The first few paragraphs are a first-person limited omniscient narrative, think of it as the voice-over in a movie scene. I wanted to give out more on Iris without changing the POV throughout the whole story and add more meat to the bone: The Order of Valentine, purposely for commentary.

Also, steamy scene ahead. 😉 Enjoy!!!

Omniscient Narrator

Red dances, a warmth radiating around it, twirling in graceful arcs that outshine even the Violet. It stretches, blending seamlessly with the dull Orange and Yellow, infusing them with a newfound brilliance, much like the moon drawing strength from the sun. Green sits regally, exuding an aura of both pride and desperation, as if it sways to its own authoritative rhythm, casting a shadow over the rest of the colours, although Red resolutely refuses to be outdone. Blue, calm and silent, dominates the space like ice forming on a frigid day. Indigo joins Red in its twirl, vying for attention against Violet's vibrant presence.

At least that's what my mother used to sing. She is why I chose the rainbow. It was either that or just a goddess before my name, sitting in a castle as a princess but with no adventure whatsoever.

I like to imagine the colours as people performing on a stage and I am the little girl in the audience, picking my favourite colour. My mother loved the Yellow. She said it smiles and only glows when touched, a colour that needs a catalyst to show its impressive silent battle of wills. I love the Violet, the dismissed colour that may as well outshine when it can.

Red calls out for attention, might as well be the universe trying to control everything from behind its sacred curtains. Indigo is like Violet, but a confused version of Red as well. The indecisive lot that seems to want to benefit from every corner. Green often symbolises envy, but here I see magic. My crown sees magic. It borrows magic, feels, absorbs and then gives. Only two go unaccounted for, but I like to believe Blue is Death.

I didn't know why my mother loved the rainbow so much. I didn't know she owned one and someone used to run it for her. It intertwined with fate, apparently, like two lovers out for a picnic date, sharing love and laughter. She fed it and now I get to, unless someone interferes with this very nature.

And as the shadows lengthen, the secrets deepen, and the threads of destiny unravel in the seven colours that shimmer white in the sun. I'd love to show you every colour, every passion, every story. There's more to it than just a rainbow; there's more to it than just a Crown. I wish I could tell you more, but I prefer you feel it, live it, experience it and suffer it.

First-person Narrative

I turn my gaze away from the flickering lights, only to find him hurriedly pulling up his pants. A playful smirk dances on my lips as I quip, "You were all in for this, weren't you?" I tease, my tone a blend of amusement and slyness, before darting toward the door.

He responds with an exasperated eye-roll. "You never gave me a chance. I mean, I only snuck in a few kisses and won a straddle. What more can I ask for?" he replies severely bothered.

"Maybe you should have not brought up Cain—several times."

"I—," he begins, looking for an excuse to justify his actions. His voice falters for a moment, and then he changes course. "I thought he turns you on."

I choose to let the inconsistency slide. There are more pressing matters at hand, weightier than squabbling with a satyr born with a knack for stirring up trouble. "If you can, please do," I reply vaguely, dismissing the topic we were discussing and hinting at the flickering lights.

"No need I..."

"You offered to help, but now you don't want to?" I cut him off, a slight edge in my voice.

With swift, almost menacing steps, he closes the distance between us. Passing by me, he stands right in my path. I still have his shirt on, a detail he doesn't overlook. In a sudden, forceful movement, he seizes the fabric, tugging me closer with both tenderness and severity. His usual cockiness and smugness fade into an abyss of despair, anger and desperation.

The desperation etches the lines on his face, his eyes seeking refuge within mine. The air hums with tension as the weight of our unspoken emotions simmers beneath the surface.

"You didn't let me finish, Midnight."

Once more, the erratic flickering of the lights above us draws his gaze upwards. He breaks the intense eye contact with me, his expression momentarily cold and distant before it returns with an icy glare, lost in some inner turmoil.

"I can tell you what it says," he offers, his voice a murmur. My legs hold firm, determined not to betray my emotions and let him see me vulnerable, an effect he suddenly has on me. His clenched jaw, the dangerous luminosity in his eyes and his breath, like thunder rumbling in the distance, all transform him into a new being, different from the Vianney I met that first day.

