Ultraviolet

Nymphalia breathed in the stench of burning wood and flesh like a curse. Lungs scorched, nostrils flared as the acrid scent of her homeland’s ruin filled her chest. Behind her, the forest of Verdelume burned, centuries of ancient trees reduced to ash and memory. Flames clawed up the trunks like desperate hands, crimson and gold against the ink-black night, devouring what had once been sacred. She stumbled as her captors pulled at her chains, but she refused to fall. The forest might die tonight, but she would not.

She had fought until the very marrow of her bones screamed for mercy. Until her blade almo shattered in her grip and her magic — wild, ancient, violet as the storms her people once called gods —bled dry from her veins. She had not yielded. Not when the sky turned black with winged terrors. Not when the last of her unit, the proud and dwindling Violet Guard, fell beside her. She had carved down monsters until her arms gave out, until her fingers slipped in blood that may have been hers.

For some reason, they had let her live, taken her freedom instead of her life. The shadow faced horde had come not just for land or conquest, but for her. She had felt it in the way they moved. In the way they circled. Now, shackled in iron cuffs inscribed with runes that throbbed like infected wounds, she was marched through the bowels of an unfamiliar fortress. Its walls black as sorrow, its ceilings lost to gloom. Obsidian corridors pulsed faintly with magic, but it was not a kind thing. It hummed low and cold, feeding on the weak and testing her resolve. Her violet hair hung in damp, tangled ropes against her flushed skin, soaked from both sweat and the steady drizzle that had fallen over the battlefield as her home had fallen. It was enough to chill one to the bones, not enough to put out the flames. Blood streaked her temple, matted along her jaw. Her once pristine armor hung in tatters, more symbolic now than protective. But her spine remained straight. Her chin stayed high. Violet Tattoos decorated her face, dancing over her skin. She had been the best of the best, the lead of a unit that commanded respect and honor. Now it seemed she was just a trophy. Each step she took was deliberate, defiant. Despite the pain, the wounds and exhaustion, she still held herself with honor and pride.

A presence walked just ahead of her. She didn’t need to see his face to know he watched her. She could feel it in the prickle across her shoulders, in the shiver that no exhaustion could quite explain. His gaze was a cold weight, like snowfall in a graveyard. His stormy grey eyes appeared to be gazing anywhere but at her, and yet she could feel the eerie chill that his attention brought to her.

Raiko Umea.

Evil demon.

Half-shadowborn. Warlord of the Obsidian Empire. Son of a murdered queen and a father born of nightmare. His name had haunted the war councils for years, whispered like a warning. No one could say what truly ran in his veins; only that he had once walked through an inferno untouched, and left his enemies broken and mad.

He reveled in her discomfort, the pain he knew she must be feeling. It fed his very soul to breathe the same air that she exhaled. Like a drug, her stench saturated his senses and set his powers smoldering in his veins. Nostrils flared, long pale lashes swept closed and open in less then a breath as he pressed the company forward.

He had ordered her capture. Not her death.

Not yet.

There was something he wanted from her. Power, perhaps. Or knowledge. She had been the youngest high-ranking mage to ever rise through the Violet Guard. Born blessed with magic that shimmered in her veins like starlight, kissed by something older than the moon. She was heir to more than bloodlines. She was memory and wrath, prophecy and fire. And now she was his prisoner.

They reached a set of stone doors carved with symbols older than any language Nymphalia knew. They parted without sound, responding to his magic, and revealed a chamber that was not at all what she expected. Not a dungeon. A hub, a war chamber. A council room of sorts that had a minimal amount of robed figures already waiting for the return of the demon lord.

The ceiling arched high with dark fabric pulled tight against polished beams. The floor was strewn with rugs worn soft by use. A table at the center was littered with maps, glass vials, and weapons. Scrolls lay half-open, ink still wet. A fire crackled in a brazier near the far wall, casting shadows that danced like spirits. It was not comfortable. But it was no torture chamber either.

He turned to face her fully then.

Storm-grey eyes that were sharp, assessing, and impossible to read met hers. His features were harsh, carved from something unyielding: cheekbones like blades, a jaw that never softened. Pale, silvery hair was tied loosely at the nape and gleamed like wet mercury in the low light of the flames. His armor was a blend of leather and shadowsteel, molded to his form with a precision that was both elegant and brutal.

His gaze swept from the crown of her head to the tip of her chin. He took in the elegant scrollwork of the Tyrian designs that painted her cheeks. The defiant look in her eyes. She was brutal, and yet she was a work of art. Putting her on a display on a pedestal for the rest of her days crossed his mind. Less bloody, softer and properly gowned like the royal she appeared to be, perhaps. His own expression never changed. The storm raged behind his eyes, swirls of a haunting glow teasing of the power that bled through his veins. He leaned his wet gloved hands against the edge of the table, canting his angular chin ever so slightly as he assessed his prize.

