Malediction

Prologue
Sschindylrryn (Tarsakh, 1372DR)

The Matron Mother leaned back on her throne, the velvet swallowing her form as if eager to please, its dark sheen catching the low faerie fire in soft, blood-warm glimmers. She took her time examining the elven male before her, crimson eyes half-lidded, languid as spilled wine. He was tall, equal to her in height and presence, but his skin, pale as bleached bone, marked him irrevocably as other.

Pools of liquid quicksilver met her gaze without wavering, reflecting the chamber’s dim glow like molten mirrors. He did not bow his head. Did not flinch. His composure, so calm beneath her scrutiny, carried the faint, metallic taste of defiance. It lingered on her tongue like a forbidden spice.

If she had the energy, she might have laughed.

The thought of it curled through her mind—sharp, bitter, intoxicating. She could almost savor it: the acrid tang of superiority, the heady sweetness of dominance long since earned and never relinquished. Just because the elf before her was her consort, and subsequently the House Patron, meant little. Though, in his defense, her way of life and his had never been aligned. Two centuries of intrigue had carved them both into what they were—alliances sealed in silk and poison, betrayals whispered behind veils, survival purchased in blood. Their union a reflection of the complex power dynamics that permeated Drow society, a testament to the survival of the fittest.

And yet… it held.

For now.

There was, if she were honest in the privacy of her own mind, a flicker of something approaching affection. Not the fragile, saccharine love sung of by Surfacer minstrels beneath open skies, never that, but something darker, richer. A tension. A hunger. Their relationship was a twisted dance of control and submission, a delicate balance between dominance and surrender. The lust slaked between the two of them would put any Surfacer to shame.

Their relationship was a dance, slow and deliberate, each step measured in dominance and surrender. The pleasures they drew from one another were excess distilled: decadent, overwhelming, indulgent beyond reason. She took, and took again, draining him to trembling exhaustion, only for potions and spellwork to restore what she demanded from his testicles anew. He endured. He returned. Always.

There was a certain beauty in that.

But love? No. Her heart held space for only two such frailties, and one had long since rotted into memory. The other-

She dismissed the thought with a faint tightening of her jaw. Such indulgences were unbecoming.

Shifting slightly, the soft velvet upholstery of her throne did little to shield her from the coolness of the obsidian against her back. The arrival of a woman, one whom had been assigned to her since she was a child, signaled the time of waiting was over. The High Maid curtseyed flawlessly, bent parallel to the floor. Those heavy breasts of hers swayed with her breathing. The Matron Mother smirked with cruel fondness at the recent memory of torturing the devoted servant with clamps and little magical stones that vibrated on command. Rising after her curtsey, the handmaid stepped to the side, eyes downcast as her mistress descended the dais and past the Patron.

Centuries of dutiful service radiated from the demure companion as she fell into perfect step with her mistress. The corridors of the manse stretched before them, carved from dark stone that drank in flickering light and returned it in muted, sultry gleams. Silken banners whispered overhead, their threads catching unseen currents. The air itself seemed perfumed; incense, old magic, and something faintly sweet beneath it all, like overripe fruit. It was but a short walk to the modestly sized, but extravagantly lavish, temple located at the rear of the manse. With a gesture of her hand, the Matron Mother forbade anyone from following her inside. The oiled stone doors swung shut behind her with nary a sound. The enchanted locks she knew being engaged were likewise noiseless.

Making a grand sweep over the temple, her imperious gaze took in the deserted temple. Modest in size, perhaps, but lavish beyond reason. Every surface gleamed with obsessive devotion—polished stone, inlaid metals, threads of silver and onyx woven into patterns that shifted when not directly observed. A musty scent filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that lingered from a previous ceremony.

She finally settled on the sinuous, naked form of Lolth. The obsidian form flowed with impossible grace, every curve alive with motion, as though the goddess herself had been frozen mid-strike. A blade, black as void, hung poised to descend, its edge catching the faintest glimmer of light. A true masterwork, one that had ultimately taken the life of her great grandmother after being touched by Lolth in a dream. Her great-grandmother’s final offering, thirteen years of labor, devotion, and slow unraveling, ended not in triumph, but in a slip, a fall, and the kiss of her own creation. A fitting tribute. Lolth favored such endings.

Agile fingers deftly unbuttoned the front of her robe, each movement an elegant dance between vulnerability and defiant determination. When the last one popped loose, the falling robe morphed into a pool of inky blackness surrounding her feet. Rubied earrings, ornate bangles, dual hairpins, and even her platinum necklace were discarded with unfettered care until her willowy build was bared fully in front of the idol. The last of the jewelry rang out like a mournful dirge.

The silken robe rasped against her slender foot as she slipped out of its luxurious grasp. Her uncovered feet were used to the cool caress of marbled flooring, but even in her rising fervour she noted how chilled it was now. Almost as if trying to sap her of her strength before she could initiate her plan.

As though the goddess watched.

As though she waited.