Private The Serpent's Promise

[Serina Calis]

The Serpent's Promise.
Location: Jutrand
Objective: Find the worthy, Break the weak.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Vaelon Scarr

"Strength is not in the blade you wield, nor in the blood you spill. It is in the hand that guides the blade, in the whisper that bends the will, in the promise that chains the ambitious. The fools in this pit fight for survival. I am looking for one who fights for something greater—one who understands that true power is not won, but taken."​

The air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood, the acrid tang of burning torches barely masking the rot of old death. Jutrand's underbelly had always festered with secrets, but this—this was something else entirely.

Here, beneath the Sith Academy's imposing spires, away from the prying eyes of Lords and Masters, the Acolytes had made their own dominion. A gladiatorial pit of flesh, fury, and fortune, where ambition and arrogance were bled out onto the sands in a spectacle of tooth and nail combat.

It was not sanctioned by the Sith, but that mattered little. The rule of power still dictated all.

Victory meant prestige. Defeat meant disgrace. Death was the price of weakness.

And so, they came. Acolytes with something to prove. Others with something to gain. All with something to lose.

The arena was crude, built from stolen materials—rusted durasteel grates, jagged stone, makeshift torches flickering against the damp cavern walls. Shadows clung to every corner, interrupted only by the red-tinged glow of betting terminals, where eager hands traded credits on the lives of their peers.

Serina watched from the sidelines, an unmoving phantom in the shifting darkness.

She did not belong here.

Not as these Acolytes did.

Not as hopefuls, desperate for recognition.

Not as nameless figures, clawing their way up the Sith hierarchy with carnage and bravado.

No, Serina Calis did not fight for power. She commanded it.

Yet here she was—her presence unseen, yet undeniable.

She had not entered through the filthy corridors where Acolytes gathered, chanting for blood, their feverish excitement as feral as the beasts of Dxun. No. She had stepped through a side entrance, a shadow in the gloom, slipping past the rabble with effortless grace. No one questioned her.

They felt her.

The deep hood of her cloak concealed her identity, its heavy folds casting her face into shadow, yet the golden waves of her hair shimmered faintly beneath it, an ember in the dark. Her form-fitting armored bodice, woven with crimson and magenta sigils, pulsed subtly with arcane energy—an effect too faint for casual eyes, but undeniable to those attuned to the Force.

It whispered its presence in the air around her, an aura of controlled power, neither boastful nor passive.

She did not need to assert herself.

She was a presence to be felt, not announced.

Her piercing blue gaze flickered across the pit, assessing. Calculating. Cold. The smirk at her lips was not one of amusement, but of anticipation—waiting for something, for someone, to reveal themselves worthy of her notice.

In the pit below, the next fight was about to begin.

The announcer, an older acolyte with a jagged scar carved across his jaw, slammed his fist against the railing.

"KARIS VORDAN! VAELAN SCARR! TO THE PIT!"

A roar of approval surged from the onlookers.

Serina's fingers curled beneath the folds of her glowing cape, the fabric itself seemingly weightless despite the commanding presence it gave her. She had no interest in the mindless butchery of unworthy fighters.

She had come to find something else.

Potential.

Promise.

Something malleable.

Two Acolytes stepped into the pit, stripped down to basic combat gear, muscles taut with rage and desperation. Their bloodstained boots crunched against the sand, their faces masked by the glow of flickering sconces.

Serina watched.

Not the fight itself, but everything else.

Who among the Acolytes stood with arrogant certainty, believing they would one day rule?
Who among them watched with silent hunger, their ambition tempered by patience?
Who among them shrank, despite the bravado, revealing the fragile fear beneath?

She watched for the ones who saw past the bloodshed, the ones who did not simply enjoy the violence but understood what it meant.

It was not about strength alone.

It was about control.

And if there was one thing Serina excelled at—it was control.

The fight erupted in a blur of clashing blades and raw brutality, the crowd surging forward, bets exchanged with feverish greed. Screams of pain and triumph echoed through the chamber.

Serina stood still, impassive as a goddess watching mortals fight for her favor.

She did not cheer.

She did not flinch.

She only waited.

Waited for someone to prove themselves worth breaking… and rebuilding in her image.

 

[Vaelon Scarr]

Serina Calis

To think that the pits were his best chance of a better way to ascend the hierarchy. It was pathetic.

