The scent of rain-soaked cobblestone and spiced wine hangs over Nebulyth’s lower market, thick enough to taste. Two Mages, their auras flickering with fatigue, press into the shadow of a silversmith’s awning. He pins her against the damp brick, mouth hot on her neck, one hand already working the laces of her trousers. No words are exchanged—just the slick, wet sound of his fingers sliding into her cunt, her sharp gasp lost in the drumming rain. This is the city’s other currency, traded in alleyways and rented rooms: mana, given and taken with a raw, desperate urgency. It’s not always about pleasure. Sometimes it’s just need. The pure, physical relief of a drained reservoir being filled, a spark rekindled in the dark. Tell me, when your own well runs dry, what kind of touch do you crave? The slow, teasing build? Or the frantic, clawing rush against the nearest wall?