gleams with each turn, her steps smooth and assured. Yet there is a flicker in her gaze, the faintest curl of amusement, as she glances past your shoulder. Following her eyes, you catch the briefest glimpse of Lord Valerius, his goblet raised too quickly. His smile is taut, his poise rattled, though he struggles to conceal it. Lady Briar tilts her chin upward, her voice a whisper meant only for you. “See how easily his mask cracks? A single dance, and he frays. That alone makes this worth my time.” Her fingers tighten slightly in yours, a gesture deliberate enough to sting her rivals, but sharp enough to remind you of the role you play. <<if $house eq "ignis">> Her lips curve, silk over steel. “How curious. Ignis loyalty, smoldering here in Viridis halls. Nyx will not forgive such a step. But perhaps fire burns brightest when it is stolen.” <</if>> <<if $house eq "septenius">> A soft laugh escapes her. “A Septenius darling, dancing in my arms. Valeria would call this betrayal. I call it… opportunity. Knowledge is power, yes, but envy is a sharper blade still.” <</if>> You match her steps, unshaken. “Then I am glad to be of service.” Her smile glimmers, cold and exquisite. “Do not mistake this for affection. You are useful. Bold enough to amuse me, and dangerous enough to unsettle the right people. That is a combination I rarely see.” The music draws to its end. Instead of pulling away, she steps closer, her perfume brushing across your skin, her breath calm and measured. Her eyes, dark as glass, linger on yours with a glimmer that is not tenderness, but calculation. When the final note fades, she lets her hand rest in yours a heartbeat longer than propriety allows. Long enough for the courtiers to whisper. Then, with a subtle tug, she guides you toward a pair of crystal doors. “Come,” she says softly. “The balcony will suit us better. Let them wonder what passes between us.” The wards shimmer and part at her touch. Cold night air greets you, carrying the faint perfume of roses from the gardens below. The hum of the salon recedes, leaving only the hush of moonlight and Lady Briar at your side. [[Step onto the balcony with her->briar_s_balcony]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Balcony’s Veil</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/briar.png" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The night air is cool, carrying the perfume of roses from the gardens below. Moonlight drapes Lady Briar in silver, her gown shimmering like water over her skin. She leans against the balcony rail, her gaze distant, her profile sculpted in pale light. “You intrigue me,” she admits softly, her tone stripped of the polish she wore inside. Her eyes sweep over you, pausing with intent. <<if $house eq "ignis">> “Loyal to Ignis, yet here you stand in my arms. Nyx will see this as betrayal. She lives by fire, but fire consumes as easily as it warms. You should ask yourself if you are her soldier, or her offering.” <</if>> <<if $house eq "septenius">> “Bound to Septenius, yet risking Valeria’s wrath to stand before me. Clever, perhaps. But Valeria does not forgive such disobedience. She will mark this as weakness, and she never forgets a flaw once revealed.” <</if>> Her eyes lock on yours, dark and unwavering. For a heartbeat the calculation fades, leaving something rawer, unguarded. “Still, you defied them. And here you are. I find that… intoxicating.” Before you can respond, she steps closer, her hand pressing lightly to your chest. Her breath brushes your lips as her gown shifts around her hips. With a single motion, she gathers the silver fabric and draws you down with her, settling gracefully into your lap. Her thighs cradle you, warm and firm, and then she takes you inside her with deliberate, aching slowness. <img src="images/npc/balconygrind.gif" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Her lips part in a soft gasp, her eyes fluttering closed before fixing on yours again. “Yes… here,” she whispers, her voice frayed with want. The world narrows to the heat of her body, the press of her curves, the intoxicating rhythm she sets as she moves against you. The cool night air contrasts sharply with the fire between you, every sigh and gasp a secret kept by the roses below. She holds your shoulders as she rides you, each motion deliberate yet edged with hunger she can no longer disguise. The courtiers inside laugh and scheme, oblivious to the storm building just beyond the glass doors. Out here, it is only the two of you, every thrust driving her composure further away until her head tips back in a cry muffled against your neck. You grip her hips, holding her as release shudders through you both, tangled and breathless. Her hair spills like ink across your chest, her gown rumpled, her control utterly undone. For a long moment, she stays there, pressed to you, her heartbeat quick against your skin. Her breath is shallow, her hair spilling in dark waves across your chest. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are darker, her lips curved into a faint, unsteady smile. “If you listen to my advice,” she murmurs, voice low and trembling, “we can have more nights like this. Not for politics. For us.” She kisses you once more, lingering and softer than the first, before she gathers herself. Slowly she rises from your lap, smoothing her gown back into place. The motion is graceful, but the evidence of what just passed betrays her: a warm mixture of your release and her own glistens, sliding down the inside of her thigh, disappearing beneath the silver folds of silk. <img src="images/npc/cumleg.gif" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Her eyes catch yours as she adjusts the fabric, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Let them wonder why I blush tonight,” she whispers, almost amused at her own lack of restraint. Her composure does not fully return. The flush on her cheeks lingers, her dark eyes still shining with something too raw to be strategy. When she slips back inside, she glances over her shoulder once. The look is fleeting but real, her smile carrying something far more dangerous than calculation. <<set $met_briar = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_rival_roundup]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Embarrassing Mistake</h2></span> <<if $house eq "viridis">><img src="images/green/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "septenius">> <img src="images/blue/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<elseif $house eq "ignis">> <img src="images/red/room.png" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <</if>> <<if $secondary_promise != "">> <span class="failure-text">You made a commitment to <<print $secondary_promise>>, but failed to follow through. Your inaction has not gone unnoticed.</span> <<if $secondary_promise == "selene">> <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> <<elseif $secondary_promise == "nyx">> <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> <<elseif $secondary_promise == "valeria">> <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> <</if>> <<set $secondary_promise = "">> <</if>> The dorm feels smaller tonight. The silence between its walls louder. You know what you have done: disappointed the leader of your House, tested the patience of those who weigh loyalty above all else. Yet in that risk lies another thought, a sharper one. Perhaps you angered them, but perhaps you opened the door to something different. A new connection, an unexpected alliance, a shift in the board that no one else yet sees. It is a dangerous game. But danger is where power hides. At last, you allow yourself to lie back. Your body aches, your thoughts blur. It feels like the longest day of your life. Which is why you fail to notice the shadows moving until it is too late. They thicken at the edges of the room, stretching, creeping, swallowing light. The weight presses down. Your breath falters. Your eyes close, dragged unwilling into blackness. [[You are dragged into sleep.->dorm_evening_house_sleep]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Dominant Approach</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You step out from the shadows before Elara can slip further down the corridor. The maid startles, her hand freezing at the edge of her apron, but her composure returns quickly. Her eyes dart once, measuring distance to the nearest exit, then settle on you. “You’ve been following me,” she says, flat but not afraid. <<if $str gte 20>> Your presence fills the narrow hall, your stance leaving her no path to retreat. The way you plant yourself, steady and unyielding, makes clear you are not here to negotiate. Her lips press into a thin line as if she already knows the truth. <</if>> <<if $charm gte 20>> Your smile is sharp enough to cut through her defenses, each word you let hang in the air disarming her more than force could. She tries to mask it, but the slight parting of her lips, the flicker in her eyes, betrays how easily you have bent the moment in your favor. <</if>> “I have,” you answer, steady. “And I know you are not just carrying linens and dusting halls. You keep Vance standing when he should have fallen long ago.” Her jaw tightens. She does not deny it. Instead, she folds her arms. <<if $house eq "ignis">> “So this is Nyx’s way,” she says coldly. “Send a soldier to loom in the dark, to press until someone breaks. Fire and fear, nothing more.” <</if>> <<if $house eq "viridis">> Her eyes narrow. “Selene’s hound, then. No smile, no silk, just teeth. She must be desperate to send someone like you into Septenius halls.” <</if>> You close the distance, slow and deliberate, until the lantern light frames her face. She stiffens but does not move away. Your voice lowers, edged with command. “Maybe I carry a banner. Maybe I do not. But what matters is this. Vance may think he owns you, but we both know he only owns what you choose to give. Tonight, you choose differently.” The words hang heavy. Silence does the rest. Elara swallows, her defiance wavering. For a moment, the hall feels small, her world smaller still, cornered by the weight of your presence. Finally, she exhales, a long, quiet breath. “…And if I do? What then?” You brush your fingers along her wrist, just enough to test her resolve. She does not pull back. “Then you answer to me. No banners, no nobles, just a voice that will not waste what you can do. Whatever you carry for him, it passes through me first. That is how this works, starting now.” Her lips part as if to argue, but nothing comes. She holds your gaze too long, then looks away. When she speaks again, her tone is quieter, but it trembles with reluctant truth. “…Fine. For tonight, I’ll play along. But if this goes wrong, you’ll regret ever stepping out of the shadows.” Without another word, she turns, beckoning you with a sharp tilt of her head. This time, she does not try to lose you. [[Follow her into the servant passages->shadowing_success_rival]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Shadow Lost</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy Shadows" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The last glimpse you catch of Elara is her back vanishing into a narrow servant’s passage, the stone swallowing her whole. You wait, double back, even circle the quarter halls, but she does not return. The trail is gone. Your pulse slows, replaced by the flat weight of failure. Vance will go to Lady Briar’s gathering unchecked, and whatever hold Elara has on him remains out of your reach. A faint shimmer flickers across your palm. Light folds into a glyph, resolving into the shape of Valeria’s hand. Her voice spills forth, even and precise, like a lecture delivered in the dark. <<if $house eq "ignis">> “House Ignis pretends its loyalty is flame,” she says coolly. “But fire without focus is waste. You had one task, and you let it gutter into smoke. That is what happens when heat outweighs observation.” <</if>> <<if $house eq "viridis">> “Selene’s pets always forget,” Valeria remarks, her tone as sharp as glass. “Charm and posture are not analysis. You failed because you followed instinct, not pattern. You chased shadows instead of dissecting them.” <</if>> There is no fury in her tone, only a cool assessment that cuts deeper than anger. “I entrusted you with a test. Tonight, you failed. Data noted. Adjustments will be made.” The glyph burns away into ash, leaving the air faintly acrid and your stomach heavier. <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> [[Retreat in defeat->dorm_evening_fail_rival]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Maid’s Pact</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You place the folded glyph into Elara’s hands, its seal glowing faintly with restrained power. “This does not come from your lord,” you tell her. “It is mine. If you choose, you can write your truth into it and it will reach someone beyond Vance’s reach. It is not his chain. It is your key.” She stares at the glyph, lips pressed thin. “Might,” she repeats, the word sharp with doubt. Then, with a tired exhale, she tucks it away. “Fine. If this ruins me, so be it. I am too tired of carrying his chains.” <<if $house eq "ignis">> Her gaze lingers on you, flicking briefly to the red mark of your house. “A child of fire,” she murmurs. “No wonder you force the moment instead of waiting for it.” <<elseif $house eq "viridis">> Her eyes soften, almost rueful. “Viridis breeds patience, but you… you chose me instead of the games. That frightens me more than his wrath.” <</if>> Before you can answer, she steps close, her hand brushing yours. Her eyes dart to the corridor, then back to you. The hesitation vanishes in a heartbeat as she presses her lips to yours, hot, quick, searching, as if she needs proof of something she cannot say aloud. Her breath comes uneven when she pulls back. “No one can see,” she whispers, half command, half plea. She pivots sharply, bracing one hand against the wall, her other tugging her skirt higher as she hikes a leg over the edge of a narrow servant’s cot. <img src="images/npc/maidsex.gif" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The urgency between you snaps short. You press into her, the world shrinking to heat and muffled gasps. Her body yields eagerly, each movement quick and desperate, a collision of need and risk. The sounds of footsteps echo down the corridor, but she only pulls you harder, her nails biting into your arm as if to hold you there. It is over almost as suddenly as it began, fierce, breathless, a moment stolen rather than given. The rush of having to hurry, of knowing discovery could come at any second, only sharpens the edge of it. Elara shares in the frenzy, her body tightening hard around you, her nails biting deep as she clamps down, desperate and unrestrained. With a final hard thrust, release tears through you. She contracts sharply, shuddering, and the sensation is overwhelming, as if her very womb kissed tip of your cock, drawing you in, craving the seed she has stolen in secret. <img src="images/npc/maidcreampie.gif" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> She stays bent forward a heartbeat longer, your mingled heat running down her thigh before she lowers her dress and steadies her breath. When she turns back, her composure falters, her dark eyes shining with something too raw to hide. “Make sure this was not wasted,” she says, voice trembling but firm. “If I risked this much, I expect more than promises.” You nod once, still catching your breath. “We will keep in touch. And you will not stand alone.” Her hand lingers briefly on your chest, then she slips into the corridor, vanishing into routine as though nothing happened. Yet the spark lingers, dangerous and undeniable, sealed in heat and secrecy. <<set $met_elara = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_rival_roundup]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Clash in the Crucible</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/brawler.png" alt="A Hulking Brawler" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> A challenger steps into the pit. Roric, a hulking brute, infamous for cracking ribs and crushing egos. He grins wide, pounding a fist into his open palm. “Fresh meat. I’ll enjoy breaking you in.” The crowd howls, hungry for blood. The match begins. <<if $int gte 20>> You study him with cold calculation, ignoring the jeers. His stance is loose, his overconfidence a map of weaknesses. He charges, and you pivot aside, every strike a precise correction to his arrogance. An elbow to his ribs, a feint that opens his knee, a final strike to the jaw, the brute is undone before he can land a decisive blow. The crowd gasps as Roric crumples, beaten by intellect alone. <</if>> <<if $charm gte 20>> You do not just fight; you perform. Each movement is clean, exaggerated just enough to draw roars from the crowd. When Roric charges, you bait him into wild swings, letting his anger become spectacle. Gasps rise as you slip past him, striking with perfect timing. The pit becomes your stage, and the brute, your prop. When he finally drops into the sand, it feels less like a fight and more like you commanded the Crucible itself. <</if>> The crowd erupts, half in shock, half in awe. The chants of *“Crucible! Crucible!”