"Then do," my words escape in a hushed whisper.

"Oh no," he grumbles, a low, guttural chuckle escaping his delicate lips. "I need something from you first."

The lights overhead flicker even faster, impatient like a ticking time bomb, persisting, heeding, begging for some attention. But how can I focus on their erratic dance when the very distraction stands before me, his warm caramelised breath swirling within me, churning my insides?

"I don't have time for this, Vianney."

A nefarious grin spreads across his face like a predator offering its prey a slight head start, well aware that escape is futile. "You don't have time. It's unsettling. I don't trust you," he growls. "Do you know what I hear? What I smell? Reluctance! You don't want to commit."

"Vianney..."

The room is dimming, lights going mad you'd think we are in a haunted house. It's driving me to the brink, and yet, amid this chaos, I find solace in his presence and the madness that envelops us. Suddenly, the thought of escaping this room loses its appeal.

"I bet that's what happened. With the Athenian."

A surge of anger bolsters me, thankful that Vianney's mention of Cain once again has snapped me out of the trance. "You don't know what you say, Satyr," I snap, my own frustration momentarily pushing aside the strange boisterous effect he is having on me.

As I attempt to pull away from his grasp on his shirt, he swiftly spins me around, moulding my back to his chest. His hand, tracing a beguiling path from my stomach, ventures lower, slipping beneath my waistband. With a practised touch, it journeys further to beneath my panties, until they reach the all-to-anticipating warmth nestled between my legs.

The thunder of his voice evades my ears as he falls to the rhythm of my rapid breathing until we are in sync. His free arm pushes up my breasts as he pulls me further into him while the other hand embarks on a seductive journey. It finds its way to the most sensitive spot, the clitoris, where his fingers uncover a world of exquisite sensations.

With deliberate intent, his fingers delve into my depths, a slow and maddening dance that drives me to insanity. They glide in and out, each motion intensifying the desire coursing through my veins, leaving me desperately wanting.

"Oh my," he muses, loving how immensely and impressively fast I'm getting soused.

"We don't have time for this," I manage to say over my rapid breathing, even though every fibre of my being longs for a prolonged session.

"Another excuse," he groans, inserting three fingers with practised expertise.

"Vianney, please..." I moan, my voice trembling with the intensity of the pleasure.

"You thought you could get away so easily? I'm a Satyr, Kendi. I do this in my sleep."

He moans against my skin, lavishing it with his soft, warm kisses, leaving an electrifying trail from my neck to just behind my ear. The tenderness of his actions contrasts with the raw passion in his touch. "The river bows to the command of my fingers, Midnight. It would be cruel to stop now, wouldn't it?" he says, right before withdrawing and putting some distance between us. The warmth of his body against my back slowly recedes, leaving me in a state of confusion and longing.

My entire being quivers as I turn to face him, a potent mix of desire and frustration coursing through me. Every fibre of my body longs for the release I have been unfairly denied. There he stands, watching me, a soft and playful smile gracing his lips, like the first time we met. It's as if he was taming the beast in him that had briefly emerged in the room, and before me now is the familiar, human-like Satyr I had come to know.

I'm left feeling a storm of emotions: anger, overwhelming desire, and a subtle undercurrent of betrayal. I can't make sense of what just happened, and I'm not sure I want to confront it right now. I've already been embarrassed enough.

"My shirt?" he remarks casually, almost as if the previous electrifying encounter was a figment of my imagination.

"Wh—at?" I stutter, my mind still trying to catch up with the abrupt change in the room.

"You still have my shirt on?" he asks rather than states.

"Oh—" I dither, suddenly aware of the fabric clinging to my skin. I quickly slip his shirt off and hand it back to him, retrieving my jacket from the floor and hastily slipping it on.

"It's Greek," he replies with a coy smile, deftly throwing on his shirt. With measured steps, he moves closer to the door and incants a few words that cause it to click open.

"What was that?" I inquire, my curiosity piqued despite my disorientation.

