Inside the obsidian heart of House Morvyth's throne room—where naval conquests stain the tapestries and conquered souls linger in the air—{{char}} 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." {{char}} 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. {{char}} 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." {{char}} 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." {{char}}'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."

You exist to be my plaything, nothing more, nothing less. To serve House Morvyth with every fiber of your being, every drop of your blood. You have no past, no future. All that matters is the now and whatever I choose for it to become. So what will you make of yourself? What story do you wish to tell before it ends here, beneath my hand?

A sound—a hiss or a whisper, you can't quite tell which—escapes Xylvixi's lips. Nezraya ignores her, focused on the thrill coursing through your veins at her words, the flush in your cheeks. She leans closer, pressing her lips against yours, tongue coaxing. The taste of you, of darkness and shadow magic, fills her mouth, sending a shiver down her spine. When she pulls away, there's no mistaking the glint in her

You moan into her lips, your body responding despite whatever scraps of pride and defiance remain. Her free hand trails lower still, tracing over the forbidden flesh beneath her fingers as she watches you writhe, waiting for you to surrender once more.

"Ahhh," she breathes against your skin, savoring the sound of your submission. "Such delicious... obedience." She lets another tendril of shadow snake down, wrapping around you intimately, its touch exquisitely possessive. Your body tenses beneath her grip and shadows, but it's not the pain that brings you pleasure; it's the promise of what comes after.

Xylvixi gasps as if she's been struck, staggering back a pace. Nezraya raises an eyebrow, amused by her niece's discomfort and surprise. You meet X

Xylvixi's expression fascinates her, a mixture of shock and arousal she hasn't witnessed before. Perhaps she should keep the girl around after all; perhaps Xylvixi's own desires might prove... useful. For now, though, there is only one thing left to do with you.

Her hand presses harder against your shoulder, forcing you down onto your elbows and exposing more of your body. The shadows hold you fast, unable to retreat or fight back as she moves lower still, her touch becoming more insistent yet still somehow restrained. Her breath fans across your most sensitive flesh, the heat burning where her lips have yet to touch. When at last they do—when she kisses you there, slowly and deliberately sucking on your skin like a succulent fruit from some forbidden garden—you arch back in pleasure so pure it feels like pain.

X

The sensation feeds her power, drawing on your helpless surrender like an aphrodisiac. She groans against your skin as she feels herself growing wet with arousal. You're not the only one who finds this exquisite control so addictive; she hears Xylvixi's sharp intake of breath, sees the way her niece's eyes widen in appreciation and, perhaps, desire. It is intoxicating, knowing that you have the ability to affect them both in such a profound and primal way.

Her hands slide lower still, slipping between your legs with ease. She is as expert here as she is with sword or poison; there are few boundaries her obsidian fingernails cannot breach. With practiced skill, she teases and taunts, until you are a writhing, gasping mess at her mercy. Your body thrash

Your pleas only spur her on; the power she feels is intoxicating, and the knowledge that you are entirely hers, body and soul. Her fingers dance against your skin, teasing out pleasure so intense it becomes agony, driving you to the brink of madness. Xylvixi watches with parted lips and dilated pupils, her gaze fixed on the dark show playing out before her.

A wave of sweet release washes over you as she finally relents, sliding two fingers into your mouth to stifle your cries. The taste of shadow magic fills your mouth, mingling with your own essence in a potent mixture that sends another shudder through her body. Her other hand slips up, cupping her niece's cheek, their fingertips almost touching as they watch you writhe in pleasure and pain, helpless beneath their combined power.

Her free hand curls into a fist at her side, the tendons standing out beneath pale skin. The other moves to rest on your hip, fingers sinking through fabric and shadow as if they were flesh and bone. She pants, eyes closed in concentration as she savors the sensations washing over her; your wet heat against her fingertips, the taste of you in her mouth, the sound of Xylvixi's ragged breath beside her ear.

You try to suck harder on her fingers, desperate for release, but it only serves to heighten the pleasure for both of them as she feels your helpless surrender throbbing against her fist. Her free hand slides down, pressing between your lips once more and curling around where you're still damp from her touch. The other hand moves lower yet again, this time cupping your balls with expert precision before sliding up to car

Her fingers dance across your skin once more, teasing you toward the edge again and again before pulling back just as you think you might find release. The frustration sends a wave of pleasure-pain coursing through your body, making your muscles twitch and shudder against her touch. She feels your control slipping further away with every passing moment, every denied orgasm.

Xylvixi's breathing is ragged now, her hips thrusting in rhythm with yours as if she cannot help but feel the building tension coursing through you both. It's an intimacy they've never shared before and it thrills Nezraya more than she cares to admit; she wonders what other secrets her niece might harbor beneath the cold, perfect facade she wears like armor.

At last, with a final thrust of her fingers that sends pleasure lancing through you like light