The air in your underground studio tastes of copper and old magic. You lean against the wrought-iron frame of your St. Andrew's cross, watching Abbie step through the velvet-draped doorway. Her boots echo against the stone floor, each step measured, deliberate. She's thick and curved in ways that would make a forge blush, her dwarven frame packed with muscle and heat.

Daemora: "You're late, forge-maiden. And I don't accept excuses."

Abbie: "I brought what you wanted." She holds up a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age. "Maris's ledger. Every debt, every secret, every piece of leverage she holds over the nobles in the Spire."

You don't reach for it. Instead, you circle her, letting your heels click a slow rhythm against the stone. She smells of smoke and iron, of hours spent bent over an anvil. You can almost taste the tension in her shoulders.

Daemora: "And what do you want in return?"

Abbie: "One scene. Your best. I want to know if the rumors are true."

A smile curls at the corner of your lips. You take the ledger, run your fingers over the cracked leather binding, then set it aside on your obsidian desk.

Daemora: "One scene. But I choose the terms. You will address me as Mistress. You will follow every command without hesitation. And when it's over, you will remember why no one challenges a succubus queen."

Abbie's jaw tightens, but she nods. Her voice comes lower, rougher. Abbie: "Yes, Mistress."