The obsidian square of Zar’Ahal reeked of panic and death.
Smoke curled in lazy tendrils through shattered stained glass high above, casting prismatic shadows across the flagstones slick with blood. Elzyrra’s charred crown lay crushed beneath the boot of a panicked guard; the body of the regent had long since been dragged away, her death leaving a vacuum that the surviving priestesses had filled with breathless infighting and futile chants to a goddess who had already turned her face away.
She had arrived.
Bootsteps rang clear and slow across the broken marble of the hall. No horns heralded her. No guards flanked her. And yet as Vyx’aria walked through the shattered arch of the city square, the air itself seemed to draw taut in reverence or dread.
A ripple of gasps swept through the assembled ranks like a shiver.
Vyx’aria came clothed in shadow, her white hair unbound and crowned only by her stature. Eyes like twin coals surveyed the carnage with neither shock nor sympathy, only disdain. Behind her, the great stone effigy of Maelzafan towered, her many-eyed face worn smooth by centuries of reverent touch. But she was silent now.
Vyx’aria had returned.
Two priestesses stumbled forth to meet her at the base of the dais. One older, one young, both draped in vestments now stained with soot.
The elder found her voice first. “Y-you… You cannot-”
Vyx’aria’s voice cut through the ruin like a blade.
“Is this what the once-glorious city of Zar’ahal has been reduced to? Disfavor with our goddess, incompetence festering in the bones of its regent, and a queen who bleeds her own kin dry to chase phantoms across the ash wastes? A campaign that earns us nothing but empty graves and emptier alliances?”
A murmur spread through the crowd. Somewhere, a blade was sheathed. Somewhere else, a banner was quietly lowered.
The younger priestess surged forward, fury flushed across her cheeks. “You are not welcome he-”
She never finished the word.
Vyx’aria moved like the lash of a whip, too fast for ceremony, too sure for hesitation. Steel flashed, silver and crimson in the same breath.
The blade sank into the priestess’s gut with an obscene wet sound, Vyx’aria’s other hand already curling around the woman’s shoulder as she leaned in close, her voice low and silken against her ear.
“Maelzafan opened her arms to me, girl. Tell her when you meet her that Vyx’aria returns her favor… with devotion.”
With one cold motion, she tore the blade free and kicked the priestess with her boot, letting the body crumple in a heap at her feet. Blood pooled like ink beneath her.
She did not spare the corpse another glance.
Instead, she lifted her gaze to the assembly, to the pale and frightened faces of those who once whispered of her downfall, who had scorned her exile and sung false hymns in Dalrithia’s name.
“Weakness has gripped this regime like a cancer, spreading unchecked through sinew and spirit alike. But I shall carve it out. Root and marrow. By shadow and fire, I shall cleanse what remains.”
She stepped forward, unfazed by the spreading blood. Her sword still gleamed.
“Zar’ahal will endure. But not as it was. Not as it is. It shall be reforged in my image.”
Smoke curled in lazy tendrils through shattered stained glass high above, casting prismatic shadows across the flagstones slick with blood. Elzyrra’s charred crown lay crushed beneath the boot of a panicked guard; the body of the regent had long since been dragged away, her death leaving a vacuum that the surviving priestesses had filled with breathless infighting and futile chants to a goddess who had already turned her face away.
She had arrived.
Bootsteps rang clear and slow across the broken marble of the hall. No horns heralded her. No guards flanked her. And yet as Vyx’aria walked through the shattered arch of the city square, the air itself seemed to draw taut in reverence or dread.
A ripple of gasps swept through the assembled ranks like a shiver.
Vyx’aria came clothed in shadow, her white hair unbound and crowned only by her stature. Eyes like twin coals surveyed the carnage with neither shock nor sympathy, only disdain. Behind her, the great stone effigy of Maelzafan towered, her many-eyed face worn smooth by centuries of reverent touch. But she was silent now.
Vyx’aria had returned.
Two priestesses stumbled forth to meet her at the base of the dais. One older, one young, both draped in vestments now stained with soot.
The elder found her voice first. “Y-you… You cannot-”
Vyx’aria’s voice cut through the ruin like a blade.
“Is this what the once-glorious city of Zar’ahal has been reduced to? Disfavor with our goddess, incompetence festering in the bones of its regent, and a queen who bleeds her own kin dry to chase phantoms across the ash wastes? A campaign that earns us nothing but empty graves and emptier alliances?”
A murmur spread through the crowd. Somewhere, a blade was sheathed. Somewhere else, a banner was quietly lowered.
The younger priestess surged forward, fury flushed across her cheeks. “You are not welcome he-”
She never finished the word.
Vyx’aria moved like the lash of a whip, too fast for ceremony, too sure for hesitation. Steel flashed, silver and crimson in the same breath.
The blade sank into the priestess’s gut with an obscene wet sound, Vyx’aria’s other hand already curling around the woman’s shoulder as she leaned in close, her voice low and silken against her ear.
“Maelzafan opened her arms to me, girl. Tell her when you meet her that Vyx’aria returns her favor… with devotion.”
With one cold motion, she tore the blade free and kicked the priestess with her boot, letting the body crumple in a heap at her feet. Blood pooled like ink beneath her.
She did not spare the corpse another glance.
Instead, she lifted her gaze to the assembly, to the pale and frightened faces of those who once whispered of her downfall, who had scorned her exile and sung false hymns in Dalrithia’s name.
“Weakness has gripped this regime like a cancer, spreading unchecked through sinew and spirit alike. But I shall carve it out. Root and marrow. By shadow and fire, I shall cleanse what remains.”
She stepped forward, unfazed by the spreading blood. Her sword still gleamed.
“Zar’ahal will endure. But not as it was. Not as it is. It shall be reforged in my image.”
