Private Tales When Fire Meets Shadow

[Azrakar]

Azrakar stood motionless as her words washed over him. The heat he radiated did not increase. His runes flared, but he was still cooling off from the furnace.

His gaze held hers, unblinking, as she laid bare her hunger. It was not just for empires, but for her own conquest and then the scarred, bleeding heart beneath his flame.

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee before her. It was not the theatrical kneel of seduction or submission, but something older. A gesture meeting her as an equal in ambition.

"You want a very great deal," he said.

"I want the Underrealm trembling at your name too. We will look at maps and choose the first conquest.

"I will offer you forces for your plans. I can work with the duergar to forge you great weapons."

"As for the rest..."

He tilted his head, drawing closer so that she could feel the heat from the forge.

"...that is for you to take."

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria’s breath hitched as he dropped to one knee.

Why did that gesture strike something so deep in her every time?

It was not submission, it was power tempered with intention. A recognition of her power. And it roused something old and feral in her bones.

Her grin spread slow and sharp. “I don’t want to carry the weapon,” she said, voice low and rough with promise. “I want to be the weapon. The tidal force that unmoors thrones. The blade that sends kings to their knees. I want to be the strength they fear in the dark.”

She took a step toward him. And then another.

But the heat blooming from him was not the heat she’d felt from his body in bed, or even in battle. This was untempered. Enough to drive her back if she got too close.

And yet she wanted to close that distance anyway.

The thought burned through her and she caught herself just before she reached for him.

Drawing back slightly, she turned her focus elsewhere, half to mask the effect he had on her, half because the fire of her ambition still needed feeding.

“Before we return to the surface…” she murmured, eyes glittering, “we need to sneak into Zar’Ahal. Stir things in the dark. Light the first fuse.”

She tilted her head, studying him with wicked curiosity.

“Can you cast glamour on others or only yourself?” Her grin returned, conspiratorial now. “I need to look like just another face in the city.”

Azrakar

 

[Azrakar]

"I can veil others," he said.

"Not as perfectly as myself: the glamour will hold under casual glance, but a priestess with true sight or a ward tuned to infernal magic might pierce it. Still..." His clawed hand lifted, fingers hovering just above her cheek without touching. A ripple of shadow and ember danced across his palm.

"...I can make you forgettable. A minor priestess, perhaps. A merchant’s daughter. A face that slips from memory the moment it’s seen."

The magic brushed against her skin like warm silk.

"Or something more useful," he continued, eyes gleaming with shared mischief.

"A forgotten cousin of a rival House. Someone who belongs in Zar’Ahal’s halls but raises no alarm. You choose the mask."

He let the magic fade, hand dropping to his side.

"It will take me a little while to craft the magic."

This was going to be incredibly dangerous. If he was discovered then the drow houses would probably compete to capture him and find a way to use him.

 

[Vyx'aria]

Sometime later, they were back in the Matron’s quarters.

Vyx’aria’s voice rang sharp from the other chamber, punctuated by the rustle of silk and the unmistakable sound of her cursing. Azrakar was left to his own devices while she fought her way into the gown, the sounds of war somehow more dignified than the battle she was currently waging against fabric.

She emerged, fierce and beautiful, wearing a dress that shimmered, cut to expose her chest, cinched at the waist, and slit high to reveal the length of her leg. It was not a garment meant for practicality. It was a weapon of distraction.

“There’s a ball in the Queen’s District tonight,” she said, breath slightly uneven as she adjusted the bodice with visible distaste. “Word came through a whisper chain. House Jael'kara is hosting. Drow celebrate as hard as they fight. Wine, performance, arrogance. Their guards will be deep in the cups.”

She approached the mirror, scrutinizing herself with an assassin’s eye, and sneered.

“Useless cloth,” she muttered. “I could kill five soldiers before they even notice I’m armed and still trip over this hem.”

Her eyes found Azrakar’s reflection.

“We go in as guests,” she said. “You’ll cast the veil. I’ll play some forgotten noble cousin. We find the regent, slip past the revelry, and corner her. You subdue. I stab….with a very particular blade.”

She turned, striking and wrathful in spite of the gown, and narrowed her eyes.

“Do you know how to dance?”

Azrakar