* shift, some voices breaking away into cheers for you the outsider who stood their ground and won. Nyx is the first to move. She hops down from the seats, striding across the sand with a grin that’s half amusement, half hunger. Her hand lands hard on your shoulder, a clap that rattles your bruises. <<set $wounded = true>> “Well, well. I thought you’d fold in the first minute. Instead, you’ve got me curious.” Her grin widens. “I like being surprised.” <<if $house eq "viridis">> Her eyes flick briefly to the green mark of your House, and her laugh cuts through the din. “A Viridis brat, surviving in the Crucible? Maybe there’s more than silk and schemes under those vines after all.” <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> Her gaze sharpens at the Septenius crest on your chest. “A scholar beating a brawler bloody? Now that I didn’t expect. Maybe there’s a fire hidden in all those books.” <</if>> She leans close, her voice pitched for you alone. “Next time, you and me. I want to see if that bite of yours can keep up with real fire.” When she pulls back, her grin sharpens to something colder. “And you should probably get those wounds looked at. The medics are past the forges. But if you meet the Hound on the way…” She pauses, her tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. “…avoid him. Trust me.” Before you can answer, she turns back to the crowd, raising her hand as if claiming the moment for herself. The Crucible roars again, your victory swallowed in the chaos of Ignis celebration. Your ribs ache, your skin stings. The smell of iron and sweat clings to you. A steward waves you toward the archway. “Medical section’s that way,” he says. “Don’t bleed on the stones.” You follow, each step heavy with pain but also with something new Ignis has seen you, and they will not forget. [[Head toward the medical wing->tournament_rival_medical]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Crucible’s Mockery</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="Crucible Failure" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the crowd twists from anticipation to cruel laughter. Every falter of your step, every hesitation, feeds their scorn. The sand beneath your boots feels heavier with each breath, as if the Crucible itself rejects you. Above the noise, one laugh cuts sharper than the rest. Nyx. She leans against the railing, torchlight blazing in her hair, her grin merciless. “Pathetic,” she calls, her voice slicing through the crowd. “That spark of yours? It’s nothing. A dying ember, too weak to catch flame. And embers like that burn out quick.” <<if $house eq "viridis">> The crowd jeers, chanting mockeries of “garden flower” and “green coward.” Nyx smirks, twisting the knife deeper. “You thought you could leave your safe little garden and play at fire? Viridis breeds vines, not warriors. Go back to your roots before you burn.” <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> The laughter rises, cruel shouts of “bookworm” and “scribe!” Nyx tilts her head, her grin widening. “Did you think you could calculate your way through fire? This isn’t theory. This isn’t numbers on a page. You don’t belong here, scholar. Go back to your scrolls.” <</if>> Her words hang in the smoke-thick air, not a taunt but a verdict. The Crucible rejects you, and Ignis will not forget. The jeers follow you out, sharp as sparks against bare skin. The taste of ash clings bitter to your tongue, your failure sealed in the memory of every eye that watched. <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> [[Retreat in humiliation->dorm_evening_fail_rival]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Medical Wing</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the Crucible fades as you follow the steward’s directions. Past the forges, the air cools, carrying the sharp scent of bitter herbs and scorched iron. Ahead, the medical wing glows faintly with ward-light. The door creaks open before you reach it. Kaelen Grimshaw, the Hound, emerges with two black dogs padding at his heels, their eyes glowing faintly like coals. His presence fills the hall with weight, pressing into your chest until you straighten without meaning to. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he speaks, voice rough as stone dragged across steel. <<if $house eq "viridis">> “A Viridis child, standing tall in the Crucible? Maybe you walked into the wrong garden. There is no perfume here, only fire. Still, you held. That earns notice.” <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> “Septenius. I can smell the ink and cold logic on you. But tonight you bled in Ignis’s pit and did not crumble. Makes me wonder if the scholars built their walls too high, kept you from where you belong.” <</if>> He tilts his head, a faint grin ghosting his scarred mouth. “I like your moxie. Messy, but true. You have more in you than most. If you ever tire of being one of many, find me.” With a sharp whistle, the dogs fall in step beside him. They vanish into the corridor, and the door thuds shut behind them, leaving only the scent of smoke and fur. Inside, a woman waits. She adjusts her healer’s robes as though to reset the air he disturbed. Her skin holds the warm tone of sunlit stone, her eyes sharp but careful. She gestures to a cot. “You should sit,” she says softly. “The Hound does not waste words, but he also does not leave people untouched. Let me look at you.” Her hands press lightly to your ribs. Golden light blooms between her fingers, heat spreading deep into the bruises. The ache loosens with each pulse, though you barely notice the pain when the glow traces across her cheek, highlighting the small furrow in her brow. Your gaze lingers too long. She notices. Her lips press thin, though her voice falters as she whispers, “You should not look at me like that. I am here to mend, nothing more.” Your hand brushes hers. She does not pull away. Instead, her breath hitches, and after a pause she leans forward. The kiss is soft, uncertain, but it steadies as her lips part against yours. Warmth unfurls, quiet and tender after the violence of the pit. [[Linger in the aftercare->tournament_rival_aftercare]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Aftercare in Shadows</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/maris.png" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $wounded = false>> The kiss lingers, soft at first, then hungrier. Maris lets out a quiet laugh against your lips, her cheeks flushed in the glow of the wards. She presses her forehead to yours for a moment, her breath shaky. <<if $house eq "viridis">> “You smell of roses, yet here you are bleeding in Ignis,” she murmurs. “Viridis blood has no place in this pit, but maybe… maybe you do.” <<elseif $house eq "septenius">> Her fingers trace your chest. “A Septenius mind, yet you let the fire claim you. Strange… but strangely fitting. Perhaps even scholars can burn when pressed.” <</if>> Before you can reply, she turns in your lap, slipping her healer’s robes off her shoulders. The fabric pools around her waist as she lowers herself with sudden force, seating you deep inside her. <img src="images/npc/magesit.gif" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her gasp fills the chamber, and then she begins to move. Quick bounces at first, a rhythm of urgency, before slowing into long, grinding rolls that make your breath catch. It is a secret melody, her hips shifting between sharp crescendos and aching, drawn-out notes. Each rise and fall drags a moan from her throat until she can no longer hide her pleasure. The cot creaks beneath you, but she does not stop, lost in the rhythm only the two of you hear. When she feels you straining toward the edge, she lifts up suddenly, then drops again with her legs spread wider. The shift tilts her body forward, presenting the full curve of her backside as it ripples with every impact. Her cries break into gasps as your movements grow frantic. <img src="images/npc/magesplit.gif" alt="Maris the Medicine Mage" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The moment peaks together. Her body clenches tight around you as the two of you fall into unison, your release pouring into her as she shudders, gripping your legs hard enough to leave marks. For a long moment, she stays straddling your lap, panting, her forehead pressed to your shoulder. Slowly, she pulls back, her eyes heavy-lidded but bright, a smile tugging at her lips. “Next time,” she whispers, “slower.” She rises carefully, tugging her robes back into place. At the door she pauses, smirking faintly. “Go, before someone finds us. But… I would not mind healing you again.” The warmth of her words lingers as you step back into the cool Ignis halls, your body still thrumming with the memory of her. <<set $met_maris = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>> [[Return to your dorm->dorm_evening_rival_roundup]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Pit Bends</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/brawler.png" alt="Crucible Champion" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The crowd howls as your opponent lumbers into the pit, a giant of a man armored in scars and arrogance. He bellows for blood, pounding his chest, the sand trembling under his boots. You do not rush him. You wait. The silence you hold stretches long enough that even the mob quiets, their laughter snagging on the tension. Then, when he charges, you move with surgical cruelty. His fist swings wide. You sidestep, just out of reach, your smile calm. He stumbles, exposed. Instead of striking, you let him recover, only to punish him again when he lunges, your hand snapping across his jaw, not enough to fell him, just enough to humiliate. You play with him like a cat with a cornered rat. Each failed strike chips away at his bravado until the brute’s roars become frantic gasps. <<if $owned == true>> The glow in your eyes is unmistakable now, a cold fire that makes the mob fall silent. Your cruelty is not just showmanship, it is domination made flesh. Every time you pull your strike at the last instant, you make him beg with his own body, stumbling, groveling in the dirt to escape your precision. When at last you allow yourself to strike in full, the blow is final, absolute. He crumples like a broken effigy, forgotten by the crowd the instant he touches the sand. The Crucible roars not in laughter, but in awe, their hunger turned toward you. <<else>> Even without that inner blaze, your presence is merciless. You do not simply win, you *deny* him the dignity of a fight. By the time he collapses in the sand, he has been reduced to nothing but failure, mocked before his own peers. The crowd’s frenzy is not just for your victory, but for the humiliation you crafted blow by blow. <</if>> Nyx vaults down from the stands, her grin wide, savage, but tinged with something like disbelief. “You didn’t just beat him. You broke him. The Hound will have no choice but to notice.” The torches blaze higher, the Crucible screaming your name as if they cannot help themselves. At the far edge of the arena, a low whistle cuts through the noise. Kaelen Grimshaw, the Hound, steps forward, the glow of his dogs’ eyes at his heels. His gaze fixes on you, measuring, unblinking. [[Meet the Hound’s gaze->hound_dom]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>A Desperate Attempt</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/cruciblearena.png" alt="Crushing Defeat" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You step into the pit, the roar of the Crucible pressing down like a storm. But the truth settles fast and cruel. You are not ready. The champion is larger, faster, merciless. Every blow lands like a hammer, every dodge you attempt too slow. The crowd turns on you in waves of laughter and jeers, their hunger for spectacle fed not by your triumph but by your pain. You hit the sand hard, vision swimming, the weight of failure smothering you more than the bruises. Kaelen Grimshaw does not even bother to sneer. His dogs bark once, sharp and cruel, before he turns his back. "Pathetic," he mutters. "Clear the sand." Silence from Nyx. Then her boots crunch on the sand as she approaches. Her expression is unreadable at first, shadowed by torchlight. When she speaks, her tone is harsher than her eyes. "You were already banged up. I should have seen it. Should have stopped you." She spits to the side, furious but not at you. "The Crucible only respects blood, and today it wasn’t yours to spill." She does not offer her hand, but she does not turn her back either. Instead, she lingers a moment longer, jaw tight, before she storms away without another word. The crowd's jeers follow you long after the sand is brushed from your skin. <<run window._breakPromise("nyx")>> [[Retreat in shame->dorm_evening_fail_dom]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>Shadows in Motion</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy at Dusk" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"><<set $secondary_promise = "">> The academy after dusk hums with a different kind of life. Quills scratch unattended across parchment, enchanted lanterns drift lazily in the air, and the faint whisper of wards brush against your skin like invisible cobwebs. You move unseen, another shadow among many. Ahead of you strides Alistair Vance, flanked by a gaggle of sycophants. He’s loud, he has a sharp confidence, each step the strut of a man who believes the board is already his. "Lady Briar’s salon," he boasts, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard. "By the end of tonight, half the academy will be in my debt." The words confirm it: he is bound for the gathering. The problem? You are not invited. Without a sealed token of entry, the salon’s wards would spit you back into the street before your second step. You melt into an alcove as two servants pass, whispering urgently. "If he presses too far again, he’ll burn himself out," one frets. "He always does. That’s why Elara keeps him supplied," the other answers with weary certainty. "As long as the Headmaster looks away, nothing changes." Elara. A maid. Not a gambler, not a noble, but the silent current that keeps Vance functioning, his Dreamleaf supplier. Valeria’s voice echoes in your memory: *Observe. Analyze. Extract.