“Absolute loyalty to *my* husband, or immediate death.” Sybelia’s breath rasped, a thin, reedy sound in the opulent quiet of Korven’s study. Her eyes darted between Ilythra’s impassive face and the volcanic glass point pressing against her neck. The scent of spilled jasmine tea mingled with the metallic tang of fear. Ilythra noted the slight tremor in the girl’s left hand, the one hidden beneath the hem of her sleeve, a tell-tale sign of concealed intent. “Speak, little bird,” Ilythra prompted, a hint of something feral in her tone. “The choices are simple, and the consequences, swift.” Sybelia swallowed with a dry click. “Lord Brixen… he has my kin. My little sister, Lyna. He promised… if I failed, Lyna would pay.” Her voice was fragile, bordering on a plea. Ilythra’s lips curled in a tight, humorless smile. “Brixen Vhol. Of course.” The scumbag always preyed on vulnerability. “He blackmails you with your sister. A classic, if uninspired, tactic.” She pressed the blade a fraction deeper, just enough to leave a faint, cold line on Sybelia’s skin. “And what do you think *I* will do if you fail me, Sybelia? I promise you, Brixen’s methods will seem merciful by comparison.” The girl’s resolve crumbled. Tears welled, tracing hot paths through the dust of her pallor. “I… I will serve you. Only you, my Lady. Just… just spare Lyna.” Ilythra studied her, a calculating gleam in her eyes. “Good. Then listen closely. Brixen will send another. A more… direct approach. He thinks me weak, pliable. He thinks he can have Korven silenced. Tonight, perhaps. Before the Hour of Silent Feasts.” Her gaze sharpened, piercing Sybelia’s defenses. “Who is his favoured blade for such tasks?” “Talon. Talon Vaneer,” Sybelia choked out, the name a shuddering exhalation. “He is said to slip through keyholes and butcher like a serpent. He prefers the high perches… the Aery of Whispers, to claim his prey.” “The aviaries,” Ilythra murmured, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. “Perfect. A fitting place for a caged bird to meet its end.” She withdrew the letter opener, the obsidian glinting. Sybelia gasped, pressing a palm to her grazed neck. “Clean this mess. And then, Sybelia, you will act as bait. You will go to the Aery. You will feign distress, loudly. You will ensure Talon finds you. Then you will run, and lead him exactly where I will be waiting.” Sybelia could only nod, trembling from collar to hem. The sheer, chilling authority in Ilythra’s voice left no room for defiance. She was caught, now, between a viper and a lioness, and the lioness had just decided to hunt. Hours later, the Obsidian Keep settled into its nightly hush. The vast, gothic architecture swallowed sound, leaving only the distant, mournful cries of the nocturnal avian predators housed in the Aery of Whispers. Ilythra, draped in a cloak the color of midnight, moved through the labyrinthine corridors. Her footsteps made no sound on the polished basalt. She reached the threshold of the Aery, a grand, wrought-iron archway that exhaled frigid, metallic air. Inside, razor-wire cages ascended into the perpetual gloom, housing shrieking grimm-hawks and the predatory ravens of Ghalakor. She found her position amidst a tangle of dormant, thorned vines, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and wild bird musk. She waited. The minutes stretched, cold and taut. Then, a faint whimper, deliberately amplified, echoed from a higher perch. Sybelia. Good. Talon would be close. A flicker of movement, a ripple in the deepening shadows above, confirmed it. Talon Vaneer. He was a wraith, clad in dark leathers that melted into the gloom, twin curved stilettos sheathed at his hips. He moved with a practiced fluidity, an apex predator stalking its terrified prey. Sybelia’s desperate pleas grew louder, guiding him. Ilythra watched, a silent, unmoving sentinel, her own shadow-craft flowing around her, deepening the natural darkness. Talon descended, his form coalescing just meters from Sybelia, who cowered against a massive, empty cage. He was thin, gaunt, with eyes like chips of flint. A cruel smile touched his lips. “Little maid, so lost in the dark? Lord Brixen sends his regards. And his apologies for the mess.” As he reached for Sybelia, Ilythra moved. Not from behind, not with a silent strike. She materialized directly in his path, her form solidifying from the deeper shadows, obsidian daggers appearing in her hands as if born of the gloom itself. Her presence was sudden, undeniable, and utterly terrifying. “The mess will be yours, assassin,” Ilythra’s voice was low, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the raw power now radiating from her. Her daggers spun, catching the faint, ambient light in deadly glints. “You dared to touch what is mine.” Talon's stare contracted, his cruel smile dissolving. He was an assassin, not a fool. This was not a maid, nor an easy kill. He lunged, his own daggers flashing, a blur of practiced, lethal force. His movements were swift, designed to confuse, to disorient, to overwhelm. But Ilythra was faster. She met his first rush with a parry that sang, volcanic glass biting against his steel. Talon recoiled, surprised by her strength. He twisted, aiming a kick at her knee, a move meant to cripple. Ilythra flowed away, a wisp of shadow, only to reappear a step to his left, her dagger a dark line aiming for his exposed wrist. He parried, the clash