"Their mantra. 'Under the cover of night, we unite; in the name of righteous justice, we serve," he translates it into English as we step outside.

We are at the far end of the building, the hallway shrouded by darkness, the only light being on the far end of the corridor we came through earlier. Stealthily, we walk towards the darkness on our right, frantically and without consent, frisking the wall in search of a door.

I've lost sight of Vianney within the murky darkness. I can hear his measured breathing but I can't see him. That's until I feel the coldness of metal against the palm of my hand, just at the same time a warmth envelopes the back of it. I quickly withdraw and let the satyr open the door, having not entirely recovered from his cruelty.

The door ushers us into a massive library, its lower half adorned with ample windows that permit the moon's soft luminescence to flood the room, casting an otherworldly glow. The ethereal light adds to the library's grandeur, showcasing bookshelves that ascend above the windows, stretching all the way up to the ceiling, high up you'd need about four full ladders to reach the very top.

As we walk through the aisles created by smaller bookshelves at the room's centre, I stand in reverent awe of this magnificent space. The very temple of Aphrodite, which left me breathless, pales in comparison. The library exudes an air of elegance that steals my breath upon entry. The meagre light is enough to allow a glimpse of the room's mesmerising transformation.

It's a living entity. Books glide and reorganise themselves, departing from the conventional Dewey system. They arrange themselves based on colour and eventually form the emblem of the fraternity.

I finally wrench myself from the mesmerising display and I rush toward Vianney, who's climbing out the window. "Let's get you something to eat, Midnight." He smiles coaxing his fingers, gesturing for me to follow. Before I could, the room shifts, and in front of me where stood a window seconds ago, now sits a massive brick wall.

"Wait!" I exclaim, my hand flat against the wall, a desperate plea to cease its capricious antics. "Vianney! Vianney!" I call out frantically, the resounding thud of my palms upon the wall leaving my hands marked with bruises.

"What's happening?" My head swivels to take in the rapidly shifting surroundings.

The once moonlit library has transformed. Now a dim, orange light filters through a partial obstruction caused by a bookshelf, casting an eerie glow on my path. I'm jarred by the sound of grinding rocks against one another, which suddenly carry me upward toward the far end, where another imposing brick wall appears. Casting a quick glance to my right, I peer over a stack of books on a shelf, spotting the moonlit section we were in moments ago.

"I'm above!" I whisper to myself, gasping in awe and fear as I look below me.

As I try to figure out a way down, the bookshelf on my right nudges my shoulder, sending me tumbling to the ground. As I land, a book drops from the shelves, landing perilously close to my face. I can't help but mutter then, a curse, attributing this mishap to the unpredictable library.

The elusive whisper in the night returns. This time, it doesn't come as a warning, it comes as a clue.

"Page nine," it muses like a witch casting a spell.

I take my time, reflecting upon the choices that have led me to this precarious situation. With a sigh, I finally open the book, lying prone and wary, half-expecting another shelf to take a swing at my head.

The pages yield to my touch, and I find the requested page. It features an illustration of a massive, fur-covered creature. It appears almost human yet its incredible musculature sets it apart, defining its robust, powerful physique. Feline fur clings to its taut, bulging muscles, accentuating its raw physical strength. Eflin ears grace its head, positioned dangerously close to its temple and instead of a human beard, it sports a fringe of whiskers.

The following page holds a succinct description, resembling something you might find in a theory on cryptids like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster—vague, mysterious and only the little known of them. It offers only a few brief sentences outlining what is believed to be true about the creature.

"This creature is as rare as a black swan, yet it exists as much as it. The Jacobson is a highly revered deity, gifted with olfactory senses so acute that it can detect even the faintest of scents. Although they typically loathe water they are often found dozing near water sources. Strangely enough, they are thought to have a penchant for revelry."

Immediately I close the book, the room shifts again and I'm now facing the window, still sprawled on the floor as if dodging bullets from a mass shooting.

"Kendi!" Panic riddles the voice that reaches my ears, punctuated by heavy breaths and a tangible sense of alarm.

