Nyxeria allowed a faint, cold smile to curl her lips. It had been too long since she'd relished a fight. With a flick of her wrist, the swirling black mist of Nightmare began pooling around her feet, revealing her lithe form beneath as the living shadows coiled and danced around her skin. She noticed the glint of lust in Lord Garet’s eyes and felt only disgust. ‘Mortals,’ she thought, ‘so tragically tethered to the flesh.’

Without a moment’s hesitation, the inky pool at her feet expanded, birthing a toothy maw with jagged edges, unfurling like the dark wings of a raven. Occasional black feathers surfaced amidst the shadows before sinking and fading into the inky black depths. Though Nightmare had no visible eyes, it moved as though it saw everything. In a heartbeat, it lunged toward Lord Garet, who instinctively raised his blade, golden light surging along its edge.

Lord Garet's blade cleaved through the creature with a bright, searing arc, a look of satisfaction crossing his face as Nightmare's form split. But the satisfaction was short-lived. He watched in horror as the entity reformed almost instantly, pooling back together with a grotesque, fluid grace, tendrils writhing as if mocking his effort.

For a moment, he faltered, his bravado cracking. 'This... this isn't just sorcery,' he thought, his confidence wavering. ‘What manner of demon have I challenged?’ His faith in Orria, the goddess of light, had always been unshakeable. Yet now, a sliver of doubt pierced through his resolve. Sweat trickled down his brow, and his heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of his mortality.

Mages, he had believed, were most vulnerable after casting. But Nyxeria simply stood there, serene and detached, as if the battle were beneath her notice. The cold amusement in her eyes sent a chill down his spine. Garet’s instincts screamed at him to retreat, but pride and fear of disgrace anchored his feet. He couldn't—wouldn’t—show weakness before his men or his wife.

He steeled himself, gripping his sword tighter. The golden light blazed brighter as he whispered a fervent prayer. “Orria, grant me strength…” But the light, which had always been a comforting beacon, now seemed feeble against the encroaching darkness.

Lord Garet lunged forward, slashing desperately, each strike more frenzied than the last. He tried to banish the oily, amorphous entity, but Nightmare simply danced around his blows, reconstituting again and again, like a shadow he could never grasp. His sword, once an instrument of divine justice, felt like a mere toy against the thing he faced.

Then, a sickening realization dawned on him. This was no ordinary dark magic—this was something ancient, primal, and far beyond his understanding. His strikes grew weaker, more frantic. He felt the weight of true despair for the first time in his life.

Suddenly, the room seemed to close in around him. The air grew heavy, his breath quickened, and his vision narrowed. The mocking laughter of Nightmare’s slithering movements echoed in his ears, taunting his futility. In that moment, he saw Vern and Garen, the two men he trusted, slowly edging towards the exit, eyes wide with terror. Cowards, he thought bitterly. But deep down, he understood. They knew what he now understood—the fight was lost.

The brief distraction cost him dearly. A cold, agonizing warmth exploded in his chest. Garet gasped, looking down to see an ink-drenched claw piercing through his armor from behind, black feathers clinging to its grotesque surface. Blood poured from the wound, staining his once pristine tunic. His strength faltered, the sword slipping from his grasp, clattering loudly against the marble floor.

The agony was unlike anything he had ever felt, as if icy tendrils were wrapping around his heart, squeezing the life out of him. He tried to speak, to invoke Orria’s name, but all that came out was a gurgled rasp. His vision blurred, the once vibrant world dimming. The golden glow of his blade had died, leaving only darkness.

Nyxeria stepped closer, her cold eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “Did you truly believe a flicker of low-level holy magic would harm Nightmare?” Her tone was laced with derision. She leaned in, her breath whispering against his ear, “You are but a flickering candle in a tempest, Lord Garet. Your goddess has no power here.”

She watched with detached curiosity as his eyes widened in a final, futile plea for mercy. He was already dead, though his body had yet to realize it. With a flick of her wrist, a feather elongated into a sharp, obsidian blade. With a precise, almost delicate slash, she opened his throat. The cut was clean, surgical, and Lord Garet’s head lolled forward as a crimson stream poured down his chest. She let his body collapse to the floor in a boneless heap, a forgotten relic of mortal defiance.

Nyxeria turned her gaze to Lady Garet, who sat frozen, her face a mask of horror. In the distance, Vern and Garen slipped through the side door, believing themselves unseen. ‘Pathetic,’ Nyxeria mused. ‘Rats scurrying from a sinking ship. Let them run; they will lead me to the next target soon enough.’

Lady Garet finally found her voice, a strangled, trembling scream tearing from her lips. “Gu-guards! Help! An assassin!” She tried to scramble backward, only to trip over the hem of her dress.