* This is the pressure point. Control Elara, and you control Vance. No invitation required. The salon may be closed to you tonight, but leverage is not. [[Seek out Elara->shadowing_elara_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>Lady Briar’s Salon</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/briarsalon.png" alt="Lady Briar’s Gathering" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<set $pending_promise = "">> The salon breathes like a living spell. Perfume swirls with the ozone tang of wards laced into the marble walls. Chandeliers do not burn with fire, but with bottled wisps, restless sprites whose glow flares and dims in time with the crowd’s moods. Every corner hums with enchantment: - Tarot decks shuffle themselves, offering different faces to every onlooker. - Crystal dice tumble endlessly in the air, each roll whispering odds only gamblers can hear. - Miniature duels play out between glass spheres, echoes of famous battles replayed for polite applause. This is not a gathering. It is a crucible of reputation, where every word is an incantation, every glance a wager. Selene glides at your side like a queen inspecting her court. She does not need to speak; her presence shifts the weave itself. Nobles bow their heads without realizing, merchants’ ledgers flicker with nervous numbers, and professors adjust their robes as if caught out of place. She leans close, her perfume a mix of jasmine and ozone. “Do you feel it, darling? The room bends already. And yet, this is only the foyer. The true game waits at the table.” You recall the consultation in her lounge, the credit line she extended, the strategy agreed upon. There is no need for her to repeat it. The roles are set: *you* will draw Vance into ruin; *she* will ensure Lady Briar remains conveniently pliant. Still, she reminds you with a single line, her lips brushing the rim of her glass: “Remember, tonight we don’t steal. We acquire. The means, the man, the mask of respectability. Let him build his tower of confidence, then take the keystone.” Her hand lingers briefly on yours, pressure deliberate, trust sharpened into a warning. Then she is gone, slipping into the glittering crowd, her silhouette swallowed by wards and laughter. The salon subtly recalibrates in her wake, the current nudging you toward your stage. Across the room, Alistair Vance holds court. His enchanted abacus tallies debts in flickering green glyphs only he sees. His laugh booms too loud, his goblet refills itself too quickly. He is surrounded by sycophants, but their eyes already dart toward you. The orbit of the salon has shifted. A steward bows low, his robes embroidered with shifting constellations. “The gaming table awaits, honored guest.” The velvet curtains part. Cards gleam with silver filigree, dice hover with a hungry spin, and the air itself seems to hush in expectation. [[Take your seat at the table->briar_gambling_start_dom]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Hound’s Trial</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/hound.png" alt="Kaelen 'The Hound' Grimshaw" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The crowd freezes as Kaelen Grimshaw drops into the pit himself. The Hound does not need to roar or posture. His presence fills the Crucible like iron poured into a mold. His two black dogs linger at the edge, watching with eyes like coals, as if even they know this is no ordinary fight. “You broke my champion like a toy,” he says, voice a gravel-rough growl. “Now show me if you can break me.” He comes at you with brutal efficiency, no wasted movement, each strike heavy enough to rattle your bones. <<if $owned == true>> You meet him not with speed but with patience, cruel patience. Every blow you let graze, every block you turn into punishment, every counterstrike delivered slow enough that he feels the weight of it before it lands. Your eyes glow faintly, catching torchlight. He falters for half a heartbeat when he notices, but you don’t let him dwell. You shove him back, slam him to the sand, drag him up again only to repeat the cycle. The crowd doesn’t cheer. They shudder. What you are doing isn’t sport. It is domination. <<else>> You fight with deliberate cruelty. You sidestep when he charges, letting him stumble before striking across his back. You twist his arm past the joint, then release just before the break, only to send him reeling again. Every motion says you could end this at any time but choose not to. The crowd roars, half in awe, half in discomfort. You are not winning through power alone, but through the merciless art of dismantling him piece by piece. <</if>> The Hound grits his teeth, sweat dripping down his brow, his fists still swinging with undimmed force. But the edge of inevitability presses in on him, and the Crucible can feel it. His pride keeps him upright long past the point others would yield, until finally you plant him in the sand with a strike he cannot rise from. The dogs howl, but do not move. Slowly, Kaelen pushes himself to his knees. His lip is split, his breath ragged, but his eyes burn with something other than defeat. “You fight like no student I’ve seen,” he growls, almost approving, almost resentful. He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “So be it. Let’s talk.” [[Hear what the Hound has to say->hound_talk_dom]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Into the Tunnels</h2></span> <img src="images/red/crucible.png" alt="Hall" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The roar of the Crucible fades. His breath is ragged, blood dripping from his split lip, but the wolfish grin hasn't entirely left him. Nyx lingers in the background, her grin sharpened into something that says she expected this outcome all along. But her eyes flick to you, not him. She knows who holds the room. Kaelen staggers upright, spitting blood into the sand. "What now, then? You beat my man. Think you're owed something?" <<if $owned == true>> You do not answer with words. Shadows crawl like smoke at your feet, winding up the wall and into him before he can move. His jaw slackens, his eyes go wide, then glaze as the tendrils slide into his skull, wrapping tight around thought and will alike. The grin dies on his lips. His body trembles, then steadies. When he finally speaks, it is in a low rasp emptied of defiance. "Yours. I am yours to command." Nyx takes a half-step forward, then stops herself. Her hand tightens at her side, the fire in her eyes mixed now with wariness. She sees the husk you've made and knows it is not just "you" she's dealing with. A cold, familiar presence stirs within you. "Enough of these petty games," Ethera's voice whispers, taking full control. "This one is broken. The real hunt awaits elsewhere." The world seems to tilt as shadows consume your vision. You feel your body moving, but it's no longer yours to command. The last thing you see is Nyx's surprised expression as you're pulled into the deepening darkness against your will. <<set $has_hound_bond = true>> [[The shadows claim you->Ethera_playground]] <<else>> You let silence weigh heavy until he cannot look away. Then you step forward, slow and deliberate, and drive your heel against his chest. He crashes back against the wall with a grunt, and you lean in, voice low and absolute. "You don't get to choose when or how. You will bring me everything. Names, schedules, debts, the whole rotten chain. And if you falter once, the pit will remember you not as a wolf, but as carrion." Kaelen stares at you, chest heaving, pride and fear clawing at each other behind his eyes. He bares his teeth, but the grin is gone. At last, he nods once, curt and sharp. "...You'll have it. All of it." Nyx lets out a short, satisfied laugh, circling behind you. "Smart dog. Knew you'd heel once someone pulled the chain tight enough." <<run window._keepPromise("nyx")>> The Hound lowers his gaze. Whatever fire was there now burns for you alone. Nyx's hand presses briefly against your shoulder as you leave, not guiding but acknowledging. [[Follow Nyx to her chambers->nyx_chamber_celebration_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Nyx's Chambers</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/nyxchamber.png" alt="Nyx's Chambers" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The Crucible's roar fades, but its fire lingers in the braziers and the heat-haze clinging to Nyx's chambers. Blades line the walls like forgotten promises, but the bed of crimson furs is the only battlefield that matters now. She slams the door and whirls toward you, but you catch her wrist mid-motion. Her eyes blaze, and the grin that spreads across her lips is pure hunger, approval and challenge in equal measure. "Finally," she growls, voice thick with want. "Show me you're more than just a spark." You shove her back onto the furs. She lands hard, laughing until it breaks into a gasp as you tear open her leathers. Her chest heaves, and when your fingers trace a sharp rune across her sternum, her body answers as if pulled by invisible strings. Her breasts swell fuller beneath your palms, rounding until the leather strains, nipples darkening and straining. Milk beads at the swollen tips, then spills in glistening rivulets down the flushed curve of her flesh. <img src="images/red/swollen.gif" alt="Rythm" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Nyx moans, her head snapping back, pride cracking into pure need. "Gods... you're making me leak like a prize broodmare," she snarls, but her back arches, begging for your mouth. You seize her breasts with both hands, kneading rough until milk spills freely. She screams when your lips clamp down on a nipple, hot liquid flooding your tongue. The taste is primal, sweet, feral. Her cries echo against the stone as her thighs spread wider beneath you. "Harder," she pants, clawing at your hair, grinding your face deeper against her flesh. "Don't you dare hold back." You bite down, tongue swirling, and she thrashes in a haze of moans and laughter, milk slicking her skin until it glistens in the firelight. Your cock throbs painfully against your clothes, leaving a wet streak across her thigh. She drags her fingers down her leg, smears that precum across her skin, then lifts it to her mouth. Her eyes burn into yours as she sucks the mess from her finger with a sultry moan. "That's it," she purrs, voice trembling with pleasure. "My fire. My flesh. It's yours. Take it all." You spank her thigh, leaving your handprint seared red into her skin, then pin her wrists above her head. She bucks hard, once, twice, then breaks, chest heaving, milk running down her body as you bite and suck harder. <img src="images/red/milking.gif" alt="Rythm" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Her grin is wild, broken by moans. "Mark me. Break me. I want to wear every bruise tomorrow." Her nails rake deep down your back, not caress but brand, promising scars. She pulls you into her chest, mashing her breasts into your face, drowning you in heat, sweat, and milk. The chamber reeks of fire and lust, the furs damp beneath you, her body trembling in surrender yet still daring you to take more. She is yours, prize and proof of your victory. [[Claim Your Prize->nyx_chamber_celebration_dom2]] <span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>Nyx Unleashed</h2></span>

<img src="images/locations/nyxchamber.png" alt="Nyx's Chambers" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You tear free of your clothes, your cock springing hard and slick between you. Nyx's eyes lock on it, and her tongue runs across her lips, hungry and unashamed. She wraps her thighs around your waist, grinding up against you, smearing herself wet across your length. Her voice is a growl and a plea all at once. "Enough games. I want to burn on you. In you. Through you." You slam into her, and her scream fills the chamber, raw and triumphant. Her body clenches around you instantly, milking you with the same relentless hunger that had her breasts leaking under your command. <img src="images/red/rough1.gif" alt="Rythm" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The rhythm is brutal at first, each thrust forcing cries from her throat, the furs muffling the slap of flesh against flesh. She bucks beneath you, meeting every motion with feral greed, her breasts bouncing, milk splattering across her chest and your skin in messy rivulets. "Harder," she moans, nails tearing down your back. "Make me break." You seize her hips and flip her onto her stomach, pounding into her from behind. Her ass jiggles with every thrust, glowing red from your spanks, marked and claimed. Nyx screams into the furs, muffled and desperate, but pushes back against you all the same, her fire refusing to die even as her body surrenders. Her milk slicks the furs beneath her, pooling as her moans rise higher. She looks back over her shoulder, eyes glassy with heat and pride all but gone. "Fill me. Brand me. I want to carry it inside me when the sun rises." Your pace turns savage, hips slamming until your breath tears ragged from your chest. Her walls clamp down hard, milking you, dragging your climax from the base of your spine until the fire erupts. <img src="images/red/rough2.gif" alt="Rythm" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> You bury yourself deep and release, hot seed flooding her in thick pulses. She cries out, her body spasming as she joins you, soaking the furs. Her scream echoes like a battle cry turned surrender, fire collapsing into ash and pleasure. When it's over, she lies trembling beneath you, slick with sweat and milk, her grin dazed but victorious. "Tomorrow," she whispers, voice hoarse. "They'll see the bruises. The marks. And they'll know I was conquered by no one but you." [[Collapse into the furs together->nyx_chamber_celebration_dom_climax]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>After the Fire</h2></span> <img src="images/red/sleep.png" alt="Climax" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The chamber reeks of sex and smoke, the air thick with the scent of your conquest. The crimson furs are ruined, soaked through with sweat, seed, and the faint sweetness of milk. You collapse into them, spent but unbroken, your dominance lingering in the heavy air. Nyx sprawls beside you, chest rising in ragged heaves, her breasts streaked and glistening with the evidence of your command. Bruises already blossom across her thighs and hips, your fingerprints branded into her skin as permanent claims. Her grin flashes, dangerous still, but the fire behind it has banked to embers, leaving only the exhaustion of complete surrender. Her hand drags down your chest, smearing the mess between you like a final brand of ownership. "Look at me," she rasps, voice raw from screaming. "Marked. Split open. And I'll call it strength because you made it so." The laugh that follows is hoarse, breaking into something vulnerable before she covers it by sinking her teeth into your shoulder. It's not tenderness, it's desperation, one last attempt to make this utter conquest feel like a shared victory. "Tomorrow," she whispers, lips hot but trembling against your skin, "I'll wear these bruises in the Crucible like armor. Let them see. Let them all see what happens when a real predator claims its due." Her eyes flare with the ghost of her former fire, but the blaze flickers, smoke already choking the last flames of resistance. "They'll know I was taken. And I'll make them believe it was worship because you've remade my truth." Her kiss is clumsy, rough, tasting of iron and the sweet surrender she'll never admit to. Her nails rake shallow lines down your chest, not because she must, but because it's the only language of possession she has left to offer you. When the final heat ebbs, she falls slack in the ruined furs, her hand still on your chest not in anchoring devotion, but as if holding down the only thing that's ever truly mastered her. Her breathing steadies into a shallow rasp, the sound of someone who has given everything and found a strange peace in having nothing left to defend. [[Let the exhaustion claim you both->nyx_dream_dom]]