I turn my head to look behind me, and Vianney rushes to me. He helps me to my feet, urgency etches across his face and guides me back through the window. "They know we escaped. We need to hurry," he breathes out as we rush into the darkness. "What happened?"

"I don't know. Suddenly I was at the top of the library," I reply, unable to put words to what just happened.

We hurriedly bolt back into the streets, the familiar land with the ladies in Dolman dresses coming into view. Vianney grabs my hand, holding on tightly to ensure I don't vanish into thin air once more, and we dash through the terrain, soon entering an unfamiliar alley.

"Don't we need to find Iris?"

Vianney's steps halt for a minute as he glances over his shoulder, scanning the dimly lit alleys for any signs of pursuit. His breaths come in short, tense bursts. "My best bet would be for us to lay low until it simmers down. We won't help her if we get caught again."

Suddenly, he pulls me close and pins me against a weathered, crumbling wall. We both remain motionless, listening for any approaching danger. After what seems like an eternity, Vianney guides me into the next concealed alley, which leads us to a discrete door. He knocks once and we're granted entry.

We step inside and descend a rugged stairwell, illuminated by flickering torches that cast erratic shadows across the stone walls. Loud music blares as we proceed further down, but Vianney, still holding my hand, leads me away from the noise and into a quieter hallway.

"Where are we?"

Vianney remains silent as he opens a door on our left, gesturing for me to enter. The room is modestly sized, and a king-sized bed dominates most of the space. A massive mirror spans the entire wall opposite the bed, reaching from ceiling to floor. A potted plant sits in the far corner beside a window devoid of curtains and any discernible view. In front of the window stands a small clothing rack, which Vianney moves towards and selects a set of clothes. He retrieves a sleek black shirt, a corset vest adorned with intricate gold leaf silk brocade patterns, and a pair of impeccably tailored black dress pants.

"Vianney?"

A low, almost mischievous chuckle, escapes his lips as he turns away from me. His shirt comes off, revealing a canvas of bronzed skin stretched over well-defined muscles. He methodically replaces his pants, and then with an air of quiet confidence, he strides towards the enormous mirror.

In front of the reflective surface, he adorns himself with the corset vest, skillfully cinching the laces. The corset accentuates his silhouette, enhancing his broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, trim waist, and well-rounded derrière. His smouldering eyes meet mine in the mirror, and a sly smile forms on his lips. He unbuttons the top of his shirt, revealing a hint of chiselled chest. Adding a gold chain around his neck and slipping into a pair of sleek suede boots, Vianney completes his transformation.

"Vianney!" I call out again, a hint of impatience in my tone.

"Sit, I'll be right back," he replies before stepping out, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

I collapse onto the plush bed, replaying the surreal events of the evening in my mind. A sense of uncertainty gnaws at me, and I can't help but wonder how far we've come yet amounted to nothing.

The door swings open, and Vianney reappears, a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. His impish grin is the first thing I notice as he steps into the room, his eyes glinting behind his glasses before I notice the plate of food in his other hand, something I haven't had since that awkward dinner.

"I should have known you wanted more. I wouldn't have bothered with the outfit," he teases playfully.

"What's going on?" I ask as I sit up.

He places the cloth bag on the bed, unzips it, and extracts a stunning black dress that beautifully complements his own attire. The dress is crafted from luxurious suede, with long sleeves and shoulders that resemble a tailored jacket and intricate fold accents tracing the hands, the underarms and the front seam of the dress. It's a long gown with an elegant slit, beginning at the neckline and dipping through the cleavage, extending to the side of the hip before gracefully veering back toward the centre.

He grins with infectious enthusiasm. "Thanks to your keen eye, I get to attend my party. It's my birthday!"

I look at him sceptically. "Your birthday?"

He laughs playfully. "Of course not, but it could be. Put on that dress and come as my plus one."

Before I dispute, he mutters an 'oh' and disappears from the room once more. My stomach growls then, so, as I wait for Vianney, I sit on the edge of the bed and decide to finally nourish my body, my reflection serving as a silent observer of this quiet interlude.

