Rebellion

It took little effort to reach outward with her psionics, a thin thread of awareness slipping beyond the confines of her chamber to observe the city. What she found sent a sharp, cold shock through her core.

Pure unmitigated chaos.

Slaves surged through the streets in violent clusters, clashing with guards and panicked civilians. The ordered glow of the city’s crystals flickered against moving bodies, turning the avenues into shifting mosaics of light and shadow. Steel flashed, blood darkened the pale stone, and the usual hush of Illaeli control had shattered into a rising, discordant roar.

A figure stood at the heart of it, cloaked and distorted, its outline wrong in a way that set her instincts on edge. It was not elven, not entirely. The shape seemed to ripple at the edges, as though reality itself refused to settle around it. She leaned into the vision, pushing deeper-

The connection snapped.

Someone does not want prying eyes, it seems. The thought lingered, sharp and unwelcome.

Drawing back into herself, Aluziira turned the revelation over with growing unease. The Illaeli did not struggle with **** revolts. Their crystals, their overseers, their ever-present psionic pressure kept such things neatly contained. According to Iraeva, no uprising of this scale had occurred in centuries. The question is, why now? Her mind traced the possibilities with cold precision, discarding the improbable until only one remained. Something was exerting influence strong enough to override the pacification network. Something capable of reaching into minds already conditioned to submission and turning them outward, toward ****.

Leaving was no longer a question. It was necessity.

Turning back toward the room, her gaze caught on the mirror beside her bed. It had been knocked loose in the struggle, now leaning at an uneven angle against the wall. Fine cracks spread across its surface, delicate and branching, like a web spun in silvered glass.

An omen.

She paused before it. Blood traced a slow path down her arm, warm against cooling skin, yet she lifted her hand to adjust her hair with measured care. Strands of pale white had come loose, soft against her fingers as she smoothed them back into place. The diadem settled once more against her brow, its metal cool and reassuring, while the slender binyeo hairpin slid into position with practiced ease.

It was not perfect. It would require Brinalla’s hands to restore it fully, but it would suffice. Even now, even marked by injury and fatigue, she presented the image expected of her. Poised. Predatory elegance.

Brinalla slipped away, no doubt to activate the portal, leaving Sorndyn watching her in silence. The low glow of the chamber caught in his crimson eyes, setting them alight with a familiar intensity. His posture spoke of restrained energy, of instincts only barely leashed. His other type of … affection… peeking out from the bushy fur on his loins, told her all what he was thinking.

Stepping past him, her hand brushed lightly along his side, a fleeting acknowledgment before she addressed the others. “We will be returning home.”

His presence followed immediately, close and looming. She felt rather than saw him behind her, the subtle pressure of his proximity, the idle motion of his hands as they traced along her sides in absent, grounding touches. Pointed cock poking her back. It was familiar enough to draw no reaction from the guards, who remained focused despite the intimacy.

“Gather whatever you can! Immediately!”

The chamber shifted from stillness to motion in an instant, guards and servants alike dispersing with sharp efficiency, their urgency lending them the restless energy of a disturbed colony. Packs were seized, weapons checked, anything of value collected with quick, practiced hands.

It appears we should be grateful that we went raiding earlier, as many had not yet fully unpacked from our days-long sojourn.

Reaching her wardrobe, Aluziira allowed herself a quiet, inward curse. Brinalla’s thoroughness had ensured everything was neatly arranged, which now meant it all had to be undone. No Mistress should have to pack her own belongings, yet circumstance cared little for propriety.

Garments, tools, small personal items were gathered and placed into an enchanted bag that swallowed their weight, its exterior deceptively light despite the contents within. When she finished, Sorndyn took it without effort, tucking it beneath his arm as though it weighed nothing at all. Only then did she turn back to the fallen.

The two Duergar lay where they had dropped, their bodies heavy and still against the marbled floor. Blood had pooled beneath them, spreading in slow, dark patterns that reflected the fractured light above. Aluziira crouched slightly, studying them with a careful, assessing eye.

Even now, there might be something worth taking.