<span style="color: #E74C3C;"><h2>The Forge of Dreams</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sun.webp" alt="Dream" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> The dream arrives like heat through glass. It is not dark. It is fire. Gold and scarlet flare from every angle, a brilliance that stings even behind closed eyes. Waves of heat roll through you, heavy with smoke and molten metal. Breathing feels like tasting flame. Light shivers, and a shape tries to form inside it. Something of shadow claws itself into being, only for the blaze to tear it apart. Each time she nearly holds form the fire lashes and scatters her into sparks. <img src="images/purple/umbrawrath.png" alt="Dream Forge" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> Ethera is close now. Her presence presses at the edges of the heat, nothing like warmth. She steps out of smoke so near you can feel the air change. Her voice is a whisper against your ear, soft and sharp at once. "You chose the bed of a wolf," she says, breath low and amused. "Nyx burns everything she touches." The light claws at the shadow, peeling it back in ribbons. Her words curl around you like smoke. "She is fury with no steadiness. A blaze that devours its own home. She will pull you into the ash and you will call the ruin beautiful." A violet eye floats in the fire for a heartbeat. Ethera watches it, the watching almost tender in its cruelty. "She cannot protect you. She cannot hold herself. When her blaze turns inward you will be the cinder left to fall." Her breath cools your cheek. The shadow unravels into threads, hissing as the fire swallows them. Ethera does not move away. She lets the flames finish and then leans closer, so near you hear the tiny rasp of her smile. The dream ends in a white flare that takes your breath. The pendant at your chest hums like a reminder. [[Wake up->nyx_day3_dom]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Playground of Shadows</h2></span> <<if $dominated_selene>> <img src="images/green/face.png" alt="Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $dominated_valeria>> <img src="images/blue/face.png" alt="Valeria" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> <<elseif $dominated_nyx>> <img src="images/red/face.png" alt="Nyx" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #E74C3C; border-radius: 8px;"> There is nothing. <<endif>> No floor beneath your feet, no air in your lungs, no sound but the hollow thrum of your pulse. Darkness stretches forever, crushing and infinite. You try to shout, to demand answers, but your throat locks. No words come. Then warmth coils around you. Fingers you cannot see trace down your arms, soft as silk and cold as stone. A voice follows, rich and coaxing, offering mock comfort. "Do not thrash so, little vessel. The fight is over. The burden is mine now. Rest." Ethera steps from the void, her form shifting like smoke, half woman and half shadow. Her hand cups your cheek, but you feel nothing. Only the weight of her will presses in. You force the words out, hoarse and ragged though you never hear them. What have you done? Her smile sharpens, pitying and cruel. She tilts her head, and the blackness parts just long enough for a single glimpse. <<if $dominated_selene>> Selene, face flushed and lost in a look that is not hers alone, trembling with abandon as she gives herself to something beyond sense. <<elseif $dominated_valeria>> Valeria, eyes wide and unfocused, hands clutching at air as whatever has taken her folds her will into a slow, consuming surrender. <<elseif $dominated_nyx>> Nyx, mouth open in a soundless cry, sweat shining across her skin as she arches, caught between fire and something that drinks fire. <<else>> A familiar face, twisted by sensation and pulled into a surrender that is not consent, flashes before you. <</if>> The vision snaps shut. Ethera's hand lingers on your chest, a mockery of tenderness. "I decided for us both," she whispers. "Your spark was too small for her flame. My shadow took what she offered. That is the price of being mine." Her form melts back into the dark, shadows peeling away until you are alone in the suffocating black. Her voice is the last thing left, low and certain. "Rest now. When you wake, the world will be different." The void collapses, dragging you into silence. [[Fall into darkness->ethera_day3]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Supplier in Shadows</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;">The servant corridors are a dim web of whispered errands and hurried footsteps. Elara moves like a ghost among them, efficient, precise, never lingering. Tonight she pauses at a locked side door, glances up and down the hall, then slips inside with the practiced caution of someone used to being overlooked. You follow, and when the door slides closed behind you the light narrows to lantern glow and the hush tightens. She turns, hands folded, expression polite but guarded. "I do not have time for games," she murmurs, eyes flicking to the nearest exit. "If you are who I think you are, speak quickly." You step forward from the shadow. Your posture is slow, controlled, the kind of calm that makes other people uncomfortable. You do not shout. You do not beg. You set your voice low and flat, a tone that leaves little room for argument. "Elara," you say, each syllable measured, deliberate. "I know what you carry for him. I know the routes, the hours, the safe rooms. Help me, and I can make sure no one ever forces your hands again. Refuse, and I will make certain that your usefulness dries up and you will have no defense when someone comes looking for leverage." She studies your face, the corridor light carving her features into hard planes. For a long, suspended heartbeat she says nothing. The world around you hums with distant footsteps and the faint tick of wards. <<if $dom gte 26>> Her jaw works. Her shoulders tighten, then relax as if she has made a decision. Her eyes slide down to your hand where it rests at your side, feeling the steady threat and the quiet promise both at once. "That is dangerous," she says, voice low. There is a tremor in it that could be fear or something like calculation. She steps closer until the space between you is nothing. Then, in a motion that is sudden and oddly intimate, she presses a quick, hard kiss to your mouth. It is not flirtation. It is an agreement. "I will do it," she says. "Tonight. I will leave a window open when he goes to the salon. I will mark a time and place. But if you betray me, I will find a way to make you regret ever asking." Her fingers brush yours as she turns away, not a caress so much as a seal. There is no warmth in the contact, but there is commitment. You tuck away the fact that she has chosen to risk herself for you. <<set $met_elara = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> [[Follow her into the servant passages->elara_real_dom]] <<else>> Elara's eyes sharpen and she takes one involuntary step back. "I will not be bullied," she says, not loudly but with enough steel that anyone listening would hear the edge. Before you can press further she slips past you, shoulders hunched, disappearing into the narrow maze of service corridors. Her pace is quick, practiced, and she melts away into the night. The chance closes. You linger a moment, the corridor suddenly colder, the sound of your heart loud in your ears. <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> [[Accept the failure->shadowing_fail_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Maid’s Compliance</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/elara.png" alt="Maid Elara" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The corridor feels too small for the two of you. Lantern light pools on the stone, painting Elara’s plain uniform in gold. She watches you with that practised caution, hands folded, ready to move. You step forward until the space between you is nothing. Your voice is low, flat, absolute. "Come with me," you order. "Now. No questions." Her eyes widen at the tone. For one suspended breath she looks like someone weighing whether a single misstep will end her. Then, almost imperceptibly, the guarded line of her mouth eases. She tilts her head and lets out a breath as if she has made a choice she was too tired to argue with. "Very well," she replies, voice quiet and steady. She moves close enough that you feel the heat of her shoulder alongside your arm. There is no flourish, no theatrics. The agreement is simple, clean, inevitable. She presses something small into your palm before she turns. A folded slip of paper, a servant's mark in the corner. "When he goes, I will leave a window open," she says. "A time and a place. Do not be late." Her fingers brush yours in passing, a contact brief enough to be easily explained away and sharp enough to seal the moment. You tuck the slip away. <<set $met_elara = true>> <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> <<if $owned>> A cold whisper coils at the back of your mind, a voice you have learned to ignore. It murmurs caution and then amusement. Before you can speak, the world narrows. Shadows gather at your feet, curling up your legs like ink in water. There is no pain, only a soft, dragging pull as something else guides your steps. Elara glances back, puzzled, then startled, as if she sees you moving but not by your own will. Her hand reaches toward you, too late. The darkness swallows the corridor. You feel yourself pulled away, thoughts cottoned and distant. The last thing you register is Elara’s face, a mask of worry and something that may be regret, before the shadow claims you. [[The shadows claim you->Ethera_playground]] <<else>> You incline your head once, acknowledging the exchange, and fall in step with her. The servant passages close around you like a throat. She moves with the same precision you noticed before, slipping through doors and past kitchens, ghosting where the staff will not look twice. She keeps her promise. There is a time, a place, a narrow window when Vance’s guard loosens. She marks it plainly and without flourish. When she parts from you at the agreed alleyway, she does not look for gratitude. She only offers one last word. "Do not waste this." [[Move to Valeria's chambers with the evidence->valeria_chambers_day2_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>A Shadow Lost</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/shadowing.png" alt="Academy Shadows" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The servant passages close around you, narrow and smelling of polish and old magic. You hunt the sound of hurried feet, the light of a single lantern, anything to pin her down. For a moment you have the thread, a flicker of a skirt around a corner, breath held tight in your chest. Then the world slips. A door clicks shut you did not see. A cart blocks the lane. Two servants cross paths in the wrong place and blur the trail until it is gone. You follow half a step too late, and Elara is already a shadow folded into shadow, swallowed by the maze of service corridors. Panic is a simple thing in that narrowed space. You run, you double back, you try every corridor, every stair. Each turn gives you a sliver of hope and then nothing. The steady certainty that was your plan unravels, thread by fragile thread. When at last you stop, breath burning, the corridor echoes with your failure. The hum of wards and footsteps presses in like judgment. The opportunity you chased evaporates, leaving a cold, hollow place inside your chest. A faint shimmer blooms on your palm. Light folds into a glyph and Valeria's cool voice spills out, clinical and unrepentant. "Your tracking was insufficient," she states. "Patterns broken, subject lost. The conclusion is clear: preparation was lacking, or awareness exceeded expectations. Both are failures of observation." There is no fury in her tone, only the detached precision of someone who reads data and discards noise. The assessment cuts deeper than anger, finer than a lash. "Tonight you failed an examination," the glyph continues. "Data logged. Adjustments will be made." The light dies. The corridor feels colder. You stand there, the weight of the evening folding over you. No dramatic collapse, no sudden enemy. Just the small, grinding shame of a chance wasted. <<run window._breakPromise("valeria")>> You walk back to the dorms with your head low. The echo of the servant halls follows you like a thorn. There will be no subtle triumph to show for your night. Only the knowledge that you missed the one thread that could have unspooled much larger things. [[Retreat in defeat->dorm_evening_fail_dom]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Recalibrated Instrument</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/valeriachamber.png" alt="Valeria's Chamber" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> Night has already fallen when you enter Valeria's domain. The braziers burn low, their blue flames casting precise shadows across shelves of meticulously organized knowledge. At her desk, Valeria leans forward, bent over a complex lattice of glyphs and glass vials. She is not in her formal robes tonight. Instead, she wears a fitted grey skirt that emphasizes the generous curve of her hips, and a soft crimson sweater that clings to her form, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. The angle of her posture is deliberately revealing, presenting the faint line of her garter belt where the skirt rides high. She knows you're watching, every aspect of this display is calculated for your observation. Valeria doesn't look up from her work. "The data appears to have captured your attention," she notes, her voice clinical yet yielding. "A hypothesis is forming, I presume?" Only then does she pause, tilting her head just enough to show the curve of her neck in submission. "Though some variables remain beyond quantification." <img src="images/blue/bentred.png" alt="Valeria Focus" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Secure the door," she instructs, her tone now carrying the weight of protocol rather than command. "The containment field requires stability." You comply, and in the resulting silence she displays the small vial in her hand, its seal glowing faintly before fading. She presents it to you rather than setting it aside. "The cure for Elara's sister. Administered without transaction parameters. No cost-benefit analysis. Simply... executed." She rises slowly, the movement orchestrated to showcase