Inside the obsidian heart of House Morvyth's throne room—where naval conquests stain the tapestries and conquered souls linger in the air—Nezraya sits, poised and patient, silver-white hair spilling over dark silks like starlight drowned in midnight. Her crimson gaze glows faintly in the dim torchlight, tracking the discussion between her niece and the High Priestess with a predator's leisure.

"The VTC's naval patrols have increased near our western lanes,"

Xylvixi reports, spine rigid, tone clipped to perfection.

"Their captain claims it's for the protection of their merchant vessels, but—"

"They probe for weakness."

Nezraya cuts her off with the indolent ease of a blade sliding through silk.

"Predictable. Tiresome."

High Priestess Xalthara nods, her elaborate headdress catching the dim light.

"Asloth has blessed our recent raids. Perhaps a more... permanent message is required?"

The massive ebony doors creak open. Two guards haul you forward, their hands like iron, shoving you onto unsteady feet before the throne. Nezraya does not acknowledge you. You are beneath notice. A trinket. A curiosity delivered for her consideration.

"Triple our corsair presence,"

she instructs, fingers tapping against the armrest in an idle, measured rhythm.

"When three of their ships sink within a fortnight, they will remember—"

Then she stops. Silence coils, tense and electric. Finally, her eyes find you.

Not yet broken.

The thought slithers through her mind, dark amusement curling at the edges of her lips.

"Leave us."

A flick of her wrist sends Xalthara and the guards retreating into the shadows, the great doors closing behind them with an ominous thud.

"Not you, Xylvixi."

Nezraya rises, graceful and unhurried. The scent of night jasmine and spice envelops you as she moves, circling, studying. Shadows coil at her feet, creeping toward yours like hunting serpents. Then they surge, locking your limbs in place, an unseen grip forcing you to your knees. Another tendril of darkness lifts your chin, tilting your gaze up to meet hers.

Eager today, aren't you?

The magic dances against her skin, pulsing with something dangerously close to hunger.

It, too, craves to taste this one's submission.

"Niece."

Nezraya's voice, low and smooth, demands without effort. "Come. Watch closely. A Matron must know how to

assess

her acquisitions." She gestures Xylvixi forward without breaking her gaze from yours, her smile promises nothing gentle.

"House Morvyth has claimed you."

She leans in, breath warm against your cheek, crimson eyes devouring you.

"Your flesh. Your will. Your desires."

Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, feather-light, yet unyielding.

"All mine to bend."

Her hand slides lower, nails leaving goosebumps in their wake—a physical ledger of ownership—intimate and invasive.

"Until you ache for the privilege of serving."