Description

The House had many rooms, but none whispered as softly as the Hall of Shackles.

It was not iron that bound there. Not chains that clanged or locks that cut. Here, restraint was woven in silk. Threads spun fine as spider's web draped from the ceiling, coiling the pillars, spilling across the marble floor. They shimmered faint silver in the candlelight, soft to the eye, soft to the hand — yet once wrapped, they held tighter than steel.

The Hall was infamous not for pain but for surrender. For how its silk slid gentle at first, caressing wrists, brushing thighs, kissing breasts… before tightening, weaving into knots that no vow could unmake.

Selene had heard the stories. She had whispered them in secret chambers, her body trembling at the thought. But to step inside was different. To hear the silk stir as if it already knew her. To feel her gown tugged by invisible threads, her chest rising sharp, nipples pressing hard against the thin fabric. To breathe in the air — heavy with incense, heady with ruin.

Her storm had led her here.

From the far shadows, a voice slid like smoke, low and merciless:

"Do not fear their softness. They will only bind what you give them. Step forward… and give."

The silk stirred, weaving downward from the ceiling.

And Selene stepped forward.