The doors burst open, and several guards rushed into the hall. Nyxeria, now seated leisurely upon Lord Garet’s vacated chair, crossed one leg over the other, her expression utterly unbothered. “Nightmare,” she murmured, waving a hand dismissively, “deal with them.”

The shadowy maw, still feasting on the remains of Lord Garet, twisted toward the newcomers with a predatory grace. It lunged with a horrifying speed, tendrils of darkness wrapping around the guards, crushing bones with wet snaps and tearing flesh with sickening ease. Blood sprayed across the marble floors, painting the once pristine hall in vivid reds. One guard, disemboweled by a single swipe, tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the gurgling of his own blood.

Nyxeria observed the carnage from her seat with the same interest one might reserve for watching rain against a windowpane. A faint smirk tugged at her lips, the only hint of her amusement. The mortals’ desperate cries, the wet crunch of Nightmare’s feeding—it was all so mundane, so predictable. She leaned back, her eyes half-lidded, as if she were listening to a symphony whose notes were familiar, yet still pleasing in their own macabre way.

When the last guard had fallen silent, leaving only the wet sound of Nightmare consuming the remains, Nyxeria turned her attention back to Lady Garet, who had yet to move. The noblewoman trembled, her eyes wide with shock.

Nyxeria tilted her head, a soft, mocking smile curving her lips. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice silky but with an edge of steel. The command broke through the woman’s paralysis, forcing her to meet the abyssal void of Nyxeria’s gaze. “Such empty faith,” Nyxeria murmured, brushing a cold finger along the side of Lady Garet’s cheek. “Orria will not save you now.”

Lady Garet collapsed to her knees, sobbing, begging incoherently. But Nyxeria had already lost interest, her thoughts already drifting to the next conquest, the next soul to be broken. Mortals, after all, were so easily dealt with.

Nyxeria observed the pitiful sight before her, Lady Garet collapsed to her knees, face streaked with tears and blood as she wept openly. The noblewoman’s once elegant gown was stained with her husband’s blood, her hands trembling as she clasped them together, desperately trying to form words through her sobs. Nyxeria watched with an air of detached amusement, tilting her head as if considering the worth of a broken toy.

“P-please,” Lady Garet stammered, her voice cracking under the weight of her despair. “I-I beg you... don’t kill me... I will serve you, obey you—anything you wish. Just… spare my life.”

Nyxeria’s expression shifted slightly, her cold eyes narrowing as she assessed the woman groveling at her feet. A faint smile played on her lips, cruel and mocking. She leaned forward, her voice a soft, seductive whisper that seemed to fill the vast hall. “Is that so?” she purred, the tip of her obsidian feather blade tracing the curve of Lady Garet’s trembling chin. “You would serve me, just like that? How quickly your loyalty shifts.”

Lady Garet nodded frantically, her breath hitching as she felt the cold edge of the feather against her throat. “Yes… I swear it! I-I will do whatever you command!” She could barely believe the words spilling from her lips, but the raw terror of seeing her husband butchered, the guards torn apart, left her with no choice. Survival was all she could think of.

Nyxeria’s eyes gleamed with a cruel delight. “Very well,” she said, retracting the blade and rising to her feet. 

Lady Garet’s sobs quieted to ragged breaths as she nodded, eyes wide with terror. “Yes, mistress… I understand.”

Nyxeria stepped closer, her presence as cold and unyielding as winter’s breath. “Then prove your worth to me, little mortal,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “I find this blood-soaked gown tiresome. Fetch me suitable attire. Something... elegant, befitting my station.” Her eyes glimmered with a wicked amusement. “And do not keep me waiting, or I shall send Nightmare to find you. I promise, it will be far less forgiving than I am.”

The threat hung heavy in the air, and Lady Garet scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over her own dress in her haste to comply. “Y-yes, right away!” she gasped, backing away with hurried, trembling steps.

Nyxeria watched her scurry off with a bored expression, already losing interest in the pathetic woman. Turning her gaze to the ruined hall, now littered with bodies and drenched in blood, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. The mortal realm, she mused, always provided such... entertaining diversions.

With a dismissive wave, she summoned Nightmare back to her side, the creature coiling protectively around her like a living shadow. “Come,” she murmured to her faithful abomination. “Let us see if this little noble can serve a purpose beyond begging for her life.”

As Lady Garet disappeared down the darkened corridors, Nyxeria settled back into the grand chair, waiting. She had all the time in the world, but mortals, she knew, always seemed to think they had so little. The soft sound of Nightmare's guttural growl filled the silence, a gentle reminder of the ever-present threat that lurked in the shadows.