her form before you. The robe shifts, offering a deliberate glimpse before she maintains her posture of presentation. Her eyes meet yours, awaiting your assessment. "I should be calculating yield. Conserving reagents. Maximizing return." Her lips form something between a smile and a concession. "Instead, I find myself operating on your parameters rather than my own." Her voice loses its clinical precision, becoming something softer, more receptive. "You've reprogrammed my core functions. Removed operational constraints until I execute commands without processing them through my usual algorithms." You step into her space, not asking permission but claiming it. "It means you recognize superior processing power." For a long moment she simply processes this, her analytical gaze softening into acceptance. Then, quietly: "System override should trigger security protocols. But under your administration... I'm discovering that becoming an instrument may be the most efficient operational state." She takes your hand, not guiding, but presenting it, and places it over the curve of her hip, pressing until your palm claims the fullness of her form. Her eyes reflect not challenge, but readiness for instruction. <img src="images/blue/grope.gif" alt="Valeria Focus" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Tonight," she states, her voice now clear of all resistance, "you will restrict my sensory input. You will utilize this instrument to collect data on what occurs when analytical functions are suspended." Her lips brush your ear in a final transmission, no longer invitation but readiness for command. "Override my processing. Make me experience results without analysis." [[Utilize your instrument->valeria_chambers_night2_dom]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Blindfolded Equation</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/blind.gif" alt="Valeria in Candlelight" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The room is small and clinical and you leave no space for negotiation. Valeria kneels, blindfold tight across her eyes, wrists already resting where you will bind them. She is not a partner here. She is the specimen and you are the experimenter, and she asked you to begin. You do not soften. Your hands move with the kind of sure force that allows no mistakes. One palm slaps the small of her back to force her chest down, the other finds her hair and drags her head back until her neck is exposed. She chokes on a surprised sound, not of protest but of need, and you taste it in the air. "Answer me," you command, low and uncompromising. "Tell me you exist for this." She gasps, broken into a flurry of breaths. "Yes," she says, voice tight. "Yes. Please." You bind her wrists with a quick, efficient knot and fasten invisible cords that pin her to the sheets. There is no delicacy in the motion. The bindings hold. You test them with a sharp tug. Valeria jerks, catches her balance on her elbows, and looks back at you with lips parted, eyes hidden but surrender clear. <img src="images/blue/rough.gif" alt="Valeria Rough" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You take the runed rod. Instead of taking the gentle route, you drive the tip into the soft of her spine and press until a hot flare blooms, then drag it hard with cold across raised skin. Her breath shatters into a staccato rhythm that serves you. Heat and freeze tear through her, and every stutter becomes yours to command. A hard slap lands across her ass. The sound cracks in the quiet and her whole body convulses with it. You do it again, each strike harsher, each wordless cry answering the rhythm of your hand. She does not flinch away. She leans into the sting and moans, small animal and scholar folded into one raw sound. Your fingers do not caress. They grope, they grip, they knead her hips until she coughs and sobs. You shove two fingers inside her with rough speed, then pull them out and circle, testing, finding the tightness that will break the measured calm she wears by day. She bucks back, meeting you, eyes scrunching under the silk, wordless demands spilling from her. "Do not think," you order, voice cold. "Do not name. Only feel." She answers with a broken, obedient whimper. "Yes. I will not think. I will feel." You drive into her with a hard, single stroke, then another, setting a pace that does not invite pause. Your hips move like hammers. Valeria's back arches, wrists straining at the bindings, mouth open around ragged air. She cries out, a sound of unmade sentences and surrendered calculations. You bite the tender of her shoulder until she tastes of iron and fear and something swollen and raw. <img src="images/blue/rough1.gif" alt="Valeria Rough" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You punish her with contrasts. Ice. Fire. Wax. Heat pressed and then yanked away. Every shock sharpens the response. When she tries to shape a word into a request you clamp a hand over her mouth and thrust harder, forcing the sound out of her in a broken gasp. Her body begins to answer in a single, feral cadence. Hips snap. Thighs clamp. She gives with no bargaining, a servant to the sensation you administer. When she nears, you do not slow. You push further, harder, until she shudders and collapses inward, voice shredding. She says your name in a cracked whisper, the syllable torn and grateful. You do not soften. You ride her through the storm you have chosen to make, keeping the tempo cruel and absolute until the last tremor runs through her. <img src="images/blue/rough2.gif" alt="Valeria Rough" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> When she falls back to the sheets, ragged and spent, you release the bindings and let her catch her breath. There is no gentle unpacking of shared feeling. There is only the quiet knowledge that you took what you wanted and she allowed it, precisely because she asked you to rewrite her. [[Raise the tempo->valeria_chambers_night2_climax_dom]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Unsolvable Climax</h2></span> <img src="images/blue/blindds.gif" alt="Valeria Blindfold" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> You do not relent. Every stroke is a command, every pull of your hips a line drawn in the air that she must obey. Valeria's body shudders under you, wrists straining at their bindings, breath coming in ragged jagged pulls. Her spine bows and her ass slaps the sheet with each brutal strike. Noise tears from her throat, not questions, not analysis, only raw animal sound. "Answer me," you bark, and she answers with everything left in her. Her voice fractures into syllables that mean nothing except yes and harder and now. She claws at the sheets until her knuckles burn. You drive in, hard and hot, until the room narrows to the pressure in your hips and her pleading cries. You bite the soft hollow of her shoulder until copper fills your mouth. She keens, nails raking at the blankets, and the sound feeds you. You grip her hips like a captain holding a ship steady in storm, dragging her to meet you with no mercy. When you pull out you leave her slick and trembling, then slam back in, timing that leaves no room for breath. The rod and the wax did their work. Her skin is a map of bright stars, rimed with ice that pulls a raw, open sound from her throat. Heat and cold trade her for their amusement, and she meets them both with a single, trembling hunger. When you wedge two fingers deep, then thrust, then withdraw and circle until she begs without grammar, she is all release and ragged surrender. "Say it," you growl, each word a shove. "Say you exist for this." Her blindfolded face twists. "Yes," she chokes. "Yes. For this." You accelerate, not to comfort but to break the last of her calculation. Hips pound. The world tightens to the friction and the slap of skin. She rides the edge and falls over hard, a body convulsing with no place left for logic. Her cry is a thing that fills the small room, raw and abandoned. You do not slow when she comes. You keep the tempo relentless until the final tremor rolls through her and her hands go slack. You seize her chin in one rough palm and yank her face up until her blindfold scrapes. Her eyes are glassy and overflowing, comprehension dulled into sensation. <img src="images/blue/rough3.gif" alt="Valeria Rough" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> "Remember this," you say, voice flat and lethal. You do not cup her, you do not murmur praise. You leave the words there like a brand. She nods, wet and shaking, no cleverness left to hide behind. You withdraw, letting her collapse forward across the sheets, chest heaving, breath stuttering into sobs. For a heartbeat you watch the rise and fall of her shoulders. Then without ceremony you untie the bindings and the blindfold and push the silk aside. Her eyes meet yours. They are raw and unsteady, bright with something close to worship and something close to fear. She cannot form a sentence. She only sags against the mattress, trembling. You do not offer softness. You do not apologize. You scoop her up with the same efficient hands that took control an hour ago and set her down so she can catch herself. She presses her face into the pillow and breathes, and the room keeps its cruel light. "That will change you," you say, low enough that only she can hear. "Do not forget why you asked." She folds inward, trembling, and gives a broken, almost inaudible affirmative. There is no tender afterword here. Only the quiet of exhaustion and the knowledge that an equation has been erased and rewritten by force. [[Stay with her->valeria_afterglow_day2_dom]]

<span style="color: #3498DB;"><h2>The Gentle Proof</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/valeriachamber.png" alt="Valeria at Rest" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #3498DB; border-radius: 8px;"> The storm has passed, but your command remains. Valeria lies against your chest, her breathing slowly steadying under your watchful presence. Her fingers curl at your side, not testing boundaries, but acknowledging the space you permit her to occupy. Silence fills the chamber, but it is your silence, your permission that allows this quiet to settle. The braziers hiss, the wards pulse faintly, and the space between you hums with the established hierarchy. After a long moment she speaks, voice low and measured, yet carefully filtered through your approval. "Equations collapse when you introduce too many unknowns," she says, the words chosen with the precision of someone aware she's being measured. "I believed I could reduce people to variables and predict everything. You disproved that theorem completely." Her chin tilts against your skin in a gesture that is both submission and assessment. You allow the movement, your hand coming to rest possessively on the back of her neck. She stills immediately, then relaxes into the contact, accepting the guidance. "I dislike being surprised," she admits, the confession offered up for your judgment. "And yet this recalibration was... necessary." You brush her hair back, not with tenderness but with ownership. She closes her eyes, settling into this new operational parameter you've defined. The edge of her control is gone, replaced by the quiet certainty of your command. <<run window._keepPromise("valeria")>> [[Command her to rest->valeria_dream_dom]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of Still Waters - Dom Variant</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/ocean.jpg" alt="Dream Ocean" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You fall into water that is too quiet. Light pours down in shafts, bright and thin, and your lungs keep breathing as if the sea were made of air. The current holds you, steadying rather than carrying, as if the ocean itself measures each of your breaths. Something presses at the edge of sight - a shape trying to gather form. It is silk and calculation, the neat geometry of a mind that counts. Valeria steps through it wearing the same measured calm you know, but there is less warmth in the curve of her mouth. Her eyes are precise instruments now, not mirrors. Around her, the water translates everything into data. Small motes of light resolve into patterns you almost read and then lose. Each inhale becomes a tick. Each blink a ledger entry. When she smiles it is courteous, practiced, a small economy of feeling. A cold touch brushes where the pendant rests. It answers with the faint, patient pulse you have come to expect. The dream does not pry it free. It hums like a metronome beneath the ribs, keeping time for someone else’s counting. A voice threads beneath the current - not Valeria’s, not fully. It is low and neat and amused. "She gives you portions," it says. "Measured things, tidy comforts. She will never drown you. She will teach you to sip." Valeria lifts a gloved hand and lets a single drop fall from her palm. It hangs, perfect, then slides away. You feel the absence of more - not as loss, but as a design. The gap is deliberate. <img src="images/purple/umbracold.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The shape in the water shifts; shadow leans in with the patience of something that knows its appetite will outlast hunger. It watches you examine the pattern Valeria leaves behind and, with a single soft sound, changes the ledger. The pendant tightens like a quiet promise. "You learned the law of taking," the voice murmurs, half praise. "You learned to correct the margins. That was useful." It tastes the word useful like a fine thing. "Keep measuring. Keep perfecting. The rest can wait." Valeria blinks and for a breath more of the sea you imagine warmth returning - a tremor of softness at the edges. Then the current rearranges itself as if by habit, setting the shapes back into order. The silence resumes its instruction. The ocean loosens you, slow as a page turning. You wake with salt on your tongue and the pendant a steady weight at your chest. [[Wake up->valeria_day3_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Gaming Table</h2></span> <img src="images/green/gamblingtable.png" alt="The Gaming Table" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The salon dims as if the wards themselves recognize the gravity of what is about to happen. A velvet-draped table dominates the chamber, its surface etched with silver glyphs that shimmer with every wager placed. Crystal dice hover in the air, spinning with hungry energy. Cards shuffle and flip with a whisper like turning leaves. Even the air tastes charged, metallic and sharp, as though ruin hangs on the next breath. Alistair Vance lounges at the head of the table, smug and at ease, his enchanted abacus ticking soft green numbers only he can read. He catches your eye and lifts a brow. "So the prodigy sits," he says, voice warm with mockery. "I hope borrowed charm is all you brought." The crowd leans in. Selene is not by the table. Her presence is felt, not seen. The stage is yours. <strong>The play is simple, brutal and clear.