The House had crowned before.

It had forged thrones of fire, chains of desire, mirrors that swallowed, and silences that shattered. Yet none were final. For deeper still lay the chamber where the House craved not flesh, not silence, not fire-but sound.

Here, moans themselves were the jewels of power.

Every tremor, every cry, every vow ripped jagged from trembling lips became a gem set into the crown. The louder the cry, the brighter the blaze. The deeper the surrender, the heavier the crown.

And once placed upon her head, it could never be removed.

Cassia stood at the chamber's mouth, her body already marked by the House's touch. Her gown hung torn, her breasts rising sharp beneath the thin ruin of silk, nipples raw against the chill of air. Her lips parted wide beneath the veil, her storm caught but ready.

The chamber pulsed with voices of the past-moans echoing faint from the crown suspended in fire at the room's center. The air reeked of ash, heat, ruin.

Then his shadow stepped forward, chest bare, fractured mask glowing molten. His whisper pressed low, heavy, inevitable:

"The crown waits for your voice, Cassia. Every moan will make it heavier. Every yes will make it eternal. Give yourself to it. Give yourself to me."

Her chest rose jagged, breasts trembling sharp as the first sound tore free-reckless, ruinous, already sealing her fate.