No, it was something else

Shrieks split the air as a goblin collapsed to the floor, clutching at his side where a ragged chunk of flesh had been torn free. Blood welled quickly, dark and glossy, pooling beneath him in a spreading stain. Aluziira’s gaze lingered on it with idle curiosity. The wound bled freely, yet not fatally.

Hjuldek’s work.

The Overseer did nothing without purpose. Even cruelty was calculated. A dead **** held no value, and a crippled one even less so, especially now when every breathing body might still be shaped into usefulness for the flagging House Eilsana. The goblin’s sobs quieted into trembling whimpers.

No one looked at him.

The silence of the others was absolute, ingrained through long years of discipline and fear. The lesson had been delivered. No further attention was required. Hjuldek recoiled his whip with practiced precision, the leather sliding against itself in a soft, controlled whisper before settling at his side. Once still, he might have been mistaken for a carved idol, broad and immovable, his presence as unyielding as the stone around him.

From within the folds of her robe, Brinalla produced a slender wand of pale, petrified wood, its surface etched with faint, curling sigils. Cleavage momentarily on display, she murmured the command word under her breath, voice soft but precise. A gentle pulse of magic followed, warm and almost soothing as it spread through Aluziira’s body.

Skin knit. Flesh drew together.

The ache dulled, though it did not vanish entirely. Another whisper, another controlled release of power, and more of the damage sealed itself beneath the surface.

Aluziira’s hand closed around her maid’s wrist before she could whisper a third time. A single, decisive shake of her head stilled the motion before the next incantation could form. ‘We conserve what we have. There may not be another opportunity to replace it.’

Brinalla inclined her head immediately, understanding without protest. The wand disappeared once more, tucked discreetly away.

Nearly a hundred souls filled the vast interior, their presence marked by the soft rhythm of breath, the faint shift of fabric, the subtle scrape of movement against stone. All eyes rested upon her, waiting. Expectant.

Aluziira let her gaze travel across the carved cavern, taking in the ordered disruption. Crates and barrels had been stacked with careful intent, their surfaces marked with trade insignias and shipping seals from both Sschindylryn and Illume Saeyon. Farther back, half-hidden in a recessed alcove, rows of amphorae rose in neat columns, their curved forms catching dim light along smooth ceramic surfaces. Something about them stood out.

A glyph.

Simple at a glance, yet precise in its repetition. Each vessel bore the same mark, painted in careful strokes. The same symbol appeared again on a cluster of nearby crates, subtle yet deliberate.

“Mistress,” Rylraen stepped closer, voice measured, “I noted them as well. They do not appear in any inventory or recent manifest. I had one of the slaves inspect the contents. Water, wine, preserved victuals.” Sorndyn’s smaller hands found her hips again after he presumably finished his impromptu snack. Rylraen continued, "the containers are enchanted and hold roughly five times the volume than they appear to."

Curious. The thought lingered, threading itself through her awareness. Supplies, conveniently placed, arriving shortly before the destruction of her House. Coincidence was a luxury she could not afford to believe in.

With a subtle flick of her fingers, she dismissed the gathered servants and slaves. They dispersed quickly, though not without furtive glances, unease passing between them like a whispered secret. That would need to be corrected.

Her hands moved absently, brushing against Sorndyn’s fur, coarse in some places, matted in others, no doubt due to blood or other such juices. Aluziira felt the thick tip of his sheath poke into the small of her back. She gripped briefly, grounding herself, before letting her touch travel upward. His presence remained close, steady, a looming constant at her back.

A quiet prayer slipped from her lips, offered out of habit as much as belief. The faint touch of divine favor answered, subtle compared to the wand’s power but no less real. Sorndyn’s muscles shifted beneath her touch as his wounds sealed, his low exhale betraying relief. Though, it may truly have been from the gentle kneading of his fat sac.

Rylraen, midway through raising a potion, froze when he saw her gaze. He lowered it immediately in waggish subservience, bowing his head. Aluziira placed a hand upon him, channeling what little remained of her divine reserve. The magic flowed, gentler now, sealing smaller injuries, easing strain rather than erasing it entirely.

Every female member of House Eilsana had the cursory training in the Lolthite Priestesshood, it was only natural. However, their clerical knowledge was relatively shallow, doubly so in comparison to how hard they drilled the entire family in psionic lore and power. Aluziira had never once doubted Lolth’s supremacy over the Drow, but all Sschindylrynyrs preferred the many comforts that were antithetical to the Dark Mother’s commandments. Just another queer reason for others to hate her house in particular while they maintained the aloof attitude of ensconced hypocrites.

A faint shift beneath her hand reminded her that Rylraen still bowed in obeisance, waiting. Her pointed nails traced lightly through his hair before she withdrew, granting silent permission to rise. “Mistress,” he spoke, composure restored, “it may be prudent to conduct further surveillance. No others have arrived… yet.” The hesitation was slight, but present.

“Madame Brinalla, gather those of importance to convene in the Throne Room.” Her gaze shifted, voice sharpening with authority. “Overseer Silentchains. Magnate Rylraen. The remaining psions. You will join me in the Scrying Chamber.”

The ancient Duergar turned, his near-imperceptible nod conveying his respect. He walked with confident stride even if all could hear bones creaking even half a dozen paces away.

Without waiting for further exchange, Aluziira stepped forward. Sorndyn followed at her side, close and watchful, his presence both shield and statement. Together, their passage cut a clear path through those who remained, the air itself seeming to tighten in their wake.