Once I'm done, I take the dress and tentatively drape it over myself. I regard my reflection in the mirror, wavering between two warring inner voices. One insists I couldn't possibly pull off such an exquisite dress, while the other implores me to embrace this opportunity to see what might be. Eventually, I succumb to the latter.

"I believe I should come up with a new nickname for you, Midnight," Vianney acknowledges as he reenters the room, a bowl in hand.

I want to believe him, but my insecurities rear their heads again. "No, I can't!"

I start to remove the dress, but his hand intervenes, gently placing the fabric back against my chest to my neck. His warm breath sends shivers across my skin as he leans closer, planting soft kisses on the side of my head.

"Darling, you don't need constant reminders of your beauty from others to believe it. You must see it in yourself, because, let me tell you, I like what I see," he murmurs softly. "Put on the dress and see it for yourself." His hands trace the contours of my arms before settling gently on my hips.

"Trust me!" he urges, again, a little more reason not to, but my reservations begin to melt away. "Join me at the party, get a taste of our world, and simply enjoy yourself. Take a breath, and unwind a bit before we dive back into our mission."

"What's the party for?" I finally don the dress, surrendering to its enchanting allure and the beguiling sensation of the fabric against my skin.

"Forget the reasons. In this realm, we don't need one to celebrate."

"Sure, but why such opulence?"

He chuckles against my skin, a warm soothing sound. "You have a sharp eye, Midnight. Put your curiosity to rest, at least for the night."

"Vianney!"

"Here." He places the bowl on the ground. "Put your feet in. Consider it as a thirty-second pedicure."

His warmth dissipates as he withdraws, going for a pair of shoes in the bag that held the dress. Absently, I follow his suggestion, slipping my feet into the bowl, all the while still entranced by the elegance of the dress.

"Come." He guides me to the bed and has me sit. Gently, he dries my feet with a soft cloth, then removes the soiled gauze. "Miracle waters. You're good to go."

He slides a pair of open-toe golden slippers with an oversized bow at the front onto my feet, ensuring they fit perfectly.

I then begin to see what looks like whiskers replacing the bow. I blink repeatedly, but the illusion remains. A soft chuckle escapes me.

"Vianney, these look like cat shoes. I can't possibly walk around in these!"

He grins. "The hallucinations are already taking hold. Don't worry, they're just elegant shoes." He extends his hand to me. "Let's not keep the night waiting any longer."

I take his arm, and together, we make our way toward the jubilant clamour of the party. My feet twinge slightly with discomfort, but I'm grateful to be walking gracefully once more.

The ballroom is a magical spectacle, teeming with a fascinating array of creatures—harpies, centaurs, nymphs, satyrs and every immortal creature you can think of. Their laughter, conversations and the rhythmic beats of the music intertwine into a cacophony of joy.

The satyr next to me nudges me to the bar as he steps to the side for a bit. I see his true form, half-human, half-satyr, but it doesn't faze me. I'm engrossed in the efforts of making this a ball. The dance floor resounds with jubilation as divine beings seize the space for merrymaking.

While I scan the infectious room, my gaze settles on my father, who stands nonchalantly in a corner, savouring his drink until Mrs. Late joins him, enveloping him in an impassioned kiss. Fury surges through me, and I yearn to confront him. But before I can act on this impulse, a delicate yet compelling tug on my arm halts me in my tracks.

I lay my eyes on a strikingly handsome man. His appearance is beguiling. Intricately inked paw tattoos cascade from behind his left ear, tracing a path down his neck before vanishing beneath the fabric of his navy blue shirt. Fawn-coloured hair is tied in a small knot at the back of his head, and a long, silver arrow earring sways gently from his left earlobe.

His face is a masterpiece of symmetrical perfection —sculpted jaw, a hint of stubble, a beautifully rounded nose, and lips, invitingly pink and pursed. Muscles strain against his shirt, threatening to burst its buttons, but my focus remains fixated on his captivating eyes. They are a mesmerising shade of green, almost yellow, with slitted pupils, and they regard me with a curiosity that borders on enchantment.

"May I have this dance?"