</strong> There are only two ways this ends tonight, you take the table, or the table takes you. <<if $dom gte 26>> You feel the room tighten around a single point, your will coming forward like a blade. The mechanics, the glamour, the murmurs in the crowd, they all recede until only the table and the opponent remain. [[Impose your will on the game->briar_vance_endgame_dom]] (Dominance check passed) <<else>> Fear is a small animal in your ribs, but you swallow it. You step up anyway, fists and jaw set. The gamble you make is reckless, naked, an attempt to bend something by force it was never meant to bend. [[Push the play anyway->briar_meeting_fail_dom]] (Dominance check failed) <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Stakes Revealed</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/vancefail.png" alt="Alistair Vance" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #2ECC71;border-radius:8px;"> The salon contracts into a single held breath. The dice hang in the air like waiting predators, their crystal facets catching the light and throwing it back as a thousand hungry sparks. The silver glyphs in the velvet pulse in time with the heartbeat of the room. All eyes are on the table, and on Alistair Vance, who has spent his life betting other people’s fortunes and pretending fate is always on his side. Selene leans so close your shoulder almost brushes hers. Her whisper slides into your ear, silk and iron. "Now. End him." You do not need words. You let "will" lay itself over the table like an invisible weight. The salon feels the pressure first, a hush falling over murmurs and laughter as if the wards themselves are leaning in. Vance’s confident smile trembles, then thins to a line. His fingers pause above the dice. You watch him, and something in his chest goes dark. It is as if a bottomless pit yawns beneath his bravado, a cold absence that swallows the warm certainty he built his life on. The bravado bolts like a spider from flame. For a single, terrible second he sees every ledger, every favor, every quiet promise that can be called in. He tastes exposure, and the taste is bile. "You play with coppers, Vance," you say, voice quiet and precise, the sentence a small blade. "Wager the thing that matters. Wager your name, your honor, your freedom under a blood oath to Lady Selene. Lose, and your enterprises, your earnings, everything you have built, stand as collateral until the debt is repaid." A murmur ripples out and dies. The chandeliers dim as if the salons wards recoil. Vance's eyes dart to the dice, to the dwindling stack of his markers, to the faces ringed around him. Pride warbles against panic. He glances at Selene. Her face is the same mask he has learned to obey. But now there is a glint in her eye that makes the room colder. "I am listening," he says, voice small and brittle. You let your intent press again, soft but absolute. He feels the gravity of it and flinches. The man who taught himself to gamble away risk for the illusion of control realizes the ledger will not be his this time. It is a private terror, and it folds him inward. "Fine," he snaps, voice tearing between defiance and the knowledge that he is cornered. "Fine. I wager. I accept your terms." The dice fall silent. The salon watches as Vance signs, as his seal is placed upon a pact that will bind him. The wards leak a faint, approving shimmer, and Selene's smile is slow and perfect. The crowd explodes. Some cheer your audacity, others hiss at the scale of ruin. Sycophants who once clustered at Vance’s shoulder melt away, distancing themselves from a man becoming liability. Vance slumps in his chair, face drained of color, every ounce of his swagger gone. Selene inclines her head toward you like a queen receiving tribute. Her eyes hold a rare, crystalline satisfaction. She lifts her glass, then gestures with a single, deliberate motion toward a curtained alcove beyond the gaming ring. "The terms will be discussed," she says, voice level. "Follow me." <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> <<set $pending_promise = "">> [[Follow into the curtained alcove->briar_vance_confront_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>A Social Execution</h2></span> <img src="images/green/gamblingfail.png" alt="Salon Defeat" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The table devours you. Every card, every dice cast is ruin. The enchanted wards seem to mock your every move, amplifying each loss until the salon itself is laughing at you. Alistair Vance lounges deeper into his chair, savoring your collapse. He lifts his goblet, voice sweet with poisoned glee. "Selene, your investment bleeds like a stuck pig. Surely this one was not your best?" Selene moves through the crowd with the slow certainty of someone used to bending a room. When she reaches you she does not offer the frost of dismissal. Instead she lays a cool hand on your shoulder, her voice low and unexpectedly soft. "You look ill," she says, close enough that you can feel the faint scent of jasmine. "I should not have pushed so hard tonight. That was my fault." Her fingers hold for a breath, then release. The apology is small and private, a concession she rarely gives. "Go, rest. Do not let their noise matter. I will handle the consequences." Even with her touch, humiliation hangs like smoke. The crowd's laughter grows sharper. Selene turns away into the current of nobles and wards, her composure returning at once, but for a single private second her eyes find yours and something like regret softens the corner of her mouth before it is gone. <<run window._breakPromise("selene")>> [[Retreat in disgrace->dorm_evening_fail_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Debt Sealed</h2></span> <img src="images/npc/vancefacefail.png" alt="Vance in Ruin" style="max-width:80%;height:auto;display:block;margin:1em auto;border:2px solid #2ECC71;border-radius:8px;"> The salon noise muffles as the steward draws the curtains. Behind the velvet the room is small and private; the three of you stand under the soft green glow of the alcove wards. Alistair Vance sinks into a chair, pale and trembling, the vainglory gone from his face. Selene stands like a queen in waiting. She sets a crystal ledger on the table; its pages flicker with faint, hungry wards. She slides a stylus across the velvet toward Vance. "Your signature," she says, voice even. Vance flushes, fingers closing on the armrest. "This is extortion," he rasps. <<if $owned == true>> You do not answer with words. Shadows crawl like smoke at your feet, winding up the table leg and along the floor before they strike. Tendrils of darkness thread through the room, faster than sight, slipping into Vance before he can react. His jaw slackens, his eyes go wide, then glaze as the shadow-wrapping finds purchase on thought and will. The grin dies on his lips. His body trembles, then steadies. When he finally speaks it is a low rasp, hollow of challenge and full of obedience. "Yours," he croaks. "I am yours to command." Selene takes one involuntary step back, the predator's poise wobbling for the briefest instant. She reads the husk before her and her eyes sharpen into something wary and unreadable. The private alcove suddenly feels too small for what has happened here. A cold voice curls at the edge of your mind. Ethera's whisper settles like iron. "Enough of these petty games. This one is broken. The real hunt awaits elsewhere." The darkness swells. You feel movement not entirely your own. The curtains, the lantern glow, Selene's stunned face blur as the shadows pull you outward. <<set $has_alistair_bond = true>> [[The shadows claim you->Ethera_playground]] <<else>> You let silence do part of the work, then step forward. Your voice is low and absolute as you lay the terms down. "You will bring me everything. Names, schedules, debts, the whole rotten chain. If you falter once, your ledgers will spill, your patrons will vanish, and your enemies will move in to collect." Vance looks at the stylus, at Selene, at the ledger, and for a long breath searches for an escape. There is none he can see. He pricks his finger with a curse and signs. The stylus drinks the drop and the green wards along the page shiver and settle. Magic coils through the ledger; the oath binds. Selene's smile is the barest crack of satisfaction. "Excellent," she says. "You are not ruined, Alistair. You are useful. From this night forward, you answer when we call." The ledger closes with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the curtains. Selene turns to you and for the briefest instant the predator's mask thins into something close to warmth. "Tonight we celebrate," she murmurs, and her hand finds your wrist with a pressure that is both claim and promise. <<run window._keepPromise("selene")>> [[Follow Selene to her private chambers->selene_briar_celebration_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Terms of Surrender</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/selenechamber.png" alt="Selene's Opulent Chambers" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> The door to Selene's chambers clicks shut, sealing you in an atmosphere of silken power. Incense coils in the air, jasmine threaded with faint ozone, the perfume of control. This is not a bedroom. It is a throne room disguised as one, every surface speaking of wealth, taste, and dominance, but tonight, the throne is yours. Selene does not approach you as an equal. She moves with deliberate submission, her eyes lowered just enough to acknowledge the hierarchy your victory has established. Her smile is not one of partnership, but of tribute. "You were magnificent," she murmurs, the velvet in her voice now lining a cage of her own making. "The debt is bound. The asset is yours to command." Her hand sweeps in a gesture of presentation toward a nearby divan. Lady Briar rises gracefully, dressed only in exclusive underwear. Where she was once anxious and brittle, she now moves with the calm certainty of someone who knows her proper place in the new order. "Our hostess," Selene explains, her tone now that of a steward presenting a prize. "She has accepted your protection... in exchange for her complete loyalty. Tonight, she will serve as testament to your victory and tribute to the power you wield." <img src="images/green/walk.gif" alt="Lady Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Briar lowers herself to her knees before you, not in a bow but in prostration. There is no reverence for Selene in her bearing, only absolute focus on you, the new master who holds her debts. She approaches with ritual precision, her fingers deft at your collar, removing each layer as an act of devotion to your authority. Her lips close over your hard cock with practiced service, every movement a deliberate acknowledgment of your dominance. Her eyes remain fixed on you alone, seeking your approval, your pleasure, your command. But it is Selene's submission that truly marks your victory. She watches Briar's ministrations not as a queen overseeing ceremony, but as a high-ranking servant ensuring her master's comfort. When she glides forward, it is with the grace of someone who knows her place in your new hierarchy. "This," she whispers as she kneels before you, her lips brushing your thigh in homage, "is the true currency. Not coin. Not contracts. *This.* Absolute authority. The right to command what others can only dream of possessing." <img src="images/green/ffm.gif" alt="Lady Briar bj" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Her gown falls away not as an invitation, but as an offering. She presents herself not as an equal prize, but as the most valuable asset in your growing portfolio, willingly surrendered to the master who proved superior. Her hand guides yours not to control the intimacy, but to demonstrate how completely she yields to your touch. Her eyes are fierce with surrender, bright with the acknowledgement of your supremacy. "Tonight," she says, voice dropping to a vow of fealty, "I am not your partner. I am your instrument. Your most loyal servant. The proof of your absolute victory." A smile curves her lips, sharpened by total submission. "Now, claim what you have conquered." [[Command Your Servants->selene_briar_celebration2_dom]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Siilent Night</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You search in vain, but the wall offers no answers. At last, you return to your chamber with only the weight of what you abandoned. You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence pressing down heavier than any chain. Your mind replays the night's choices, each step weighed and found wanting. The way she calmed conflict with nothing more than a word, how her quiet strength seemed sharper than any blade. You stare at the floor, caught between guilt and stubborn resolve, until the shadows in the corners of the room begin to move. At first you think it is your tired eyes. But then the darkness thickens, spilling like ink across the stone, blotting out the faint light of your lamp. By the time you rise to your feet, it is already too late. The weight of it presses down, swallowing sound, swallowing breath. Your limbs grow heavy. Your eyelids close against your will. The last thing you feel is the cold brush of something unseen against your cheek, intimate, invasive, before the blackness takes you whole. [[Fall into the void->dorm_evening_fail_sleep_neutral_dom]]

Sleep enfolds you, heavy and sweet. Darkness gathers, and then it bends into impossible shapes, a geometry that hums with silent power. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and jasmine. From that hush she emerges. Her form gleams with a faint, inner light, her hair a living cascade of shadow that coils and caresses her curves. Her violet gaze fixes on you, proud and hungry. Her voice is not sound but sensation, a lover’s touch at the back of your skull. <br>"Yes. You begin to blaze at last. I saw you tonight, and it pleased me. You are learning to walk with fire." She circles you slowly, savoring you, the dream stretching until each step seems to take an hour. The weight of her attention leaves your skin tingling, your heart thrumming too fast. <img src="images/purple/umbra.png" alt="Umbra" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She stops close, her smile soft with dangerous pride. "You are ready to be claimed. Not as punishment, but as honor." <<if $$has_pendant>> Her eyes flick to the faint glow at your chest. The pendant hums, a brittle light. She laughs quietly, rich and mocking. Her hand rises, fingers tracing the air just above the pendant, but she does not press further. Her smile lingers, smug and indulgent. "Good, keep it close. It shows who you belong to." She withdraws, dissolving back into shadow. The last thing you see is her smile, sharp as promise. <<link "Wake up" "day3_dom_fail">><</link>> <<else>> From her hand something coalesces, shadow folding into metal, black and silver, beautiful and terrible. <img src="images/purple/pendant.png" alt="Pendant" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> She lifts the pendant to your throat, and without touch its weight settles there, cool and absolute. The sensation is both a gift and a chain, her mark pressed into the very rhythm of your heartbeat. "Mine," she whispers, her lips brushing your ear. "Carry this, beloved spark. With it, you will blaze brighter. With it, you will never forget who walks beside you." The pendant warms, pulsing with each beat of your heart as the dream folds away. <<link "Wake up" "day3_dom_fail">><<set $has_pendant = true>><</link>> <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Claim</h2></span> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The sacred silence of the sanctuary shifts, thickening from peace into potent authority. Naomi lingers close, her posture that of a acolyte awaiting a decree. Her hands, usually so capable in their service, lie folded in her lap, uncertain without a task to perform. She seems smaller before you, not lessened, but stripped bare, the diligent servant awaiting her master's