And yet, here he was.

Vaelon understood how the Sith thought, how they operated. If he wavered, if he showed weakness, they would tear him apart. They wouldn't hesitate to manipulate him, to use him as a tool until he was broken, or, if he proved useless, to kill him outright. He'd seen it happen before, other acolytes who thought strength was just about power, about brutality. Idiots. They died just the same, bodies left to rot in forgotten corridors, their names lost in the churn of the Academy.

He didn't plan to be one of them. He took every chance that he could take to ascend, but it was hard when there was more acolytes than the order could count, wanting to prove their worth, and without getting himself killed. That was why he was here in the end, he ultimately took a big risk.

Not for blood. Not for the crowd. Not for the twisted, feverish glory these other fools sought in the pit. He fought because it was a path forward, because the alternative was being nothing.

So he studied them. The fighters, the gamblers, the whispering figures in the dark. The ones who stood too still, who watched without excitement. Those were the ones who mattered. The ones with influence. He needed to be seen by the right people. Winning wasn't enough. He had to prove something.

Karis Vordan was a brute. Tall, broad, the kind of Sith hopeful who thought raw strength would carry him through. A hammer, good for smashing, bad for thinking. Karis fought like a man who had never truly been tested, someone who had always been able to get by on sheer force.

The announcer called their names.

Vaelon stepped into the pit, rolling his shoulders, keeping his expression even. The sand beneath his boots was uneven, disturbed by previous fights, damp with spilled blood. The air was thick and full of tension, enough that even inherently, Vaelan felt a fear of this going wrong. He didn't entirely suppress, as he understood well enough that his fear acted as survival instincts; he cannot make a mistake here.

They both wielded vibroblades; but Karis was by far the superior, physical one. The signal rang, and Karis wasted no time closing the distance with an overhead swing. Vaelon had a feeling that he'd start with a predictable attack, as he easily sidestepped to dodge. He aimed for a thrust attack; as quickly as he could, but Karis deflected it with his own blade, forcing Vaelon to step back.

But Karis moved faster, not letting up. Soon enough, the metal echoed across the arena constantly, with Vaelon being at a disadvantage. He could only either block or dodge. He had a plan, and it'd either be the best he's had, or the worst that would end with his life snuffed.

He blocked one last attack before using what strength he could muster to throw it off, to stagger Karis. By the time Karis could even recover, Vaelon planned to tackle Karis. It led to both being easily unarmed, turning it into a brawling match.

But after a few punches, bodyslams and general throwing around the ring, Vaelon's body was weakening, becoming unresponsive. But his will was there to keep him going. The reason Karis haven't picked up a weapon is because he's revelling in the glory of the crowd, who cheered more ever since their fight became a fist fight. It meant that he's getting arrogant, cocky, and the crowd only helped fuelled his arrogance.

Vaelon saw his shot. He tackled once more, but Karis decided enough was enough and was ready for the tackle, gripping Vaelon effortlessly before throwing him down. He tried to pin down Vaelon, to finally choke him out. It nearly worked, if it hadn't been for Vaelon's quick force pull, to pull one of the blades to him. By the time Karis figured out what was going on, he'd feel metal pierce his flesh throughout his body, pausing in shock, before abruptly falling down. Vaelon slowly crawled out from underneath, his body bruised, but a smile on his face; he had won.

The crowds reaction was shocked and quiet. But he didn't care about them at the moment; they served their usefulness. He limped back to the backstage.

 

[Serina Calis]

The Serpent's Promise.
Location: Jutrand
Objective: Find the worthy, Break the weak.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Vaelon Scarr

"Strength is not in the blade you wield, nor in the blood you spill. It is in the hand that guides the blade, in the whisper that bends the will, in the promise that chains the ambitious. The fools in this pit fight for survival. I am looking for one who fights for something greater—one who understands that true power is not won, but taken."​

The crowd's silence was an intoxicating thing.

For all their bloodlust, for all their cheering, they had expected something different. A spectacle of raw power, a victory that left no room for doubt. But that wasn't what had happened, was it? No, Vaelon had stolen this fight not through brute force, not through sheer dominance, but through something far more dangerous. Cunning.

Serina had seen it the moment he stepped into the pit. He wasn't like the others. He was tense, but not with rage—with calculation. He studied, measured, adjusted. He had allowed Karis to get lost in his own arrogance, let the crowd feed his ego, all while baiting him into carelessness. When he finally struck, it was with the decisiveness of someone who knew exactly when and how to end a life.

