Pretty as the Vine

Setekh watched her with a subtle pride, her crimson form a daring stroke against the muted gray of the ancient stone. So pretty Too pretty. She was a work of art, one he was loathe to admit he was glad of Absinth’s defiance since it had amounted to such a treat. Every move she made held the weight of youthful purpose, her need for his favor drawing her here in defiance of all else. It was a familiar hunger he saw in her, one he had sowed and tended, cultivating her loyalty into a secret fire, luring her to him like a moth to a flame unseen. Her mother was completely unaware, just as he intended. This secret they shared was the crucible, the forging of something exquisite.

“My precious Sericea,” he murmured, savoring her name, every syllable a delicate thread of honey dripping from his tongue. “You draw nearer to the image I envisioned of you. Soon, you’ll wield even silence itself as an ally.” His voice held the satisfaction of a sculptor admiring his work, his words meant to curl around her with a dark promise. A compliment and a bind. As he drew nearer, his steps deliberate and smooth, the voices rose within him, weaving their murmurs into his thoughts. A seed in her soul, a fire to stoke; her strength is the silence, a spell yet bespoke! He tilted his head, watching her boldness flicker, savoring how she clung to her courage, still unaware of its fragility. But he enjoyed that, too.

“You wish to please me, and indeed you have,” he said, letting a note of indulgent warmth color his tone. But beneath it, the sharpened edge of a question gleamed. He reached out, offering her a gentle caress of her cheek and a claw against her jawbone as he retracted soon after. “Yet do you understand why, Sericea? What it is within me that drives your devotion?” His gaze narrowed, studying her with a fascination that was almost feral, the challenge daring her to answer. What would her answer be?

“What is it that stirs within you?” he continued, his voice a soft command, molten orbs swirling in complete focus as he awaited her answer. “Do you crave mastery, the thrill of it…? or is it something deeper, something unknown to even you?” He held her gaze, searching her expression, watching for the first spark of revelation, that tremor of vulnerability she might betray. Oh, a heart to sway, a mind to claim; she’s drawn to your shadow, and she’ll learn your name.

He did not wait for an answer, it was more tantalizing to let her ponder the question all the same. Letting his mind go quiet, he placed a paw gently on her opposite shoulder, a calculated touch of both dominance and reassurance, he pulled her into his chest. “For our next lesson, my dear,” he said softly, his voice low and rich, like silk sliding through the air, “heed this: True power is an unseen thread woven in whispers, in glances that bear unseen weight. It is the art of influence.”

He withdrew his paw, inclining his head slightly, his gaze sharpening with expectation and delight. “When you speak, let them lean in, let them feel the weight of your silence. Let them think they hold your attention while you master their thoughts, winding them into knots with their own desires, their own needs.”

To lead and deceive, to bind and release—yes, yes, let her revel in control! the voices chanted, their words layered like a spell. A soul to ensnare, a will laid bare! His smile deepened, curling with dark amusement, his possessive gaze claiming her as both kin and creation. Yes. Quiet. He commanded his own mind.

“Show me, Sericea,” he urged, his voice dropping to a low summons. “Show me how you would command another’s gaze, whisper to their hidden fears, speak to their dreams.” His tone softened, coaxing, almost daring. “I will be your mirror, a world to bend beneath your will. Let me see if you can wield this weapon as your own.”

Of course, she was young. But her mother had been no older when he’d laid these same foundations. Would Sericea succeed where Absinth had faltered? The test was in her hands.