The Matriarch of Dusk stood before a grand, circular mirror—its surface as black as spilled ink, rimmed with carved obsidian serpents. The chamber around her pulsed faintly with life, every wall humming like a slumbering beast.
She was draped in sheer violet veils, her skin pale and flawless, eyes rimmed in kohl blacker than shadow itself. In her hand, she held a glass of crimson nectar—pressed from fruit forbidden to gods less cruel than she.
A ripple passed through the mirror.
Twelve women stepped forward from the darkness behind her—each cloaked in sensuality, each deadly. Priestesses, courtesans, spies, and one or two who had once been goddesses themselves—now bound to the Obsidian Court by broken oaths and darker pleasures.
"Speak," the Matriarch commanded. Her voice wasn't loud—but it didn't need to be. It coiled through the air.
A masked woman, her robes painted in ink and roses, stepped forward. "The mortal flame is not what we expected, Lady Dusk. His bonds are… pure. Strong."
"Strength can be stripped," the Matriarch replied. "Even purity can be corrupted. And if not…" She sipped her wine. "Then we seduce it. Reforge it in our image."
Another priestess knelt. "The War Bonded and the Moon Goddess grow closer to him by the hour. He trusts them."
"Let him," the Matriarch smiled. "There is nothing more delicious than watching trust bend."
A flick of her hand summoned images into the mirror. Chen Ming, seated beside Ye Yue, gazing into her eyes. Lanmei, eyes blazing as she trained with him, laughed with him. Mei, soft and trembling, fingers brushing his cheek.
"They believe he belongs to them," the Matriarch said. "But the God of Yang does not belong to anyone."
The mirror shifted again. This time, it showed the outer realms—The Flame Court, watching from afar, uneasy. The Voidspire, stirring in curiosity. And even the Court of Bloom, whispering Chen's name like a blasphemous prayer.
The Matriarch traced her finger down the image. "Let the other courts vie for his bed and loyalty. While they squabble, I will have already undressed the truth beneath his fire."
Velvet Orders
She turned back to her twelve.
"The Trial of Masks is not a test. It is an invitation."
They bowed.
"Each of you will embody a fear, a pleasure, a possibility. You are not here to break him—you are here to make him question who he truly is."
The priestesses nodded. Some licked their lips. One wept with joy.
"If he falls, I take him," the Matriarch whispered, voice thick with hunger. "If he resists, I desire him more."
A final masked figure remained standing in the shadows.
"And if he surprises you?" the figure asked.
The Matriarch tilted her head.
"Then the game becomes even more delightful."
Behind Her Smile
When the room emptied, she remained alone with her reflection.
Not the one in the mirror—but the one behind her. A dark figure, half-formed, a being not fully divine nor dead. Something older.
"You still play with fire, child," it rasped.
"I am fire," she answered.
"And if the boy is more than a pawn?"
Her smile widened.
"Then I marry the king."