“You should be dead, elf.” he said, voice low and rough with disuse or disinterest. “You should have broken.” It teased the back of his mind, the reality that he was mildly impressed at the strength she yielded from the inside out through this battle. He had sent an onslaught to guarantee his success tonight. In response she spat blood at his feet. Disrespect and fury pulsed through her veins. “You should have tried harder.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not quite amusement. Curiosity, perhaps. Or hunger. “You bled your magic dry to hold the line,” he murmured, gaze traveling over her with ever more calculated interest. “That forest burned for you. Yet still you stand.”

“I’ll stand long after you’ve forgotten my name,” she said. He would have rather forgotten her name already, he wouldn't need it for his plans. He could devise any title he wished for her. She was beneath his control now, just where she was meant to be.

Even as the words left her lips, she felt the runes pulse again; draining her, slowing her limbs. Her legs wavered. She dropped to one knee. Not in submission. Submission would have put her on her back. Her breathing was labored, her strength waning. Her sword was gone, and with it a part of her was unable to regain strength. He felt a pulse of thrill shoot straight down his core but he held his focus.

Rising from where he leaned, he turned to face her. “I don’t forget things that matter,” he said, and then crouched in front of her. His breath ghosted over her cheek. “And you...you matter.”

He reached out, not to strike but to touch the crimson streak of blood at her temple. His fingers brushed her skin, and her magic flared faintly in protest. It was just the barest whisper of what she had commanded just a few short hours ago.

Raiko straightened, voice like midnight. As he turned to the guards. “Leave us. She stays here. With me.”

The fire had begun to warm his chilled skin, even as he shrugged out of some of his plating down to the black tunic beneath. The corded muscles that lined his midsection pressed against the fabric, arcing up into a broad chest and shoulders that begged to be warmed in the fire light. Still, he remained in his damp clothing.

He found himself longing to touch her again, to find her silken skin beneath his fingertips. He ached to paint her blood down her cheek and across the sweeping tattoos that resided there on her pale skin. She was a sight, but he was playing a long game to give in to his minor desires. She was a mere fascination, but a true need. She had power that he had studied for years. There were books all over his private library that often littered the tables and floors during his evenings spent sweeping through one tomb after the next for more information.

She was an enigma, and he needed what she possessed.

His magic thrummed anxiously in his veins, itching to be released, to siphon the last of her strength from her until she collapsed on the hard floor at his feet. Containing himself, he dropped into a wooden chair and dropped his mud caked black boots onto the table. Debris dropped on top of the canvas map beneath his feet, but it didn't matter any longer. All of the slashes, the abandoned scroll that had scratched one place after the next from tracking her every move. It was no longer needed. His efforts had not been in vain, for here she was.

He surveyed her. He watched the plates of her armor rise and fall when she breathed. He watched her chest lift, the slightest peek of her curved collar bone beneath. His legs stiffened, he longed to rip the plates of her armor from her body with his own hands and toss it aside. He wanted to see her, determine her weak points and how he would get his hands on the power that was caged deep inside of her. Instead, he began his proposal.

"My magic will ensure that you do not leave the walls of your new home." It wasn't necessary to inform her, surely she could already feel the truth. Still, it gave him a thrill to be able to state the obvious. The thrill of the chase was over, but there was nothing stopping him from playing with his prey.

"Furthermore you will be taken to wash up with a suite of staff who all answer to me. Should anything be spoken to them of an attempt at securing your escape, I will already have heard the request before they scamper back to me to plead for their lives for your crime. You will be cared for, trained, and dressed for the occasion in two days. Two days and you will become the queen of the Obsidian Empire. You will relinquish your loyalty to those wretched lands and you will take your rightful place. You will play your part when we are publicly viewed, and you will say nothing of your misery. I do not care, nor will I entertain incessant complaints. Your death will not be swift, so do tempt me and I would be more than happy to play in the veil of night." The left corner of his lips tipped up in his wickedness as delicious nightmares danced through his mind. He brushed the tips of his fingers along the pad of his thumb and swirls of a spectral glow ghosted into the air.

Inhaling, the effervescent magic, his eyes rolled back in his skull before his swirling gaze landed back on her again, his pupils blowing before thinning once more. "Now, wicked one, indulge me and clean up for supper." Dark laughter rumbled forward with mirth as he dropped his boots from the table and stood, sweeping his hand out towards the door of the council chamber.

