Pretty as the Vine

The world was quiet here, a pocket of silence that held its breath as if afraid to disturb the secrets entombed in stone and soil. In the heart of this place, amid the broken ruins that stood from the earth like the bones, a lone figure moved—slender, poised, and waiting. Setekh was a part of the silence, an ivory wraith slipping seamlessly into the contours of the shadows cast by the ruined walls. It was here he had chosen to meet his lovely granddaughter.

Sericea, his student, was but a speck moving towards him, her red fur catching shards of the setting sun as she wove her way. He watched her, his eyes tracking each movement with a silent, exact scrutiny. Each step, each breath she took betrayed the growth she'd undergone under his tutelage, her form moving with an elegance and purpose few her age possessed. She was a product of his making now, a vessel he had filled and would continue to fill with skill and knowledge, layer by meticulous layer, until she no longer resembled the unshaped clay she'd once been. Until she was far more perfect than he had thought of his dear Absinth.

His gaze narrowed, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he observed her approach, watching as she threaded through the delicate balance between alertness and composure. That confidence, did she know how fragile it was? How age would refine it into a steely wall of fortitude…? She must know he was there already; she could feel his presence as surely as a heartbeat under the skin of the world—wasn’t that so? He relished in this—the anticipation, the game of letting her come to him, knowing she was eager, letting her imagine she was in control of her steps even as he orchestrated the dance between them. After all, she was coming here in secret—her parents none the wiser to save her from him.

When she was close enough, the Ivory God stepped forward from his place within the ruins, he met her with a languid grace, a predator’s measured approach softened by the indulgent curve of his smile. His gaze traveled over her, a slow, deliberate analysis that held both pride and a possessive gleam, like a craftsman admiring the subtleties of his creation. "Sericea," he murmured, the name slipping from his tongue like silk as his voice curled through the stillness, low and rich with approval. "Silent as the shadows themselves, you've become."

There was a satisfaction in his tone, but beneath it, something darker—a thread of intrigue, of hunger, as he watched her with a gaze that stripped away the trivialities, piercing straight to the essence she was only beginning to wield. Oh the places she would go, and all within the palm of his hands.