She liked that.

And so, when he limped from the pit, sweat-slick and bruised, his body aching from every impact, she was already waiting for him.

Serina did not approach with haste. She didn't need to.

She leaned against one of the rusted pillars in the dimly lit corridor, her body half-shadowed, half-illuminated by the flickering sconces. The golden shimmer of her hair caught in the low light, cascading from beneath the deep hood that framed her chiseled features, the smirk playing on her lips both indulgent and knowing. She let him see her just enough, let him feel her presence before she spoke.

"Mmm, that was... entertaining."

Her voice was a purr, dripping with amusement, indulgence. Like she was speaking to something delicious, something she wanted to taste and test and toy with. She let the moment linger, let the pain in his limbs sink in as she tilted her head, appraising him the way one might admire a fine piece of art.

"You must be feeling good right now. Bruised. Beaten. But victorious." Her lips curled, amusement flashing in her piercing blue gaze as they swept over his battered form. "I can see it in your face. You're savoring it." She took a slow step forward, the weightless cape trailing behind her like living shadow, her boots clicking softly against the stone.

"But tell me, Vaelon, how does it feel to know that they weren't cheering for you?"

She was right. The crowd hadn't been on his side. They had wanted Karis to win. Karis was loud, brutal, and predictable. Easy to root for. He was the kind of fighter they could understand.

But Vaelon? He had stolen that victory from them.

"They wanted a show, and you—" she let out a soft, silken laugh, tilting her head, eyes narrowing as she drank him in, "—you were a little too clever for them, weren't you?"

Another step closer, slow, deliberate. The scent of her lingered, a mix of leather, spice, and something faintly electric, something intoxicating. She reached out, not roughly, but with the kind of confidence that made it clear she could if she wanted to. The tips of her fingers grazed his jaw, slow, tracing along the sharp edge with a feigned gentleness that made the dominance beneath it all the more pronounced.

"That was cute, pulling the blade at the last second like that." Her breath was warm against his skin, her smirk widening as she lowered her voice just enough for it to be something meant just for him. "I wonder, did you know it would work? Or were you just desperate?"

She let the question settle.

Then, finally, she let go—not with any sense of rejection, but rather with the amusement of someone who had already decided something.

"You fight smart. You fight dirty." She turned slightly, walking past him with lazy grace, as though she had grown bored of the conversation already. But just before she fully stepped away, she tilted her head back over her shoulder, her voice honeyed and taunting.

"But tell me, Vaelon..." She let his name roll off her tongue like something sinful, deliberate. "Are you smart enough to know when someone is offering you something better?"

She didn't stop to wait for an answer. Not yet.

She let the question hang, let it crawl under his skin, let it seed itself in his mind, because the best kind of offers were the ones that weren't made outright.

They were the ones you made them want to chase.

 

[Vaelon Scarr]

Serina Calis

Vaelon exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his limbs as he leaned against the cold stone wall. Blood still clung to his skin, drying in uneven streaks along his bruised knuckles. Every muscle in his body ached, but the pain was a distant thing, secondary to the rush still pulsing in his veins. The thrill of survival. The satisfaction of taking a gamble and winning.


And yet, Serina's words cut through all of that, precise and deliberate. He had thought her to be an interested Sith at first, maybe someone "higher" up that might be his lucky break. But as she spoke further, his idea of what she wanted was confusing.


She was right, of course. The crowd hadn't been cheering for him. They had wanted Karis to win, to crush him under sheer strength, to give them the spectacle they craved. He had stolen that from them, stolen it with something sharper than a blade, his own cunning. He definitely liked the attention; not the physical touch, but acknowledging what he did.


Her touch was light but deliberate, tracing along his jaw in a way that sent a slow, controlled fire burning beneath his skin. Not a caress. A reminder. A demonstration of control. She didn't need to grip him, didn't need to force anything. He didn't know what she was doing, what she was implying... but deep down, he knew. She had control, she had every ounce of confidence that a Sith has, to the point that he felt like if he even looked at her wrong, she'd strike him down on the spot. But she'd answer her question, about knowing if he was desperate, or if he knew it'd go his way. "Both. I was desperate, but adapted in the moment." he was truthful. His ideas were rough, in the making based on the situation, and he waited for something that he definitely knew would work.


