Private Tales When Fire Meets Shadow

[Vyx'aria]

She growled through gritted teeth as he drew the arrow from her back, not gently, not carefully, but with fire-laced precision, the heat of his touch cauterizing the wound as it tore free.

Agony flared and yet she stood still. Sweat slicked her brow, her chest rose sharply, and for a breathless moment the only sound was her own breath, the low hiss of burned flesh, and the smoldering silence between them.

In a way it was a brand. Not of ownership but of interference. She turned her head, eyes burning into his, red catching firelight.

“What happens,” she murmured, voice low, hungry, unflinching, “if I want to leave a mark on you, too?”

Her gaze didn’t waver, not from pain, not from pride. It was a challenge, veiled with something more dangerous: intent.

Then, without waiting for an answer, she straightened. Cool again. Controlled. Her expression sharpened as she reached for the segmented armor at her side, sliding it back over the scorched skin like ritual.

Every motion was deliberate, a warrior rearming, a queen resuming her mantle.

She did not flinch. She did not break.

Once buckled, she swept her gaze across the chamber, then lifted her chin toward her elite, the drow who had survived, bloodied and hard-eyed. She gave a sharp command in their native tongue.

They fell in behind her.

And without another word, Vyx’aria fell into stride beside Azrakar, her blade low at her side, her pace unhurried. Her injury pulsed beneath the plate, but she carried
but she carried it like a crown.

Into the dark they descended. The chase was not over.

Azrakar

 

[Azrakar]

Azrakar watched her endure the extraction without a cry. The only betrayal was a sharpening of her breath and the faint sheen of sweat at her temple.

When she turned those crimson eyes on him, pain turned into something fierce. His own gaze met hers without apology.

"A mark?" he rumbled, voice low enough to vibrate through the stone beneath their feet. "If a mark is to be left, it had better be for something memorable."

He let the promise hang between them, heavy and heated, then turned to lead the descent.

He brought a single unit of orcs with him. Armed with shields and heavy axes, they could throttle any more undead in narrow corridors.

The tunnel widened into a vast cavern. A single bridge spanned a chasm of black stone. Far below, rivers of dormant magma glowed faintly.

Azrakar paused at the bridge’s edge, glancing sidelong at Vyx’aria.

"The lich cowers beyond," he said quietly. "I suspect an ambush soon.His phylactery will be close. Hidden in a relic or rune or bone. We can find it after we have crushed him."

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips as he looked back at her.

"And when it is done... we will discuss marks. In private."

Or perhaps the drow who had looked at him so hopefully could watch in awe, he thought to himself.

"Hmm where are you..." he muttered. He had expected resistance in the narrow tunnel Dow.

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria grinned wickedly. “In private? How proper.” She stepped closer, just enough for the heat of him to ripple against her skin again. “I don’t mind an audience when I’m staking my claims.”

Then she turned, striding with purpose as the tunnel widened into a cavern of immense scale.

Vyx’aria’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the opposite side of the bridge. No movement yet, but her instincts burned hot. “I want the ring,” she said flatly, eyes still locked ahead. “The one he wore. It was the source of his channeling.” She took the first step onto the bridge, cautious but unafraid.

Arrows whistled through the air, slicing toward them from the darkness ahead. Vyx’aria snarled, twisting aside as the first few bolts struck stone and armor. One skimmed her hip; another she batted aside with her blade, letting the momentum spin her into a crouch. Her red eyes locked on the source - goblins, half-concealed in jagged crags above the far ledge.

She summoned the darkness. Her fingers curled, and the shadows coalesced into a spear of pitch black swirling, shrieking, alive with malice. With a single, fluid motion, she hurled it across the cavern.

The shadow spear slammed into the far rockface with a thunderous crack, exploding in a shock of dark energy that shattered the ledge. Goblins screamed as stone gave way, plummeting into the lava below in a wail of flame and ash.

Vyx’aria didn’t wait. She bolted across the bridge, nimble as a shade, weaving through the next volley with supernatural grace. One arrow scraped her vambrace, another sailed just past her ear.

Behind her, her drow archers took position, returning fire with disciplined precision to give her, Azrakar and his orcs the chance to cross.

Azrakar