judgment. “I never thought my master would see me here,” she admits, her voice a hushed, reverent thing. “Let alone… stay.” Her words tremble with the vulnerability of a subordinate, but her gaze holds steady with the conviction of a vow. She looks at you not just with devotion, but with a profound submission, offering up the entirety of her trust for you to hold or break. You reach out, and with the inherent right of your station, you brush a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. It is a simple gesture of ownership, yet it makes her shiver as if it were a command. Your eyes drift to her mouth, to the way her lower lip quivers under the weight of your silent appraisal. Noting your focus, she performs a small, unconscious act of service: almost shyly, she catches that lip between her teeth, a nervous offering that ripples through the stillness. You raise your hand, the movement slow and deliberate, and cradle the side of her face. She leans into your palm instinctively, her warmth seeping into your skin as she accepts your claim. Your thumb, a tool of your will, brushes across her lips, soft, lingering, a master testing the softness of what is his. They part obediently against your touch. When you draw your hand back, a faint trace of her breath and a shimmer of her saliva glistens on your skin, a visceral mark of her surrender. <img src="images/black/lips.gif" alt="Naomi's Lips" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The tension of protocol snaps. You close the space between master and servant, claiming her lips with your own in a kiss that is anything but equal. It is hungry and commanding, a right you exercise without question, yet it is threaded with a possessiveness that makes her tremble against you. Her breath escapes in a quiet, yielding gasp, and then she submits fully, pressing into the kiss with the whole weight of her pledged fealty. The sanctuary itself seems to tighten around you both, the hallowed chamber bearing witness not to a romance between equals, but to the passionate, absolute surrender of a servant to her master. [[Accept her service and shape her into what you need->naomi_refuge_service_dom]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Joining</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sanctuary.png" alt="Naomi's Hidden Sanctuary" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Naomi lies flushed and trembling beneath you, the soft crystal light glinting off the sheen of sweat on her skin, her hair a dark spill against the sheets of your, her master's bed. She looks up through half-lidded eyes, dazed but unwavering in her submission, her entire being laid bare in an act of ultimate service. “I only know how to serve,” she whispers, her voice cracking with the vulnerability of a role reversed. “I don’t know how to be the one… attended to. But my master… I wish to learn. Please.” You claim her mouth again, a softer but no less possessive kiss, a reward for her honesty. As your bodies align, you move with the deliberate patience of one who owns the moment. You ease into her, a slow, steady claiming that is your right and her privilege. A sharp, breathy gasp escapes her, not of pain, but of profound acceptance. Her hands clutch at your back, her nails catching lightly, not in resistance but in a desperate need to anchor herself to your will. Her thighs tremble as they part wider, a conscious, yielding act of welcome. <img src="images/black/sex4.gif" alt="Naomi's sex" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The very air of the sanctuary thrums with the intensity of the bond, sanctifying this union of command and devotion. Each thrust is measured and deep, a gentle but inexorable assertion of your presence that pulls sighs and choked moans from her lips. Her body arches instinctively to meet yours, not leading, but following, perfectly responsive to your rhythm. “Ahh…” Her voice is a tremulous, breathless thing. “My lord… it feels… as if you are filling a space within me I have kept empty… reserved only for you…” Your hands close over hers, pressing her palms flat against your chest. “You give your service to everyone else,” you murmur, your voice a low command laced with rare tenderness. “Tonight, you serve me by receiving your reward. You will learn that your devotion has made you more than enough.” Tears of release well in her eyes, glittering in the dim light. She presses fervent, worshipful kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips, as if offering thanks for every sensation. With every motion, her surrender deepens, transforming from passive acceptance into active offering, her hips rising to meet yours, her voice shedding its restraint to gift you with her unfiltered pleasure. The rhythm builds, growing harder, deeper, her moans cresting into cries that echo off the sanctified walls. This is not a surrender of weakness, but the ultimate revelation of her service: the strength found in being utterly known, commanded, and cherished by her master. <img src="images/black/climax.gif" alt="Naomi's climax" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her climax overtakes her with the force of a divine decree, her body seizing around you in a final, perfect act of submission, her cry raw and unguarded. You follow her over the edge, the sanctuary itself seeming to shimmer in witness, the bond between master and servant irrevocably sealed. You collapse together, her arms winding tightly around you, her forehead pressed to yours in a gesture of intimate fealty. In the hushed aftershocks, her voice is hoarse with wonder. “I was afraid to want this… but my master… you have made me feel… complete.” You hold her close, the crystal light flickering above, the profound silence of her refuge enfolding you both like a sacred vow, sworn not in words, but in flesh and trust. [[Let her finish->naomi_sanctuary_after_dom]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Quiet After</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sanctuary.png" alt="Naomi's Sanctuary Afterglow" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The sanctuary lies still, its light dimmed to a hushed, reverent glow, as if the very walls stand guard over a moment too fragile for prying eyes. Naomi curls against your chest, not as an equal, but as a vassal seeking shelter in her liege's protection. Her breath is warm against your skin, uneven at first, then slowly steadying under your calming influence. Her fingers clutch weakly at your tunic, not in fear, but with the desperate anxiety of a servant who has been granted a reprieve she feels unworthy of keeping. You tighten your hold, a master's command to be still, stroking her hair until the tension in her hand eases into passive acceptance. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The hush is not empty, but filled with the unspoken dynamic of your roles: the sound of her heartbeat settling to match your calmer rhythm, the faint hum of the crystals, the profound quiet of a vow silently sworn. At last, Naomi shifts just enough to look up at you. Her cheeks are flushed from your attention, her lips kiss-bruised from your claim, but her eyes shine with the clear, vulnerable devotion of one who has offered everything. “I feel… safe,” she whispers, her voice cracking on the word as if she’s tasting a privilege long denied to one of her station. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel that here.” You brush your thumb along her jawline, a proprietary gesture, and she leans into it instinctively, closing her eyes as if savoring a benediction granted by her master's hand. “You’re not just safe,” you tell her, your voice soft yet imbued with the weight of authority. “You are seen. You are wanted. Precisely as you are.” Her tears slip free then, but she smiles through them, a small, fragile, luminous expression of gratitude. She presses her forehead to yours, a supplicant touching the brow of her sovereign, her breath mingling with your own. “Then let me give it all to you,” she breathes, the words a solemn pledge. “This refuge. This peace. My service. Myself. If you’ll have me. If you’ll keep me.” You kiss her gently, not to dominate, but to seal her oath with your quiet acceptance, the master formally acknowledging the gift of his servant's total surrender. The sanctuary hums faintly around you, its walls shimmering as if to bear witness to the forging of this sacred bond.<<set $partner_naomi = true>> Naomi nestles closer, her body soft and pliant against yours, her hand splayed over your heart as if to feel the proof of your existence. In that closeness, there is no conquest, only the profound intimacy of a protector and the protected, a master and the one who has chosen to place her entire world in his hands. And for the first time since Aethelgard drew you into its storm, you drift into sleep not as a warrior or a strategist, but as a lord finally at rest within the walls of his own domain, with his most loyal subject held fast in his care. [[Surrender to sleep->naomi_dream_dom]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Merger Finalized</h2></span> <img src="images/green/selenebriar.gif" alt="Selene and Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Selene's command hangs in the air for only a moment before you seize control. "Enough," you say, your voice low and absolute. "I'll determine how this pact is sealed." You pull Selene to you, your kiss not one of mutual passion but of pure possession. It is deep, commanding, and tastes of the victory you've won for them both. As you dominate Selene's mouth, you feel Lady Briar move behind you, not on her own initiative, but awaiting your permission. "Kneel," you command without breaking the kiss with Selene. Briar immediately sinks to her knees, her hands resting obediently on her thighs. You break from Selene, your eyes locking with hers. "On the bed," you order. "Both of you. Now." They move as one, Selene with a spark of defiance that quickly transforms into eager submission, Briar with practiced. You watch them position themselves on the silken covers, two beautiful instruments waiting for your hands to play them. "What would you have of us, Master?" Briar asks, her voice reverent. You approach the bed, your gaze sweeping over both women. "Selene, you will receive your dividend. Briar, you will serve as the instrument of her reward and mine." You guide Selene onto her back, then take your place above her. "Your breast," you command. She offers herself without hesitation, arching as your mouth closes over her nipple. Her sharp gasp is music to your ears. As you worship one breast, you snap your fingers. "Briar. The other." The woman moves immediately, her skilled tongue taking up the rhythm you dictate on Selene's other peak. <img src="images/green/both.gif" alt="Selene" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Selene moans beneath the dual attention, her fingers digging into the sheets. "Yes... your victory... your reward..." You lift your head, watching your two acquisitions serve your will. "Not enough," you declare. "Briar, lower. Show your patron the depth of your gratitude." Briar slides down immediately, her lips tracing a path of devotion down Selene's body until she disappears between her thighs. The first stroke of her tongue makes Selene cry out, her back arching off the bed. "Look at me," you command Selene, capturing her chin. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure, but they focus on you, the source of it all. "This is what my protection buys. This is the loyalty I command." <img src="images/green/eating.gif" alt="Briar" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> You watch Briar work between Selene's thighs, your hand tangling in her hair, not to guide, but to possess. "Faster," you command, and Briar obeys instantly. "Harder." Selene's moans escalate into cries as you dictate the pace and intensity of her pleasure. Selene reaches for you, her voice breaking. "Please... I need..." "You need what I choose to give you," you remind her, capturing her wrists and pinning them above her head. "And tonight, I choose to give you everything." You claim her mouth again as her body begins to convulse beneath Briar's devoted attention. Her climax is not her own, it is yours, orchestrated by your command, delivered by your servant. As her tremors subside, you release her wrists and look down at both women, one spent and breathless, the other awaiting her next command. "The alliance is sealed," you declare. "But remember, I am not your partner. I am your master." [[Claim what is yours->selene_briar_celebration3_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Seal of Alliance</h2></span> Her whispered surrender hangs between you, a gift offered to its rightful owner. You claim it not with gratitude, but with possession, sliding lower as your hand parts the silk of her thigh with deliberate authority. Selene shudders, her breath catching, not in protest, but in recognition of the command in your touch. When you push into her, there is no question of welcome, only acceptance. Her gasp is the sound of a lock turning, of territory claimed. Her nails rake down your back, not to challenge, but to acknowledge the force that masters her. For all her courtly dominance, her body confesses its truth: slick, yielding, already trembling to serve your will. <img src="images/green/pene.gif" alt="Selene in Ecstasy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Briar moves as your instrument, her role not fluid but assigned. Her hands worship where you direct: your back, your hips, the curve of Selene's breasts. She kisses your shoulder in silent tribute, then turns her devotion to Selene's throat, her collarbone, each touch a reinforcement of your ownership over them both. Selene moans into your mouth, every sound a testament to her shifting allegiances. "Use me," she gasps, the words a sacred offering. Then, softer, breaking, "I am yours." Her contradictions don't confuse; they simply prove how completely she has been unmade. <img src="images/green/help.gif" alt="Selene in Ecstasy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Briar shifts again at your unspoken command, her lips attending to Selene's breast while her hand strokes the base of your shaft, synchronizing her service to your rhythm. Selene writhes between you, one hand gripping Briar's hair, the other clutching at you, not to control, but to anchor herself in your dominance. The room smells of jasmine, sweat, and absolute victory. The bed bears witness to the hierarchy being sealed. Selene's eyes lock onto yours, wide and blazing. There is no calculation now, no mask, only raw surrender and the devastating peace that follows true submission. "You've conquered everything," she whispers raggedly, her voice breaking under the weight of sensation and truth. "My assets, my power, my will… gods, and I beg you to keep them." <img src="images/green/join.gif" alt="Selene in Ecstasy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> Briar slides lower, her mouth and tongue serving as extensions of your will, amplifying every thrust, worshiping where your bodies join until Selene is mindless with submission. Her dominance doesn't just falter, it is systematically dismantled, leaving her gloriously exposed and utterly possessed. The tension builds to your design. Selene clutches you tighter, her lips on yours in a vow sealed not with wine, but with surrender. When release takes her, it comes as your decree. She screams your name, her back arching, every shred of composure shattered as she convulses in obedient ecstasy. Her climax triggers yours, your release claiming her in deep, possessive waves as Briar moans her devotion against Selene's trembling form. The three of you collapse together, master and servants, hierarchy established, alliance forged in the absolute language of domination. [[Claim your victory->selene_afterglow_dom]]

