#domitorem

domitorem:

Neatly stepping around the fact that he would make sure that she was completely unable to put a blade through his throat - perhaps in the same way that he had made certain of that with his favoured right-hand slave - he simply smiled smoothly and averted his eyes from her uncultured display of eating with her fingers. "I would hope by then that our relationship would be a little more… genial,” he responded. “After all, what I would offer you in return…”

His eyes flicked, for a moment, to Fenris, in all of his silent, tattooed glory. “I saw you admiring my dear Fenris, the first day that you came here,” he said then, taking a swallow of wine. “Not that I can blame you. He really is quite magnificent, isn’t he? Not the smartest of men, but he more than makes up for it with his looks. He’s also… very valuable.” His attention moved back to her. “The amount of lyrium he carries in his skin is worth more than every slave and trinket that I own. Quite an impressive fact, don’t you think? But how strong it makes him - oh, how strong…”

Fenris might have known to hold his peace, but he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with what it sounded as though Danarius intended to offer the woman, and he couldn’t bite his tongue in time, even though he knew better. “Master-…”

Danarius’s glass rang against the table as he set it down a little more sharply than intended. “I will offer you the same,” he said, pointedly ignoring his slave. “A fortune of lyrium. Unprecedented power. In exchange for serving me.”

On the other side of the desk, Fenris’s mouth went dry, but he knew better than to speak this time. Was he truly serious…?

Perhaps it was the starvation getting to her, or the unending darkness, or the dreams that sometimes had seemed to bleed into the reality of her prison--perhaps there was some crucial tell that she had missed, some trick that Danarius had up his gilded sleeve that engendered such confidence--but suddenly, she was turning his proposal over in her mind. 

Not quite as he meant it, of course. She had no intention of serving him for even a moment; just the thought of pretending to acquiesce until this bargain was concluded made her skin prick with rage. But she had dug herself in this far--no escape, no rescue, the likelihood of starvation, of failure, looming ever closer. If Danarius was willing to hand her even greater power, she would take it, and she would see that the magister wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.

@domitorem

Of course Radonis had recognised the heraldry impressed on the wax seal at first glance. Years and years of social life before a boy could even dream to enter in the realm of politics were also meant prepare him, to turn him into a man who could distinguish a family crest from another at once and always attach a name to each. 

He set the letter apart from the rest, in a different and much smaller pile. The joys of having a wide and varied correspondence included not having to write all the reply messages yourself; but some, he did take care to write personally, in his own calligraphy, and nevermind the potential waste of time. 

When he got to Magister Celesti’s letter and broke the rose and staff seal, he was expecting something of slightly different nature. Still, it would have been a grave mistake to not believe a private event less political than an entire session of the Magisterium. Indeed, a mistake for amateurs. Especially when, as it seemed, the man was about to present to the public the coronation of his latest endeavours in the field of magical research. It was only right that the Archon should receive an invitation, and only right that he should attend.

The evening come, Radonis donned his formal clothes, silks dyed in imperial green, spell-woven and of asymmetrical design, kept in place by rigid leather over his chest and shoulders, and by buckles and accents of shining gold. He moved from the palace to Danarius’ estate in a carriage pulled by ivory-coloured dracolisks, their teeth and claws as a reminder that what he was using in lieu of horses (now that they’d been trained and tamed) could become war mounts just as easily and just as quickly.

In the Gilded Quarter, far from the noise of the rest of Minrathous, far from the filth that attracted and was magnified by the refugees and the poor, despite their hypothetical better intentions, was the façada of the Magister’s house. Built in jetstone as all the city had been, it didn’t stand apart in that sense; but in the sense of the arrival and reception of guests, it certainly did. Which was, in a way, far more important. 

//hnn, the temptation to make this into a thread is overwhelming ouo

Inara was not quite sure what to say to that.

She said nothing at first, those big, heavy doors closing behind her with an ominous, resounding noise that rang through the hall where she stood. She wasn't sure exactly how many mages it took to make her Templar guard obsolete, but she gathered that there were enough of them him to assure it, and the way the Knight-Commander was trembling next to her did little do bolster her confidence. But she refused to let herself twitch or flinch or even shudder, refused to let the rhythm of her breathing even hitch in a way that he could read for fear.

"That isn't exactly how this works," she settled on, speaking slowly, her hand sliding ever so slightly back towards the dagger on her belt, though she did not dare move to grab it yet. "This is supposed to be a diplomatic visit, I was told."

If this was a test, she intended to pass it. If it was a joke, she needed to be rational, to not let it escalate needlessly.

I'm so excited for all my threads right meow tbh