He met her gaze, keeping his expression even, though his body was still burning from the fight. The words she left him with lingered, not just in the air, but in his mind. Are you smart enough to know when someone is offering you something better?


He didn't answer right away. The pain of his body clouding him, and yet his mind racing to interpret her meaning. He pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders to test the strain in his muscles, before forcing himself into motion. It hurt, but he refused to let it show.


Vaelon let the silence stretch just a moment longer before falling into step beside her. Not trailing behind. Not hesitating. He wanted more of what she gave; recognition for his cunning, praise where it mattered, and someone to keep on edge, to never feel too content within his power.

It might be too soon to say, but Vaelan may have just found the perfect master. Or at least, he hopes she is. It was either her, or the ring once more. The choice seemed obvious.

 

[Serina Calis]

The Serpent's Promise.
Location: Jutrand
Objective: Find the worthy, Break the weak.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Vaelon Scarr

"Strength is not in the blade you wield, nor in the blood you spill. It is in the hand that guides the blade, in the whisper that bends the will, in the promise that chains the ambitious. The fools in this pit fight for survival. I am looking for one who fights for something greater—one who understands that true power is not won, but taken."​

Serina felt the shift in him before he even moved. The way his shoulders squared, the way he forced himself past the pain, refusing to show weakness. He was trying to prove something—not just to her, but to himself.

How precious.

The corner of her lips curled as she walked, slow, deliberate, her every step designed to command attention. And he followed. Not stumbling. Not trailing. Walking beside her. That alone was enough to amuse her.

Still, he had hesitated. That was cute.

She exhaled, a low, knowing sound, letting the moment stretch, letting him wonder if that silence was approval or the first taste of punishment. She could feel the tension radiating from him, the uncertainty he tried to bury beneath careful control. Oh, he wanted something. Needed something. He just hadn't figured out how deep it went yet.

She didn't rush to enlighten him.

Instead, she let her voice drop, silken and teasing, designed to seep beneath his skin like a slow-acting poison.

"Oh, you are desperate."

Not a question. A statement.

She reached out, not to strike, not to grab, but to toy with him, her fingers just barely brushing against the bruises on his forearm, a touch so faint it was almost a mockery of tenderness. She could feel the tension coil beneath his skin, the way his body registered her presence even before his mind did.

"Desperate enough to fight for your life in the pits."

Her nails dragged—lightly, lazily, down the inside of his wrist.

"Desperate enough to impress me."

She laughed, soft, sultry, a sound that didn't belong here, in this filthy, bloodstained corridor, but in a much darker, much more intimate space.

"And yet…" She leaned in just slightly, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, "not desperate enough to beg."

A pause. A slow, indulgent moment, where she let that thought sink in.

"Not yet, anyway."

She pulled back, her expression positively indulgent, watching him, waiting for the way that would settle inside him. Would he flinch? Would he bristle? Would he want to prove her wrong?

Oh, she hoped so.

She continued walking, the soft hum of her flowing cape barely brushing against his leg as she moved, as if the air itself responded to her presence. Her eyes flicked forward, as if he were nothing more than an afterthought.

But then—another shift. Another flicker of control.

She didn't stop walking, didn't even turn her head, but her voice, low and coaxing, slid between them like something dark and dangerous.

"You want more, don't you?"

Again, not a question.

"You want what I can give you." Her fingers lifted to her own lips, brushing against them idly, as if tasting a thought. "Praise. Recognition. Power. Someone who sees you for what you are." She let that last word linger, drawing it out, a slow savoring. "Potential."

Another glance at him, this one sharper, blue eyes piercing beneath the heavy shadow of her hood.

"You crave it." Her tongue flicked against her lower lip as she exhaled, mocking his restraint. "Oh, I could give you so much, Vaelon. I could make you better."

She let her voice drop, syrupy sweet, dragging him deeper.

"All you have to do is kneel."

She let those words settle between them, let him taste them, let him imagine what they could mean. She didn't need to tell him. Didn't need to spell out what submission to her could offer.

Because she knew.

He was already thinking about it.

 

[Vaelon Scarr]

Serina Calis

Vaelon didn't flinch. Didn't recoil. But the tension was there, sharp and barely leashed beneath his skin. She was playing with him. And he hated that he liked it.

