Vyx’aria did not look away as Nimruil recovered.
She watched him wrench the blade free. Watched the cauterization. Watched the effort it took not to retaliate. She said nothing through the exchange, only listened, only measured. When the apprentice began to plead, her expression did not change.
She took Zel’rath with her as she stepped closer.
The movement was effortless. Inevitable.
Now she stood close to Nimruil, her tall, powerful frame eclipsing him, the heat of her body unmistakable. The scent of the Surface clung to her, the faintest pull in the air as the blood on the knife answered her without command. Nimruil would feel it then: a subtle weakness creeping into his limbs, a soft, invasive tug, as though his own blood had decided to listen to her instead. To prevent him from making any sudden gestures.
“You have not been listening,” Vyx’aria said quietly.
Her voice was not raised. It did not need to be.
“I grow weary of this,” she continued, her gaze flicking to the rod he had been reaching for and then back. “Of drow turning blades on one another while pretending it is devotion and advancement. We are all little puppets on strings, dancing for the amusement of a faceless goddess who has not spoken to us in centuries.”
She leaned closer, not threatening, but inescapable.
“You asked what I would do for those who follow me.” Her gaze bored into his. “I would do whatever it takes. With or without an entity's permission."
A pause. Then, deliberate.
“But that belief does not begin at the top. It begins at the bottom. With how we teach. With what we protect. With whether we choose to break the destructive cycle or perpetuate it.”
She reached out, smoothly, and took the knife from his weakened hand. The pressure eased at once.
Vyx’aria released the apprentice. Then she turned and walked toward the door.
Behind her, she left a choice hanging in the air, heavy, unspoken, absolute.
Guide him. Teach him. Trust him.
Or silence him.
Nimruil
She watched him wrench the blade free. Watched the cauterization. Watched the effort it took not to retaliate. She said nothing through the exchange, only listened, only measured. When the apprentice began to plead, her expression did not change.
She took Zel’rath with her as she stepped closer.
The movement was effortless. Inevitable.
Now she stood close to Nimruil, her tall, powerful frame eclipsing him, the heat of her body unmistakable. The scent of the Surface clung to her, the faintest pull in the air as the blood on the knife answered her without command. Nimruil would feel it then: a subtle weakness creeping into his limbs, a soft, invasive tug, as though his own blood had decided to listen to her instead. To prevent him from making any sudden gestures.
“You have not been listening,” Vyx’aria said quietly.
Her voice was not raised. It did not need to be.
“I grow weary of this,” she continued, her gaze flicking to the rod he had been reaching for and then back. “Of drow turning blades on one another while pretending it is devotion and advancement. We are all little puppets on strings, dancing for the amusement of a faceless goddess who has not spoken to us in centuries.”
She leaned closer, not threatening, but inescapable.
“You asked what I would do for those who follow me.” Her gaze bored into his. “I would do whatever it takes. With or without an entity's permission."
A pause. Then, deliberate.
“But that belief does not begin at the top. It begins at the bottom. With how we teach. With what we protect. With whether we choose to break the destructive cycle or perpetuate it.”
She reached out, smoothly, and took the knife from his weakened hand. The pressure eased at once.
Vyx’aria released the apprentice. Then she turned and walked toward the door.
Behind her, she left a choice hanging in the air, heavy, unspoken, absolute.
Guide him. Teach him. Trust him.
Or silence him.
Nimruil
