"Good morrow, dear Nysa," said the slave girl, sipping some sweetened wine.
She sat cross-legged with a poise atypical of a mere slave. Dangling her cup under her nose, she smelled the faint aroma before taking another nip.
There was no trace of the quiet, submissive servant that Nysa was familiar with. Instead, she displayed the bearing of a Sethian noblewoman, unmatched in grace.
"Still standing there?" She added, punctuating her refined accent with a chuckle. "Why don't you join us?"
Nysa glanced at her mother and, contrasting with her fiery attitude, found a weary middle-aged woman with her head slumped down.
Her green eyes were wide open, staring at the untouched plates with the frozen shock of cornered prey. It was as if she didn't dare blink or breathe in the presence of the person in front of her.
At that moment, it clicked.
Of all the individuals who could inspire such compliance from her mother, Nysa could only think of a single one that would fit their present circumstance.
Every Sethian feared the shadow of her gaze, and few magi would even dare utter her name aloud.
She was the woman of countless faces and endless shapes, the mother of guile and trickery—an existence said to be everywhere and nowhere at once, and one of the leaders of the Sethian Ennead.
The Veiled Matriarch.
Regarding Nysa, if Lady Helle was the leash, then the Veiled Matriach was the one holding it.
The order to assassinate the Celestial Offering initially came from her, as well as the Eye of Crepuscule that was used in the first attempt. She was the one who oversaw Nysa's Insight Rituals and the hand that stole her from the Court of Shadows' clutch.
The origin of her strength, her purpose, and her misfortune.
"My Lady," Nysa curtsied awkwardly, still dazed by her shock. "I would gladly join you."
"Good." The Veiled Matriarch put her wine cup on the table, followed by a slight finger tap.
Lady Helle seemed to grasp some hidden meaning behind that movement and silently got up, heading for the spiraling stairs and out of sight.
Nysa sat in her place, quietly and elegantly, in a manner that pleased the Veiled Matriarch's sense of refinement.
"How odd," she spoke calmly. "I recall leaving a pristine young woman, eager to serve her purpose and achieve her life's goal. Why do I find your feal beauty spoiled, under the impious touch of a Homunculus, no less? The quakes in your stomach sing a dreadful tale, my dear, but the most tragic one lies deeper in the flesh."
She scooped honey with a silver spoon, twirling its golden strands above a pile of flat, white bread.
"I sense the feathery caress of the Pale Malady within that body of yours, Nysa."
Nysa clasped her hands into a fist, pressing them until bones would crack. She hid her frustration, opening her mouth to speak—
"No need." The Veiled Matriarch cut her off, tittering. "A tease, child. I am already aware of everything there is to know about the situation in Priene. A zealous eye, the board of a witch, loose hounds, and their muzzling masters not far behind."
She pushed the plate of sweetened bread towards Nysa, her lips curving into a broader smile. "Eat. You will need all your strength for the upcoming play."
The Veiled Matriarch's words flickered in Nysa's mind, but she understood little of them.
Perhaps it was hunger that clouded her wits, or the shame of having failed once at the mission she had been given, but her head was a blank slate, incapable of mustering any thought.
Still, she didn't hesitate to reach for the honeyed white bread, struggling not to shove them down her throat with the ferocity of a starved beast.
"Tell me, dearest one," the Matriarch wondered. "Did you ever ponder why I whisked out of Noxatra's dreary castles? The reason I gave you this mission, despite having countless more qualified magi under my mantle?"
Nysa swallowed her food, her brows creasing. "I was born with a gift. A blessing that shaped my fate by my first breath."
"Indeed," she dipped the honey-covered spoon into her wine, swirling it. "No matter the strength of a lone magus, death was their end if they failed to slip past the Temple of Stars' watch. And no magecraft could match the Astral Sorceries in that particular task."
She put aside the silvery utensil, gently grasping her cup.
"You, on the other hand, are different. I ignore under which star you were born, but it granted you a shroud that could contend with the secrecy of the Queen of the Mallacht Herself. It is as if the flow of Mana refuses to acknowledge your existence, for no divination nor scrying can even catch a sliver of your presence."
"Of course—" She sampled her wine again. "—Hiding from divination certainly helps, but it does not guarantee success. The astral magi have keen senses, and killing intent is a loud enough scream, which is why you have not yet brought the Celestial Offering's head. Am I wrong?"
Nysa shook her head. "You're not, my Lady. Something strange occurred inside the Great Sanctuary. As you have ordered me to, I prompted the Celestial Offering to ask that question. Unfortunately, he either slipped out of my hypnosis, or the Eye of Crepuscule didn't work. I have no idea why."
"Oh, do not worry about that." The Matriarch dismissively waved. "I have an inkling of what transpired within the Inner Monastery. There is nothing you could have done, darling. The most important is what follows."
She locked her gaze with Nysa's remaining eye, seemingly staring at her very soul.
"Am I right to assume that my name was spoken inside your friends' adorable little front of an apothecary for the sole purpose of your mission?"
Nysa's chest tightened, simultaneously frightened and in awe at the extent of her Mistress' knowledge.
"Of course, my Lady," she managed to squeeze out between stifled breaths.
"Wonderful!" The Matriarch proceeded with a delicate clap of her hands. "Now, let us turn to merrier prospects."
"Merrier prospects...?" Nysa doubted there was any way for her situation to be happy.
"Indeed, pet." She reached over the marble table, cradling Nysa's bandaged hand. "I have come to understand that a Mistress should always reward her followers for their efforts, as a human's drive is wickedly tied to their own gain."
"Not always, my Lady!" Nysa blurted out. "I would be fine with the joy of fulfilling my duty—"
The Veiled Matriarch put a finger over her lips, interrupting her sentence. "Self-fulfillment is good and all, but it is also a servant's duty to accept their Mistress' graciousness. Must you put me through the trouble of ordering you to accept simple kindness?"
Nysa didn't know how to respond and merely sank her head down in defeat.
"Good girl." She playfully arranged the loose strands of Nysa's unbrushed hair. "First, I want an unreserved answer, so tell me; should you emerge from your mission still with life, what would you wish for?"
Nysa pondered the answer seriously.
Her thoughts raced about what she truly desired beyond the static goal of her unwanted birth, yet only muffled dreams and passing whims surfaced from her clouded wits.
After a few seconds of silence, she hesitantly parted her lips.
Perhaps it was the certainty of her own death, or the inconceivability of such a far-fetched prospect, that drove her to say the following word, but she replied, almost whispering, "Freedom."
The Veiled Matriarch's mouth curved into an unreadable smile. "Very well."
And just like that, her presence flickered out of her existence.
The hints of poise and elegance in the kind slave all but disappeared, leaving her with a confused expression. She realized she was holding Nysa's hair and immediately jumped in fright.
"Lady Quincti—... Lady Nysa!" She bowed with the lowly deference of a born slave, far too different from the Veiled Matriarch's domineering aura. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was doing right now."
She looked around, wondering how and when she arrived at the upper gardens. "When did I..."
Nysa recognized her familiar servant, finally allowing herself to catch a breath. A long sigh ensued, followed by the pleasant relaxation of a survived hurdle.
"You," she addressed the kind girl. "What's your name?"
The young woman, too busy arranging her hair into the mandated braid for slaves, was startled again by Nysa's call. Her hair cascaded on her shoulders, and she bowed even deeper toward her Mistress.
"M-My name's Kleio, my Lady."
"Kleio, hm..." Nysa nodded, her voice barely above a murmur. "A nice name. I shall commit it to memory."