of steel echoing through the aviaries. The grimm-hawks shrieked, sensing the impending kill. He was good. He was fast. But Ilythra wasn’t fighting fair. She was fighting for Korven. She used the environment, manipulating the gloom, making herself appear and disappear, drawing him deeper into the razor-wire maze. He slashed, she faded. He lunged, she reformed, a murmur of malice behind him. The air grew heavy with the tang of ozone and old blood. Finally, he was disoriented, winded. His guard faltered for a heartbeat. Ilythra surged forward in a brutal thrust, plunging her blade into his sword arm, severing tendons and wrenching a choked cry from his chest. His weapon clattered to the floor, useless. He stared at her, fear now fully etched on his face, his body convulsing in pain. “Who… who are you?” “The wife of the man you sought to silence,” she said, her voice a death knell. With a swift, brutal movement, she pinned him against a cage, then, with a precise, clinical cut, she severed his hand at the wrist. Blood spurted, painting the iron bars a grotesque scarlet. Talon screamed, a raw, primal sound quickly cut short as her second blade sheared his windpipe. He slumped, lifeless, against the cage, his severed hand clattering to the cold stone floor, still clutching his signet ring. Sybelia, who had watched the butchery from a corner, stood frozen against the masonry. Ilythra turned, wiping her blades clean on Talon’s tunic. “The etiquette of slaughter, Sybelia. Make sure Lord Brixen understands.” Later, in the grand dining hall, the Hour of Silent Feasts was underway. The long, ebony table, laden with exotic dishes, was eerily quiet, the only sounds the rustle of fine silks and the clink of silverware. Korven Zastor sat at the head, his expression as stoic as ever, though Ilythra noted the faint tremor in his left hand as he raised his wine goblet. His paranoia was a well-worn cloak, comforting in its familiarity. Ilythra sat opposite him, observing the minor lords and ladies of Ghalakor, their faces a carefully constructed mask of civility. The air grew taut under the quiet clatter of silver, ripe for rupture. She waited for the perfect moment. When the dessert course arrived, delicate sweets crafted from crystallised twilight berries, Ilythra reached into her cloak. She withdrew a small, ornate velvet jewelry box, usually reserved for the Morvath ancestral rings. The box, surprisingly heavy, she slid across the polished table towards Korven. It halted just before his plate, a stark, dark contrast against the pale linen. Korven’s gaze, usually impenetrable, flickered with mild curiosity. He glanced at Ilythra, then back at the box. “My Lady?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, devoid of inflection. The other diners subtly shifted, their interest piqued. Ilythra offered him a slow, possessive smile. “A small token of my devotion, husband. To commemorate our renewed vows. I trust it finds you well.” With a hesitant hand, Korven opened the box. His stoic facade, a fortress built over years of Ghalakorian intrigue, utterly crumbled. Inside, nestled on crimson velvet, lay Talon Vaneer’s severed hand, his distinctive signet ring still on one finger. A rich, metallic stench rose from the velvet. Korven’s eyes, usually sharp and wary, rounded in pure, unadulterated bewilderment. A flush, dark and undeniable, spread across his high cheekbones, burning deep red. He quickly slammed the lid shut, his hand trembling so violently the entire table registered it. He coughed, a tight, forced sound, then cleared his airway. “Ilythra… this… this is quite… thoughtful.” His voice was strained, caught between horror and profound confusion. He avoided her gaze, his posture rigid with suppressed turmoil. The other nobles, sensing the shift, averted their eyes, pretending profound interest in their desserts, though a few exchanged discreet, wide-eyed glances. The audacity. Ilythra merely sipped her wine, watching the delicious spectacle she had created. She knew he understood. This was her declaration. Not just of loyalty, but of ownership. A promise of violent, aggressive protection. She felt a fierce, satisfying warmth bloom in her chest, a stark contrast to the cold, calculating thrill of the kill. Just as Korven seemed to regain a semblance of composure, a ripple in the air above their table drew her attention. The spectral courier, a vaguely humanoid shape woven from moonlight and mist, drifted unannounced through the stone. It hovered for a moment, its ethereal form catching the light from the candelabras, then descended. With a deliberate, silent motion, it dropped a single, glowing red wax seal into Ilythra’s wine glass. The seal hissed faintly as it hit the dark liquid, dissolving with an eerie luminescence. [ Boon Acquired: Shadow-Veil – Passive ability to deepen existing shadows and move undetected within them. ] Ilythra felt a subtle shift, a familiar hum of dark power settling within her. This was the first boon. The first step. She glanced at Korven, whose face had gone oddly pale. He was watching the lingering crimson swirls in her wine with a strange intensity. He began to cough, a dry, rasping sound at first. Then, violently, he lurched forward, clawing at his collar. Black blood, thick and viscous, erupted from his mouth, staining the pristine table linen a horrifying, inky blotch. He collapsed.

The Etiquette of Slaughter