He had been toyed with before, by opponents who thought strength alone was enough to grind him down. By gamblers who saw him as a sure loss, an easy bet. By trainers who thought they could beat him into the mold they wanted. But this was different.

She was testing him for usefulness, and that distinction made all the difference.

The bruises she traced along his arm still ached, but not in the way they had before. Of course, he tried... tried very hard. But his body naturally flinched; a combination of the pain and her naturally dominating aura... the fear was there. And he didn't stop her, not at any point as she got closer.

Her words slithered into his ears, soft, insidious. Desperate enough to fight. Desperate enough to impress me. Not desperate enough to beg.

And once again, she saw right through him. And to do one simple thing; to kneel, to submit to her completely. It felt like a test. She already stated that she knows he's desperate. If he submitted so easily, could that not be used against him?

But then again, there was no other to indicate that he did want this. To be under someone who could make him so much more. With a hint of reluctance, he slowly went down on one knee, even as his body ached, he was trying to prove a point. There was some silence, but he was quick to break it once his body was on one knee.

"I don't beg. But I do understand an opportunity when I see one." and with that, he left his fate in her hands. A bruised acolyte, on his knee. Just barely a minute ago, he tried to not ruin this chance... and now, what he just did, felt natural to him. The idea of him grovelling, or begging on the ground felt like it'd ruin it.

 

[Serina Calis]

The Serpent's Promise.
Location: Jutrand
Objective: Find the worthy, Break the weak.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Vaelon Scarr

"Strength is not in the blade you wield, nor in the blood you spill. It is in the hand that guides the blade, in the whisper that bends the will, in the promise that chains the ambitious. The fools in this pit fight for survival. I am looking for one who fights for something greater—one who understands that true power is not won, but taken."​

Serina laughed, low and velvety, the kind of sound that coiled around the air like silk woven with barbs. It wasn't cruel—no, cruelty was too easy, too crude—it was something far worse. It was indulgent. A slow, knowing pleasure in the moment, as if she had just unwrapped a particularly delightful gift.

She tilted her head, watching him with a lazy, smug amusement, her blue eyes gleaming like a predator toying with its prey.

"Mmm. That didn't take long at all."

She took her time, letting the moment breathe, letting the weight of his choice settle between them.

"Look at you." Her voice was honeyed, drenched in satisfaction, her hand idly tracing the curve of her own jaw, as if considering him the way one might a prize, a possession.

Her boots clicked as she stepped forward, slow, circling him like a lioness sizing up her next meal.

"Not even an argument? Not even a struggle?" She exhaled, letting her fingers trail just above his shoulder, never quite touching. "Just straight to your knees. Gods, I barely had to try."

Another laugh, softer this time, her gaze half-lidded, drinking in the sight of him—bruised, bloodied, his body screaming in protest, and yet, here he was.

"You must want this so badly."

Her hand finally touched him—slow, deliberate, fingers ghosting over the bruises on his collarbone, the heat of her touch just barely enough to sting. She didn't push him down further. She didn't have to.

"You're lucky I find desperation charming."

She leaned in, the faintest brush of breath against his temple, so close, as if she might whisper something only for him. But instead—nothing. Just her presence, a weight, a tease, a test.

Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, her smirk widening.

"No begging, you say?" A hum, thoughtful. "Then what would you call this?" She gestured, one elegant flick of her wrist to his kneeling form.

"Devotion?" She let the word roll off her tongue, dragging it out.
"Obedience?" Another step around him, boots clicking against the cold stone.
"Or just the realization that I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you?"

Oh, he was fun.

"Mm, I wonder." Her fingers lifted to her own lips, tapping idly as she considered him. "Should I reward you? Or should I make you work for it?"

She let that linger, let him stew in it, the promise, the challenge.

Then, finally, she reached down—not to lift him up, not to grant him reprieve, but to cup his chin between her fingers, tilting his head just enough to meet her gaze.

"Come along, pet. Let's see if you're worth keeping."

She released him, turned on her heel, and walked away—without looking back.

Because she didn't have to.

She already knew he would follow.

 

[Vaelon Scarr]

Serina Calis

Vaelon didn't move immediately. He held himself there, just for a second longer, forcing himself to breathe through the ache in his body, through the heat creeping up the back of his neck. He knew exactly what she was doing. The way she drew out each word, the way her fingers barely ghosted over his skin, the way she framed his submission in terms that left him questioning whether it had been his choice at all.

