ZYRAH

*      ◟    :    𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐'𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾.

a  patch  of  sweat  had  begun  to  form,  behind  his  shoulders,  from  where  the  twin  guards  were  pressed  against  him.  they'd  been  there  all  day,  since  he  was  dragged  from  his  cell,  and  they  haven't  seem  to  have  lost  contact  with  him  since.  his  eyes  were  closed,  but  he  knew  it  wouldn't  matter  either  way.  the  shadows  whispered  to  push,  push,  push  until  they  left  him  alone.  gods,  alone.  a  luxury  he  had  not  had  in  months  past.  and  he  fears  that  he  would  not  have  again  for  some  time  yet.  

luc  had  spent  weeks  at  a  time  like  this  in  his  cell.  listening  to  the  whispers  and  the  tap  -  tap  -  tapping  of  his  cellmate's  fingertips  on  the  bars.  completely  still,  barred  from  all  verbal  and  somatic  components  by  bindings  on  his  mouth  and  wrist.  they  called  him  many  names  there,  shouted  out  by  the  guards  that  fed  him.  but  it  has  been  so  long  since  he's  actually  spoke.

Her attire, as if woven from the sombre shadows that laid claim to these obsidian foundations, melded her with the darkness enveloping them. However, her eyes were ablaze with an inner fire, now entirely and singularly focused on the one before her — Lucaris Castille Vanstrada. The guards snapped to attention as their princess-commander emerged from the shadows, and she returned the gesture without a second thought. It was a rehearsed movement honed over nearly a century of training and battles.

Oh, yes - she remembered this one. His father was once the Captain of the Guard and their paths crossed on a few occasions when it was necessary. The recollection of their initial meeting was a faded image in her memory; during which he was hastily dismissed as weak or talentless. However, the man standing before her in chains and binds, defied those initial expectations. The secret to his newfound strength lay in dark, sinister means. Some might question whether the power belonged to Lucaris or the entity that granted him such magic. But Zyrah recognised power for what it truly was and she was unconcerned by its roots if it could be wielded. Lucaris had successfully bonded with an otherworldly entity and harnessed magic through that connection, revealing an inner strength that surprised the princess. Although rarely wrong in her judgments, Zyrah had clearly misjudged Lucaris, dismissing him too easily as weak and forgettable. But his hunger for power and acceptance proved more potent than his loyalty to kin. In Nansir, power equated to survival as its central tenet, yet loyalty and discipline were two additional pillars of training that Zyrah could not abandon nor forgive Lucaris for. That marked the sharp line between their differences in gaining power.

However, Zyrah couldn't help but be intrigued by the impending contest between Lucaris and his enigmatic patron. The sharing of power seldom endured with equilibrium or peace for extended periods. Power craved a master; it hungered for dominance. Her own power - midnight fire, like the heart of a burning black star - opened a sleepy eye as she approached the warlock. Intriguing, indeed.

So, they were resolved.

After some discourse, a path was set, though regardless of how specific their bearing might have been, attempting to discern the safest path through The Black Valley was like trying to figure out the surest way to swim across a lake without getting wet. That was where this fellowship of strangers, acquaintances, and individuals that, as far as Sion could tell, didn't particularly like one another came in. Graciela had a bold undertaking and a burden that Sion did not envy; the barbarian had felt the pull of the Gauntlet; he heard it whisper alongside the voices at the back of his synapses promising to give him every minute thing that Sion had ever craved. Certainty, purpose, and memory. Sion did not believe in destiny; even the measure between right and wrong was a hue of bleeding gray that the barbarian had resolved to dwell within. However, if there was a thing that needed to be destroyed, then it was an object that promised the world to its beholder.

One of Sion's axes split a training dummy clean in two, reinforced by magic, he heard the murmur of some of the unknown spectators about him. As if he were an animal and they'd each bought tickets to a show, cities, in general, raised his hackles and brought visible tension towards his limbs, but a city of these mages with their secrets and their spells was the last place Sion ever hoped to find himself. He knew what they wanted; they wanted the monster to lose control and rage in front of them, but instead, the barbarian wrenched one of his mismatched axes from the ground and put his back on the mages.

"I will be glad to put this place behind us," Sion remarked casually as he turned his attention from the onlookers who'd taken to peering in on the intrepid, destined, few and instead focused on the comrade he'd spend the next several weeks with. His tone was low, deep, and gravelly as obsidian eyes inflicted subconscious curses in the wayward direction of those who murmured among themselves. "Even if it means heading into the Black."

It might have been an unusual choice to approach the mysterious warrior after their fellowship's initial encounter. Clearly an outsider, he piqued her curiosity when the sounds of training reached her ears — a familiar melody from her own routine; a method to harness and control her emotions into moulded perfection. Like rock into metal; or fire into magma. Forged for purpose. Following the comforting lullabies of fighting and training, she discovered an impressive display of strength. Since then, she had lingered nearby like an umoving wraith of fire and shadow, observing Sion’s technique with unashamed focus. Ever the soldier; she assessed and weighed each of his actions for any signs of advantages or disadvantages.

Upon his first words to her, it almost prompted a smirk to twitch on her lips, yet her guarded and stoic façade remained resolute. “In that, I think my people would agree - they will be most anxious for us to leave.” Zyrah replied in a dry tone. Nansir was infamous for its prejudices and arrogance, and with so many different types of people congregating together in the capital, it did reveal the cracks in Nansir’s infamous reputation. Much to Zyrah's frustration. Any sign of weakness in her empire and people was unacceptable. It was a reputation the princess was determined to reforge and strengthen, else she will relinquish her obstacles to ash. 

Her attention followed Sion's gaze to the onlookers who found amusement in the stranger's physical prowess. As if he was performing for their mirth and enjoyment. They were useless. Why waste time watching and giggling at a genuine display of strength? Couldn't they find a more worthwhile use for their time? She resisted the temptation to snap her fingers and dismiss them, but the intensity of her scorching gaze prompted a few to hurriedly nod and withdraw to the sidelines. The rest, oblivious to the subtle warning, lingered momentarily, unaware that Zyrah was prepared to make her point more explicit by heating their feeble toes and forcing them to dance.