Chapter 21 | Part 3

They waited.

Varesh cut their bonds and pointed to the chairs. Drusniel sat beside Srietz. Elion remained standing behind them, watching the gaps between the crystals.

The cups were ceramic, dark, finely made. The liquid inside was clear and smelled faintly mineral, like water filtered through volcanic stone. Drusniel didn’t touch his.

“Srietz would not drink that.” The goblin leaned away from his cup. “Srietz can smell the compounds from those flowers. Some paralyze. Leave water out here long enough and it absorbs them.”

“It’s tea,” Varesh said from the edge of the clearing. “Just tea.”

“Srietz has been poisoned by ‘just tea’ on four separate occasions.”

Varesh almost smiled. “Fair point.”

The crystals shifted.

Not with wind. There was no wind. The formations tilted, a wave of motion traveling from the edge of the clearing inward, spires rotating on their bases to create a corridor of bare stone. The movement was slow, grinding, and completely deliberate.

Nyxara entered through the gap the crystals made for her.

Drusniel had expected armor. Nyxara wore a black dress, with her hair swept back from her face. He could see no weapon.

She crossed the clearing without guards. The crystals turned as she passed, directing their light toward her. Drusniel could feel their vibration through his chair.

He kept his hands on the table.

She sat in the empty chair at the head of the table, arranged her hands in her lap, and looked at Drusniel with dark, unwavering eyes.

“You’re younger than I expected,” she said. Her voice was low, controlled, the kind of voice that never needed to be raised because it was always heard. “When my scouts reported a drow with air affinity traveling through the contested lands, I imagined someone older. More weathered.”

“You were expecting us.”

“I was expecting someone. The volcanic shelf has been loud for weeks. Energy moving through old channels, waking things that prefer to sleep. And then three travelers descended from the ridge into my fields, and one of them threw my arrows aside with a thought.” She picked up her cup and drank. “I don’t get many drow in my territory. Almost none with your particular talent.”

“We’re passing through,” Drusniel said. “We have business with Szoravel, beyond the contested lands.”

“Szoravel.” Something flickered across her face. Not surprise. Recognition. “The mage who sits between the cracks. Everyone who comes through my territory is going to Szoravel or running from him.” She set the cup down. “Which are you?”

“Going to.”

Nyxara let the silence hold for three breaths before she answered. She did not rush to fill it, and that unsettled him.

“Then you’ll need to survive the journey.” She turned her attention to Srietz. “You. Goblin. You know these lands.”

Srietz’s ears flattened further. “Srietz has… familiarity.”

“More than familiarity. You knew to take the central path through my fields. You knew Vorthrak’s territory would be hostile. You’ve been here before.”

Srietz said nothing.

Nyxara looked past them at Elion.

“And you. You’re interesting.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Drusniel caught Elion’s jaw tighten, the only tell the shapeshifter allowed himself.

“My scouts made an error,” Nyxara continued, turning back to Drusniel. “The arrows were not authorized. I prefer to meet travelers before deciding what to do with them. The contested lands are… contentious. Three lords, three philosophies. Vorthrak takes what he wants by force. Sytherix poisons what he can’t take. I prefer a different approach.”

“Which is?”

“Investment.” She smiled. The expression didn’t reach her eyes. “I invest in people and what they can do. In exchange, they invest their efforts in my interests. A mutual arrangement.”

She wasn’t arguing to win. She was positioning terms. He adjusted his estimate of her and kept his face still.

“And if the arrangement isn’t mutual?”

“Then you leave my road.” She gestured at the crystal field. “Vorthrak controls the north. Sytherix controls the south. I control the center. On my road, you travel under my terms.”

The distinction, Drusniel understood, was the difference between breathing tomorrow and not.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Nyxara leaned back in her chair. The crystals behind her pulsed once, a deep violet flare, though nothing else had changed.

“A conversation,” she said. “Sit. Drink. Let’s discuss what brought a drow with air magic to the worst place in Wyrmreach, and what I might do about it.”

End of Chapter 21.3 —> 21.4: The Black Garden: The Lady