The gilded band felt like a brand, cold metal against Nahiri’s skin, a constant, crushing pressure. She clawed at it, her nails rasping uselessly against the impossibly smooth, etched gold. No seam, no clasp, no way to pry it open. Vashkar watched her, his obsidian eyes unblinking, a possessive satisfaction slowly unfurling across his rugged features. He hadn’t moved from his kneeling position, not even when the tremors of her frantic struggle vibrated through her. The air in the vast chamber, thick with the scent of ozone and something akin to desert spices, seemed to hum with his anticipation. “It is perfect,” he rumbled, finally rising. He towered over her, his shadow enveloping her completely. “A jewel for my Queen. A beacon.” A beacon for what? A sacrifice? Nahiri’s mind raced, a desperate scramble for an exit. The massive, inverted glass chamber, once a terrifying descent, now felt like a prison. Every surface shimmered, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting her own terrified face back at her a thousand times. The torque seemed to expand, tightening against her collarbone with each frantic pulse. He reached out, his finger tracing the etched filigree over her throat while bile rose behind her teeth. She flinched, pulling back, but the ring remained, unyielding. “Come, my Zahra,” he murmured, his voice softening into a dangerous caress. “Let us leave this hall of slumber. Your new domain awaits.” Nahiri had no choice but to follow. His presence, immense and inescapable, propelled her forward. They passed through a glittering archway that felt like walking through solid light, emerging into a corridor of obsidian and vitrified stone. The air here was cooler, crisper, carrying the faint tang of ancient dust and distant, churning sandstorms. Grandiose murals, depicting forgotten battles and mythical beasts, lined the walls, lit by bioluminescent flora embedded in the stone. He led her through a labyrinth of such passages, past automated sentinels that hummed with latent current, until they reached a colossal set of doors forged from black, unblemished iron. They parted silently, revealing an expanse that stole the air from Nahiri’s lungs. It was an aerie, a private garden enclosed within a vast dome of gleaming, unbreakable glass. Above them, the swirling, violet eye of the sandstorm raged, its fury muted by the bastion's defenses. Below, the abyssal chasm stretched, a yawning maw of darkness. This was her ‘domain’? A gilded birdcage suspended over oblivion. Opulent divans assembled from woven silks and exotic furs were scattered around, alongside tables laden with strange, jewel-toned fruits and steaming carafes. But it was the far wall that drew her eye—a broad, articulated plate of diamond-tempered steel that seemed to pulse with faint light. And standing sentinel before it were two hulking, armored sentries, their faces obscured by visored helmets. “My Queen’s sanctuary,” Vashkar announced, his chest expanding with pride. “Here, you shall want for nothing. No harm shall touch you.” His eyes, however, were not on the sentries, but on Nahiri. His 'protection' felt like suffocation. Nahiri’s gaze darted to the watchmen. Her only chance. She had to create a distraction. Desperation drove her feet forward. She ran, not towards the dome, but directly towards the vitreous steel wall, hoping to find a concealed passage, a weak point. The two watchmen pivoted in silence, their weapons—plasma lances—rising in unison. Vashkar barked, a low growl, but Nahiri didn't stop. As she neared the wall, her outstretched hand brushed against a small, almost invisible glyph embedded in the frame of the vitreous steel. The metal around her neck instantly flared, a searing heat blossoming across her throat. A high-pitched whine ripped through the air, and from the metal’s surface, a brilliant, crimson beam of concentrated force erupted, lashing out with terrifying speed. It didn't strike the wall; instead, it arced with impossible precision, severing the heads of both armored sentinels in a single, explosive burst. Their heavy forms crashed to the ground, sparking, the air filling with the acrid scent of burnt metal and ozone. Nahiri recoiled, staring at the smoldering remains, breath catching painfully against her ribs. She had not intended *that*. The neckpiece was not merely a lock; it was a weapon. A hyper-lethal one. Vashkar’s roar of delight echoed through the chamber, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Magnificent!” He strode forward, his heavy hand cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. His eyes, usually so intense, gleamed