Her jaw clenched as he spoke to her, pain flaring through her jaw at the motion. She maintained a steely silence as he spoke, focusing on each breath. Each inhale and exhale a tremendous effort to maintain her composure. Her eyes glowed faintly, but like the rest of her in that moment it was dimmer than it was meant to be. The iron bracelets at her slender wrists pulsed gently causing a searing heat against her skin. It infuriated her, being on display, being on knee before this male.

Whatever he was, elf, shadow master, creature of the night, he sent a chill down her spine. There was an almost playful undertone to his voice as he addressed her, and it caused her lip to curl. She would not submit to this being. Whatever he wanted her for, she wasn't about to give it.

She lifted her head, blood smearing across her face as periwinkle strands shifted with the movement. "You know not what you have messed with. I will not stand beside you, I will not grace you with anything to do with my magic." she hissed before a soft chuckle tumbled from her lips. It would have been delicate, if not for the slightly manic edge. She pushed herself to her feet once more, fighting the exhaustion and pain that rolled over her in waves. "Thank you for the invite, but I would rather starve. Go to hell demon." she retorted, her voice quiet yet ice like. It was enough to wipe the smirk from his lips, his gaze filling with an icy rage. His fingers curled into a tight fist but he did not rise to the invitation to show her the first lesson in compliance. Not yet. He did not want her dead before sunrise.

Her mind pondered what he wanted from her. Why he had slaughtered so many but she still stood before him. The idea of behaving, of sliding into a life where she stood next to him was utterly abominable. She would tolerate no such thing. His arrogance was unmatched it seemed, but he had no idea what he was unleashing when she recovered...or perhaps he did. Perhaps her bracelets were there for that very reason. Queen of the Obsidian Empire, death would be a welcome comparison. She was a warrior of the light, not a spouse of the dark. "You will never have obedience from me." she assured in that same quiet tone. If he wanted an obedient queen, he had chosen wrong.

In an instant, he was on his feet and had crossed the space in a swirl of shadow. Grasping her chin like a vice between his fingers, he cared not as her blood dripped down over his fingers from fresh splitting wounds. Baring his teeth, lightning flashed green in his eyes. "Raise your chin as the impudent fool that you are, but you will break. You will be taught to embrace the nightmare of your new world. Love it you will not. But it was never designed for your ecstasy." With that, he shoved her back in another burst of shadow. In the same moment, the door banged open and she was gathered between the hands of his guard once more.

"Come gents, take the lady to her quarters for the night." He gave a flick of his hand.

The burly men jerked her up between them, "To the southern wing? It has been freshly prepared." A gravelly voice asked from the left helmet.

Raiko paused, his back to them. His lips curved into a cold smile, "Oh no," He purred, his dark voice velveteen as he turned to face the scene. "To the immurement chamber. She has chosen her course for the night. I will collect her personally in the morning."

The feeling of blood starting to flow again as wounds were freshly split under his harsh grip had her fighting her own resolve to stay quiet. She tried to jerk her head free of his grip but in her current state he was fueled by darkness, which granted him reinforced strength. She didn't have it in her to deliver her defiance. Unease climbed her spine at his words. He seemed so certain, so eerily sure that she would bend, break and conform to him.

The burst of shadow that came from him was percussive against her battered frame and she stumbled back, saved from the impact of hitting the floor only by the large hands of his guard. She fought their grip slightly but they were huge, unyielding and she knew in that moment that resistance was almost futile. Still as he paused she tensed. She could almost feel the dark satisfaction that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

Wherever the two guards were about to take her, she felt that it was going to be a place of more suffering. She tried to stand up taller, tried to shrug them off but white hot pain burst up through her ankle and shin. Adrenaline was starting to leave her system and in that moment the extent of her injuries was becoming more apparent. His eyes lent nothing at all to a single care that he held for her condition. He glided back slightly on sure steps to cockily lean a hip against the edge of the wooden table. Folding his arms across his chest, a slow smile settled across his features as he watched their retreat with glowing green eyes.

As they started to move she had no option, move with them or be dragged. She attempted to walk with some form of self preservation but her leg was throbbing, buckling with each step and she hissed with every step, snapping her teeth at the guard to her left that seemed to be gripping even harder than required. She glanced around herself, violet eyes doing their utmost to try and take in every detail of this new prison. She could only work on escape if she kept her brain sharp. At least she wouldn't have to face the demon elf until the following morning. When he did come she was going to show him the true wrath of a woman scorned. A woman that had just watched her whole existence burn around her. She wasn't done, she would have vengeance.