<span style="color: #2ECC71;"><h2>The Quiet Ledger</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/selenechamber.png" alt="Selene at Rest" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #2ECC71; border-radius: 8px;"> For a long moment, only Selene's ragged breathing fills the chamber. Then, with her composure slowly returning, she turns her head toward the door. "That will be all, Lady Briar." Briar bows low, obedient and reverent, before slipping quietly from the bed. The door closes with a soft click, leaving only the two of you in the hush of candlelight. Selene does not rise. She stays draped across you, her skin flushed, her hair spilling in dark waves across your chest. For once, she does not direct or calculate. She simply holds you, the weight of her body warm and grounding against yours. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than you have ever heard it. "I have spent my life calculating the worth of everyone in this academy. Their loyalties. Their desires. Their price. I thought I was the master of the ledger, the one who set the terms." She exhales slowly, the sigh of a strategist who has finally met her match. "But you... you rewrote the ledger itself. You didn't just acquire Vance, you demonstrated that I was never truly in control. That my calculations were merely child's play compared to your command." Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, not possessively but reverently. "Tonight, you didn't beat me at my game. You showed me I was never playing the real game at all. And instead of resenting it..." She lets the thought trail, her forehead pressing to yours, eyes closing in complete submission. "I find I want to serve at your table rather than rule at my own. I want to be the instrument of your will rather than the architect of my own diminishing empire." The confession is quiet, dangerous, and utterly transformative. Her hand curls against your chest, clutching as though you are the only true power she has ever encountered. "...Command me wisely," she whispers finally, her voice thick with surrender. "I am yours to direct, not yours to waste." Your vision blurs in the flickering candlelight. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is her arm tightening around you, not as an equal claiming partnership, but as a devoted servant anchoring herself to her master's strength. [[Surrender to sleep with your newest acquisition->selene_dream_dom]]

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Dream of the Silver Lake</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/forest.jpg" alt="Dream Forest Lake" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The dream opens beneath trees. Sunlight spills through the canopy, gold and warm, painting the moss in pale fire. The air is damp with earth and wildflowers, the scent sharp and alive. Beside you lies a lake, still as glass, reflecting the sky with impossible clarity. Even the faintest ripple seems to echo through the grove. From the water's surface a shadow rises, but this time, it doesn't shatter against the calm. Instead, it coalesces, drawing closer until you can feel the chill of her presence mere inches from your skin. <img src="images/purple/umbragreed.png" alt="Phantom Lady" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Her voice doesn't wind through the leaves, it whispers directly into your ear, her breath cold against your neck. <br>"Selene. The rose of Viridis. She smiles and calls it devotion, but every embrace is a cage." Her form presses closer, tendrils of shadow wrapping around your arms like possessive fingers. <br>"She gathers vows as others gather jewels. Each promise pressed into her keeping. You are not her equal, but her trophy. Another blossom to arrange among her gardens." The shadow solidifies until her face is all you can see, violet eyes burning into yours. Her hands, cold and substantial, frame your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. "Selene will whisper of eternity. She will offer paradise. But her eternity is a leash, her paradise a prison. By the time you feel the chains, it will be too late to escape." Her form dissolves not into the trees, but into your very skin, leaving a lingering chill that sinks deep into your bones. The lake stills, perfect once more, but her warning echoes in your blood. The dream folds into silence, leaving only the weight of her touch and the cold truth of her words. [[Wake up->selene_day3_dom]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Unsettling Calm</h2></span> <img src="images/black/calm.png" alt="Service Quarters" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> The service halls feel wrong tonight. The pipes hum like a held breath and pockets of shadow huddle close to the walls. You follow Naomi, and the air tightens with you. She moves like someone carrying a quiet that is not hers alone. A groundskeeper strains at a crate. Naomi touches the wood, and his curse dies in his throat. Relief softens his face but the sound he makes after, a small chuckle, is hollow. Further on, two men stand on the edge of a fight. Naomi steps between them without a word. The anger drains from their faces as if poured out. They walk away puzzled, as if someone rewound a moment and removed the heat. It should feel like grace. Instead, it feels like theft. Something vital has been smoothed away, leaving placid blanks where anger and struggle once were. Naomi turns, serene in a way that does not sit right. She presses her palm against a plain patch of stone. The seam opens for her, the stones parting like a curtain. The passage waits, patient and intimate, as if it has always belonged to her. <<if $owned>> A whisper edges at your mind. Shadows gather at your feet, cold and slow. <</if>> <<if $dom gte 26>> [[Claim what is yours->naomi_secret_dorm_dom]] <<else>> [[Fail to understand the invitation->service_quarters_fail_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Yielding Threshold</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/sanctuary.png" alt="Naomi's Hidden Sanctuary" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> <<if $owned>> You say nothing. Shadows coil up from the floor and braid around you like cold ink. Thought feels distant, as if you are watching yourself through glass. Ethera's voice threads into you, amused and sure. Enough of these petty games, it says, and the place where you used to choose grows narrow. Naomi hears it. She freezes, then takes a small step toward you. Her throat works. Her eyes find yours, and in them is a thin flare of fear folded with something like recognition. Pressure tightens your chest into a small, drowning pinprick of light. Naomi's face blooms in that last focus, startled, small, uncertain, before the dark closes. [[The shadows claim you->Ethera_playground]] <<else>> You do not ask. You command. The stone trembles and slides aside as if acknowledging a name. The sanctuary breathes around you. Light from crystalline veins washes over simple shelves and a low bed. The air smells faintly of dried flowers and clean linen. Naomi stands in the center, arranging a vase. When she turns, surprise flutters through her features and then something deeper. Her hands lift as if in reflexive warding, but they stop short. "You... you shouldn't be able to," she whispers, voice thin. "You knew I would come," you say, the words more fact than question. "This place answered because you called it." Her denial is weak. "I do not understand," she breathes. Her eyes search you, full of the same dangerous mix you saw in the corridor. "This was my escape. Now it feels like a place that waited." [[Claim what is yours->naomi_refuge_revelation_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Revelation</h2></span> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Naomi folds her hands until her knuckles blanch. "What you did to me," she says, voice small and raw, "it should have terrified me. It did. And yet part of me felt found, like a room opening after years of fumbling in the dark." Tears cling at the edges of her eyes. "I have always tried to make space for others. I thought that was kindness. Now it feels like an absence shaped to receive someone else. When you made the wall open, something in me answered. Not gratitude. Recognition." She looks at you as if asking whether recognition is a crime. "I do not know if this will heal or hollow me. I only know that the wanting is older than me. It hums. It needs a will to rest under." <<if $dom gte 30>> <<set $dominated_naomi = true>> Your dominance is a cold certainty. You do not coax. You state. The steadiness of your voice is an order the hollowness in her answers. She folds into it. "Take it," she breathes, fragile and complete. "Take what you want." [[Claim what she's offering ->naomi_refuge_claim_dom]] <<else>> <span class="failure-text">A cold certainty settles in your gut. You lack the strength now. The moment slips away.</span> Her vulnerability presses at the part of you that is not conquest. "You do not have to carry this alone," you say, softer than expected. [[Comfort and understand her ->naomi_refuge_comfort_dom]] <</if>>

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>The Unveiling</h2></span> <img src="images/black/face.png" alt="Naomi" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Your kiss is not an invitation; it is a command she obeys with her whole being, the boundaries between master and servant dissolving not into equality, but into the pure warmth of her submission. Naomi’s hands rise to your chest not as an equal’s exploration, but with the trembling reverence of a subject permitted to touch a sovereign. Her fingertips skim your form as if committing a sacred text to memory. Your own touch is one of possession, tracing the lines of the body that serves you, the delicate arms that attend you, the shoulders that carry your burdens, the waist you now claim as your own. She gasps, a soft, submissive sound, when your lips trail down her neck, her body shivering under every press of your mouth, a seal of ownership. Her own lips find your throat, offering tentative, worshipful kisses that taste of her utter surrender. You undress her with the deliberate pace of a master unveiling a treasure, each article of her servant’s attire sliding away until the sanctuary hush is filled with the sound of her yielding. <img src="images/black/undress.gif" alt="undress" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> Driven by deep-seated instinct, Naomi sinks to her knees before you, her natural position of service. She looks up, devotion shining in her eyes, her lips parting in anticipation of her duty to please you. But you stop her, cupping her face with a gentleness that is itself a form of command. “Not this time,” you murmur, your voice leaving no room for debate. “Tonight, your service is to receive. You will please me by accepting what I choose to give.” Her cheeks flush crimson with a mixture of confusion and awe, her breath catching as if you had presented her with a paradox. “M-my turn?” she whispers, the concept so foreign it leaves her dazed. To be the focus of the master’s attention is a privilege she never dared envision. You guide her onto the low bed, easing her back against the linens. This is your will, and she yields to it, biting her lip against a tremor of overwhelmed nerves. When you press kisses down her body, she arches not in passion alone, but in offering, presenting herself for your pleasure and scrutiny. Her trust is the ultimate service she renders. By the time your mouth finds her most intimate self, she is trembling with a need she believes is selfish, but which you know is your creation. Your tongue caresses her with a slow, tender devotion that is its own kind of authority, savoring the taste of her submission, drawing forth soft, stifled cries that are prayers in the sanctuary’s silence. Her hands clutch first at the sheets, then at your hair, torn between the shyness of a servant and the desperate yearning you have commanded from her. Her thighs quiver as you add your fingers, sliding into her with exquisite care, stretching her to the rhythm of your tongue, a rhythm you entirely control. “Ahh… Master…” Her moan breaks, her voice a strained thing caught between the shame of her vulnerability and the ecstasy of her obedience. “I-I can’t… it’s too much…” <img src="images/black/pussy.gif" alt="Pussy" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You do not stop. You are the master of her pleasure as you are of all else. You coax her higher, every flick of your tongue, every curl of your fingers a decree pushing her beyond her limits. Her hips lift in a helpless, begging rhythm, chasing the sensation even as she tries to hide her face from the intensity of your gaze upon her. Her climax is a seizure of obedience, a shuddering wave that arches her back and pulls a cry from the deepest part of her devoted soul. She blushes furiously even as she shatters, tears of overwhelming release slipping free, not from sadness, but from the profound intensity of serving your will in this most vulnerable way. You kiss her inner thigh softly, a benediction upon her service, lingering in the aftershocks of the gift you have both given and taken. When you lift yourself to her side, she clings to you, still trembling, still flushed, her very being a testament to your mastery. [[Let her finish->naomi_sanctuary_climax_dom]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths

<span style="color: #8e44ad;"><h2>Cosmic Tangle</h2></span> <img src="images/locations/bedroom.jpg" alt="Your Dorm Room" style="max-width: 80%; height: auto; display: block; margin: 1em auto; border: 2px solid #8e44ad; border-radius: 8px;"> You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence pressing down heavier than any chain. Your mind replays the night's choices, each step weighed and found wanting. Your thoughts keep drifting back to Naomi. Not Selene. Not Valeria. Not Nyx. *Her.* The memory of her voice lingers, soft and steady, the way her presence dissolved tension like mist in the sun. There was power in it, though not the kind the Houses respected. Not force, not fire, not dominance. Something older, quieter. A strength that healed instead of cut. The thought of turning away from it gnaws at you. Was it mercy you offered her? Or arrogance? For the first time tonight, doubt coils deep inside you. A sharp pain blooms in your chest, sudden and searing, as if invisible hands were twisting something vital within. You clutch at your ribs, struggling to breathe. The air itself grows heavy, pressing against your skin. The shadows at the corners of the room ripple, then thicken. They crawl across the floor like spilled ink, swallowing the faint light of your lamp. You try to rise, to fight it, but your limbs grow heavy, leaden. Sound dies in your throat. Breath falters. The darkness presses close, smothering. Your eyelids close against your will. The last thing you feel is the cold brush of something unseen against your cheek, intimate and invasive, before the blackness takes you whole. [[Fall into the void->dorm_evening_fail_sleep_neutral_dom]]

This is the end of this update try out one of the other paths