with a wild, almost childish joy. “You have chosen your tools, my Queen. Excellent judgment!” He didn't seem disturbed by the headless corpses. Instead, he swept her off her feet, carrying her to a lavish divan. He clapped his hands, and a concealed panel slid open, revealing an array of weapons. Not simple blades, but intricately built beam bows, radiant mineral daggers, and a gauntlet that pulsed with captured lightning. “These were offerings from fallen warlords,” he declared, his voice rich with satisfaction. “But they are nothing compared to the power you wield, my Zahra. Choose what you desire. All are yours.” He treated her like a goddess who had just proved her divinity, not a prisoner who had accidentally massacred his soldiers. Later, as Vashkar was distracted by an urgent dispatch from a lower level, discussing the logistics of diverting a particularly aggressive sand-beast known as a ‘Gnarlmaw,’ a new figure entered the garden. He was slender, impeccably dressed in dark, flowing silks, his movements fluid as a desert viper. This was Oulen, Vashkar’s spymaster, his face a mask of practiced deference. His eyes, however, held a flicker of something else, a calculating intelligence that promised more than mere loyalty. He approached Nahiri, a tray of spiced drinks in hand. As he offered her a goblet, his left hand subtly brushed a small, ornate lamp on a nearby table. The lamp flickered, then dimmed. A faint, almost imperceptible hum died away. Nahiri, still reeling from the band's unexpected lethality, barely registered it. “The Khagan sends his regards, my Queen,” Oulen’s voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. “And wishes me to ensure your comfort.” His eyes, however, darted to the dimming lamp, then back to her, a brief, meaningful glance. “He values what is his above all else.” Nahiri stiffened. It was a casual phrasing, dropped almost as an afterthought, but it resonated with the icy truth she had begun to grasp. She wasn’t a cherished wife. She was something else. Prized livestock, as the family back home would say. “The Khagan has been… quite pleased with your presence,” Oulen continued, his voice maintaining its neutral, respectful tone, yet an undercurrent of warning rippled beneath. “Such potent vitality. A rare vintage.” He paused, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The fortress itself thrives on it, my Queen. As did its previous mistress.” Previous mistress? Nahiri’s gaze was drawn to the vitreous steel wall, where the sentries had fallen. She noticed, for the first time, a faint, almost invisible seam. She touched it, and a section of the partition slid inward, revealing a small, secret vault. Inside, glowing with an internal luminescence, was a monumental mosaic assembled from thousands of iridescent shards. It depicted a woman, regal and powerful, with eyes that mirrored Nahiri’s own, adorned with a collar almost identical to the one around her neck. This woman, Queen Istaru, her past incarnation, was shown chained to a pulsating core, her life force visibly draining into the very foundations of the Sunken Citadel. Above her, an eclipsed moon, ringed in black glass, loomed. Oulen stepped closer, his voice low. “The lunar eclipse approaches, my Queen. In three days. It is when the fortress draws deepest from its… battery.” The full horror of her situation crashed down upon her. Three days. The gilded cage was a power siphon. She wasn't just trapped; she was slated to become the citadel's living battery, just like Istaru. Her soul, once awakened, would be consumed. Before she could question Oulen further, a piercing, discordant wail ripped through the Citadel. The alarm. Red lights flashed along the walls, casting the hall in an angry, pulsing glow. Oulen’s face, usually so composed, tightened. “Intruders,” he muttered, his hand going to a hidden communicator in his sleeve. “Impossible. The outer wards are impregnable.” Then, through the blaring klaxons, a voice, amplified by the Citadel’s external speakers, boomed through the very stones. A voice Nahiri knew with a sick certainty. Her stepmother, Lady Solara. “Khagan Vashkar!” Solara’s voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the din. “We demand the return of our rightful bride, the true daughter! You have taken the wrong bride!” The Khagan, who had been striding towards the communication console, froze. His back to Nahiri, his broad shoulders squared. He let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floor, a sound of profound, territorial fury. His family had come. And they were demanding to take her away.

Spoils of the Beast