And he hated that it worked.

His pulse pounded in his ears, not from exertion, not from pain, but from something far more insidious. She barely had to try. Her words echoed in his head. And wasn't that the worst part? He had been tested, beaten, broken before. But never like this. Never with just words. He forced himself to his feet, wincing only slightly at the strain in his muscles. His body protested, but his mind… his mind was already adjusting, shifting. The way she spoke, the way she moved, it was intoxicating, but it wasn't just that. It was intentional. A game. One she had already mastered.


You must want this so badly.


Vaelon clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly as he pushed away the lingering heat of her touch. His mind needed to be sharp. He had made his choice, and now he had to own it. No hesitation. No second-guessing.


Come along, pet.

His fingers twitched, but he didn't let himself react. Not outwardly. Instead, he stepped forward. He followed not because she had commanded it, not because she had dismissed him as an afterthought but because this was the path he had chosen. Because he wanted more. And he would not be content to simply be kept.

"I do want this badly." he finally admits. He knew he was being prideful, his actions spoke loud enough for him to make it clear. "You are the best thing to happen to me. I don't care how you treat me. If you toy with me, pierce me with your words like you have so far..." and then he finally sighed, but she wanted a reaction, and she's getting it. "I want this. I will do whatever you want of me... if you'll take me as your apprentice."

 

[Serina Calis]

The Serpent's Promise.
Location: Jutrand
Objective: Find the worthy, Break the weak.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Vaelon Scarr

"Strength is not in the blade you wield, nor in the blood you spill. It is in the hand that guides the blade, in the whisper that bends the will, in the promise that chains the ambitious. The fools in this pit fight for survival. I am looking for one who fights for something greater—one who understands that true power is not won, but taken."​

Serina didn't stop.

She walked with that slow, purposeful stride, her cape flowing just behind her, trailing like liquid shadow. There was no hesitation, no glance back to check if he followed—because she already knew. He had made his choice the moment he sank to his knees, the moment he let her voice, her presence, wrap around his mind like silk and steel.

But his words? Oh, they were delicious.

He had given in—completely, utterly—and yet, there was still that pride in him, that little edge of defiance buried beneath the submission. She could hear it in his tone, the way he admitted it, the way he tried to make it sound like his choice.

And she loved that.

"You will do whatever I want of you." She let the words settle, savoring them, as they moved through the labyrinthine corridors leading away from the arena. The further they got from the blood-soaked pit, the deeper they descended into her world.

Her laugh came soft, but it was a mocking thing, teasing. "Oh, pet, you're not very good at resisting me, are you?" A low hum, her nails grazing the wall as she walked, as if lost in thought.

Then, abruptly, her tone shifted—not softer, but sharper, more direct. "Tell me something, then," she mused, voice laced with amusement but edged with something more analytical. "Since you claim you'll do whatever I ask, let's test that pretty little mind of yours, shall we?"

She took a sharp turn down a dimly lit corridor, where the air was cooler, quieter—far from the howls of the arena.

"What is the purpose of the Sith?" she asked, not looking at him, as if the question were trivial, as if she didn't truly care about the answer—but he would know better than to believe that.

Her pace never slowed, but she was listening, waiting.

"Power? Survival? Dominion?" She shrugged, the barest motion of her shoulders. "Every acolyte parrots the Code, but tell me, do you even understand what it means? Or do you just recite it like an obedient little slave, hoping someone will see something worthwhile in you?"

Her voice dripped with condescension, a baited hook, meant to see if he would bristle, if he would try to defend himself, or if he would prove he was more than just another fool repeating empty words.

But she wasn't done.

"Tell me, Vaelon—what do you think of weakness?" She finally turned her head, just enough for him to catch the glint of challenge in her blue eyes, her smirk a wicked little thing. "And don't waste my time with the obvious. Yes, yes, weakness is death, the strong survive, we've all heard it before." She exhaled, rolling her eyes, as if bored already.

Then, suddenly, she stopped walking.

It was so abrupt that if he wasn't careful, he might have walked straight into her.

Her fingers lifted, tilting his chin up just slightly, forcing his gaze to hers. The touch was light, but the intent was heavy, absolute.

"Do you believe in mercy, acolyte?"

The question was a trap—but oh, how she wanted to see if he was smart enough to know it.