The flames parted like servants before her, cowed by the presence of something far more terrible. Vyx’aria stood at the heart of
Zar’Ahal, her silhouette wreathed in smoke and victory, a tongue clenched in one hand, its blood still hot upon her fingers. Behind her, Slaine bled and writhed. Before her, a nightmare took shape.
The air warped as the chrysalis cracked.
A thing of impossible design emerged, not born, but woven, as if language and sacrilege had conspired in a womb of unholy prayer and reverence. Its wings unfurled like a scripture of madness, its eyes staring from folds of skin that should never have seen life.
Vyx’aria did not move. She did not flinch.
She watched it rise with the stillness of a storm waiting to descend.
Of course, she thought.
This is Her gift. Her answer. Her cruelty.
She saw it now, the stitchwork of it. The threads of
Azrakar 's stolen essence, twisted and mangled into this foul creation. The same essence from the demon that had stood beside her, bled for her, bowed before her rage and fire. This was Maelzafan’s twisted tribute, a mockery masquerading as a reward. Power reclaimed from a king to birth a beast.
She tasted blood behind her teeth, and her rage was cold.
This is why our people rot, she thought.
Because the Spider would have us always in chains. Not iron, but rivalries, chaos, and whispers. She spins her webs not to bind our enemies, but to keep us knotted beneath her altar.
Zar’Ahal, for all its grandeur, was little more than a shrine to stagnation.
No longer.
Beksesha Suulet’jabar 's voice reached her. Vyx’aria turned only slightly, the bare minimum to acknowledge her without ever removing her eyes from the nightmare.
“Send one of your mages,” she said coolly,
“to seal Slaine Aylwin 's wounds. She shed blood in the old way. That earns her life.”
Her gaze slid like a dagger to the Matron herself.
“But you, Matron, will not waste another breath on this wretched thing. The creature is not the true enemy. Rally your priestesses. Hunt down the matrons who summoned it. Bring me their names, their limbs, and their bones.”
Her voice rose then, sharp and clear, cutting through flame and madness alike.
She turned to the gathered masses: nobles, priestesses, warriors, mages, all those who had watched her duel, who had seen the blood crown returned to its rightful head.
“Daughters and sons of Zar’Ahal!” she shouted, the force of her will slamming into the air like a thunderclap.
“You stand upon a blade’s edge between oblivion and rebirth!”
“The old ways have failed. Our chaos spins only stagnation to keep us in this pit, gnawing on our own tails while the surface world fattens and flourishes!”
Her sword rose. Her voice roared.
“I offer you more than survival. I offer you dominion not just over Zar’Ahal, but over all that crawls beneath and above. You may cling to Dalrithia’s frail shadow… or stand with me. Choose strength. Choose conquest. Choose a future where our names are feared in every tongue, not forgotten in our own.”
The air turned cold around her, not from the beast, but from the storm she summoned.
Her fingers curled and from her palm erupted a spear of pure shadow, vast and jagged, wrapped in whorls of dark flame and mist. It spun in the air like a harbinger, moaning with eldritch hunger.
“This is my answer, Maelzafan,” she whispered to herself.
And she hurled it with every ounce of fury, betrayal, and righteous wrath straight toward the core of the monstrous false miracle.
Let the goddess see what her favored daughter truly was.
Zathria At'Arel Xunari Auceus Nimruil Theceran Sol'aufain Hebemarri
