Vaela stretches her arms as she saunters into the sun-dappled breakfast atrium, draped in a sheer silk robe that clings to her curves like it was painted on. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders in tousled waves, the very picture of sultry elegance.
The scent of fresh fruit and baked pastries mingles with the garden air, thick with jasmine and lavender. Solavara is already seated at a small, intricately carved wooden table set for two, sipping something suspiciously strong and pretending she's not staring.
Vaela catches the glance. Her smirk is slow, teasing. "Staring's rude, you know."
Solavara doesn't blink. "You walked in here dressed like a goddess who forgot she was mortal. I'd argue not staring would be the crime."
Vaela slips into the seat opposite her, crossing one leg slowly over the other, the motion part dance, part declaration of war. "Guilty as charged," she purrs.
